It is nearly Valentine's Day, the snow has vanished, the sun is shining, the ground has thawed, and Spring is nearly officially here.
When the first Snowdrops appear, I always embrace it as the first sign of Spring. I know it is still technically winter when they flower. But it still signals Spring to me. It makes me feel so happy that the long, cold, dark days are now (nearly) behind me.
Snowdrops were my grandfather's favourite flower so there is always that thought and memory when I see them as well. Perhaps partly because of him, although I love having flowers in the house, I would never dream of picking them as they are so beautiful in the garden, there is always so few, and they have such a short life. They seem to belong just where they have appeared, etheral and fairy-like.
Today when I went into our garden, a slightly wild place with overgrown trees and ivy and a rope swing, I was once again reminded of the story 'Tom's Midnight Garden' by Philippa Pearce. We live in a top floor flat in a converted Victorian mansion, much as Mrs Bartholomew from the story, and I think that our garden has some of the romantic echo and magic of the garden she dreamed of from her youth.
When I went into it today I was delighted to see bright clumps of Spring had appeared as if by magic overnight.
There were also gorgeous purple Crocus flowers dotted around.
But it was still the Snowdrops which entranced me.
I love them in small, delicate clumps, heads bowed almost reverently, the delicate inside flower streaked with lime green, with the larger outside flower hanging protectively about them.
I love them in large clumps as well, especially when the sun shines through them, making them translucent.
I love how occassionally you can find a rogue one or two standing apart.
But mostly I love that, for me, Spring is here.
