Modern Nature: February 7

Tuesday 7

I counted well over 50 buds on the daffodils I planted last year. None are open yet, but if this warm weather continues they should be out within the week.

These are an early variety. The King Alfreds I put in early last September are hardly breaking through the ground.

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‘Daffodowndillies’ writes Thomas Hill ‘is a timely flower good for shew.’ Gerard in his Herbal tells us that ‘Theocritus affirmeth the daffodils to grow in meadowes…he writeth that the fair lady Europa, entering with her nymphs into the meadowes, did gather the sweet smelling daffodils, in these verses which we may English thus:

     But when the girles here come into,
     The meadowes flouring all in sight,
     That wench with these, this wench with those,
     Trim floures, themselves did all delight;
     She with the Narcisse good in scent,
     And she with Hyacynths content.'

Daffodil bulbs were used by Galen, surgeon of the school of gladiators, to glue together great wounds and gashes; the bulbs were carried for a similar purpose in the back-packs of Roman soldiers. Perhaps this is how they first came to this country. The name daffodil, d’asphodel, is a confusion with the asphodel. They were also called Lent lily.

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Daffodils ‘come before the swallows dare and take the winds of March with beauty’. When I read these words they are tinged with sadness, for the seasonal nature of daffodils has been destroyed by horticulturists who nowadays force them well before Christmas. One of the joys our technological civilisation has lost is the excitement with which seasonal flowers and fruits were welcomed; the first daffodil, strawberry or cherry are now things of the past, along with the precious moment of their arrival. Even the tangerine - now a satsuma or clementine - appears de-pipped months before Christmas. I expect one day to see daffodils for sale in Berwick Street market in August, as plentiful as strawberries at Christmas.

Even the humble apple has succumbed. Tough green waxy specimens have eradicated the varieties of my childhood, the pink-fleshed scented August pearmains, the laxtons and russets; only the cox seems to have survived the onslaught. Perhaps my nostalgia is out of place - now daffodils are plentiful; and mushrooms, once a luxury, are ladled out by the pound. Avocados and mangoes are commonplace. But the daffodil, if only the daffodil could come with spring again, I would eat strawberries with my Christmas pudding.

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The sun came out at four casting the longest shadows. I watched the shadow of Prospect Cottage as the sun set behind the nuclear power station, until the tip of the chimney touched the sea.

     Power hums along the lines
     to keep the fish and chips a-frying.
     In the sunset
     across the shingle
     I hear a voice:
     Will the owner of car HXJ please...
     It's been a quiet day.
     I've brewed my nuclear tea,
     mended the walls to keep the storms at bay.
     At nine-thirty the sun sets behind Lydd church;
     The night stock scents the air.
     At ten I switch the lantern on;
     a bright pink moth shimmers on the pale blue wall.
     I quickly turn the pages of my book:
     Small Elephant Hawk.

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