A HOST OF GOLDEN DAFFODILS

 

Spring has been threatening for several weeks now, and for me it’s always the bugling bulbs that herald the lifting of spirits. That and the arrival of the cuckoo this Thursday. As regular as the German black forest clock that carries its name, the cuckoo arrives all the way from Africa. Our Scottish cuckoos are not the same as those from England. They are better fed and migrate via Italy, not Spain. The distance flown by birds was in days gone by hard to imagine, when Whooper Swans headed north to their breeding grounds in Iceland each spring it was thought they carried with them the souls of the dead. It is hardly surprising that those of us capable of flying can only manage that in our dreams.

Like squirrels hiding their stash of nuts in autumn we plant those bulbs, and if you’re anything like me you promptly forget where. I’ve often heard friends say, where did they come from, I sure I never planted anything there, and so an added magic is achieved. I do remember planting my host of golden daffodils. About fifteen years ago the wooden tubs that were dotted around New Tolsta had rotted out, and were disposed of in the quarry along with their contents. When dumping some of my own garden waste I noticed some bulbs poking out form the old compost and retrieved as many as I could find. Since then the few clumps have multiplied and miraculously have spread fifty yards up the road as far as the junction. It must be that forgetful squirrel at work.