I've always loved snowdrops - the first year I lived in France, my mother sent me a box of perfect white flowers in spring, because she knew I would be missing them. The best job of the year is splitting and moving them: it's easy, foolproof so far, and deeply satisfying.
We have about an acre of - mostly sycamore - windbreak. One corner of it seems to have been a garden at some point. It has old daffodils, unproductive gooseberries and thousands of snowdrops, all mixed up with rubble.
This afternoon I teased some out and, with Hobbes' help, planted them around one of our new windbreaks. A chilly wind was picking up, and the hose poured icy water over my hands as I was filling watering cans, but seeing the snowdrops in their new position in front of the house was thrilling.
