British winters have been so mild in recent years that I had almost forgotten why snowdrops are so called.  But here they are in our garden, living up to their name.  Our poor snowdrops are doubly challenged at the moment because if it’s not snow knocking them down, it’s the local foxes, who trample on them in the night. ‘Foxes?’, I hear you say. Oh yes. They (the foxes, not the snowdrops) have now dug subways under the fence on three sides of the garden.