Snowdrops

Snowdrops are the quintessential spring flower. Perhaps it is the long winter months of anticipation that makes galanthophilia such a tempting perversion. Every February, bored journalists write articles, marvelling at the thrall in which these small plants hold their devotees and expressing mock horror at the prices that the latest discoveries command (these are often the same journalists who would spend £500 on a handbag without blinking). Tedious and irrelevant comparisons are made with the Dutch tulip bubble. Some genuinely fine gardeners and plantsmen, who ought to know better, affect to be above such nonsense and claim to be able to distinguish only a handful of the hundreds of selections and cultivars now available.

One of the great joys of spring, for me, is walking around a really fine snowdrop garden in the company of an expert galanthophile. To do so is to witness not just a breathtaking display of flowers but also a tour-de-force of observational prowess. Although too many similar snowdrops have been named by enthusiasts, they are all subtly different and, once you learn to recognise the distinctions, beautiful in their own way. A real aficionado can not only tell them apart but tell you why they are different, without recourse to a text book. Look closely and you will see that they are right. I know of no better way, and certainly no more harmlessly pleasurable one, of enhancing ones powers of observation than succumbing to galanthophilia.

Galanthus nivalis in Montenegro

 Many genera of bulbs that flower mainly in early spring, also include a handful of species that sneak in a brief blooming period just before the onset of winter. Familiar examples include Crocus, Muscari and Scilla. In evolutionary terms, it is easy to see how plants that flower at a time when both insect pollinators and other flowers are scarce – early spring – might be pre-adapted to exploit the handful of pollinators still flying in late autumn. In some environments, mutant individuals of spring-flowering species that happen to flower in autumn might prosper or even enjoy a competitive advantage over their spring-flowering relatives. In these circumstances, barring accidents, natural selection would result in their persistence and spread.

Among snowdrops, there are at least three species that have autumn flowering populations. Two of these, Galanthus reginae-olgae and G. peshmenii are closely related to the familiar G. nivalis. The third is G. elwesii.

Wandering around my polytunnels and greenhouse today I was struck by how very few of the thousands of species I have growing there were flowering. A few Nerine cultivars still have flowers; some deliciously scented, early Iris unguicularis are putting on a show; but most of the landscape is green or brown. I was thrilled, therefore, to come across a neglected tray of pots containing bulbs of G. reginae-olgae subsp. reginae-olgae ‘Cambridge’, my favourite selection of this species, in full flower. This is a plant that contrives to look healthy and happy in the most inclement weather and (although the photograph below was taken last year), so it was today.

Galanthus reginae-olgae subsp. reginae-olgae 'Cambridge'

Bulbs that flower in November should be given a medal for alleviating human suffering. G. reginae-olgae ‘Cambridge’ is my nominee for the George Cross.