The white ladies of Holywell

I find January and February the gloomiest of all the months. When the days are still short and the weather wet and cold.  I become desperate for a pick-me-up, something to lift the spirits, a promise that there are brighter things on the horizon. And then suddenly pushing up from somewhere beneath the sodden soil, the first of the snowdrops appears. ‘Not long to go now,’ they seem to be saying in anticipation of spring, these tiny bobbing ballerinas modestly smoothing down their dainty white bell-shaped tutus, an occasional gust of wind revealing a profusion of frilly green striped underskirts. ‘But first look at us. Soon there be an abundance of fabulous flowerings to compete for your attention. But this is our time. Today we are the stars of the show.’

White ladies, Candlemas Bells, Fair Maids of February, they are affectionately known by many charming names. The genus is Galanthus, meaning milk white flower and there are roughly 20 species and well over a hundred cultivars. If you are a galanthophile, that is have a passion for the plants, I’d recommend you find a way to gain entry to Worcester College where their delightful gardeners seem always willing to guide you through the infinite variety of specimens they have on show. Their collection can be seen in all parts of the grounds, planted in drifts under the great trees and around the lake as well as in clumps in the long borders. There’s an invoice in their archives from George Prince, ‘seedsman’ of Market Street, Oxford, that bills the College for six ‘bunches’ of snowdrops at 3d a piece from 1863. They’ve clearly been a favourite here for some time. If you want to know the difference between a Lady Beatrix Stanley and a Blonde Inge this is the place to go.

But today I am heading to Holywell, to the Victorian cemetery built here in 1847 as a much-needed overflow burial space for the dead due to outbreaks of cholera and an increasing population. Next to the existing churchyard of St Cross. It may not house the variety or the density of flowers that you will see at Worcester, but I have come here for a different reason.

One of the many memories I have of my parents’ home in South Oxfordshire is of the carpets of snowdrops that sprung up in the surrounding fields during the late winter months. Every year my mother without fail would herald them as the harbinger of lengthening days. They would put a spring in her step. A smile on her face. After she died and was laid next to my father in the local churchyard, we dug up a few clumps of the pretty white flowers and planted them on their grave. It must have been about this time of year, maybe slightly later because they were ‘in the green’ as it is called. Meaning that they had finished flowering, but they are still alive and more likely to establish themselves. And propagate. A reminder of the past but also of future possibilities.

I recently discovered that to plant snowdrops in and around graves was also a custom in 19th century Oxford. The locals believed that the drooping heads of the flowers looked like those of mourners. But they were also symbols of purity, hope and renewal. Here at Holywell they have naturalised and spread around the ivy clad stone monuments and under the heavy shadows of the giant yew trees that line the pathways.

So I feel very much at home amongst the white ladies of Holywell. I’m very rarely disturbed as I wander. Unless you count the couple of foxes and a muntjac deer I encounter today. Just me and a secret garden of snowdrops. Snowdrops for the dead. And for the living. 

You might like to read

Springtime at St Sepulchres

3 Comments

Join the discussion and tell us your opinion.

  • February 9, 2025 at 1:18 pm

    You write so beautifully . Will be planting galanthus on my Fathers and sisters grave . Thank you .

  • February 9, 2025 at 1:57 pm

    Thank you for your beautifully written words and the nice pictures. My mother passed away on this day six years ago. I’m sure she would love to have some snowdrops around where she lies, too.

  • February 9, 2025 at 5:44 pm

    Lovely to read! I was working at Holywell yesterday – our ‘gardening’ group meets once a month to keep the headstones clear of ivy and brambles. The white ladies – and the robins – more than compensated for the freezing weather.

Leave a reply

The maximum upload file size: 512 MB. You can upload: image, audio, video, document, spreadsheet, interactive, text, archive, code, other. Links to YouTube, Facebook, Twitter and other services inserted in the comment text will be automatically embedded. Drop file here

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.