And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils. – William Wordsworth
Wild Daffodils, (Narcissus pseudonarcissus) are not as numerous as they once were. Like many of our native plants, they have struggled to compete with agricultural intensification, habitat loss and hybridisation. Where they have hung on, however, they can be locally abundant, forming carpets of buttery yellow.
Back in the Victorian era, when wild Daffodils were so widespread that they were picked to sell at markets, interest in floriography soared. Floriography, otherwise known as the language of flowers, is a form of coded communication via flowers, which are each assigned a different meaning. The practice has been around in many cultures for thousands of years, but it became particularly popular with the Victorians. It’s a complex way to communicate, full of nuances which I’m glad I don’t have to learn. (Subtle differences in a flower’s colour and placement of the wearer could transform the meaning entirely – a gifted posy placed over the heart was a declaration of love, but if the flowers were in the middle of the chest only friendship was on offer.)
In floriography, the Daffodil is a symbol of regard. But there’s a little more to it than that. A gift of one Daffodil represents misfortune, whereas a bunch of Daffodils conveys joy and happiness.
Can this symbolism be applied to unpicked Daffodils, too? I like to think so. As William Wordsworth wrote in his famous poem, it’s certainly more joyful to see a mass of them than a single flower – its lonely head drooped like Narcissus as he fell tragically in love with his own reflection, refusing to leave it until he died of starvation.
Close to our home there’s a place where, each spring, a large spread of Daffodils appear between a damp meadow and an ancient hedgerow on organic farmland. I’ve long suspected they’re wild Daffodils, but until very recently I’ve not been entirely sure. If I’m honest, I was struggling to tell the difference between this carpet of flowers and the multiple other Daffodils which spring up in people’s garden’s and along roadsides at this time of year. But that’s because I wasn’t really giving them my full attention.
Enter Nick Patel. Back in February, Nick invited me to be a guest on his podcast Wilder Skies. On the podcast (which can be found here) Nick and I discussed wild Daffodils. He’s a huge fan and makes an effort to go and look for them every spring. As he started to describe their characteristics (they’re fairly short, form carpets, have thin stems and leaves, glaucous colouring, creamy yellow flowers and look a little sad) it made me realise that I have not analysed my local patch of Daffodils nearly enough. I decided during our conversation that, although I haven’t overlooked them entirely, I also haven’t put enough energy into definitively identifying them, nor had I fully acknowledged their importance. As there aren’t as many of them as there once were, any large patch is a cause for celebration because it signifies and area of ancient, intact, habitat. A vital link to times gone by.
After speaking to Nick, and armed with this new information, I spent some time with the Daffodils near our house. They fitted Nick’s wild Daffodil description perfectly. My suspicions were confirmed – these were natives.
There are thousands of Daffodil cultivars in the UK, and until fairly recently I was convinced my favourite was Narcissus poetics, commonly known as the Pheasant’s Eye or Poet’s Narcissi. It’s a late flowering species, with long, elegant stems, white petals and a yellow centre ringed with red. I still find it a beautiful flower, but Nick’s enthusiasm for wild Daffodils is well placed because, really, nothing compares to our native Narcissus pseudonarcissus. They’re a delight. I sat with them for a long while, watching as they swayed in the breeze and were buzzed around by a Buff-tailed Bumblebee. (The temperatures inside a Daffodil can be up to 8ºc higher than the outside temperature, so although they are not particularly nectar laden, this feature is helpful for keeping insects warm.) Native wild Daffodils have an understated kind of charm. They’re small; not to the extent of a cultivated dwarf variety like a Tête-à-Tête, but they’re still much smaller than lots of the large, showy Daffodils in gardens. Their colouring reminds me of the subtle tones found in Beatrix Potter’s watercolour illustrations – subdued, but no less beautiful for it. I loved the way that some of the Daffodils were growing beside the trunk of a large Oak tree and deep into the hedgerow, linking them to their woodland heritage.
So, although they might traditionally be associated with regard in Western cultures, I’d like to make a case for changing this association, especially for wild Daffodils. Instead of regard, I’d like them to represent memory. The first reason is because of where they grow – unimproved habitats which link us back to our past. The second is because Daffodils contain galantamine, a compound known to slow down symptoms of Alzheimer’s. In the Black Mountains, farmers are now growing Daffodils specifically for pharmaceutical companies and, given that the Daffodil is the national flower of Wales, this seems rather fitting.