We all know the feeling. It’s late February or early March. The air is still biting, the trees are bare skeletons against a grey sky, and we are yearning for that first sign that winter is finally loosening its grip.
You might be looking out for the first Daffodil, but if you look down—right down into the damp soil of the hedgerow or the woodland path—you will likely see the true winner of the race for spring.
It is a flash of brilliant, glossy gold. A star-shaped flower that seems to hug the earth for warmth. This is the Lesser Celandine (Ficaria verna), and for me, it is the moment the British spring really begins.
Not Just Another Buttercup
At a glance, you might mistake it for a buttercup. They are cousins, after all, both belonging to the Ranunculaceae family.
But look closer. The Lesser Celandine has a distinct elegance.
While buttercups typically have five petals, this little beauty shows off with eight to twelve narrow, star-like petals that have a wonderful, polished sheen.
Its leaves are different too—dark green, heart-shaped, and often patterned with subtle light or dark mottling.
They form a lush green carpet that covers the bare ground long before the bluebells have even thought about waking up.
There is something quite clever about them, too. They are weather prophets.
The flowers undergo “nyctinasty,” meaning they close up their petals when it rains or when the sun goes down, protecting their precious pollen and nectar for the next sunny spell.
It’s as if they are saving their energy just for us to enjoy on those crisp, bright mornings.
Wordsworth’s True Love (And A Mason’s Mistake)
When we think of the poet William Wordsworth, we immediately think of his “host of golden daffodils.” But if you dig a little deeper into literary history, you find that his heart actually belonged to the humble Lesser Celandine.
Wordsworth wrote not one, but three poems dedicated to this little flower. He admired its resilience and its role as the first brave soul to face the “cold and rain” of the new year. In fact, in one of his poems, he wrote:
“There’s a flower that shall be mine, ‘Tis the little Celandine.”
He loved it so much that he requested a Celandine be carved onto his memorial plaque at St Oswald’s Church in Grasmere.
And here is where the story takes a tragicomic turn. The stonemason, bless him, seemingly didn’t know his botany.
Instead of carving the Lesser Celandine (Ficaria verna), he carved the Greater Celandine (Chelidonium majus)—a completely different plant from the poppy family that blooms months later and looks nothing like the flower Wordsworth adored.
So, when you visit Grasmere, you’ll see the wrong flower immortalized in stone. It’s a permanent reminder that even in death, nature can still play tricks on us!
A Name With A Painful Past
You might sometimes hear country folk refer to this plant by a much less romantic name: Pilewort.
It sounds charming, doesn’t it? This name comes from the “Doctrine of Signatures,” an old herbalist belief that a plant’s physical appearance gave a clue to the ailment it could cure.
The roots of the Lesser Celandine are made up of small, knobbly tubers that look rather like… well, haemorrhoids (piles).
Consequently, medieval herbalists mashed them up into an ointment to treat that very specific discomfort.
I think I’ll stick to calling it Celandine, if you don’t mind.
Note: While our ancestors might have used it for medicine, please don’t try to eat it or use it yourself. The sap contains protoanemonin, which can be toxic and cause blistering. Best to enjoy this one with your eyes, not your fork.
A Lifeline for the Bees
Beyond the folklore and the poetry, the Lesser Celandine plays a critical role in our ecosystem.
Because it blooms so early—often from February to May—it provides a vital source of nectar for Queen Bumblebees and other pollinators who are just emerging from hibernation.
When I see a groggy bumblebee tumbling around a Celandine flower, I’m reminded that these “weeds” are actually lifelines. They bridge the hungry gap before the abundance of May arrives.
We have a guide that shows how to really help bees in the garden.
Go Find Them
So, next time you are out on a winter walk and the world seems a bit monochrome, scan the banks of the stream or the edges of the path. Look for that carpet of heart-shaped leaves and those brave, golden stars.
The Lesser Celandine might not have the height of the Daffodil or the fame of the Bluebell, but it has the courage to go first. And for that, it will always be one of my favourites.
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