Never let it be said that I don’t bring you flowers any more.
I’ve just taken delivery of my first ever pair of varifocal glasses, a clever piece of technology that enables me to focus on these words but also on what’s outside the window, simply by looking up. If you’re one of those young people who does this sort of thing without thinking, you’ll be wondering what all the fuss is about. Just wait. That’s all I can say.
The one drawback, apart from the frames, which are of a style that everyone tells me is trendy but just makes me glad Pol Pot was never elected Mayor of Reigate and Banstead, is that the band of clear vision is quite narrow. For instance, as I wrote that first line I became aware that in my non-existent peripheral vision was a face at the window. Prior to the varifocals this would have freaked me out but now all I had to do was glance up to see that it wasn’t an intruder or a voyeur but a deer.
Yes, a deer. It could have been a voyeur deer, I suppose. Who knows what turns them on. They’re so secretive.
Anyway, beyond the deer, my eyes focused, as if by magic, on a still more distant spectacle, a sea of yellow that told me the daffs were out. They’re looking a bit sheepish this year, the daffs, like an operatic chorus that’s burst onto the stage before its cue, prompting the diva playing winter to glance over her shoulder, scowl crossly and bellow even louder, but they’re always a welcome sight. They bring hope, don’t they? A little hint of sunshine beneath the perpetual grey shroud.
It’s always struck me as unfair that they’re called Narcissus. Narcissus loved himself. I never get the impression with daffodils that they spend hours gazing at their own reflection in ponds. Lilies, yes, or orchids even, but daffs are team players. There’s no i in daffs.
There is, you’ll have noticed, an i in daffodil but don’t let that cloud your vision. It’s a lovely word, an ancient word, originating in Greece as asphodelos. The Romans, with their flair for invention, changed it to asphodelus and once it had passed through the cloisters of a few medieval monasteries, it entered the English language as affodill. Where the d came from is anyone’s guess – possibly a contraction of the Dutch de affodil, meaning ‘of daffodil’, which is the sort of thing you’d say quickly if you traded in bulbs in Holland.
A bigger mystery is how the daffodil came to be a symbol of Wales. Is Wales renowned for its daffs? When you cross the Severn Bridge or stray beyond the walls of Chester, are you greeted by a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils? Beside the lake? Beneath the trees? Fluttering and dancing in the breeze? Sure, Wales has its share of daffs but apparently that’s not how it became the national symbol. Neither is it because daffs can be a bit sheepish.
According to Wales.com, ‘The Official Gateway to Wales’, it’s because the Welsh for daffodil, cenhinen pedr, became confused with the Welsh for leek, cenhinen. You can see how that could happen. Fortunately, Wales.com explains the leek bit too. Legend has it that St David advised the Britons to wear leeks in their hats when battling the Saxons, so they could be easily identified and thus not fall victim to so-called ‘friendly spear-throwing’.
So that all makes sense, but the name confusion with daffodils seems far-fetched. It’s akin to the English adopting the rose as a national emblem, but a few people getting the wrong end of the stick and going into battle waving the sprinkler bit off the end of their watering can. I mean, come on!
I suspect it was more a case of wilful misinterpretation. Leeks are more partial to big band jazz than close harmony singing and can grow up to one-and-a-half stone, which would have been a bit of an encumbrance when grappling with a Saxon. Added to which, if some saint told you to stick a vegetable in your hat, you’d ask a few questions, wouldn’t you? The Welsh, being astute as well as musical, would have recognised that a daffodil would make a much more lightweight and practical battle accessory, not to mention more visible and less prone to competitive size envy among the ranks.
Either way, it worked. The Saxons never conquered Wales. And as for wandering lonely as a cloud, if you want to know what that feels like, get yourself a pair of varifocals.
