Breaking the harsh spell of winter

After the recent freeze, the appearance of snowdrops is a welcome reassurance that spring is on its way, writes JANE POWERS

WE DON’T NORMALLY get much weather around where I live. I mean, yes, we get the rain and the wind, and the odd bout of sunshine. But because we are so near the sea, obvious dips and peaks of cold and heat don’t affect our garden in the way they do the gardens of my friends inland. For a few days last month, however, we did have weather: startling snowy and freezing stuff. Winter, instead of half-heartedly offering its usual limp embrace, held the garden in a bear hug for at least a week, and when it loosened its hold, it left a bit of a mess behind.

As I was clearing away crumpled dead foliage and flower stalks, I was gladder than usual to see dozens of fresh shoots crowding vertically out of the soil. Ah! It was the snowdrops, not yet opened – but a miniature forest of green darning needles with tiny white eyes. There will, no doubt, be more winter weather, but the appearance of these first bulbs is reassuring proof that the seasonal cycle is still working. Spring will follow this hard winter.

This year, more than ever, we can appreciate the ancient idea of the snowdrop as the brave plant that breaks the harsh spell of winter. Its symbolism has roused the pen of poets for centuries. In the past, I’ve mentioned Tennyson’s “solitary firstling”, Wordsworth’s “venturous harbinger of Spring, and pensive monitor of fleeting years”, and of course, the “vegetable snow” of Thomas Tickell. I’ve been reading something far more contemporary this year: Paula Meehan’s Snowdrops, from her recent collection, Painting Rain.

It’s a beautiful and poignant poem, and, even though it is short, I don’t want to dishonour it by trotting too much of it out here. Still, I have to give you this bit: “you’ll look up under their petticoats/into a hoard of gold/like secret sunlight and their/ three tiny striped green awnings that lend a/kind of frantic small-scale festive air”.

Isn’t that just perfect? But it would have to be, to do justice to these most perfect of flowers. They are the one flower for which gardeners never hesitate to get down on their knees to pay their obeisances. I mean, other spring bulbs deserve our homage too, but would you genuflect to a bluebell?

As it happens, the winter aconite (Eranthis hyemalis) usually beats the snowdrop into bloom. This tiny tuberous plant thrusts its acid-yellow flowers and green ruffs just an inch or two above the soil, a fortnight or more before the snowdrop. It grows happily under deciduous trees and shrubs, and favours lighter soils. The tubers are small, brown, misshapen things, the size of the end of your finger. They are best planted when fresh, within the next month or two. If you can get only dried tubers, soak them overnight.

This petite buttercup relative is pretty, but has spurred comparatively few poets into action. The little-known AM Graham was one, whose poem for children, The Aconite, starts off: “Earth has borne a little son,/He is a very little one,/He wears a bib all frilled with green/Around his neck to keep him clean”. And he finishes off, 10 stanzas later: “Aconite, the first of all,/Who is so very, very small,/Who is so golden-haired and good,/And wears a bib as babies should”.

The Algerian iris (I. unguicularis) is another winter gem, blooming from November to March. The flowers are a washed-out lavender, with delicately-striped throats. The evergreen leaves are long, strappy and untidy – three times longer than the 20cm tall flower stems, and are inclined to go brown at the ends. When I remember, I cut the foliage back in late summer so that it has grown back shorter and fresher by the time the flowers arrive. If this were a summer flower, you probably wouldn’t bother with it, but at this time of the year, its blooms are exquisitely welcome. The best way to enjoy this stubby and floppy iris is to pick the buds just when they have plumped up and to put them in a vase. In a warm room, they will open within half an hour. When planting, give it a warm spot where the ground is baked in summer.

The petite I. reticulata is also in bloom this month. A native of Iran, Iraq, the Caucasus and Turkey, it has finely wrought blue or purple flowers. ‘Harmony’ (royal blue) and ‘Pauline’ (deep purple) are two that you are likely to find in the autumn catalogues. In my experience, blooms are sparse after the first year, as the bulbs tend to put their energy into dividing, rather than regenerating, their flowering capacity. I treat these irises as a once-off treat, planting them in a shallow terracotta pot that is brought into the house at bloom time. After they have performed their piece, I send them off to the compost heap.

Early daffodils, such as ‘February Gold’, ‘February Silver’ and ‘Tête-à-tête’ are also in flower this month. And the crocuses are out in force too. For those who like theirs big and showy, there are the beefy Dutch kinds, bred from Crocus vernus. For everyone else there are the so-called “species” kinds, which look more like wildlings. There are dozens of varieties, but I like the barely-there ‘Blue Pearl’, which looks elegantly decorous with the white bark of a birch tree, and ‘Cream Beauty’, which is well named.

A final bulbous plant (in fact, a tuber) that is bold enough to face the February chill is Cyclamen coum, with upswept, pink or purple petals and interesting rounded leaves. It is less vigorous than its more common autumn flowering cousin, C. hederifolium. Its low-lying blooms and ground-hugging foliage keep it safe from the worst of winter winds. jpowers@irishtimes.com

Snowdrop week takes place at Altamont Gardens, Tullow, Co Carlow from next Monday to Sunday. Guided tour of snowdrops (daily at 2pm), €2. Altamont is near Ballon, and is signposted off the N80 and N81, between Tullow and Bunclody. Telephone 059-9159444