I wonder if nature has found a way to compensate us for the dreariest winter I can recall, because the snowdrops this year have been unbelievable. I’m seeing them everywhere – along road verges, on village greens, with vast white sheets across churchyards and especially in old gardens with driveways and mature trees around their margins.
I have a small snowdrop patch under our crab apple and while they’re modest in number, they are, in a way, more than flowers. My mother first planted those same bulbs (or their “parents”) in her garden, which is half a mile from here, in the 1970s. When she died a decade ago, I took them first to our old house and now to this property. I’d actually forgotten the last transfer: a scoop of both the bulbs and surrounding soil, a short car journey, then a hasty reinterment in a hole on this south-facing slope. Now here they all are, up in the light, sparkling and brimful of this seasonal moment, but also laden with memories of my wonderful Ma and her love of gardens. In a way, her snowdrops are now family.
