To a Snowdrop. 

Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they
But hardier far, once more I see thee bend
Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend,
Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day,
Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, waylay
The rising sun, and on the plains descend;
Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend
Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May
Shall soon behold this border thickly set
With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing
On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers;
Nor will I then thy modest grace forget,
Chaste Snowdrop, venturous harbinger of Spring,
And pensive monitor of fleeting years!

                                            - William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

It seems that every bankside, woodland and verge around where I live is covered in a beautiful, blanket of snowdrops at the moment. In the Victorian language of flowers, Snowdrops signify ‘hope’ and they certainly convey a feeling that the worst of winter is over and that Spring is well and truly on its way.

 In gardens, too, the cultivated varieties are at their best. There has been a great upsurge of interest in the different varieties of snowdrops in recent times. If you thought there were just singles or doubles (‘frilly petticoats’), it may come as a surprise to learn that there are more than 500 named cultivars derived from the 19 or so species found in the wild. All are variations on a theme, basically white petals with green, or occasionally, yellow markings. Personally, I love the simple purity of the common, single type.

 According to legend, the snowdrop became the symbol of hope when Adam and Eve were expelled from the Garden of Eden.  Eve sat weeping. No flower had bloomed since The Fall. Snow fell ceaselessly. When Eve was about to give up hope that the cold winters would ever end, an angel appeared. She transformed some of the snowflakes into snowdrop flowers, proving that the winters do eventually give way to the spring. Germany has a different legend, whereby, when God made snow he asked all the flowers to give up a little of their colour for it; the flowers refused to oblige, all except for the snowdrop, who willing gave her colour to the snow. As a reward, the snowdrop was given the honour of being the flower that heralded the approach of spring.

Snowdrops aren’t native to this country. In the thirteenth century, the bulbs were transported to Europe from Turkey and Rome by monks wishing to plant them around the monasteries. A snowdrop bulbs lasts for ever and many of those snowdrops are still there, around our ancient monasteries and churches. Some of the pictures on this page were taken at Fountain’s Abbey and Studley Royal, last week, where those snowdrops of the thirteenth century still cover the landscape.

 Sadly, the presence of snowdrops in churchyards had a downside. People began to associate them with death, comparing the flowers to shrouds and considering a single snowdrop as a portend of death. Certainly, when I was a child, in some parts of North Yorkshire, it was considered deeply unlucky to bring snowdrops into the house.

 The Swedish naturalist, Carl Linnaeus created the genus for the Snowdrop, giving it the latin name ‘Galanthus’, from the Greek, ‘gala’ meaning ‘milk’ and ‘anthos’, meaning, ‘flower’, although the common snowdrop was called the ‘milk flower’ before this classification, due to its resemblance to three drops of milk. The name, ‘Snowdrop’ is not all that old and comes from the German, ‘Schneetrophen’, which refers to the ear rings worn by seventeenth century ladies. In the time of Shakespeare it was known as the ‘bulbous white violet’. Older English names for the plant include ‘Candlemas bells’, ‘Fair Maids of February’, ‘Mary’s Tapers’ and ‘White Ladies’, all relating to church festivals of Candlemas (February 2) and referring to the white robed maidens in procession which took place on the feast of purification. A much more recent addition to the names this plant has acquired is ‘White Helmets’, which is a reference to the nickname given by the Brits to the American military police stationed in the UK prior to the invasion during World War II, because of their white helmets, gloves, gaiters and Sam Browne belts against the drab olive green uniforms.

 The first poem about the flower, using the word, ‘Snowdrop’ was written by Thomas Tickle (1686 – 1740), but many others followed, including Coleridge, Wordsworth, Louise Gluck and Yorkshire’s own, Ted Hughes;

           SNOWDROP

‘Now is the globe shrunk tight
Round the mouse’s dulled wintering heart
Weasel and crow, as if moulded in brass,
Move through an outer darkness
Not in their right minds,
With the other deaths. She, too, pursues her ends,
Brutal as the stars of this month,
Her pale head heavy as metal. ’

                                                  – Ted Hughes (1930 – 1998)

 On a more sinister note, ‘snowdrop’ is used as a euphemism for cocaine, as illustrated in Kenneth Slessor’s poem, ‘The Snowdrop Girl’, which deals with the widespread use of drugs as an escape from the realities of World War II; 

             Snowdrop Girl.

Snowdrop Girl in fields of snowdrops walks,
Whiter than foam, deeper than waters flowing,
Flakes of wild milk gone blowing,
Snowing on cloudy stalks.
The Snowdrop Girl goes picking flowers of snow,
Blossoms of darkness bubbling into dreams,
In a strange country, by the shadowy streams
Where the cruel petals of the Coke-tree grow.

Although we don’t need to walk far to see the masses of snowdrops gracing the woodlands around, there is an organised Snowdrop Walk at Burton Agnes hall, which is fun. The woodland walk has been extended this year, and there’s also a labyrinth and a jungle garden, with sculptures tucked away for the children to find by following the clues. Access to the Snowdrop walk also includes the rest of the Burton Agnes garden and grounds. For those in the know, the rabbits have all gone, but the guinea pigs are still there and chidren love to have their picnics with them running around their feet (I usually pack thermoses of soup and bread filled with hot veggies so that any bread not eaten can be fed to the ducks in the village. ) There are a couple of gift shops with some unusual things, a farm shop, an ice-cream parlour (go for the Supermix !!) and a reasonable café. Snowdrops in the green can be purchased there, as can seed and cuttings from most of the varieties of plants in the gardens. If you want to go specifically for the Snowdrop walk, you’ll have to hurry though – it ends on the 28^th.   

Links; 1. Burton Agnes –  http://www.burtonagnes.com/Home.html

               2. This is an interesting one. Apparently, alkaloids have been found in snowdrops that could be useful in the battle against Alzheimers – http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/12/091220175319.htm