Here at Sun Rising, each month we carry out a flora survey. We take four or five different areas and habitats, these changing in succession year on year, so we can maintain a record of how habitats develop over time. Most of the months of the year, this is simply about noting what is flowering or fruiting, while in the high summer months we record every plant, including the trees and shrubs. Today was our February survey.
All around the natural burial ground, snowdrops are now coming into flower. Some are in groups that were planted some time ago and are gently multiplying, which is wonderful. In other areas, especially wet and clayey areas, they tend not to last long, but replanting with new bulbs is worth the joy of their little flowers.
The other plant that is giving such delight at the moment is the wild primrose (Primula vulgaris), and I think they look never better than a the tatty old leaves of the woodland floor. Here their other name of ‘fairy cup’ seems even more apt.
These pale yellow flowers can be seen at any time from December to April, at which point the surrounding vegetation usually hides the last of their blooms. Pink primroses are usually cultivars and hybrids with garden primroses, not fully native, but some believe the pink may be a genetic variant. Most non-native primroses are obviously not wild, coming in a variety of brighter colours from white to red: when a family plants one of these, we do remove it. However, frequently the hares and rabbits will eat them first! We think these garden cultivars must be much tastier, the wild ones having evolved a natural bitterness.
As some of the first flowers, primroses are important for the first insects that are emerging. The name derives from the Latin, prima rosa, the first rose. I’ve seen honey bees on ours, and a rather slow and chilly bumblebee. If butterflies that hibernate through the winter, such as small tortoiseshells, awake on unseasonably warm days in February or March, these early flowers are an important source of food. My sense is that they feed us too, nourishing the soul when we’ve had enough of the cold winter greys, shining with their soft yellow light.