In Praise of Hibiscus

or The Stamp Collector Also Takes Tisane

There are moments in life when a man ought to put down his stamp catalogue, remove his spectacles, look out of the window and admit that the world is, despite everything, a rather magnificent place.

A cup of hibiscus tea can produce precisely such a moment.

I call it tea, although any botanist worth his herbarium will immediately object. There is no Camellia sinensis involved. Hibiscus is a tisane, made principally from the dried calyces of Hibiscus sabdariffa, commonly known as roselle. No withering, rolling, oxidation or firing has occurred. No tea estate in Assam, Darjeeling, Uji or Fujian can reasonably claim responsibility for what is in the pot.

Of course, I know this.

I simply choose to ignore it.

Life is too short to interrupt every cup with a botanical footnote.

Besides, hibiscus has earned its honorary title.

There are drinks which enter a room quietly. Hibiscus does not. Pour boiling water over the dried calyces and the infusion begins to acquire a magnificent ruby-red colour, deepening by the minute until one might reasonably suspect that the Archbishop has sent over a consignment of ecclesiastical wine.

It is gloriously theatrical.

Black tea has the good manners to become amber or copper. Green tea tends towards gold. White tea practically apologises for being there. Hibiscus, meanwhile, arrives in scarlet robes and expects to be noticed.

Then comes the taste.

Tart, fruity, sharply refreshing and reminiscent of cranberry, with an acidity that can be surprisingly vigorous. It does not politely suggest fruit. It announces fruit.

“Good afternoon. I am red, I am sour, and I have arrived.”

I rather admire that.

A little honey or sugar may soften the acidity, although hibiscus is perfectly capable of standing on its own. It is equally agreeable hot or chilled, and cold hibiscus is particularly refreshing on a warm afternoon. It is also naturally caffeine-free, which makes it a useful refuge for those of us who occasionally realise that the preceding cups of Camellia sinensis have brought us to a state of consciousness bordering upon theological illumination.

There is a limit to how much tea a man can drink before the teaspoons begin acquiring personalities.

Hibiscus provides a graceful escape.

It also has an interesting scientific reputation. Hibiscus sabdariffa contains anthocyanins and other polyphenols with antioxidant activity, and it has been studied particularly for possible cardiovascular effects. Research suggests that regular consumption may modestly reduce blood pressure, especially in people with elevated readings, although the evidence is not a licence to abandon one's physician in favour of the flower garden. Other studies have examined cholesterol and triglycerides, with less consistent results.

In short: hibiscus is interesting, refreshing and potentially beneficial.

It is no magical potion.

I prefer my beverages to remain beverages.

That, however, is where the philatelist in me begins to take an interest.

For hibiscus has travelled.

And I have always had a weakness for things that travel.

A postage stamp is one of the smallest objects ever devised for international communication. It may be scarcely larger than a thumbnail, yet it can carry a monarch, a bird, a cathedral, a ship, a scientist—or a flower—across an ocean.

The hibiscus has made that journey more than once.

Jamaica, for example, issued a 1987 flower series featuring several hibiscus subjects, including Hibiscus elatus, Hibiscus cannabinus, Hibiscus rosa-sinensis and a hybrid. The series is a particularly pleasing example of botanical philately: flowers reduced to little rectangles without losing their identity or their exuberance.

And then there is Taiwan.

In 2009, Chunghwa Post included Hibiscus sabdariffa in its Flowers postage series. The official description identifies the plant as roselle and notes the use of its fleshy red calyces after drying and cooking.

That is the sort of stamp which makes a collector sit up.

Not merely because it is attractive, but because the subject can be followed directly from the stamp to the teapot.

There is something wonderfully circular about it.

One encounters the plant in a catalogue.

One sees its image on paper.

One learns what it is.

One discovers that it can be brewed.

One brews it.

And suddenly the botanical illustration has acquired a flavour.

This is precisely why I think a good stamp collection should contain more than pretty pictures. A good stamp should provoke curiosity.

The inexperienced collector asks, “Is it attractive?”

The serious collector asks, “Why was it issued?”

The dangerous collector asks, “Are there varieties?”

And the truly lost collector asks, “Does anyone have the miniature sheet?”

At that point, intervention is probably necessary.

I have always regarded philately as an education in distinctions. One learns to notice differences in perforation, watermark, paper, typography, printing and colour. One learns that two stamps which look identical to the untrained eye may have entirely different catalogue identities.

This is not pedantry.

Well, it is pedantry.

But it is useful pedantry.

And hibiscus lends itself beautifully to this habit of close observation. Even before it reaches the teapot, it is a lesson in botanical detail. The collector looks at the flower; the botanist identifies the species; the historian considers its cultural journey; the tea drinker wonders whether the kettle has boiled.

I, naturally, attempt all four occupations simultaneously.

It is exhausting.

Fortunately, there is tea.

My dear Lady Arabella, you ought to know that the relationship between tea and philately is deeper than mere convenience. Both require patience. Both reward attention. Both become more interesting when one stops trying to hurry.

A stamp does not improve because one looks at it quickly.

Nor does a cup of hibiscus.

The collector must examine.

The drinker must taste.

Both are increasingly unfashionable activities in a civilisation addicted to instant everything, where patience has been displaced by the endless scroll and, worse still, by the compulsive habit of doom-scrolling.

We live in an age which would like its information immediately, its entertainment continuously and its opinions pre-chewed. Philately stubbornly refuses to cooperate. It asks us to sit down with something tiny and examine it carefully.

Tea does the same.

Perhaps this is why I like both.

They are small rebellions against haste.

Imagine, then, the ideal afternoon.

The desk is near the window. The stamp album lies open. A catalogue rests beside it. The magnifying glass is within reach. There is a stack of correspondence waiting to be dealt with, which will be dealt with eventually, although not necessarily today.

Beside the album stands a white teapot.

Inside it is hibiscus.

The infusion is deep red.

One turns to the Jamaican issue.

One studies the flowers.

Then one reaches the Taiwanese Hibiscus sabdariffa.

The connection suddenly becomes almost absurdly satisfying.

Here is the plant in miniature.

There it is in the cup.

One is looking at the same botanical subject in two completely different forms: preserved as an image and transformed into an experience.

That, in miniature, is what philately does so well.

It preserves the world.

Not perfectly, of course. A stamp cannot preserve a flower's scent, the sound of a cricket ground, the taste of tea or the atmosphere of a distant country. But it can preserve a glimpse.

And glimpses matter.

A stamp depicting a flower tells us that somebody, somewhere, considered that flower worthy of national representation.

That is not entirely trivial.

Countries issue stamps for all sorts of reasons: to commemorate, educate, celebrate, advertise, instruct or simply delight. A botanical issue may therefore tell us something about a country's flora, horticulture, culture or sense of identity.

The hibiscus is especially suitable because it carries several worlds with it.

Hibiscus sabdariffa is associated with culinary and beverage traditions across Africa, Asia, the Caribbean and Latin America. Different cultures have developed their own preparations and names. The flower—or, more precisely, its calyx—has become part of an international vocabulary of refreshment.

In Egypt it is known as karkadé.

In parts of West Africa it is commonly associated with bissap.

In Mexico, the familiar drink agua de jamaica turns hibiscus into a wonderfully refreshing crimson beverage.

The names change.

The preparations change.

The cultures change.

The flower remains.

And somewhere along the way, a postal authority decides to put it on a stamp.

That is one of the reasons I find botanical philately so charming. It allows the collector to follow a plant through geography, language and history without ever having to leave his chair.

A Jamaica stamp may lead to the Caribbean.

A Taiwanese stamp may lead to East Asia.

A cup may lead to Africa or Latin America.

And an album can lead almost anywhere, provided one is sufficiently curious.

Naturally, the philatelist will eventually ask the most important question of all:

What makes a good hibiscus stamp?

I have an answer.

It must first be botanically convincing. A hibiscus should look like a hibiscus, not like the fever dream of a graphic designer who has never met a flower.

Second, it should be well composed.

Third, the typography should not quarrel with the image.

Fourth, the colour should serve the design.

And finally, it should make one want to know something.

The last criterion is the most important.

A beautiful stamp which teaches nothing is pleasant.

A beautiful stamp which makes one curious is valuable.

One begins by looking at the flower.

Then one learns its name.

Then one discovers where it grows.

Then one learns what people do with it.

Then, perhaps, one finds oneself drinking it.

That is how a postage stamp can become a journey.

And journeys are precisely what good philately provides.

There is another reason hibiscus deserves a place at the tea table: it does not demand elaborate ceremony.

One may steep the dried calyces in freshly boiled water for several minutes, strain the infusion and drink it hot. Or one may allow it to cool and serve it over ice.

There is no need for complicated equipment.

No elaborate ritual.

No silver service.

Although, naturally, if a silver service happens to be available, I would never be so uncivilised as to refuse it.

A gentleman must maintain standards.

Yet hibiscus remains perfectly agreeable in an ordinary cup.

Indeed, there is something rather democratic about it.

It can appear on a postage stamp issued by a government, in a teapot in a family kitchen, in a chilled glass on a summer afternoon or in a sophisticated tea room. It crosses social boundaries rather more successfully than most beverages.

And perhaps that is why it suits the Pavilion.

The Pavilion has always seemed to me an ideal meeting place for tea, cricket, theological conversation and the occasional argument about stamps.

Cricket itself has something in common with philately.

Both reward patience.

Both contain absurdly detailed rules.

Both encourage people to become emotionally attached to small objects.

And both can turn an otherwise ordinary afternoon into an unexpectedly serious affair.

In cricket, the object is the ball.

In philately, it is the stamp.

In tea, it is the cup.

The sensible man enjoys all three.

The enthusiast discusses them at length.

The incurable enthusiast writes an essay about the experience.

I have evidently reached the third category.

There is, too, something pleasing about drinking hibiscus while sorting stamps because the colours converse with one another.

A red flower on a Jamaican issue.

A crimson botanical illustration from Taiwan.

The darkening ruby liquid in the cup.

One begins to notice that the philatelic desk has acquired its own little landscape.

And this is perhaps the secret pleasure of collecting.

A collection changes the way one sees ordinary things.

After so many years of collecting stamps, I cannot look at a flower without wondering whether it has been issued by a postal administration.

After years of drinking tea, I cannot look at a botanical plant without wondering what it would taste like in a teapot.

There are worse intellectual habits.

I could be interested in economics.

Or I could even be interested in baseball—a sort of cricket for people who thought wickets were an unnecessary complication.

And cricket without wickets is rather like basketball without rims: technically possible, perhaps, but one wonders what precisely everyone is doing.

My dear lady, philately, at least, has perforations.

Hibiscus also reminds us that not every worthwhile drink needs to imitate traditional tea.

I adore Camellia sinensis. Arabella, you know that. I remain perfectly capable of discussing the virtues of Assam, Darjeeling, Ceylon, Uji or Chinese green teas with entirely unnecessary seriousness.

But variety is part of pleasure.

A tea cupboard ought not to resemble a dictatorship.

There should be room for alternatives.

Hibiscus is one of the best.

Its tartness makes it particularly good after rich food. Its bright colour gives it an almost festive appearance. Its lack of caffeine makes it useful when one has exhausted one's daily allowance of stimulation. And its ability to be served hot or cold gives it considerable versatility.

Most importantly, it tastes like itself.

That is an underrated virtue.

There are too many products which have been engineered into imitations of something else.

Hibiscus does not imitate.

It is hibiscus.

Sharp, crimson, fruity, floral and unapologetically itself.

Perhaps that is why it looks so good on stamps.

Philately, too, rewards individuality.

The finest collections are not necessarily those containing the most expensive pieces. They are the ones in which the collector's curiosity becomes visible.

A collection should reveal a mind at work.

One person collects monarchs.

Another collects birds.

Another collects ships.

Another collects religious subjects.

Another collects postal history.

Another collects varieties so microscopic that a normal human being would never have noticed them.

And another collects flowers.

There is no single correct way to build a collection.

The point is to discover a thread and follow it.

Hibiscus happens to provide a particularly attractive thread because it connects botany, geography, culture, food, medicine, design and philately.

It is difficult to ask more of a flower.

Except perhaps to look good in a vase.

Which hibiscus does rather well.

So I recommend the following experiment.

Take a hibiscus stamp.

Put it beside the teapot.

Study the stamp while the infusion steeps.

Observe the colour.

Taste the drink.

Look again at the stamp.

You will probably discover that you have become more interested in both.

This is not scientific methodology.

It is, however, excellent afternoon practice.

And if the conversation turns to stamp classification, so much the better.

One can debate whether a particular issue belongs in the botanical section, the thematic section, the country collection or the miscellaneous album while drinking something whose own classification has already caused sufficient trouble.

Tea or tisane?

There is no universally satisfactory answer.

Botanically, tisane.

Socially, tea.

At my table, a small act of civilisation..

I have already conceded enough ground to science.

My dear lady, there is one final pleasure in hibiscus which should not be overlooked: it encourages conversation.

Its unusual colour invites questions.

Its tartness invites comparison.

Its geographical history invites stories.

Its stamps invite collecting.

And collecting invites the sort of conversation which can continue long after the original subject has disappeared.

Someone asks about the Taiwanese stamp.

Another remembers the Jamaican issue.

Someone produces a catalogue.

Another remembers a drink from Mexico.

Someone else puts the kettle on.

And suddenly the afternoon has acquired a purpose.

This, I think, is what good tea should do.

It should not merely quench thirst.

It should create time.

Time to talk.

Time to look.

Time to remember.

Time to argue over whether the stamp is properly centred.

Time to admit that the other fellow may possibly be right.

And time to pour another cup.

The world is sufficiently noisy already. I see no reason for one's tea to be.

Give me a quiet room, a good album, a decent catalogue, a magnifying glass, a few interesting stamps and a pot of hibiscus, and I shall consider myself very well provided for.

The stamps can supply the history.

The hibiscus can supply the colour.

The conversation can supply the companionship.

And the tea can provide the excuse for remaining at the table.

That is enough.

More than enough, really.

After all, one need not conquer the world every afternoon.

Sometimes it is sufficient to understand a postage stamp.

Sometimes it is sufficient to discover a flower.

Sometimes it is sufficient to brew something beautiful and sit quietly with it.

And sometimes, if one is fortunate, all three things happen at once.

So here is my modest philatelic and culinary recommendation:

Collect the hibiscus stamp. Brew the hibiscus. Examine both carefully. Invite somebody interesting to the table.

The stamp will take you across the world.

The tea will keep you in your chair.

And the conversation will make you forget that you had intended to organise the rest of the album.

Which, in my experience, is how the best afternoons begin.

And how the most dangerous philatelic ones end.

With the sort of second cup one ought not to have—and invariably does.

After all, the stamp collector may be impossible to cure.

But he or she can always have another tea.

Whether it is the cure or merely another vice depends, I suppose, on how many cups he or she has already had.