Hairy fat bastards and daffodils

I spent Friday night at the Park Inn at Telford, an experience I strongly suggest you cross off the list of things you must do before you die. If some grave error of judgment should lead you to ignore this advice, do not pick up the phone (£1 per microsecond), attempt to connect to the internet (£10) or order a whisky (£6.20) at the bar in a misguided attempt to calm the attack of tachycardia brought on by presentation of the bill. The Park Inn at Telford offers similar value-for-money as the all-you-can-eat buffet at the annual carrion fly convention in Mogadishu.

Surprisingly, therefore, I thoroughly enjoyed my stay. I was attending part of a weekend convention, organised by my great friend Margaret Owen, devoted to the study of old daffodil cultivars, bred by the first couple of generations of breeders to play around with hybridising the species. Since a trip last year to the Pyrenees and the Picos de Europa I have become an enthusiast for Narcissus species but I have never liked hybrid 'daffs', especially in their blowsy modern incarnations.

Margaret Owen (Roger Norman and Angela Whinfield in the background)

On Friday evening, the 30 or so delegates assembled to buy plants from Joe Sharman and Alan Street, have dinner and listen to two lectures, the first delivered by Sally Kington and the second by Margaret. Sally's lecture was a scholarly exposition of the history of Narcissus cultivation and breeding, accompanied by a lovely series of images of the plants and personalities she discussed. Assembling these images must have been a huge labour. Interspersed with photographs and anecdotes from her recent trip to Andalucia, and delivered in a voice that BBC newsreaders could but dream of emulating, the lecture was enthralling and educational. Sitting next to me, Joe Sharman was furiously taking notes. I hadn't been organised enough to bring pen and paper, which I regret.

Listening to Margaret speak is a bit like watching a mountain torrent flow. While telling us about the places we were to visit the following day, she managed to launch broadsides against Plant Heritage, the National Trust and the RHS, all of which toadying organisations richly deserve to be buried beneath vast mountains of opprobrium. Margaret, as the victims of her many campaigns will attest, does not take prisoners and I don't believe there was a member of the audience not won over by her unique combination of conviction and determination. Long live MO.

On Saturday morning the Narcissus bus visited two churchyards which had been planted with daffodils by the incumbent vicars in the nineteenth century. If all priests had confined themselves to such useful and harmless activities we might be in less trouble today. The plants that we saw were exceedingly diverse but, although no-one present was able confidently to name them, it was clear that the original clones are still flourishing. When I wondered out loud why seedlings hadn't supplanted the named varieties, John Grimshaw pointed out that many of the hybrids are polyploid and sterile. It really struck me that many of these early hybrids are graceful in a way that has been entirely lost in the contemporaneous monstrosities that the current generation of breeders are producing.

We had lunch at Lloyd Kenyon's extraordinary home. The man himself was in Italy, admiring magnolias in the company of other members of the International Dendrological Society, but he had graciously arranged soup and sandwiches and allowed us to wander through the grounds and admire the sheets of daffodils and his ever-expanding collection of trees and shrubs.

John Grimshaw and John Fielding discussing Narcissus cultivars, or something.

Let me be the first to admit that it is pretty weird to spend a couple of hundred quid and two precious days wandering around churchyards in the company of other nutters, admiring and trying to learn something about daffodils. Nevertheless, this is how I get my kicks. Earlier today, I received a few photos taken by Paul Richmond (including the one of Margaret Owen above), taken during the course of the day. Looking at them, it became clear to me that Photoshop should add a 'remove hairy fat bastard' feature next to the red eye button, in the next release. I think the beard disguises my jowels and I shall be eternally grateful to the friend who remarked that it makes me look like an avant-garde Serbian film director (in a good way) but my wife disagrees, so it is gone, for now.

John Grimshaw and hairy fat bastard