For the full snowdrop experience, get close to the ground, writes Jane Powers
Snowdrops at Altamont Gardens, in Co Carlow, have an advantage over the rest of us. In the garden the main action is hovering just a few inches above the soil, where bulbs and early blooms beckon us down to ground level. Of all the early spring bulbs snowdrops are the most elegant and intricate. Seen en masse they are a thrilling sight, a vast flotilla of trembling bells - or "vegetable snow", as the Victorian poet Thomas Tickell (who lived for a time at Glasnevin) dubbed them in his rambling and overly florid poem Kensington Gardens.
Drifts of vegetable snow are all very well, but to get the complete snowdrop experience you need to kneel or squat on the chilly February ground and examine the little flowers in detail. And, yes, I know some insensitive folks might suggest that if you've seen one snowdrop you've seen 'em all, but in fact they vary widely.
All right, widely is an exaggeration, but when you're looking at members of the Galanthus genus you must fine-tune your eyes, as if you are studying the most meticulously painted miniature. The sheen or fold of a leaf, the angle of a pedicel (the wire-thin stalk that supports the flower), the notching on a perianth segment (a petal to you and me): all these may divulge the identity of a particular variety.
But most of all it is the mysterious pea-green markings on the inner petals that reveal the secrets of a snowdrop's individuality. To a galanthophile there are worlds of difference between an inverted "u" and an upside-down "v", not to mention a millimetre-wide blip and a two-millimetre blob. These are the intimate and tiny details that define the 19 species and several hundred varieties.
Of course, it could be argued that if these dainty pearl-drop flowers appeared during the hurly-burly, cluttered days of summer, nobody would pay them any notice. But in the quiet days of early spring it's entertaining to amuse ourselves parsing snowdrops.
There are few places more suited to this pastime than the gardens at Altamont, a few miles outside Tullow. In the borders behind the big old house - home of the late Corona North, one of the State's most dedicated gardeners - there are more than 60 named varieties.
True, other gardens have larger collections, but at Altamont all are clearly labelled, so you can take your time comparing one variety's etched heart-shaped markings with another's hand-painted horseshoes. And if it is one of those crystalline days that sometimes occur in February, then a spot of snowdrop drawing - or photography - will help capture the subtle nuances for later inspection.
A British snowdrop expert, Richard Nutt, recommends that the best way to get to know a snowdrop is to draw it, however ham-fistedly (but please don't tramp over the borders in pursuit of your art).
For those who wish for instruction from an Irish snowdrop grower, then Altamont's knowledgeable head gardener, Paul Cutler, will give tours of the collection during the coming week. He will demystify the variations between the species and the many hybrids that have arisen among them.
Most of the latter, he says, derive from three species, Galanthus nivalis (the common snowdrop), the Turkish G. elwesii and the Crimean snowdrop, G. plicatus. He will also demonstrate the difference between a snowdrop and its close family member the snowflake (Leucojum). The latter, incidentally, has six equal petals while the former has (usually) three inner and three outer petals.
Among the crowds of "fair maids of February", as snowdrops used to be called, are several special Irish varieties. One of these, a handsome and sturdy G. elwesii cultivar, named unofficially as 'Drummond's Giant', began life in Drummond's hardware shop in Carlow town. Stasia O'Neill, a keen gardener who lives nearby, had bought a "bowl of six snowdrops for Christmas" 46 years ago.
When she noticed that they were larger than normal she divided them, giving some to her friend Corona North, at Altamont. Now the hardware shop progeny make large, healthy clumps around the garden. (And for those who lust for their own 'Drummond's Giant', a limited number - and about a dozen other varieties - are for sale in Robert Miller's interesting nursery in the walled garden.)
Another fine Irish cultivar here is 'Hill Poë', a double snowdrop, found under the dining-room window about 90 years ago at Riverston in Nenagh by James Hill Poë. This frilly variety of G. plicatus is swift to increase and, according to Cutler, is "one of the very best doubles, because it has such a tightly packed flower".
This lovely Irish bulb was not in flower when I visited Altamont a couple of weeks ago, but the earliest double of all, 'Lady Beatrix Stanley', was showing off her voluminous underskirts in great style - and looking particularly fetching in a massed planting under a huge deodar.
But early spring, as you can see at Altamont, is not all about snowdrops. It is also the season of tiny irises, cyclamen and hellebores - and spidery-flowered witch hazel.
It is also the season of the fragrant shrub Daphne bholua Jacqueline Postill, whose intoxicating blooms occur at nose level, a blessed relief after all the knee work required for snowdrops.
jpowers@irish-times.ie
Snowdrop week at Altamont Gardens, near Tullow in Co Carlow, runs from Monday until Sunday (Monday to Thursday 9 a.m.-5 p.m., Friday 9 a.m.-3.30 p.m., Saturday and Sunday 2-5 p.m.). Head gardener Paul Cutler leads a guided tour each day at 2 p.m. (€2.75 for adults, €2 for seniors). You can book other times by telephoning 059-9159444 or 087-2551204. Admission to the gardens is free. The garden is open on weekdays, at the above times, outside of snowdrop week (weekend opening resumes later in the spring)