In praise of … daffodils

Rural bling, lamented the man on the radio a few days ago, of the noisy golden trumpets that are now lining roads and gardens across the country. Narcissus pseudonarcissus, the native British daffodil, is being shouldered out by larger, louder varieties. It is easy to see why the daffodil, symbol of hope and rebirth, is associated with the vanity of the Greek youth Narcissus, transfixed forever nodding in approval at his glorious reflection. And in an ideal world, nothing could be more wonderful than seeing the early drifts of snowdrops on the verges of country lanes replaced by the delicate, pale golden heads of our own native daffodils. But left to themselves, these natives want the damp, misty woodland of the Welsh borders, not the rubbish-strewn roadsides of England's highways. In this latter, unpromising setting, it takes all the vigorous vulgarity of February Gold or Cheerfulness to be seen over the strips of tyre and the fast-food debris that would overwhelm the more fastidious natives. And although the daffodil hybridises easily, there is, according to Natural England, little evidence yet that the genetic identity of the native is being damaged. It might also be worth remembering that the narcissus pseudonarcissus that so impressed Shakespeare and Wordsworth may well be an immigrant from Spain – it just got here earlier. It is really just a question of botanical aesthetics, and when it's robust bling rather than the debris from last night's takeout, then bling is better.