Thanksgiving makes me think of snowdrops because the weekend after the holiday my friends and I would travel to Hillsborough, NC to see one of the rare forms of Galanthus at Montrose, a historic garden tended by Nancy Godwin. While most snowdrops typically start flowering later in winter, these autumn snowdrops (Galanthus elwesii var. monostictus) can be in full flower sometime around Thanksgiving, a full month or two earlier than other Galanthus.
Closeup of autumn snowdrops. I love how the petals of the inner perianth have the green upside down heart on them.
My friends Alice, Keith, and Kim traveled with me on my last trek to see snowdrops while living in Raleigh in 2013. The weather that Sunday afternoon was lovely. Nancy described the mid-fifties with a sunny, bluebird sky as a “miracle,” and with it and good conditions over the past few weeks, the snowdrops were looking superb.
Nancy stops our group briefly at Montrose to give us a teaser of the tour.
We were some of the earliest of the sixty or so visitors to descend on the garden for the snowdrop walk, and our prompt arrival ensured us Nancy as our head guide.
As we approach the back of the garden, excitement began to build as THOUSANDS of snowdrops come into view.
GASP! It almost looks like a dusting of snow in places, doesn’t it?
While Galanthus can be appreciated while standing, the diminutive size of snowdrops beckons gardeners to humble themselves upon the earth to appreciate their beauty, much like we see Kim doing here with her camera.
Nancy was keen to lead us along the path to highlight her favorite views, which finally crescendoed into us seeing the plants with the sunlight to our backs and the snowdrops in our front, a perfect angle for the light to play off the flowers well. She tells us that in 1987 she acquired 12 bulbs from a local seed store for less than a dollar, and by happenstance they were this rare variety. She started the mass planting seen above in November 2002 and has helped it enlarge via division. She made the comment that she’s glad she bought the bulbs. We are, too.
The snowdrops don’t stop here. We are then lead through the woods where a large, long drift—perhaps a 1/10 of a mile long—has been planted, and along the path Nancy points out a few Cyclamen coum that have just started flowering. However, most need not be in bloom to be attractive as the leaves on some cyclamen appear as if ornately arrayed shields of green, gray, and white.
The long drift pulls you into the woods to see just how far it goes.
Some of the diversity in Cyclamen foliage along the path through the woods. The leaves look like little shields scattered upon the forest floor.
For me, snowdrops mark a turning point in the year, evidence that even though winter is here, spring approaches. Many gardeners are fascinated by these winter bloomers to the point of obsession. I’m not there yet, but I hold with Christopher Lloyd as he wrote in Garden Flowers, “We all of us need more snowdrops in our gardens”, and “[s]nowdrops are graceful, welcoming, sheer delight, and I fail to see how one could have too many of them.” If you’ve never seen them before, the pictures included here will certainly help. When visuals are absent, I describe the plants as diminutive street lights, the white perianth dangling from six-inch scapes, much like a lantern might have hung from posts in days of old.
Galanthus flowers hang like lanterns on hooks. While they produce no foot candles, they certainly brighten winter.
The lantern comment brings to mind a story I once heard in a sermon. Robert Louis Stevenson as a child was sickly. One evening, the nurse came to check on him and found him sitting near the window watching the lamplighter. The nurse hastened him to get back in bed, but he was mesmerized by the lamplighter who he said was “poking holes in the darkness.” For me that’s what snowdrops do. They poke holes in the darkness of winter, and having some that bloom early like these autumn snowdrops and some that bloom late can make sure that all of winter is a little brighter in our gardens.