The bulbous violets, those dainty heralds of spring, are flowering in the garden now. As ever, their purewhite, trembling teardrops send a shot of euphoria straight through the heart.
Bulbous violets? Okay, we know them now as snowdrops, but in times past (very past: around three-and-half centuries ago) they were called bulbous violets. The more recent "snowdrop", interestingly, has nothing to do with the flowers resembling droplets of snow. Rather, it comes from the German Schneetropfen, the pearly teardrop-shaped jewels worn by 16th- and 17th-century ladies of style, and which you often see dangling luminously from ears and necks in portraits of the period. And in case you wondered, Galanthus, the botanical name, comes from the Greek "gala" (milk) and "anthos" (flower).
But whatever you call them (and they also wear the vernacular handles of Candlemas Bells, Drooping Heads, Eve's Tears and Naked Maidens, among others), there's no doubt that these delicate, pendant beads of unsullied purity are one of the most welcome sights in the winter-turning-to-spring garden.
Their seeming delicacy, though, belies a fierce hardiness. Snowdrops are, in fact, as tough as old boots. They are not bothered by frost: even when they lie down flat after a very hard night of minus 15 degrees Centigrade, they rally as soon as the day warms up. There are few diseases that hit them, and most pests steer clear of them (their leaves contain toxic substances). In my garden, however, the flower buds and petals often annoyingly disappear into the mouths of early slugs and snails - and in country gardens mice are a definite nuisance.
There are 18 species of snowdrop and hundreds of subspecies and hybrids. With such a huge variety in existence, I'm ashamed that I grow only four types: the Turkish Galanthus elwesii, also known as the giant snowdrop, and three forms of the common snowdrop, G. nivalis. The thing about snowdrops is that, unlike many other spring gems, they do not grow well from dried bulbs (although you often see them with other bulbs in big party packs in supermarkets). The only way to establish a collection is to plant them when they are "in the green" (before the leaves have died back). And as few nurseries or garden centres in Ireland sell them this way, the only way to acquire them is to hang around meaningfully in snowdrop-owners' gardens in spring.
G. elwesii, which has beefy, blue-grey leaves and large flowers, likes a drier situation than many snowdrops. It does well in my parched Dublin soil. In damper regions it can be grown in a raised bed or rockery, or in soil that has been thinned with grit. It is, along with the common snowdrop, among the easier to grow, say the experts. It is the parent of many striking cultivars, including the very upright, standing-to-attention `Robin Hood', and `Merlin', which has elongated flowers, and inner petals (or inner perianth segments to give them their correct name) of pure green edged with a thin border of white.
It is the markings on the petals that drive galanthophiles (a rather serious title for snowdrop-fanciers) to delighted distraction. Each variety carries a different combination of pea-green blips and blobs of the utmost delicacy, mainly on the shorter, inner set of petals. It's not always that easy to investigate these green-inked etchings. To protect its reproductive parts from inclement weather, the snowdrop keeps its outer petals clamped tightly shut in temperatures below 10 degrees Celsius. In this chilly atmosphere, the insects that pollinate it are tucked up in their roosts, so there's no point in opening for business.
Flowers that are picked (don't cut the stems, pull them) will open inside the house - that is if you can bear to bring them indoors. Incidentally, it is meant to be terribly bad luck to pick the first snowdrop of the year. Legend has it that if you do, someone in the house will die - which explains another of this bulb's folk names: Death's Flower.
For my part, I prefer to see snowdrops outside. They look wonderful pushing through the silvery, marbled leaves of the autumn cyclamen (C. hederifolium) or sprinkled in thousands through grass - as in the grounds of Dublin's Trinity College. And the robust, common snowdrop (G. nivalis), makes a willingly spring layer in a bed that is covered by herbaceous perennials for the rest of the year. Plant them in soil that has been enriched with sieved leaf-mould and a little sand, says Dublin's best-known snowdrop man, Robin Hall, of Primrose Hill in Lucan. If you don't have leaf-mould, fine, good garden compost will do. Some experts say that manure is too rich, although others use it successfully.
But the main thing is just to plant - and admire. For the "timely flowering bulbus violet" (as defined in Gerard's Herball of 1597) is a touching reminder that spring is really here. Whether it stays or not is another matter.
Primrose Hill in Lucan village, the home of Robin Hall, has dozens of varieties of snowdrop. Open every day this month from 2 p.m. until dusk. Admission £3. Tel: 016280373.
Further reading: The Genus Galanthus by Aaron P. Davis (£29.99 in UK) is a recently-published scholarly monograph on snowdrops (with over 70 illustrations and distribution maps). Published by Timber Press, it can be ordered from good bookshops or over the Internet from www.timberpress.com (p & p: £8 sterling).
Jane Powers can be contacted at: jpowers@irish-times.ie