I KNOW, it may seem a bit belated to write about daffodils in mid-April. And indeed, in my patch - and perhaps in yours - the sunny yellow trumpets are fast fading to frizzled ochre rags and inconvenient bundles of awkward leaves. But not in a certain back garden in Killiney, Co Dublin: here, the daffodil season is just reaching a crescendo, with 200 or so varieties, late-blooming because they are cross-bred, in full, glorious flight.
It is the home of Michael Ward, chairman of the Northern Ireland Daffodil Group (there isn't one down south) and chairman also of the local South County Dublin Horticultural Society. These next few weeks are a busy and anxious time for him, and for other serious narcissus fanciers. It's the time when their best blooms meet to pit their flawless charms against each other at spring flower shows up and down the country.
And flawless they must be the tiniest blemish, the slightest irregularity renders the flower useless for showing. The show daffodil looks more like a fine, wax sculpture than a thing nourished by the mess and muck of the soil. It stands straight and proud, its parts engineered to a perfect, smooth symmetry the modern hybrid is worlds of refinement away from the untamed hurly-burly of Wordsworth's host of golden Narcissus pseudonarcissus.
It comes as a surprise then to see that Michael Ward grows his prize daffodils outdoors in raised beds and in pots, with no protection from the weather or from the attentions of his two dogs, although "I have to watch I don't "get a bone buried in the middle of a daffodil bed that doesn't do anyone's blood pressure any good," he says, wincing. "It's easier to grow them in pots, but you can't keep them there indefinitely. They're better out in the ground."
Out in the ground, the daffodils bloom their hearts out, each blossom a potential prize-winner. And if you always thought of daffodils as yellow things that flutter in the breeze, then these well-bred characters will cause you to revise that opinion. In colours that span the whole spectrum, except for blue and no doubt breeders are working on that they can be a gaudy bunch.
The most flashy of the lot is "Dorchester", a big pink, red and white double with such a hall of petals that it looks quite artificial, like a crepe paper flower. It was bred by Brian Duncan from Omagh and when it first went on sale in 1992 it cost £100 a bulb: now it can be got for a mere £37.50. However, as each bulb is "double-nosed" and produces two flowers, you do get two for the price of one. . .
BUT growing super-daffodils is not just about forking out pots of money for splendid bulbs. The real narcissophile lives in hope that one day he or she will breed their own, show-stopping bloom. "Anyone can hit on a world-beater"
says Michael. "An amateur could do it just as well as a professional."
With so many genes floating around in every hybrid, crossing two of them can always throw up some unexpected - and perhaps outstanding - seedlings. It's a procedure that requires patience though, as daffodil seeds take five years to reach the flowering stage and along the way they must be carefully minded. Any single genus collection of plants acts like a magnet for parasites, and in this case the main culprits are narcissus fly - outsize hoverflies, best controlled by a smart slap from a vigilant fly-swatter - and microscopic eel worms.
At the end of the garden, the current crop of seedlings is beginning to unfold its first flowers. Two are looking particularly promising: a delicate, white-petalled individual with an orange and yellow cup, and a good, fluffy double - "I've never bred a double as good as that". Perhaps it'll be his first named double and will join his other two cultivars `Bubbity' (claimed, alas, by the eelworm) and `Dromalga' a fine large-cupped white, alive and well, and in the safe hands of professional growers in Northern Ireland.