orange, not red

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Happy New Year! I hope 2026 is a mint-fresh tingle.

Earlier today as I was about to leave the house I noticed a robin hopping beside the door of my car. Robins are a common sight in my garden, and every time I see them they impart a sense of joy. They are such characters, full of verve, energy and curiosity. It cocked its head at me, and I mirrored the gesture, offered the wee birb a greeting, and carefully navigated away from my house.

I drove to the woods for an evening walk. Since sunset is 4.34 pm currently, that means getting out around 3.30 pm – 4 pm. Time compresses during the winter. I tend to consider evening after 6pm (to some it might be after 5pm), but since the word comes from the Old English æfnung, which has the sense of ‘growing to sunset’, the word relates to the day we are experiencing, and not the clock.

As I began my ramble in the woods, the lowering sun partially obscured by tattered clouds, I heard a clear chirping salutation above me.

I looked up, and there sat a Robin, regarding me regally.

Perhaps my neighbour alerted his forest cousin about my imminent arrival via the birdnet — although I did not inform my garden Robin about my plans.

I’m happy to say hello to any inquisitive bird, so I waved and proceeded down the path towards the turlough.

Robins are easy to spot because of their cheeky nature and the flash of their ‘red’ chest feathers against the wilt and mud of winter, and here I must pause, because European Robins don’t have red feathers, they have an orange blaze upon their chests.

This strange mis-colouring reflects the late arrival of the word orange into the English language.

The simple explanation is that the colour red covered a spectrum of ruddy hues in early English. Hence the Robin is said to have a red breast and the fox is referred to as red (one Irish translation of fox is madra rua — red dog). Orange entered English as the name of the fruit in the 13th–14th centuries, but by the early 1500s it was adopted as the name of the fruit’s colour also.

It comes to us from the Old French orange, orenge, from Medieval Latin pomum de orenge. In Italian it’s arancia from narancia, which was an alteration of the Arabic naranj, via the Persian narang that began as the Sanskrit naranga-s ‘orange tree’.

In fact, there was an earlier Old English word, ġeolurēad, which literally meant ‘yellow-red’, but that lost out to the unrhymable orange.

The transition of the word orange also follows the trade route of the fruit itself. Scientists believe that the ur-orange originated in India, and from there it moved throughout Asia as it began to split off into sub-species.

As the continents collided, these ancestral citrus plants spread into Asia, as is evident from citruslike plant fossils discovered in southern China. The researchers posit that true Citrus species, such as mandarins and trifoliate oranges, first evolved in south-central China around eight million years ago. They speculate that other early Citrus species, including the pomelo and citron, emerged slightly later in the Himalayan foothills.1

The first oranges Europeans encountered were the bitter/sour varieties, Citrus aurantium — which is known today as the Seville Orange and is famous as the ideal ingrediant for marmalade. Initially, these oranges were valued as a source of perfumes, medicines, and as ornamental trees rather than cultivated for consumption.​

During the medieval period, a stone, wood and glass shelter known as a limonaia became popular (and necessary) to overwinter the cold-phobic potted citrus trees. Initially, only the nobility and large monasteries had the space and resources to build limonaie, so the buildings doubled as a source of revenue and a status symbol.

The sweet orange (Citrus sinensis)— a mandarin and pomelo hybrid—arrived later to the Mediterranean via Portuguese traders, and rapidly overtook its bitter cousin in popularity. Once citrus was discovered as a handy cure for scurvy, the Vitamin C deficiency disease that debilitated sailors and passengers during long sea voyages, it became vital for the success of the very trade routes that transported the trees across the globe.

Like the limonaie, ornate orangeries flowered across Europe, to show off rare fruits and other delicate exotic plants amid fountains, grottos and nooks for entertaining guests. The most famous was the Versailles Orangery (L’orangerie du château de Versailles), designed by Jules Hardouin-Mansart and built between 1684 and 1686.

During Louis XIV’s reign, the Orangery sheltered more than 1,000 citrus trees in the winter. Each one was planted in a large portable box, which enabled the entire plantation to be moved into the three-hectare Parterre de l’Orangerie during the summer.

With aid of modern argicultural techniques and transport, citrus sinensis is now grown across subtropical and tropical zones, with major productions in Brazil, India, China and the southern United States.

From being a symbol of elite exclusivity, the orange is now considered commonplace, often left to moulder in the fruit bowl with no thought given to its previous rarity. Production of oranges has hovered between 70–80 million tons annually, although climate changes and pests have dropped their availability in the last few years.

Don’t take these gorgeous, vibrant fruits for granted!

The next time you dig your thumbnail into one of these beauties, take a moment to relish its hue, its delicious flesh, and the journey it has taken across time and space to arrive in your home.

Since PS Publishing announced it in their newsletter last Friday, I can reveal that in 2026 they will be publishing a novella by me through their Absinthe Books imprint, which is overseen by Managing Editor, Marie O’Regan.

That’s all I can divulge currently… more news soon.

Wishing all of you a magical 2026!