Why do snowdrops set my pulse racing?

I've no particular thing against dogs or trees, it's more the fanatics with an obsession for such things that set my teeth on edge. I suspect that the great Christopher Lloyd felt much the same way when it came to snowdrops. When writing about his garden, he mused lovingly about some of the snowdrop varieties that flourished at Dixter, but I am also sure that it was he who coined the phrase Galanthobore, disdainful of those gardening folk who come out of hibernation around this time of year, and do nothing else other than eat, drink and sleep snowdrops until February draws to a close. As one such Galanthobore, and a practicising one at that, it's only right that I try to put the record straight, and encourage others to take up the harmless hobby of snowdrop growing.

Our starting point is the simple, single snowdrop of woods and hedgerows, parks and churchyards, up and down the country. No one could fail to love the simple charm of this late winter beauty, and it has long been treasured and cultivated as a result. To botanist John Gerard, writing in 1597, it was the "Timely flowring Bulbus violet" (timely here meaning prompt and early), while an older English name was candlemas bells, a nod to its early flowering habitat, for Candlemass – the Feast of the Purification – falls on February 2, very much the time when common snowdrops start to flower. The plant is naturalised widely in and around churchyards: I use the word naturalised here with care, for current consensus has it that the common snowdrop (Galanthus nivalis) is not a native of our islands, but is simply an escapee from gardens: the first records of the plant in the wild date from as late as 1778, very late indeed for such well-botanised lands. A double form of the common snowdrop with raggedy flowers, is widely found across the wild range of snowdrops in Britain: as a sterile beast, while it may be wild, it is certainly not native.

The craze that is Galanthomania may have languished here were it not for a key factor: gentleman gardeners and (purportedly) soldiers returning from Asia Minor and the Crimea brought back wild-collected bulbs of eastern snowdrop species as a memento of their travels and travails. For the first time in history, disparate species were brought together in places such as churchyards and rectory gardens, and here the newly introduced flowers started to hybridise with a promiscuous passion. Hybrids in variety were the result, and it was this newly evolved diversity that formed the bedrock of the current "white fever": from afar, snowdrops may look the same, but look closely and each has distinctive markings that separate the varieties.

As early as 1891, the Royal Horticultural Society gathered for a conference on snowdrops, attended by Victorian gardening luminaries such as EA Bowles and James Allen. That interest among the cognoscenti continued into the 1980s, as a select but small group of growers gathered for snowdrop lunches and passed around treasured bulbs. And then something rather remarkable happened: the craze caught on amongst a wider set of the gardening public, and today growers gather at Galanthus galas both in Britain and on the continent, and brave the inclement weather in gardens across Europe to admire.

A book on snowdrops by Matt Bishop, John Grimshaw and Aaron Davis undoubtedly catalysed much of the current interest by describing in loving detail the 20 species and more than 500 hybrids and selections available to gardeners in 2001: it remains the bible for Galanthophiles. And if that weren't enough, with a second volume of garden varieties in production as I write – threatening to describe perhaps as many as 1,500 cultivars named since the millennium, this is sure to get pulses racing once again – and chequebooks at the ready.

With some many garden varieties now available to growers, a newcomer to the world of Galanthomania could be forgiven for throwing his hands up in horror. Well, you can't go too wrong by searching out the top 'drops as voted for by a wide range of growers at an RHS snowdrop conference in 2004. The species that topped the list were 'S. Arnott', G. elwesii 'Comet', 'Magnet', G. plicatus 'Three Ships', 'Atkinsii', 'Bertram Anderson', G. plicatus 'Wendy's Gold', 'John Gray', G. elwesii 'Mrs McNamara', G. plicatus 'Augustus' and 'Bill Bishop'. All are fabulous garden plants, worth searching out and growing – and mercifully as classic older varieties, they don't come with the hefty price tag of many newer desiderata, which can start at £30 a throw, and have reached the dizzying heights of over £700 – yes, for one bulb – on eBay.

I guess as time has passed, I have become less of a Galanthobore, and more a gardener keen to grow fewer varieties in larger sweeps. Gone are the days of wanting to collect each and every variety – I've seen one too many gardens where singletons in massed variety are seemingly outnumbered by a sea of white plastic labels, more model village graveyard than gardener's retreat. But you can rest assured that I'll never be without snowdrops in the garden: in these very first days of the year, I can think of few more pleasurable gardening activities than searching out their noses as they erupt from the ground. As they come into flower, alongside those other two faithfuls, the winter aconite (Eranthis hyemalis) and Cyclamen coum, there can be no better sign that the days are getting longer, temperatures are rising, and our gardens are readying themselves for the extravaganza to come.

• Andy Byfield is one of the founders of the wild plant charity Plantlife.

This post was edited on January 22 to correct "pulses" to "pulse" in the trail and standfirst.