Too many hosts of Golden Daffs
It is the solitary nature of la vie Huttonienne that you can wander lonely as a cloud. No problem. But you can't get away from the bloody daffodils. Nice on Day One when they have opened, pleasant on day two and then they cloy, fast. I suspect Wordsworth only spent a short weekend in the Lake District otherwise he would have written a different type of elegy involving right thinking men with sharp scythes.
As one image shows the Daffs can enhance a scene-Set off the Kirk and the sunny lane past it. But its en masse, see picture two*, that they tend to get boring: beside the lake (well pond actually), beneath the trees, all over the verges, amongst the peas, around the bench, under the bees, etc etc. Every new comer to this hamlet and most longer term habitues make it their business to dig in the bulbs year after year with the overkill effect we now suffer. And they seem to last for ever, on and on and on-like Ma Thatcher in her long prime. And then my heart with nausea fills
Lets massacre the Daffodils
* Click to enlarge and go screaming for the Agent Orange