Yew trees and snowdrops

Painswick had been on my 'to visit' list for well over a year. I'd been patiently waiting for snowdrop season to come around again before making the trip up into Cotswold heartland. Painswick is a handsome village, beautifully situated in the verdant Cotswold Hills, with renowned walking routes on the doorstep and stunning countryside views. She is the undisputed 'Queen of the Cotswolds'. 

Our main focus on this trip was seeing the famous snowdrop display at Painswick Rococo Garden. An impressive carpet comprised of millions & millions of tiny white blooms cascaded down slopes and spread through the wooded undergrowth of the garden. But unexpectedly, it was the yew trees in the churchyard of St Mary's that emerged as the highlight of our visit.

For a long time, 99 yew trees grew in this churchyard, and according to legend if a hundredth tree was to be planted the devil would destroy it. At the turn of the new millennium every parish in the diocese of Gloucester was presented with a yew tree to plant to mark the occasion. Parish officials faced a dilemma... 

Painswick was chosen to host the blessing of these trees as they were handed out to the various parishes. The 100th tree was planted at the start of the new millennium and, contrary to the often cited legend, is growing well. 

The trees are clipped every September, producing in excess of 2 tonnes of yew clippings. These clippings are actually used in the manufacture of an anti-cancer drug, specialist contractors are employed to process the clippings.

I look forward to a return visit one day, hopefully in late spring when the Cotswold Way is lush and overgrown with wildflowers and the day light stretches late into the evening. 

Kate  x

A secret garden

A garden unfurls its secrets month by month, 

as the seasons blossom, then ebb away.


“And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed 
and every morning revealed new miracles.” 
 Frances Hodgson Burnett

February is the last unknown month in our little patch of earth- a courtyard garden enclosed by a Cotswold stone wall, nestled deep within the By Brook Valley, and overlooked by soaring beech trees. From March, we'll start to cycle through the seasons again, this time with a year of knowledge behind us.

So, what has appeared this month?

Hundreds and hundreds of snowdrops. 

Defying the freezing nights and harsh frosts, they began to emerge before the new year had even begun. Now, with a touch of weak winter sun on their pure white faces, they sit gently nodding in unison in the frigid breeze. All around them signs of spring are following suit- the tips of bluebells, daffodils, narcissus and tulips are likewise pushing up through frozen ground and decaying leaf litter to greet the sunshine. A few aconites have popped their canary-yellow heads up amongst the bare branches of a fuchsia bush. Buds are appearing on the rose bushes and the snowball viburnum. Leaves are tentatively unfurling, slowly, but they're definitely there.

Next month I know the garden and the countryside will become a riot of bright yellows. Daffodils, forsythia, primrose and gorse will take centre stage, and the agricultural land around us will be awash with sunshine-yellow rapeseed. For now though, the snowdrops sit in their thousands, bobbing in the breeze.


Kate  x

  

Winter snowdrops

After two weeks away from England, 

we've swapped the actual snowflakes of Japan 

for the first snowdrops of the season in our garden.

It is so good to be home.

Of course I had to snip some to bring indoors. 

I admire snowdrops so much. 

Always the first sign of the coming spring 

(even when it is still quite far off), 

they never fail to push up through frosty days and nights. 

So delicate, yet how tough they are to endure gloomy January and frozen February.

Kate  x

Last years snowdrops at Cerney House Gardens.

From heat waves to snowdrops

I am back in the UK to very pleasant temperatures of around 11 degrees. That won't sound particularly pleasant to many people, but having just been plunged back into an unbearably hot Australian summer with temperatures hovering around 40 degrees for days on end, I am relishing the late winter/early spring days now that I am back in England.

What I am not relishing is the lingering jet lag. I just can't seem to shake it and get back to a sensible sleeping pattern. It didn't help that I landed at 6am on Friday after 24 hours of near-sleepless travel. I was full of good intentions to stay awake as much as possible and limit myself to a two hour nap...

Nine hours later, I woke at 8.20pm. Disaster. 

So on Saturday we devised a masterplan to get out in the cool, fresh air, admiring snowdrops as they come into their best. Crisp, clean, country air is a cure all. The snowdrops were a very pretty added bonus.

This is Cerney House Gardens in Gloucestershire. The woodland walk here is magical during snowdrop season. Great swaths of their pretty little blooms carpet the undergrowth, spilling down alongside muddy paths, and ring the bottom of ancient beech trees. 

I have great admiration for snowdrops. They defy the freezing overnight temperatures to be the first flower to bloom each year. The thick, sodden, decaying layer of autumn leaf and winter debris on the ground can't hold them back, they push through it all, heralding that spring is surely not too far away 

now.

Just about every churchyard in England is visited by snowdrops at this time of the year. It makes for a lovely atmospheric and poignant scene. The Victorians associated snowdrops with death, owing to the way the little bell-shaped flowers bow their heads just above graves, appearing to mimic mourners in churchyards. 

England, once again, delights as it shifts through the seasons. I thought my first autumn here was beautiful and surely couldn't be beaten. I can't imagine what true spring has in store.

Kate  x

The Cotswolds blanketed in frost

The frosts have been heavy and widespread recently, but that didn't stop us getting out to new parts of The Cotswolds on the weekend. This time? Bibury to play the tourist at Arlington Row, then on to Burford to warm up in a cafe and poke about browsing the high street. 

Like most Cotswold stone villages, Bibury has its history entwined with the wool industry. The river Coln (and the stream from the Arlington mill) babbles past the most picturesque cottages, all higgledy piggledy and as quaint as they come! 

The cottages of Arlington Row (above and below) were built in 1380 as a wool store and then later converted to weavers cottages in the 17th Century. 

They looked like a magical fairytale land with the frost covering them. 

The swamp-like land adjacent to the cottages is called Rack Isle, it separates the cottages from the mill. It has now been turned over to wildlife preservation. It is seasonally flooded to provide natural habitat for water birds and meadow plants. The name 'Rack Isle' harks back to its industrial past as it was the land used for hanging the wool to dry. If you look hard enough, you might be able to spot some wooly sheep in that patch of lovely midwinter sunshine on the hill behind the cottages.

Although Bibury was frost encrusted, there are signs of spring beginning to emerge. I almost walked straight past these snowdrops pushing through the frozen earth at the doorstep of one of the cottages. I am glad they caught my eye though. I have been eagerly anticipating snowdrops blooming in England. They're a different cultivar to the snowdrops we have back home in Australia. These particular ones are slow to open and keep that perfect elongated 'drop' shape as they defy the frosts and freezing temperatures. They look slightly forlorn, but I find them really enchanting.

I wish I had some on my doorstep.

Kate  x

The Language of Flowers, Part 1

Many people consider the meaning and symbolism of flowers to be distinctly Victorian. Indeed, the exchange of sentiment through the language of flowers was at it's height in the Nineteenth Century, but, in truth the subtle and intricate language of flowers is as old as Adam. The Celts, the Romans, and the Ancient Greeks all attributed particular meaning and emotion to flowers. Religion has also borrowed from nature to create Biblical analogies using flowers.

The tale of Snowdrops is one of my favourites. The Victorians used Snowdrops to mean: beauty of spirit // hopefulness // new beginnings // and consolation. 

The Victorians also associated the Snowdrops with death. This is because the little bell-shaped blooms hang downwards, hovering just above the ground where the dead are buried, reminiscent of the way that mourners hang their heads at gravesides.

German folklore views the Snowdrop as a symbol of gratitude. The tale goes, 'God created all things on Earth, but the snow was sad to find itself icily transparent and invisible. God told the snow to ask the flowers if they would give it some of their colour. The snow asked each flower in turn and every one of them refused, leaving the snow sadder than ever. Finally, the snow asked a little white flower, which agreed sweetly to let the snow have some of its pure whiteness. In perpetual gratitude, the snow allows its friend the snowdrop to be the first of the flowers to bloom each year.' 

(Gray, The Secret Language of Flowers, 90)

And it seems to be true, these Snowdrops (pictured) were cut from my childhood garden in the Snowy Mountains. Like it's name suggests, the 'Snowies' has a particularly cold Winter climate, yet these little flowers are happily blooming even with overnight temperatures that fall below zero.

Daisies also have wonderful, if forlorn, meaning. A knight in the Middle Ages wore a double daisy on their shield to proclaim that they had won a lady's heart. Celtic Legend believes the Daisy's very existence was to comfort parents who had lost a child. 

(Martin, The Ways of Flowers, 16)

The English believe that Summer has not truly begun until you can 'set your foot upon twelve daisies.' In European folklore, the appearance of honeysuckle near your home meant that a wedding would occur within the following year. Lilac is symbolic of the first emotions of new love. The Russians believed that cradling a newborn baby beneath flowering lilac would endow the child with wisdom. The Romans believed the sap of the daffodil could heal wounds. And because the daffodil blooms on the Feast Day of St David, it is the floral symbol of Wales.

(Gray)

'The Narcissus, sometimes known as the daffodil, came into being when Echo, a wood nymph, found herself infatuated with Narcissus, a vain mortal who spent his days admiring his own reflection in still waters. Wearied by her unrequited affection, Echo slowly faded away, leaving only the shadow of her voice as a reminder of her misery. The gods, furious over Narcissus's vanity, changed him into the daffodil, a flower that sinks its toes into the damp banks of lazy streams, nodding its flowers downward, always seeming to be taken with its own splendour in the water.'

(Martin)

Retribution is a common theme in the symbolism of plants and flowers. The willow is said to have once been a proud fisherman who steadfastly refused to bow to a passing goddess. As punishment for his discourtesy he was transformed into a weeping tree, condemned to spend forever bowing on the banks of rivers. The willow now represents sorrow and bereavement.

(Martin)

The language of flowers is endlessly fascinating. I could read about it all afternoon long. The two major sources for these fables were, The Ways of Flowers by Tovah Martin and The Secret Language of Flowers by Samantha Gray. There are many, many books dedicated to the history of the language of flowers. Look them up! Finally, in the spirit of today I want to end by asking, R U Ok?

Leave a comment or a question below. 

K xx

Styling and Photographs by Moss & Vine