mapping reflections of land and community

Welcome to the Species Garden — a living archive of connection between Siargao and London. Here, we feature ten species explored during the respective nature walks — five from each place — shared through interactive cards which reveal their cultural and ecological significance. 


Each species holds more than biological information; it carries memory, symbolism, and relationship. Together, they form a cross-ecological dialogue, inviting you to reflect on how the plants and creatures around us shape identity, sustain ecosystems, and root us in place. This garden is both digital and alive — a space to learn, remember, and reimagine our coexistence with the more-than-human world.



Instilling both fear and reverence in children and adults alike, the balete, or banyan tree, is deeply rooted in Filipino folklore and spirituality. In Cebuano, it is called a 

 meaning “enchanted” or “haunted,” derived from 

, the word for “human.” The term personifies the tree’s presence in the forest, holding two translations: “enchanted,” evoking warmth and charm, and “haunted,” conjuring fear and darkness. Yet framing it within Western ideas of good and evil diminishes the balete’s full ecological and spiritual meaning. The balete begins life as an epiphyte, growing upon another tree or in the cracks of walls and roads. Over time, it sends down roots that thicken into trunks, anchoring themselves to the ground as it gradually engulfs its host. Known as the “strangler fig,” it forms hollow chambers within the remains of the smothered tree, creating dwellings for spirits—insidious, mischievous, and protective alike. Out of respect for these unseen beings, such as the 

, travelers say “Tabi-tabi po,” asking permission to pass. As ancient baletes continue to root and spread like living, breathing beings, they continue to embody the entanglement of ecology and spirituality, moving beyond the binaries of good and evil, the seen and unseen.

Banyan Tree

With its long blooming period and tufts of purple scattered across open grasslands, black knapweed is a reliable and resilient wildflower. Its Latin name, 

, derives from Chiron, the wise centaur of Greek mythology who is said to have discovered the plant’s medicinal properties after using it to heal his wounds. While Chiron embodied civility and wisdom, centaurs are more broadly associated with wildness and strength—traits that aptly describe knapweed itself, thriving untamed in the nutrient-poor margins of our landscapes. Also known as “hardheads” for the tough bracts at the base of their thistle-like flower heads, these hardy plants embody resilience in every sense. Tough and resolute, and even considered invasive in parts of North America, knapweed stands as a living symbol of wildness, strength, and endurance. 

Black Knapweed

Arctium sp. (Arctium lappa) (Arctium minus) 



The burdock tells a story of two worlds: one of ingenuity above ground and one of sustenance below. In the 1940s, Swiss engineer George de Mestral took his dog for a walk through patches of burdock, its tall stems rising from broad, heart-shaped leaves and crowned with dried burs—spiked seed heads that clung stubbornly to his clothes and his dog’s fur. On closer inspection, he noticed the tiny hooks on the seeds, a clever adaptation for seed dispersal that inspired him to replicate the same mechanism in the invention of the hook-and-loop fastener, better known today as Velcro and celebrated as a classic example of biomimicry. Below ground, burdock anchors itself deeply into the soil, its long taproot reaching up to a metre in length as it breaks through compacted earth. With its earthy, chestnut and parsnip-like flavour, the root was once used in traditional British cooking. Today, burdock root is more commonly found in East Asian cuisine, where it has long been valued in China as niúbàng (牛蒡) and in Japan as gobō, often julienned and added to stir-fries and soups.

Burdock

A coastal protector whose roots hold the shoreline and shelter marine life, the mangrove forests of Siargao and the rest of the Philippines constitute a living tapestry of ecological connections. Contiguous along the western shores of Siargao, they support a remarkable diversity of organisms, from invertebrates to globally threatened birds such as the Philippine duck, Southern Rufous hornbill, Mindanao hornbill, and yellowish bulbul. Although vastly depleted, the mangroves have long been established as a front line of defense, buffering communities from storm surges, rising seas, and coastal erosion. When Typhoon Odette struck in 2021, decimating towns across Siargao, the mangroves, though also damaged, absorbed a significant portion of the storm’s impact, limiting further casualties. Similar to the fruit of Tabon-Tabon, their fruits have traditionally been used in kinilaw to temper the raw taste of fish. Returning to historical practices of stewardship to rehabilitate threatened mangrove populations is key to maintaining these rich ecosystems, which continue to protect and nurture both ecological and cultural connections.

Dungon Late

Universally celebrated for the brilliant colours and graceful forms of its flower, the gumamela, or tropical hibiscus, is a familiar emblem across the Philippines and much of the tropics. Its broad, funnel-shaped blooms, unfolding in vivid shades of red, pink, white, and orange, are lovingly tended in home gardens, schoolyards, and public parks alike. Though cultivated ornamentally for centuries, the plant’s origins are difficult to trace. Believed to have first arisen in India and later cultivated in China, where countless hybrids were developed over more than a millennium, the hibiscus now flourishes across the world in seemingly endless variety. For Filipinos, it is more than an ornamental; whether growing freely in a backyard garden, blooming in a pot on a high-rise balcony, or carefully nurtured within a conservatory far from the heat and humidity of the tropics, the gumamela carries a quiet reminder of home. Its blossoms recall the warmth and colour of the islands, wherever they take root.

Gumamela 

A staple of the classic British hedgerow, the hawthorn (

, meaning “sharp tip”) earns its name from its thorny habit, forming a dense, interwoven green wall. Yet the humble hawthorn seldom receives its due as a stately specimen. When given space to unfurl its gnarled branches, it reveals itself as a graceful, medium-sized tree with laterally stretched limbs shaped by the wind and dotted with red berries, or “haws,” in autumn. With its flurry of white blossoms, the hawthorn heralds the approach of summer, its symbolism tethered between life and death. A pagan emblem of fertility with ties to May Day, its distinctive leaves and flowers once adorned spring wreaths; yet in medieval times, the hawthorn was unwelcome indoors, its blooms believed to bring death. Its unpleasant odour was later associated with the Great Plague—a superstition given scientific grounding when botanists discovered that trimethylamine, the compound responsible for the scent of hawthorn flowers, is also found in decaying animal tissue.

Hawthorn 

The unassuming hedge mustard, with its wiry branches and dottings of yellow, is often forgotten and sometimes reviled for its weediness and supposed “invasiveness.” Found in wastelands and along roadside verges, this disturbance-loving plant seems to thrive on neglect. While not especially appetizing, as it tends to absorb particulates and other roadside pollutants, hedge mustard, like other mustards, is entirely edible from seed to leaf. It belongs to the Brassica family, which notably includes many of our common vegetables including kale, pak choi, cabbage, and broccoli. Though less popular than white or black mustard for condiment use, the Ancient Greeks believed hedge mustard to be an antidote to all poisons and a cure for loss of voice, a reputation that later earned it the French name

Hedge Mustard

Found at the thresholds where mangrove forests, coral beaches, and sandy shores meet inland forests, the Ipil tree stands as a steadfast guardian of shifting coastlines. Much like narra, it has long been prized for its timber, commonly known as “merbau.” The deep reddish-brown wood, flecked with golden specks, is used for hardwood floors, furniture, boats, and homes, admired as much for its beauty as for its remarkable resistance to termites and the elements. Ipil thrives where few trees can—on saline soils, exposed shores, and areas prone to erosion. It is a tree of resilience, rooting itself firmly against relentless tides and salt-laden winds. As extreme weather events intensify with climate change, the Ipil stands as a living fortification, binding the edge between forest and sea, its strength both practical and symbolic.

Ipil

Mugwort has long been revered for its medicinal, healing, and even magical properties. Its Latin name, 

, derives either from Artemis, the Greek goddess of the hunt, childbirth, and the moon, or from Artemisia II of Caria, with the plant’s ancient healing powers linked to women’s reproductive health and digestive aid. An aromatic, herbaceous perennial with silvery-green undersides to its leaves, mugwort spreads rhizomatically and thrives across temperate climates. It is also known as a protector: in Celtic traditions, sprigs of the plant were used to ward off evil forces and misfortune. Mugwort has long been associated with sleep and vivid dreams, its rituals often tied to the full moon, guiding us closer to the liminal world. When you brush your hands against its leaves, releasing an almost camphorous, eucalyptus and Vicks-like aroma, let its perfume linger and follow you into your dreams.

Mugwort 

Towering up to forty metres, the narra, the national tree of the Philippines, stands as an enduring symbol of strength and pride. Its dense, reddish-brown heartwood has long been prized for furniture, building, and carving, valued for both its beauty and durability. Yet to see the narra merely as an individual tree is to overlook its deeper meanings of care and restoration. As the landscapes and people of the Philippines continue to endure the onslaught of climate change–induced typhoons and deforestation driven by monocultural farming, the narra offers a quiet lesson in recovery. A pioneer species, it readily takes root in open or degraded lands, fixing nitrogen into the soil and restoring fertility where life has been stripped away. As its canopy expands, casting shelter and shade, new flora take hold beneath it, nurtured by its presence. To think of the narra as a collective rather than an individual is to understand the fullness of its presence—strength not in isolation, but in the act of supporting life around it.

Narra

Named for its tiered, temple-like blossoms, the pagoda flower is a striking shrub native to the humid tropics of South and Southeast Asia. Its pyramidal inflorescences, sometimes reaching up to forty centimetres in height, rise like decadent spires, each layer adorned with clusters of fiery red-orange blooms that emerge from broad fans of heart-shaped leaves. The genus name derives from the Greek 

, meaning “chance” or “fate,” and dendron, “tree,” perhaps a nod to the plant’s long history in folk medicine. A member of the mint and sage family,

, the pagoda flower shares the lineage of many healing herbs, though its leaves lack the soothing fragrance of its better-known relatives. Across the region, from India to Indonesia, nearly every part of the plant—the roots, leaves, and blossoms—has been used in traditional remedies such as poultices for wounds, tonics for sore eyes, and purgatives to cleanse the body. Its vivid flowers, beloved by humans and non-humans alike, secure its place not only in the garden but also in the living pharmacopeia of the tropics.

Pagoda Flower 

Like the hawthorn, wild roses form a formidable hedgerow—an interwoven tapestry of canes that deters trespassers while providing refuge for birds and other wildlife. Beyond the classic British iconography of the rose, the hips of these plants hold a wealth of cultural meaning. Rosehips, the seed pods that follow the blossom, emerge at a threshold in time, as a chill creeps into the air and the trees begin to shed their leaves. The bright scarlet hips of the wild dog rose cut through the darkening days towards winter. For many Londoners, immigrant or not, the rosehip shapes our sense of landscape and the changing of the seasons. More than something to be visually admired, rosehips are widely foraged; rich in vitamin C, they have long been made into jams, jellies, syrups, and teas. In tune with this seasonal threshold, the tradition of gathering the bounty of rosehips endures.