I think we can safely say that sloe gin is the official fruity liqueur of the British countryside.
Between now and the end of February, I won’t be far from a bottle of the purple liquid—not (necessarily) because the shortening days make me turn to drink, but because every winter rural pastime will likely involve sloe gin somewhere in the vicinity.
Walked-up pheasants at the farm on the hill? Sloe gin. Staring at horses leaping hedges in a misty field? Sloe gin. Fishing on the Straits? Sloe gin. Friends coming over to nick logs from the wood on the pretence that they’re ‘helping me out’? Sloe gin.
There’s a problem though: I can’t stand the stuff.
Well, I should be more specific—I can’t stand the sickly, sweet liquid you’ll find on supermarket shelves.
I know that I’m not alone in this sloe-gin snobbery; it’s something that often comes up when we talk about Blackthorn on my foraging walks, with at least a quarter of the group muttering something about it being “too sweet for me…”
But before I show you how to make something actually worth drinking, we need to address a curious smear campaign that’s gained traction in recent years.
Sloe gin and oppression?
Around fifteen years ago, I attended a talk by a prominent foraging ‘mixologist’ who denounced sloe gin as “Britain’s most shameful liqueur.” Leaning forward in my seat, expecting a critique of commercial sugar-bombs, I instead heard sloe gin condemned as a liquid embodiment of slavery, enclosure, and the theft of common land.
The logic behind this claim is seductive but flawed. It goes something like this: Blackthorn grows in hedges; hedges came from the Acts of Enclosure; gin was ruinously popular in the 18th century; sugar in 18th-century Britain came from slave plantations. Therefore, sloe gin must be a product of this troubled historical nexus.
But this reasoning collapses when examined. First, while Blackthorn is indeed often found in enclosure hedges, humans had been using these thorny shrubs since pre-Christian times. The Gaelic festival Imbolc hinges around their early flowering, and medicinal references to Prunus spinosa predate the Middle Ages.
By the 17th century, Nicolas Culpeper considered it,
“so well known that it needs no description.”
The average Brit of the 18th century would have been intimately familiar with Blackthorn, though not for infusing into gin. The plant had earned a notorious reputation as a way of deceiving the public, with customs officials making quite a noise about capturing (and burning) illicit stores of dried Blackthorn leaves. These leaves were being used to illegally bulk out imported tea, a practice that speaks to both the resourcefulness of the criminals of the day and their thorough knowledge of local plants.
When Blackthorn’s fruits were used in alcohol, it was mostly in hedgerow wines or as a way to illicitly turn cheaper red wines into a kind of knock-off port.
Sloe gin – a properly Victorian product
The historical timeline for sloe gin quoted by that celebrity mixologist simply doesn’t work – but that doesn’t stop the myth being perpetuated.
Even the finest gin houses now repeat this narrative in their marketing materials, yet none can point to any evidence of sloe gin existing before the 1880s. The first advertisements appeared around 1885, marketing it as a “hygienic liqueur for ladies” and the “perfect accompaniment for hunting flasks and racing luncheon hampers – and even golf”.
Most tellingly, by the time sloe gin emerged as a popular commercial product in the 1890s, two-thirds of the world’s sugar was being produced from European sugar beet, with about 45% of British sugar imported from Austria and Germany alone. The British sugar industry wouldn’t find its feet for another 15-20 years, with earlier attempts repeatedly faltering.
Making the Perfect Sloe Gin
1. The Sloes
First, you need some sloes from a Blackthorn (Prunus spinosa) shrub. Look for whole, soft purple fruits (technically known as ‘drupes’) hidden behind those wicked thorns. The thorns are more than a nuisance—take precautions, as they have a nasty habit of breaking off in your skin and causing infection.
I once took a Blackthorn thorn to the eye—I do not recommend it.
Pick the sloes when they’re just turning soft. If they’re still bullet-hard, wait a few more weeks. As a Prunus species, they’re basically small plums—that’s the consistency you’re after. Don’t fret about waiting for the first frost; throwing them in the freezer will have the same effect. You can skip the traditional pin-pricking too—the freezing process will break down the cell walls sufficiently.
The only tip I can offer here is to de-stalk, de-leaf and wash your sloes before freezing them – it will make a huge difference to the flavour later on.
2. The Alcohol
While gin is traditional, this recipe works with vodka, rum, whisky (a blend, naturally—not a single malt), or any other clear, consumable spirit.
The quality matters—cheap gins are rough at the best of times, and infusing them with Blackthorn won’t improve matters. Aim for something around the Gordon’s or Beefeater mark. Anything less, and you’ll notice the taste; anything more, and you’re wasting good gin.
Choose something simple, without too many floral notes—it will just be overwhelmed by the fruit anyway.
3. The Sugar
Here’s where popular recipes often go wrong. Some suggest ratios as high as 1:1 sugar to sloes, which is far too much.
Sugar is for taste—it’s not essential to the infusion process. We’re not making wine; there’s no fermentation happening.
Start with 60-100g of sugar for 400-500g of sloes. You can always add more later, before bottling.
4. The Process
Use a large (1.5-2L) Kilner jar with a wide mouth and good seal. If you haven’t already – remove all leaves and stalks from your sloes—their tannins will bring unwanted bitterness.
Add the sloes, then the sugar, then pour over about 750ml of your chosen spirit for every 400g of sloes.
This is your chance to add complementary flavours. Traditional recipes call for bitter almonds; I prefer a vanilla pod. Crushed almonds work well, and some use dried cherries. Be cautious though—erroneous flavours cannot be extracted. Do you want go down in history as the poor soul who added Chinese Five Spice to a whisky liqueur? Thought not.
Store your jar somewhere dark, cool, and accessible (I once lost a jar for two years only to find it later while tracing an electrical fault, buried in a cupboard).
Give the jar a gentle turn every week or so, inverting the whole jar and then back again. Three months is the minimum waiting period, which means if you make it now it’ll be ready for January walks but not December parties.
5. The Finishing Touches
Carelessness in this final stage can ruin the whole thing.
Filter out your gin before bottling, and take time with that filtration—I use a pour-over coffee filter (Hario V60) to remove all sediment and particulates. This preserves the best flavours without developing bitterness from stray bits of stalk or leaf. The result should be strikingly coloured with excellent clarity.
Now you can adjust sweetness with sugar syrup, either homemade or shop-bought. Do this carefully, tasting as you go.
Don’t waste those gin-soaked sloes—throw them into dry scrumpy to make something called ‘Slider‘ (though be warned, it’s dangerously drinkable), or de-stone and dip them in molten chocolate for boozy sweets.
Sloe gin is a fantastic way to make autumn’s fruits last all year. With careful attention to sugar levels, you can fine-tune each batch to your taste. And if it all goes wrong—if it’s too sweet or too bitter—you can always use it as a base for another infusion later in the year.
Over the years I’ve witnessed (and contributed to) countless arguments over the perfect sloe gin recipe. Each step can be tweaked, and ingredients will always affect the outcome. If you have the space, budget, and enough sloes, experiment with different batches.
Hogarth might have been convinced there was such a thing as too much gin in a kitchen. But me? I’m not so sure.
