An Enduring Affair With The Humble Daffodil

A jaunty grouping of daffodils and ranunculus to brighten my kitchen

Photo: Chronica Domus

I have a particular weakness for daffodils, or narcissi as they are frequently called. These humble blooms have captivated my imagination with their beauty since childhood. They are, in fact, my favorite of all flowers.  I am simply mad about them. My excitement each spring upon spotting the first alluring bunches at the flower market, or as they slowly emerge from the damp garden soil in clumps, never wanes. There are no words vivid enough to express how much joy these cheery little flowers bring to my soul.  They are, quite simply, my happy pill.

Narcissus Thalia, my favorite of the whites and as pure as the driven snow

Photo: Chronica Domus

One of my earliest memories is of my father and I buying bunches of sunny daffs to present to my mother as a gift on Mothering Sunday. I could not have been more than six or seven years old at the time but those bright yellow trumpets captured and delighted my young mind. 

Once my family and I moved away from London to live in Kent, a county known throughout the nation as "The Garden of England", something new revealed itself to tickle my fancy.  It was a sight I had not previously seen within the confines of the country's capital city.  Great naturalized drifts of golden daffodils buried in the grassy banks of roadsides and around the fruit orchards and church yards reared their bright heads year upon year.  They shone like beacons among the misty light so synonymous with winter and early spring in that part of the world.  How lucky I was to have witnessed this annual show, a cherished memory that will endure always.

Years later, I recall daffodils cropping up again, during Miss Bottle's English Literature class where we studied the poem of William Wordsworth and his evocative prose on the humble flower.  Is there any more beautifully haunting opening line in poetry than the imagery conjured up by Wordsworth's "I wander'd lonely as a cloud"? 

It seems that the yellow daffodil of my youth, namely Narcissus pseudonarcissus, has been eclipsed by the ubiquitous King Alfred, typically found for sale in every big box chain gardening center for pennies, alongside other overly-hybridized and overly-stiff specimens on offer.  These too are what one sees for sale (mostly) by the bucket load at supermarket florists and the like at this time of year.  

Make no mistake, when I write that daffodils are my favorite of all flowers, I am championing their daintier fairer kin in gentle shades of buttery yellow, cream, or white, often with hints of pink or fiery orange, or even green to elevate their beauty. These are what I crave and what I gently strongly encourage you too to seek out for your own garden or vase.

I am particularly fond of the older varieties and cultivate a number of them in my garden.  Thalia (circa 1916), Avalanche (circa 1906), and Albatross (circa 1891), are three that grow reliably well for me.  I look forward to cutting bunches of them as they come into bloom in succession if, of course, the eternal army of nocturnal snails, slugs, and earwigs have not munched upon their tender heads under the cover of darkness.  I shy away from chemical warfare on my soil, and on the creatures that live within it, so enduring a little loss each season is a natural consequence of my philosophy.  I just make sure to plant ample bulbs to be enjoyed in the flower beds and by some for my daffodil foes.  

My interest in growing older varieties of daffodil began, strangely enough, with a visit to the quirky Welsh market town of Hay-on-Wye during the early 1990's. The place is a treasure trove of fascinating second-hand booksellers and shops that litter the town. Bibliophiles flock here from around the world in search of obscure publications to add to their personal libraries. No one leaves empty handed; it really is that good.  Once I had recovered from the mind-numbing effects of visiting more bookshops in a single day than one could possibly imagine exhausting in a lifetime, I happily left town clutching three little volumes to add to my gardening library.

Even the castle walls of Hay-on-Wye are recruited to hold the overflow of books which burst from the seams of local shops

Source

The Culture of Bulbs by Sir J.L. Cotter was one of them, and it was this volume that led me down the garden path to seeking out, and subsequently cultivating, one of the rarer daffodils illustrated within the black and white plates of the book. What, I wondered, as I gazed upon the illustration of the antique poeticus narcissus Albatross, did this bloom look like in living color, and why on earth would someone name a flower after a seabird?  Sadly, Sir James had failed to provide his readers with even a line or two about this particular daffodil's charms.  My inquisitive mind had found a botanical mission and I would not rest until I had my answers.

The Culture of Bulbs, the book that led to my "daffodilmania"

Photo: Chronica Domus

It took me over a decade and a half to finally lay my green fingers on this rare beauty. Flipping through my copy of Old House Gardens' charmingly written and illustrated catalog several years ago, I finally spotted it. Narcissus Albatross was waiting in the wings and all I had to do was place my order.

My well-thumbed copy of Old House Gardens' delightful catalog of heirloom bulbs

Photo: Chronica Domus

I was chuffed to finally get an opportunity to plant a few bulbs and see how they might perform in my garden. A handwritten note on my packing invoice tucked within my order made reference to the fact that the vendor had no idea if the flowers were scented, an aspect of their nature which I had not previously considered. 

The sought after (at least by me) narcissus Albatross photographed alongside the black and white plate that inspired my desire to cultivate this heirloom jewel

Photograph: Chronica Domus

Registered in 1891 by Reverend Engleheart and named, interestingly, for his fondness of seabirds (as was narcissus Seagull, another of his creations), this beguiling dainty daffodil was everything I had wished it to be. Emerging from grayish green foliage so late in my garden as to take the prize for best latecomer to the party, it is sublime. It peaks just as my tulips fade.  

The first of the blooms beginning to unfurl

Photo: Chronica Domus

The luminous graceful creamy petals are almost propeller like in form, whitening as they mature. Their frilly cups are painted a gentle shade of orange which intensifies towards the edge. The scent you ask? Well, yes, if one were to bury one's nose deep within the cup, a barely perceivable whiff is certainly present. The old reverend had obviously studied the albatross in flight enough to have seen a passing resemblance in this graceful bloom's nodding habit.

As though captured in flight, narcissus Albatross spreads its wings in the flower bed

Photo: Chronica Domus

Won't you join me in discovering the joys of growing older variants of the humble daffodil the next time you find your garden in need of a few cheery spring blooms? You will be amazed and delighted at the host of subtle colors and graceful shapes lacking in the larger steroid-pumped, modern varieties, as you rediscover what our grandparents once purchased as cut flowers or grew in their gardens.

Photo: Chronica Domus

Nota bene: I am neither paid nor do I receive recompense in exchange for applauding products or services within my blog.  I do so because I enjoy them.  If you are a kindred spirit, you too enjoy recommending nice things to fellow good eggs.

Mournful Remembrances

An early nineteenth century mourning scene composed entirely of human hair

Photo: Chronica Domus

During the early days of this blog, February 2014 to be exact, I wrote about a piece of mourning art that graces the walls of our drawing room.  You can read that essay, titled Mourning Howard, here. At that time, I had every intention of writing about some of the other pieces of mourning art in our collection in a series of posts.  For some reason or other, I never quite got my act together, until today that is.

Memorializing the dead, whether in the form of jewelry (rings, brooches, pendants), or artwork (embroidery samplers or theorems), was at the height of its popularity during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the period to which my husband and I have chosen to focus our collecting interest. In the days predating the advent of photography, commissioning a piece of mourning hair work was a far less costly alternative than an oil portrait of one's loved one. Naturally, this greatly contributed to the art form's popularity.

As peculiar as this may sound, the diminutive four inch diameter composition (frame included) shown above is formed entirely of human hair.  Yes, you did read that correctly, human hair. We purchased it from a dealer located on London's Portobello Road, during the Saturday morning market we frequent whenever we find ourselves in London. The person that sold it to us had unearthed it in France, a country famed for producing exquisite mourning hair art.  Mounted in a round ebony wood frame and held under glass with the aid of a brass collar stamped with delicate tracery, it is my favorite piece in our collection. I've yet to see another quite like it on my travels. To the best of my knowledge, I date it to around 1830 or 1840.

Unusually, this is the only piece of mourning art we own that does not show a sentimental dedication to the person being mourned.  Typically, the deceased's initials, and on occasion the year of death, are depicted on a tomb or gravestone.  Another feature that sets this particular piece apart from others in our little horde is that the hair has been collected from several sources.  The norm, of course, was to utilize the deceased's own hair.  As you can see above, the dark strands form an elegant weeping willow tree, a symbol of mourning, which stands in stark contrast to the lighter straw-colored hair of the urn, tomb, and plinth.  Each piece of hair has been skillfully adhered to a thin disc of ivory cut lengthwise from an elephant tusk, a material now rightly made illegal in many countries, but not so at the time of construction.

I've often wondered what it is that makes this elegant and severe study in mourning art so very special, and why it was that multiple sources of hair were utilized in its creation.  Had several members of the same family died together in some tragic set of circumstances, an incurable illness perhaps?  I wonder too if this piece had been created to be used as an example of a hair artist's work, demonstrating his skill to potential patrons, and his artistry and dexterity in pounding, layering, and aligning the fine strands of hair to form a pleasing mourning scene.

A grouping of mourning hair art reflected in the small Regency convex mirror that hangs in our vestibule

Photo: Chronica Domus

Whatever its intended purpose, it is of little matter to me for I take great pleasure in its beauty as it hangs, alongside a grouping of other mourning hair art, in our home's vestibule.

If you wish to learn more about the fascinating business of mourning, I highly recommend you visit  Art of Mourning's website for a glimpse into the history and symbolism of mourning.

Do you find this particular art form a little macabre for your tastes, or do you, like us, delight in its sentimental beauty?

That Old Black Magic

Photo: Chronica Domus

One day in late-March, after a brief but very welcomed rain shower, I stepped outside to assess how much time I would require to tackle the never-ending task of weeding the spring flower bed, the bane of gardeners everywhere.  I took my camera with me as the tulips I had planted last November were beginning to unfurl.  I planted sixty single late flowering Queen of The Night tulips, the darkest shade of any tulip available.  As you can see, the color isn't really black at all, which comes as no surprise to me as I've grown these glossy luscious tulips in years past.  In fact, I had not planted any black tulips for at least five years and specifically selected them last autumn in hopes they would flower in unison with the recently planted magnolia tree, which happens to be named Magnolia x soulangiana, Black Tulip. My plan, I am pleased to report, shaped up rather nicely and together with icy white narcissi Thalia, made for a very agreeable show this year.  To say I was overjoyed would be putting things mildly.  The garden can be such a humbling arena and any horticultural success, no matter the size, never fails to brighten my spirit.

The shapely blooms of Magnolia x soulangiana Black Tulip share a striking resemblance to Queen of The Night tulips
Photo: Chronica Domus

Just as I crouched down to snap away at the pretty cluster of tulips seen in the photograph at the outset of this post, my faithful canine companion Mavro decided to make an appearance.  His name, incidentally, translates to black in Greek.

I thought it particularly amusing that Mavro was determined to see what all the fuss was about.  He proceeded to waddle over to the flower bed, in the inimitable manner of the senior arthritic dog that he is, and stick his salt and pepper snout as close to the blooms as could possibly be.  By all appearances my beloved Mavro had stopped to smell the tulips.  

A charming moment of old black magic as Mavro sniffs away at the tulips

Photo: Chronica Domus

Within that fleeting ethereal moment, a little black magic was created and captured for posterity through the lens.  Much like the ever-changing garden ruled by Father Time, Mavro was soon gone, shuffling off to investigate the next thing to tickle his olfactory fancy.   

A partial view of the spring flowering bed just coming into bloom

Photo: Chronica Domus

The same flower bed photographed last week with tulips at full sail

Photo: Chronica Domus

Change is constant in the garden.  This is especially so during the months of spring when plant life surges forth, leaping and bounding, reaching for the sunnier skies of lengthening days. I cannot wait for our next batch of blooms to emerge, fingers crossed.

What do you see flowering in your garden this month?

Pre-Easter Dinner Preparations and A Giant Easter Egg Nest

Eggs in an array of shapes, colors, and sizes; a symbol of renewal and rebirth at Easter time

Photo: Chronica Domus

When it comes to Easter, I'm not one to over do things in the decorating department, but I do like to mark the holiday with a few festive touches here and there.  As I wrote last year, eggs play the predominant part in the decoration of the house at Easter time. I've been fortunate enough to have amassed a variety of them in sizes spanning an inch in length to as large as eight, and colors in shades of browns, buffs, greens and blues, and even the odd speckled and freckled variety.

I recently came across an enormous punch bowl at a flea market which looked to me to be Paris porcelain.  Although I had no intention of buying a bowl that is a whopping seventeen inches across, I simply could not walk away from it, so home it went.  As visions of bacchanalian pursuits danced through my head, plotting an evening where this bowl would surely be the most popular party guest among our friends, I was left with the question of  how to put it to good use the rest of the year. Well, as it is Easter time, I thought, perhaps the punch bowl might cradle my collection of eggs and act as a giant bird's nest.  Late last night, I dug up as much excelsior packing as I had on hand and used that to feather my nest before resting the eggs on top.  Upon waking this morning and walking into the dining room, I was drawn to the shadowy pattern created on the wall behind the bowl.  I ran to fetch my camera and snapped away before the illusion disappeared.  Don't you agree the shadows make the bowl appear as though it truly is a nest tucked up high in the boughs of a tree?

A giant porcelain bird's nest perhaps?

Photo: Chronica Domus

I spent most of today reveling in the details and preparations for a pre-Easter dinner at home for two friends of ours, a husband and wife, who will join us this evening.  My daughter is sad to be missing out on the festivities, but she insisted on attending a school friend's birthday celebration.  Of course, the preparations for the dinner included a visit to the farmers' market this morning, where plump bundles of asparagus were procured, along with tender baby carrots, and spinach, among other locally grown produce.  Next, a stop at the San Francisco flower market, a mecca for flower lovers everywhere.  I could not resist several bunches of butter-yellow narcissi Yellow Cheerfulness (so very fragrant!), and a bundle of chartreuse colored snowball viburnum.  Oh, how pretty they look as they impart a breath of fresh air to our dining room.

Flowering branches add a little spring drama to the dining room

Photo: Chronica Domus

I've been finding rather a lot of nests blown to the ground by the Bay's winds on my walks throughout the year.  Their construction never fails to amaze.  Two of the nests were found by the shore around wetlands and I was fascinated to discover they were made of fennel fronds which grow in abundance in the area, resulting in the nests having a delicate fennel fragrance.

The nest in the photograph below was located by a tree in my garden and made using twigs. Naturally, every bird's nest requires a clutch of eggs so these sweet little foil eggs act as a wonderful substitute for robin eggs.

Whimsical chocolate robin eggs

Photo: Chronica Domus

My husband asked me if I had an ostrich egg in my collection and when he discovered I did not, presented me with the egg you see below, as a gift on Mothering Sunday last year.  It is the largest egg in my collection, by far, and an impressive specimen having been rated a "Grade A Jumbo", attaining a girth of eighteen inches at its middle.  It is one of the nicest gifts anyone has ever given me, which many woman may find a little perplexing, preferring instead to have received the latest Louboutin creation, but this is right up my alley!

Found nests and eggs make a delightful Easter centerpiece for our table

Photo: Chronica Domus

As I finished setting our whimsical table for this evening's dinner with sunny yellow tulips, matching chocolate eggs, and Robin's egg blue banded Paris porcelain dishes, I was excited at the prospect of an enjoyable evening spent in the company of our dear friends.

The table almost ready for our pre-Easter dinner this evening

Photo: Chronica Domus

Do you celebrate Easter and if so, how will you mark the day tomorrow?

I wish you all a very Happy Easter!