Carol Klein on the beauty of snowdrops
Prepare their future home thoroughly and these delightful ‘toughies’ will put on a great show!
If there’s one flower that staves off the wintry gloom and turns our thoughts towards the green, oncoming days of spring, it’s the snowdrop. Surely the bravest flower of all, it pushes up its tight stems piercing snow, mire or the decayed leaves of last year’s autumn. Whatever obstacles it encounters it ignores, and not just physical barriers either.
The weather is often at its worst when snowdrops emerge. At first, there are one or two shoots – almost like creatures they inspect the scene and seem to sniff the air. And you can just imagine these pioneers summoning the rest. Within days the ground is awash with their delightful white flowers.
They’re never alone. Every day new shoots join in until there are crowds and crowds. They love each other’s company; you always talk about snowdrops ‘carpeting’ the woodland floor.
A single flower close up is fascinating; the papery sheath opens and the big white drop is free to sway, supported only by a hair-fine stem, the pedicel. The three pure-white outer petals shelter three inner petals which form an underskirt tipped with green. Inside the secret workings of the flower, stigma and stamens are protected. No matter how harsh the weather, through lashing winds, snow and fierce cold, the flower dangles from its pedicel, impervious to all. Snowdrops are tough!
Although I try not to show favouritism to any flower, it’s difficult not to feel, when they put their delightful white flowers above the parapet, that these are the most wonderful flowers you ever saw.
Here at Glebe Cottage, we’re lucky enough to have masses, especially on the shady side of the garden. One day you’ll be walking down through the trees feeling gloomy and then, a few
‘It’s difficult not to feel, when they put their delightful white flowers above the parapet, that these are the most wonderful flowers you ever saw’
days later on the same route, there they are, and the ground is turning white almost before your eyes.
Galanthus nivalis is the snowdrop we usually see in its multitudes. Galanthus means ‘with milk-white flowers’ and nivalis translates as ‘of the snow’.
G. nivalis is the snowdrop to naturalise. Those who like pretty may prefer its double-flowered version, ‘Flore Pleno’, but nothing can outshine the simple elegance of the single.
We’ve both in the garden and several varieties, too. We don’t profess to being galanthophiles and knowing a great deal about them, but they grow well here in our heavy, fertile soil.
‘Atkinsii’ is a most welcome snowdrop. It arrives early, sometimes even before the wildings, and sometimes through snow. It’s large, substantial but decidedly elegant with long, gently-flared petals and broad, glaucous leaves.
In several of the beds on the shady side of the garden, one of my all-time favourites, ‘S. Arnott’, grows happily, increasing each year both by its bulbs multiplying spontaneously and by self-seeding. It has gracefully rounded petals and sweetlyscented flowers full of nectar for the first bees.
From two or three bulbs bought years ago, we now have a little colony that shares the bed with pink and white hellebores and have divided and replanted along the little bank under three big hazels. When we replant, we wait until flowers fizzle, dig up a congested clump, pull it apart to separate each bulb then replant separately a few inches apart and 10–15cm (4–6in) deep. We give each bulb a ration of good compost or leaf mould. To ensure a random, natural look, it’s a good idea to vary distances between the bulbs.
Everyone can grow snowdrops – there’s always room for a few bulbs. If you prepare their future homes thoroughly, they’ll colonise and each year you can look forward to a bigger and better show.