I confess to be a latecomer to snowdrop love. More fool me, it has been my loss, and the galanthophiles gain. Now, I have been bitten by the bug, I have fallen head over heels in love, and I will have my sharp elbows out when the local snowdrop nursery opens next week. If I don’t come home with a ‘Godfrey Owen’, then there are going to be tears.

So why has it taken me so long? I mean, with age comes discernment, and thereby taste, but I also think I am getting worse and worse at tolerating the darkness of winter. I make token gestures of lighting fires and celebrating socks, but I am sure I feel the cold in my bones in a way that I never used to (which certainly isn’t because I haven’t put on some extra insulation since I was young) and the short days make my soul ache.

Snowdrops are, almost literally, the beacon that shows me that we have hope, we are passed the worst, we are on the sloping foothills on our way to wall to wall flowers. Their implacable spears pierce the dark earth, reminding us that plants are dormant, not dead. And they are coming awake.

I am not known for being a lover of white flowers. Cosmos ‘Purity’ aside, my taste runs to the muted and the muddy, the closer to brown the better. I don’t think it is a coincidence that it is the clarity of the colour of the snowdrop’s colour that empathises their freshness and hopefulness. Their botanical name, Galanthus, refers to them being the colour of milk, and their English name is a nod to their almost piercing whiteness.

Contrary to what might seem obvious, they are not named after drops of snow (although seeing them in a drift, coating a woodland floor in white, they are certainly reminiscent of snow), but after earrings.

The word "Snowdrop" may be derived from the German Schneetropfen (snow-drop), the tear drop shaped pearl earrings popular in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

I wouldn’t have known this either, but I happened to be examining the NGS (National Garden Scheme) website for their list of ‘snowdrop gardens’ to visit. I am not sure any other flower has its own list of specialist gardens, that is how special snowdrops are, and how keen we all are to get out and about and see something blooming in a garden.

For reference, I am going to three specialist gardens in the next fortnight: Rococo in Painswick, Broadleigh Gardens near Taunton, and East Lambrook Manor (as long as it isn’t sold before I get there). Yes, I am keen as anyone else.

But if you want to start your own domestic collection, here’s how.

Where to site snowdrops

At least two of these three sell snowdrops and I will be coming home with many to plant on the South Lawn. Not because snowdrops want to be in a south facing location (they don’t, they want dappled shade under deciduous trees, with a moist, fertile soil, so don’t rake up your leaves) but because there is a path dug around the edge of the lawn, and this means I can appreciate the snowdrops a little more close up without having to lie on my tummy on the cold ground. (This would also work for hellebores.)

Every other part of Malus farm, despite being set at the very edge of the Blackdown Hills, is absolutely flat. However, if you have banks, ridges or terracing, it would work perfectly. Next door, the Old Mill, have a retaining wall which cuts down to Mill Lane. This means that every evening as I walk the dogs down to the back field and the woods beyond, the snowdrops that have spread out from their orchard nod at me, almost at eye level, from the top of the wall.

So, if you happen to find yourself the proud owner of a standard snowdrop (G. nivalis) or you have accidentally blown a few hundred pounds on a rarer variety, cast around until you find somewhere perfect for them. They will enjoy open sunshine in the very early spring (before the deciduous trees put out their leaves) and shade as soon as the weather warms, because they simply cannot be allowed to dry or bake in full sun. The opposite of bearded irises.

If you don’t have trees, then deciduous shrubs will do just as well, or the edge of a beech or hazel hedge. Just think… moist.

Many snowdrop gardens have drifts in grass but I seem to have incredibly strong grass (either I have more rye grass than usual, or it is the fertility of my soil) and if I waited until the snowdrops were finished to mow, I’d find myself with a hayfield that I couldn’t get a lawnmower through by May.

When to plant snowdrops

I am starting to think about sowing aquilegia, I am on my fifth round of snowdrops, and I am about to start the first batch of vernalisation (fridge pre-chilling) but there isn’t much flower-related activity to be done in the dog end of winter. Snowdrops are such a double whammy – not only are they flowering in January and February, but this is the moment to plant them too.

This is very unusual indeed; most plants are planted dormant and wake up underground. Apparently, this is because snowdrops loathe drying out so much, so the time that they are out of the ground needs to be when they are surrounded by soil and with moist roots, preferably wrapped in newspaper.

Nurturing snowdrops

Nine tenths of snowdrop care is in the siting. If you’ve got that right, you can leave them to their own devices, and they will thrive. (As in, keep them moist in hot weather.) If they really adore you, they’ll even multiply.

Like daffodils, make sure you let the foliage die back to feed the bulb.

Propagate snowdrops by lifting, dividing and replanting, after flowering in March or April. With a hand fork carefully lift the bulb (with roots intact) and foliage still in place. Replant in the garden straight away. (If you have bought them in the green from a nursery, then ditto.) Water well. The foliage might look a bit droopy, but do not fret, by next winter they should be healthy and strong.

Be warned, some snowdrops take a few years to recover from transplanting, and they may sulk for a while before reappearing. I know they will be all the more appreciated for that.

Snowdrops in pots

I always believed that snowdrops could not be grown in pots, but Instagram appears to be stuffed to the gills with people holding vintage terracotta pots, full of exquisite snowdrops and a duvet of moss.

It turns out you can grow snowdrops in pots, but you have to follow the following rules:

• Keep them moist during their flowering season, and do not let them get hot or dry in summer

• Replace the compost every year. Snowdrops are used to the fertile ground of the woodland floor; compost will get exhausted if confined.

• Disturb the roots as little as possible.

Of course, if you think vintage pots are basic, can I suggest that there is always kokedama?

I will be sharing from all three snowdrop gardens over the next few week. If you have any other suggestions of places to enjoy snowdrops in the South West, drop a comment below.