LADY AT LEISURE
Fiona Armstrong enjoys snowdrops despite their reaper-esque rep
It was T.S. Eliot who maintained that April is the cruellest month: ‘breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire…’ For my part, March can also be pretty hard work, but at least it is made brighter by bulbs. Swathes of yellow and purple can brighten the darkest spot. I love daffodils and crocuses, but my favourite is the white stuff. The snowdrop is so utterly common – and yet so totally special.
While walking the Naughties in a park in Coupar Angus, we pass groups of Galanthus nivalis that have been planted in the grass in the shape of a large heart. Who placed these dainty flowers in such a shape? And what was it for?
Blooming close to the ground, these Fair Maids of March are not total harbingers of happiness. Some folk think it unlucky to give this innocent-looking perennial houseroom.
The Victorians believed that the snowdrop signified death – and sadly the last few months have seen several funerals close to home. Particularly poignant was that of Amanda Saville, a famous carriage-driving coach.
Amanda started the Chariots of Fire driving centre near Lockerbie. Her speciality was thrilling audiences by jumping ponies and carriage through blazing rings, and over volunteers lying nervously on the ground. She worked with blind people and wheelchair users, and was named Scotland’s disability coach of the year. Through her charity, Sports Driving Unlimited, hundreds of disabled people experienced the thrills and spills of the sport.
Amanda died after a struggle with cancer. In keeping with her pony passion, she was borne from church to grave on a horse-drawn hearse driven by her husband, John.
I did once make a film about her, and was shrieking with fear and excitement as she whizzed me round the course. Amanda had a steed with a party piece – it could undo ladies’ jacket zips with its teeth. She herself was truly inspirational and totally stylish. She loved horses and silk Hermès scarves…
Then there was my friend, Simon Crouch, an award-winning TV director and cameraman. This was the man who made me abseil off an 80-foot cliff when he was fully aware that I hate heights and who took me potholing when he knew my fear of confined spaces. Both films were for a series called River Journeys.
Simon was in his late 60s when he, too, died of cancer earlier this year. Like Amanda, he had lived life in the fast lane: whether it was driving his red Morgan car or filming in a canoe in rapids. Yet Simon had a slower, softer side. He once made a prize-winning half-hour film about William Wordsworth’s Daffodils.
Simon was not a believer and God did not feature at his funeral. Folk turned up at the crematorium in pinks and purples; friends and family got up to tell funny stories about his life; his wife, Jean, had the Cilla Black song You’re My World booming out in the room. When the curtains closed around Simon’s coffin, it was to the sounds of AC/DC’s Highway to Hell…
It is a funny old world and it can be a funny old death. I hope that when the time comes, there will be snowdrops somewhere…
‘In keeping with her pony passion, she was borne from church to grave on a horse-drawn hearse’