Over the centuries, writers have spilled a lot of ink over a little flower—Galanthus nivalis or snowdrop. Tennyson and Wordsworth have sung its praises in lines of verse. Elizabethan herbalist John Gerard described the plant in his 1597 Herball, when galanthus was already old news. It was most likely described by the great botanist and philosopher Theophrastus in the third century BCE.
All of this verbiage has attached itself to a plant that only grows about 6 to 8 inches tall. The familiar green-marked white flowers bloom at the tops of the stems, drooping from thin pedicels or stalks. In single forms, snowdrops boast three long, roughly oval shaped petals and three shorter inner petals. Many varieties are scented—a definite plus in spring when anything that smells good is a welcome addition to the muddy landscape. Happy snowdrops form clumps—faster or slower depending on the species, variety and environment. One of my favorite green spaces, a vest-pocket public garden dating to the 1930’s, is home to sheets of snowdrops every spring. I don’t know for sure, but I imagine those sheets started with a few Depression-era clumps that took things into their own hands—or roots—over the decades.
There are about 20 species of snowdrops and hundreds of hybrids and varieties, but the most common is Galanthus nivalis, native to Europe. Its generic name, “galanthus,” is derived from Greek words meaning “milk” and “flower” and the species name, “nivalis” means “snow.” Therefore, Galanthus nivalis is literally, “the snowy white flower.” Snowdrops are reasonably adaptable, but grow best in rich soil and partial shade. Planting snowdrops under deciduous trees is a good idea, giving them sun as they emerge in spring, followed by the shade they prefer later in the season. Anyone who has ever grown snowdrops knows that they pop up almost like magic in spring, flower triumphantly and then subside completely after the leaves have ripened.
Perhaps this magical appearing/disappearing quality, coupled with the ability to shoot up through cold earth, has made, the genus Galanthus the object of fierce devotion in many people. The Victorians fell in love with snowdrops and plant hunters of the era took pains to bring back new species from their travels. According to Freda Cox in her excellent book, A Gardener’s Guide to Snowdrops, the first double-flowered snowdrop, Galanthus nivalis ‘Flore Pleno’, was discovered in 1703. Doubles have been a source of fascination to collectors ever since.
Collectors sometimes become “galanthophiles” who are so wild about the plants that they will travel great distances to see important collections, pay vast sums for rare or unusual varieties or spend their lives growing and/or breeding snowdrops. Heyrick Greatorex, an English gentleman of the first half of the twentieth century, was one such fanatic. A retired cavalry officer who saw service in World War I, he lived in Norfolk, preferring to sleep in a converted train car at the end of his garden, rather than a house. He spent his time on snowdrops, crossing the double-flowered ‘Flore Pleno’ snowdrop with another species, Galanthus plicatus, eventually producing double-flowered hybrids with large, regular blossoms. Dubbed the “Greatorex Doubles,” the hybrids were named after characters from Shakespeare. Sadly, Greatorex was reclusive and secretive, so modern galanthophiles have trouble identifying specific Greatorex varieties. Greatorex, who died in 1954, did not provide much written help. Some specialty nurseries sell a few of the Greatorex doubles that have been positively identified by specific varietal name. Other plants are only sold as “mixed Greatorex doubles.”
Even if I could afford to be a galanthophile, I have a full plate of other plant obsessions already. Still, I can’t resist variety. My garden is home to common snowdrops, which I am trying to increase over time. One of my favorites, ‘S. Arnott’, a hybrid from the mid-twentieth century, is an eye catcher that also works well in small arrangements. ‘S. Arnott’ looks like a common snowdrop on steroids, with fragrant flowers roughly twice the size of the nivalis species and V-shaped green markings on the petal tips. Another love, which I have indulged in sparingly, is ‘Primrose Warburg’, named after a well-known English plant authority. ‘Primrose’ features yellow ovaries at the base of each flower and yellow markings. My love persists despite the fact that it increases slowly in my garden.
I am also fond of doubles, including the Greatorex hybrids, and over the years I have acquired small numbers of various varieties.
Galanthus nivalis is widely available and dirt cheap, so there is no reason not to grow a respectable stand of it. ‘Flore Pleno’ is also relatively easy to obtain from garden centers and online vendors. Alternately, if you know someone with snowdrops, ask for a clump division in the spring, just as flowering finishes. As snowdrops have waxed in popularity over the last few years, I have seen ‘S. Arnot’ carried by some retailers. For greater variety, seek out specialists. One of the highpoints of my gardening year is the annual arrival of the little catalog from The Temple Nursery in Trumansburg, New York. The proprietor, Hitch Lyman, is a snowdrop expert and carries an excellent selection of unusual varieties. The snowdrops described in the catalog are not cheap, come with no guarantee of success and cannot be bought with a credit card, but Lyman’s descriptions will make you want to buy up his entire inventory.
If you are up to the challenge, contact The Temple Nursery, Box 591, Trumansburg, New York 14886.