Anyone who knows me even a little bit must be aware that I consider daffodils to be the main reason to be in England in the spring. We have wild daffodils of course. Think Wordsworth tramping through fields of flowers in the Lake District: think Farndale’s charming walk through the daffodils crowded along the River Dove in Yorkshire. But it’s the vibrant displays planted along roadside verges, in urban parks and on village greens, in garden tubs and along dual carriageways that grab my attention, every day.
Today though, I was thinking of a walk in France, just two years ago, to see the astonishing display of wild daffodils, in hills not so far from Foix. I thought you might like to remember it too.
Yesterday, we walked in Les Dolomies, which you could confuse with the Dolomites with its craggy pillars and rocky outcrops: though actually it’s a small area between Lavelanet and Foix, just along from Roquefixade. After a few days of hot sun and blue skies, it was disappointing to have the threat of rain, but the slight mistiness brought its own beauty to the landscape, softening the distant views, and enhancing the vibrant greens of the springtime meadows. Everywhere, blossom and flowers.
We walked upwards through the woods. Anny and Maguy had a surprise for us. And quite suddenly, there they were. Daffodils. Thousands and thousands of them, extending upwards over the hillside, tumbling over rocks, leaving not an inch of path for us to walk along. The weather cleared. The sun came out. We were entirely happy.
Come and share the walk with us, along blossom-laden paths, through the daffodil…
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