Daffodils

One of my favourite walks is the short walk to a tiny village just along from home. It consists of only a handful of houses, and yet it has always intrigued me.

At its centre stands a red sandstone church, settled at the bottom of a dip that somehow always feels colder than it should — even on the brightest of days. Built around 1886, it isn't the first church to stand there; the remains of the previous tower still sit quietly in the grounds, a reminder that places layer themselves over time.

With several listed buildings gathered around it and a cobbled road leading towards the stables, where horses are walked steadily along the lane, it feels almost untouched. Not grand. Not dramatic. Just steady and self-contained.

It's this approach — this gentle descent towards the church — that inspired my daffodils.

As you near the turning and begin to head down the hill, the views across the River Dee to North Wales fall away and a swathe of bright yellow greets you. Daffodils scattered along the grassy bank like small trumpeters announcing the season.

Hark. Look here. Spring is arriving.

They always appear days ahead of the daffodils outside the church itself, which line up in neat rows as if waiting patiently for their turn. The cold air that gathers in the dip seems to hold them back slightly. A quiet reminder not to get ahead of themselves.

If anyone mentions daffodils, it's these I picture. Not the ones in parks or formal beds. These. Against old stone, under a wide sky, bright against the last of winter.

So when I began making my own daffodils, it was that view I carried with me. I kept them in their bulbs, as though they'd just been lifted from the grassy bank when no one was looking. Roots intact. Soil imagined. Still connected to where they began. That piece now sits within Available Works.

Their yellow is clear and uncomplicated. Their green quieter, more muted — like the grass before it fully wakes up.

They sit easily in a space, bringing a small lift on grey days, and they stay long after the real ones have faded. A reminder of that turn in the road. That first glimpse of brightness. That familiar signal each year that something is shifting again.

And when spring comes around once more, they'll seem to say it all over again:

Hark. Look. It is spring.

Rebecca