The arrival of cheery, showy daffodils heralds new life in the garden, writes Jane Powers
OF ALL THE flowers of spring, it is the daffodil that is the most optimistic. It catches hold of the year's early sunlight more than any other bloom, and lobs it back with lively good humour. Its cheerful presence announces noisily that life within the garden is renewed and fresh. Hope is sprung yet again. Or that's how I feel about it, anyway.
Not so the gloomy Robert Herrick. For him, the daffodil reminds him that he is not long for this world: "When a daffadill I see,/Hanging down his head t'wards me,/Guesse I may, what I must be:/First, I shall decline my head;/Secondly, I shall be dead:/Lastly, safely buryed." And indeed he is: head declined, quite dead, and safely buried, more than 300 years ago (in 1674). The daffodil that caused him such fatalistic thoughts was the wild Narcissus pseudonarcissus, also known as the Lent lily. Hosts of the same species were admired more than 100 years later by William Wordsworth, as he wandered, lonely, et cetera. It is native to Britain and Europe, although not Ireland.
The narcissus has long been revered, and is one of the first ornamental plants known to have been cultivated by man, along with lilies (which we'll be considering later on this month). The name Narcissus has been around for millennia, and appeared in the writings of the Greek philosopher Theophrastus (372-287 BC). Narcissus, just to remind you, was the fine-looking young fellow who was so enamoured of himself that he spent his entire time gazing at his reflection in a pool - before the gods took pity on him and turned him into a flower.
Despite its name, the narcissus is one of the least narcissistic flowers around: it is gregarious (looking best in droves), outgoing, and doesn't need the best seat in the house.
Indeed, the larger varieties are best planted at the back of a border, or in among herbaceous plants, where the leaves, which hang around for weeks after the flowers have finished, are less noticeable. The leaves of daffodils (and of all perennial bulbs) are essential for the plant's survival. They gather sunlight, and help to bulk up the bulbs again for the following year.
So don't be tempted to cut back the foliage when the flowers have faded: the accepted rule is that it should be left for at least six weeks (although, you may as well just let it wither and die). Don't try to tidy up the leaves by braiding them, or gathering them into little bunches with elastic bands - so that they sit crazily in the flower bed, like the work of a compulsive, over-neat person with not enough to do. The sun must reach all surfaces of the foliage in order to do its work. (Yes, I know I make this plea every year, but some points require constant repetition, and I'm on a mission to prevent unnecessary daffodil abuse.) If your soil is not particularly fertile, give your daffodils a liquid feed after they've finished flowering, or scatter a handful of poultry manure pellets among them. Snap off the spent flowers below the ovaries (the swollen bit), so that they don't waste energy setting seed.
The smaller daffodils have less obvious foliage, and are a good choice for tiny spaces, pots, or the fronts of borders. The Cyclamineus kinds are usually no taller than 30cm, and many are half that height. Narcissi in this group have a lot of blood from the wild Spanish and Portuguese N. cyclamineus, a dainty egg-yolk-yellow thing with a long, narrow cup and swept-back petals, like those of a cyclamen (from which it takes its epithet). Some of its cultivated descendants that you're likely to find for sale (in the autumn) are 'February Silver', 'February Gold', 'Jack Snipe', 'Jetfire' and 'Jumblie'. My favourite, the pale and elegant 'Jenny', isn't in the mainstream catalogues that I checked, but it's worth keeping an eye out for. It has creamy, slightly leaning-back petals and a pallid yellow trumpet, which soon fades to match the rest of the bloom.
There are lots of other pint-sized daffodils, including many in the Jonquilla, Bulbicoldium and Triandrus groups, as well as among the wild species. One of the most fetching - because it resembles a scaled-down version of the classic N. pseudonarcissus - is N. minor (also known as N. pumilis), from France and northern Spain.
There are 50 or so wild narcissi species, and tens of thousands of varieties that have been bred by man - although most have been lost to cultivation. Nonetheless, around 2,000 are available at present. For ease of identification, daffodils (or narcissi: the names are interchangeable) are divided into 13 groups, according to their different flower forms and parentage. The normal gardener (myself included) gets along just fine not knowing too much about what falls into which category. Daffodil fanciers, however, are not only completely familiar with all 13 divisions, but some of the most competitive gardeners around.
Spring garden shows are traditional stomping grounds for their blooms - and the sight of hundreds of vases of perfect daffodils is one worth seeing. The show daffodil (and the modern hybrid) is a world away from the romantic wildling, whose twisted petals make it dance in the breeze.
Modern breeders favour strong stems, forward-facing blooms (none of the hanging-down heads that hastened Herrick's thoughts of his demise), and petals that seem neatly ironed or moulded.
Not everyone likes these nearly artificial-looking narcissi (and in country gardens their kind are probably best kept close to the house in pots, where they won't intrude on the landscape). But I enjoy them in the more civilised part of my urban garden, where they say, just as effectively as the wild kinds, that spring is well sprung.
Saturday, March 29th: 2-5pm, South Co Dublin Horticultural Society, Spring Flower and Daffodil Show, Kill o' the Grange National School, Deansgrange, Dublin (admission: €3).