The winter-weary Val Bourne snuggles up with a good book on floral history and dreams of crocuses

Once February comes, bringing earlier mornings and later evenings, I grow impatient and long for spring — although part of me acknowledges that precocious springs are dangerous affairs.

There have been signs though. Great tits have been examining a nest box on the side of the summerhouse, returning again and again to check out the facilities. My first crocus, Tricolor ( C. sieberi subsp. sublimis “Tricolor”) has nudged up around my apricot tree although it still waits for warmth to open wide. I long to see the purple eggcups open to reveal the white and orange “eggs” inside and, when it happens, the first buff-tailed queen bee (Bombus terrestris) won’t be far behind.

The crocus is probably the best early flower for newly-emerged bees fresh out of hibernation, because the goblet of petals creates a warm space within and this releases nectar — the energy drink of many insects.

Pollen abounds too, another early necessity for the queen bee, who must feed her new brood with this protein-rich food.

I am almost as eager for my first fully-open crocus as the bee, because winter is wearing me down with frustration. Generally, though, smaller-flowered crocuses come first, followed by the larger-flowered ones.

Held indoors by the weather, I’m catching up on reading and one book published in 1909, Dutch Bulbs and Gardens by Una Lucy Silberrad and Sophie Lyall, describes how bulb growers mulched their bulbs with reeds, altering the thickness according to type and weather. Only the very hardiest, like Scilla siberica, were left open to the elements.

The crocus was widely welcomed in Holland, a country where winters tend to be longer and colder than in Britain, for it is the first saleable bulb to be lifted. These inexpensive bulbs were grown on poor land close to Hille, not on the rich fields of Haarlem, and when this book was published there were 83 kinds.

It records that snowdrops failed in open fields and disliked rich living conditions. They were tucked under hedges, or grown in orchards, so were never available in huge quantities.

Flat terrain is not a snowdrop favourite: it can lie too wet. The best collections always seem to be on limestone soil and on slopes.

They also seem to like being left to their own devices, because ruins, defunct walled gardens and neglected churchyards often have swathes that pop up through other plants. EA Bowles’ advice to stir them up — divide them regularly — should probably be amended to divide only if they go backwards. Some really resent it, almost turning up their toes, and I could give you a list of losses!

Winter aconites (Eranthis hyemalis) did so well on Holland’s deep fertile soil, up to thousand could be raised on two square metres, so this was a very cheap bulb.

I’m struggling with aconites because they mainly spread by seed, so need to open wide in order to get pollinated. I’ve spent many a spring in Holland and spring is glorious. There’s a rush of bloom so it’s possible to have magnolias, daffodils and tulips all in full flower together. Box bushes will start into life enthusiastically too, because winter lets go of its grip late and then the temperatures race away, not dilly-dally. Autumn crocus were also grown in Holland and Crocus sativus, the saffron crocus, was highly desirable as a medicine and flavouring. Probably introduced by the Romans, it is said to have arrived in Britain in 1339, smuggled in by a pilgrim who carried a bulb in a specially hollowed out staff.

In Tudor times enough were grown in Essex to give the town of Saffron Walden its name. The orange filaments were said to make people cheerful and Alice Coats, writing in Flowers and their Histories, reported “a lady of Trent . . . almost shaken to pieces with laughing immoderately for a space of three hours, which was occasioned by her taking too much saffron”.

Perhaps that’s what I need to do, imbibe saffron to cheer myself up when winter drags. I’m ordering some now for autumn planting.