The strengthening sun casts tree shadows across swaths of snowdrops in this former market garden. A succession of old types of narcissi emerge each year in their original rows and plots but, 45 years ago, there were no snowdrops here apart from a few dainty, late flowerers in a hedgebank.
Since then, my favourite gardening job in early spring has been to split the snowdrops and spread them about, “in the green” (before the leaves die back), as the flowers fade. Friends and relatives have donated surplus plants from old orchards and overgrown gardens, so there are early tall and shorter singles, and several double varieties, all of which used to be picked, bunched with ivy leaves and sent away to urban markets.
On this south-facing, undisturbed land, the blooms are well protected – by the ground cover of ivy, ferns and mossy fallen branches; from the regenerating hazel, now hung with faded catkins; the tall ash suffering from die-back; stunted hollies that survive browsing by passing deer; and oak, planted by the jays. Dog mercury and wild arum creep downslope, and the snowdrops – like primrose and bluebell – seem immune to destruction by nibbling rabbits.
Cold wind and frost have slowed the inexorable progress of spring, but the thrush sings at dawn from its high-up perch, blackbirds scuffle for worms in fresh molehills, and a goldcrest seeks insects around the fragrant witch hazel. Chiffchaff, first heard in mid‑February, has gone quiet.
Outside this secluded enclave, regularly flailed hedgerows offer little shelter; withered vegetation and sparse primrose flowers merge with the cut-off woody growth and earth thrown up by burrowing rabbits. Hard-grazed pastures let out to horses are particularly drab, contrasting with the pale greens of shut-up fields awaiting cattle, which are still in their winter quarters.
Springs and streams are low after weeks of dry weather, and in the shady woods, cushions of dried up moss lack the verdant brilliance associated with more usual damp mildness. When that returns, hedgebanks along the lanes should again host those masses of primrose, still associated with spring in this sheltered valley.
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