I felt as if they were mine. All mine.
Stately maples, just budding out, keep stern watch over the emerging narcissi.
Some daffodils feel safer on an island in the pond, where visitors can't tromp on them.
The daffodil troll lives in this cave.
In 1941 Remy and Virginia Morosani planted 10,000 daffodil bulbs on a rocky slope across the road from their farmhouse at Laurel Ridge Farm in northwest Connecticut.
It was too steep to cultivate, but in the wild stony pasture that sloped down to a pond with an island in it, they began planting and dividing and tending two acres of daffodils, and kept at it each year from the 1940s until the 1960s.
The daffodils spread, the Morosanis kept digging and adding more, and eventually there were 15 acres covering the hills in every variety of narcissus. People began to drive from afar every April to see the show.
Remy and Virginia's descendants eventually formed a foundation to preserve the daffodil fields, but it is still a private farm. In April visitors are welcome to wander all over and admire the sunny daffodils, but it is not a park. There are no facilities, no entrance, no picnic areas, not even any parking.
Narcissus is such a stiff looking clump of a plant, even when you try to naturalize them in masses. But here, over decades, they have gone awry in a delightfully random way, with clumps and bare spots and tufts and escapees going every which way.
Virginia lived to be 93. She died at home, in the house right across the road from the daffodil hills, just eight years ago.