“As early as 1627, John Parkinson had distinguished nearly eighty different varieties of narcissus, but in later years many of these disappeared, and for some unaccountable reason narcissus culture suffered a decline for the next two hundred and fifty years. But for the great nurseryman Peter Barr, in England, we might now have far fewer varieties, and the early spring blaze of yellow and gold might be dimmer indeed….
“Mr. Barr was a Scot who spoke no foreign language and had such a thick burr that his own grandchildren could hardly understand what he was talking about. But nothing fazed Peter Barr. He was determined to collect the narcissi where they grew wild. Beginning in 1887 he made trips to Portugal, Spain, and France, often traveling on horseback or muleback, though he had never ridden before. He went high up in the Pyrenees, and at seven thousand feet found Parkinson’s Narcissus moschatus, which had disappeared from England by 1629….
“Looking, looking, digging, digging, he went deep down into mountain valleys, and on one occasion, at least, he slept outdoors under a rock ledge. Barr could not talk with the people he met, so wherever he went he showed large pictures of the flowers he was looking for. This worked, for he tells of finding six thousand bulbs here, seven thousand bulbs there, and one big haul of nearly twelve thousand.”
This is the second of two posts with photos of a double form of Tazetta daffodils. The first post is White Double Tazetta Daffodils (1 of 2), where I describe how I approached the reflected colors among these pearly white flowers during post-processing in Adobe Lightroom.
With this post, we come to the end of the double daffodils for 2025, unless I find more — which sometimes happens!
John Parkinson, mentioned in the quotation above, is well-known as a discoverer and breeder of double daffodil varieties. While alternate daffodil forms were undoubtedly known before him, his book Paradisi in Sole Paradisus Terrestris (1629) documented hundreds of daffodils, doubles among them. If you’re feeling literarily adventurous, click this link to the book and search for “double white” or “double yellow” to read what he wrote about different kinds, and also see sketches of some of them. As a historical amusable, the book title “Paradisi in Sole Paradisus Terrestris” is a Latin phrase that translates to “The Earthly Paradise of Park-in-Sun” — which Parkinson chose to make a pun on his own name.
“The narcissus has led a kind of double life. It has been both praised by poets and regarded as sinister in the annals of mythology and in the minds of men. In fact, the bulbs are poisonous; mice and moles eschew them, and as a consequence their lovely, persistent flowers multiply in our gardens year after year.
“Until recently people actually believed that the heavy fragrance of narcissus would put you into a coma if you breathed it too long and too deeply. Indeed, according to Pliny the Elder, a Roman naturalist, the very name is derived from the Greek word narké, meaning torpor, from which we get our word narcotic.
“Probably the narcissus that Homer wrote about in his ‘Hymn to Demeter’ was the kind with paper-white bunched blossoms now called Narcissus tazetta or ‘little cup,’ whose homeland was doubtless Greece or western Asia. This same narcissus has been found entwined in the funeral wreath discovered on Egyptian mummies of the eighteenth dynasty (around 1570 B.C.), but, alas, we have no other clues from ancient Egypt about its age and origin….”
narcissus — and the white paper screen, reflecting each other
its color whiter than the peach: narcissus bloom
Hello!
The flowers I photographed for this post (and the next one) are a double form of Tazetta daffodils. A distinguishing characteristic of Tazettas (which are classified in their own daffodil division) is that each stem will produce more than one flower, creating a cluster of blooms high above ground level that look like a small bouquet. The closely packed, slightly overlapping, arrangement of blooms at the top of a stem (which you can see before they open in one of the photos below) creates an “umbrella effect” called an umbel, a common shape among plants that can organize their flowers this way. In this Tazetta variant, we can also see how its ancestral orange cup has been replaced with fluffy orange and white petals at the center, and that the single row of petals around the cup area has been engineered into layers.
Working on the photographs for these two posts was a fascinating experience. They were all taken in the same location — a section of Oakland Cemetery’s gardens encompassing a 20-foot by 5-foot rectangle, set about three feet above the sidewalk (an especially convenient placement for photographers). As you can see from the first photos, the Tazettas are densely packed: each plant produces plenty of dark blue-green leaves and that, along with the umbrella-like group of blooms on each stem, contributes even more to a sense of density.
I took all the photographs at about the same time on an overcast day with consistent filtered sunlight, so lighting conditions remained about the same until I was done. And yet, as you look through the photographs, notice how the white flowers reflect the colors of their surroundings differently. Some of the flowers appear cool white (or very light blue), and others appear warmer (with yellow and green tones). Scroll to the bottom of the galleries and take a look at the pairs I placed together to demonstrate the difference: the two photos on top show cooler colors, while those on the bottom show warmer colors. Now roll back through the rest of the photos, and it should be more obvious that when the dominant colors in the background are blue-gray (like the stone monument in the first three images) or blue-green (from the leaves surrounding the blooms), the flowers will show off cool colors. By contrast, when there’s more yellow-green in the background, then the flowers reflect that, and the photos feature warmer colors.
Theoretically, this is related to how the camera determines white balance, and it’s also true that in Lightroom, it’s possible to shift the warm or cool tones and create nearly identical whites among the flower blossoms. On my first pass through the photos, that’s what I did — but then noticed that I was creating unnatural background colors because white balance adjustments change the tones of the entire image. There are ways around that, of course, but I wanted to understand what was happening rather than just assume I should continue changing white balance settings to make them all look about the same.
Our eyes tend to discount the slight variations in color we see when looking at flowers like this in real life: we see them as white and probably don’t notice the other colors. But the camera records everything, including the tonal variations, as it “sees” how the white flowers are reflecting the colors around them. And the individual flower petals among these daffodils have a very smooth texture, which acts a bit like a mirror and reflects surrounding colors back into the camera. I compared the white petals in these flowers to some photos of white irises I took last year (see Cool White Irises) — and saw the difference: the white irises, whose petals have much more texture and are like a matte finish, don’t reflect or mirror nearby colors in the same way that these daffodils do. Instead, they scatter the light — which means that they’ll look more white to the camera in similar lighting conditions, whereas the glossy petals of the daffodils will mirror various colors. Imagine, for example, placing a white marble near objects of different colors, and consider how the marble’s smooth surface will reflect these colors differently than, say, placing a white piece of paper near the same objects.
For these white double daffodils, the smooth, reflective texture may be an evolutionary adaptation. Like other daffodils, the white doubles tend to bloom early in the season — here in the Southeast, from as early as February through the end of March — and one of their life goals is to attract pollinators that are less plentiful than they will be toward late spring and early summer. Reflecting different colors may be their way of getting attention from those that emerge this time of year, like the wee wasps, moths, and tiny flies that I saw flitting among the flowers. There’s probably some speculation here on my part — though we do know the flowers didn’t evolve this way so that I’d take their pictures and wonder about their colors in the spring of 2025. Evolutionary adaptations of color and texture among flower petals are known to take place in conjunction with the availability of pollinators at different times of the year, as well as to take advantage of pollinators’ capabilities. If you’d like to read more about that, here are three articles covering variations on the subject, all that explain how flowers evolve petal characteristics to help them make new friends along the way:
“Daffodils are among the best known of spring-flowering bulbs, and although there are only about 70 species in the genus, there are hundreds of hybrids with varying flower forms….
“Members of the amaryllis family, daffodils arise from bulbs and generally have flat, narrow leaves. The flowers are usually nodding and may be white, yellow or bicolored. They are borne alone or several per stem. The bloom consists of a corona, or crown, which is cup- or trumpet-shaped, stands in the center, and may be long and tubular or short and ringlike. The corona is surrounded by six petallike segments that are referred to collectively as the perianth….
“Double Daffodils do not look like typical daffodils; there is usually no defined corona but instead a cluster of petaloids at the center, and there may be more than one bloom per stem. Plants range from 14 to 18 inches tall, and blooms are from 1 to 3 inches across. ‘Acropolis‘ grows 18 inches tall, usually blooms late in the season, and is white with red and white petaloids. ‘Cheerfulness‘ bears clusters of double white flowers that are fragrant. ‘Tahiti‘ grows 16 inches tall and usually blooms late in the season; it is yellow with red petaloids. ‘White Marvel‘ has pure white, double blooms on 14-inch plants. ‘Pencrebar‘ is a miniature that grows to 10 inches and has 2-inch, all-yellow flowers.”
And as if from islands further west, deeper into the mists, Not sea-green daffodils, but a green-yellow I had not known before, Except in primroses, and then only in shadow near to the yews; A green-yellow like starlight all morning through….
But I have noticed that in a day or two the petals of this daffodil become white-pointed, That their flanges where they join the tube and was never sign of needle or thread, Are white-stained, that the trumpet has its bell-mouth whitened too, As if from sleeping in starlight that gives pallor and engenders dreams
So, folded in its own greenness, This cluster, this isle of daffodils, Dreams, and soon dies away
Unlike most of the daffodils I’ve encountered this spring that usually appear in large batches (see, for example, Rise of the Yellow-Yellow Daffodils (1 of 2)), these doubles appear to be rather solitary figures, with just a few friends or fans hanging around nearby. Doubles are less common than more “traditional” daffodils (it seems), and their genetics may simply dictate that they’re less likely to propagate wildly on their own, as their more promiscuous relatives tend to do. I don’t think I found more than a dozen individual stems of these three varieties, despite scouring the gardens for more and returning for a second hunting expedition. But while I didn’t find more that looked like these, I did come across yet another set of double white daffodils, similar to the Paperwhites I previously posted yet with a different flower structure and more orange color where the trumpets would have been in their ancestors. I’m still working on those photos and will post them up in a few days.
Those toward the center of the galleries below — with white petals and yellow-orange centers — are nearer in design to daffodils you might find anywhere with white petals and orange trumpets. But take a closer look and you can imagine how botanical engineering might have helped an orange trumpet evolve into overlapping petals with both colors of the flower reflected in the new structure. While the chemical and botanical work involved in creating these changes is beyond my knowledge or ability to explain well, it’s probable that variants like these started as a mutation — the appearance, perhaps, of a daffodil with malformed petals or a multicolored trumpet — which a horticulturalist could then foster by selective breeding. I learned from my research assistant that producing a successful variant like this — and producing one that can continue to be propagated — may take five years or more. And the evolutionary process does indeed start with the appearance of a natural mutation:
Mutations are the original source of what we now cultivate as double daffodils, and this process is a perfect example of how human observation and selective breeding can transform plant characteristics.
In nature, genetic mutations occur spontaneously and randomly. These mutations can cause various changes in plant structures, including: additional petal formation; transformation of reproductive organs into petal-like structures; and alterations in color or flower shape.
For double daffodils, these mutations typically involve a genetic change that causes: (1) stamens to transform into petals; (2) the corona (trumpet) to develop additional petal-like structures; or (3) an increase in the number of flower parts.
Early horticulturists like Peter Barr would meticulously examine large populations of daffodils, looking for these rare spontaneous mutations. When they found a plant with an unusual flower structure — like one with extra, more complex petals — they would carefully isolate that specific plant, propagate it through bulb division, and selectively breed it with other plants showing similar characteristics.
Think of it like a botanical treasure hunt. Most daffodils would look “normal,” but occasionally, a single plant would emerge with a dramatically different flower structure. These rare mutations became the foundation for entire new varieties of daffodils. The process is similar to how we’ve developed many cultivated plants — through patient observation of natural variations and deliberate selection. Double daffodils aren’t created in a laboratory, but emerge from careful observation of nature’s own genetic experiments.
Similarly, those with yellow and green petals are genetic variations of light green daffodils, with selective breeding and genetic modifications undertaken to enhance the (relatively rare among flowers) green colors along with gradually replacing the trumpets with a series of flower petals.
As you can see from the photos, the first batch of yellow and green doubles open in rather strange formations and present distinct bands of color that almost look like stripes; whereas those toward the end of this post have more orange with splashes of green. They, too, have a distinctive appearance as they open with a large number of piled flower petals, looking a bit like a shredded pom-pom — and, to say the truth — I first thought I was looking at a dead flower until I handled one of them and realized that they were as fully alive as they could be.
“The Tamar Valley is a long, branching fjord of an estuary whose tidal branches penetrate deep into Cornwall, its main course acting as the boundary between Devon and Cornwall….
“[Its] slopes were once very intensively cultivated, with workers tending fruit, flowers, and vegetables in plots which they called gardens…. The area was so densely cultivated that it was said that even the railway lines were edged with rhubarb….
“The reason for the intense cultivation of the Tamar Valley, which really lasted less than a hundred years, was its combination of warm south- and west-facing slopes and the water, which moderates temperatures. Frosts were rare and light, and spring came early, almost earlier than anywhere else in Britain. This climate had been exploited for fruit growing since the 1700s, but in the late nineteenth century, local growers began to try other crops…. “Strawberries came first, then daffodils, and finally a great many other flower and florist crops, such as anemones and irises, along with rhubarb and other speciality crops. Daffodils really got going in the early years of the twentieth century with ‘Van Sion’ (now called ‘Telamonius Plenus’), a messy double dating back to the seventeenth century; ‘Maximus’, a Trumpet variety with an even longer history; ‘Ornatus’, a Poeticus type of recent French origin; and ‘Golden Spur’, a Trumpet discovered in a Dutch garden in the 1880s.
“What really launched the daffodil trade, however, was the discovery, allegedly by a local farmer, Septimus Jackson, of a new variety in a hedge, sometime in the 1880s. A double Poeticus type, white and with a heavy scent, the late-flowering plant was quickly dubbed ‘Tamar Double White’….
“By modern standards it is not a particularly attractive flower, but the scent was clearly something special. It also had a reputation for being difficult outside the valley. It took until the 1920s for there to be enough of it to become a worthwhile crop, but then it really took off and became a mainstay for the valley’s growers. Perhaps what made it really popular was its popularity as church decoration for the Whitsun festival, on the cusp of spring and summer….”
Then winter vanished in a mist of rain, And the world smiled to see the spring again: Then first of all the flowers on the hill The violet came, and soon the daffodil, And in the valley by the torrent bed One morning you might find the drooping head Of a white narcissus-star above the grass Till in a little while you dared not pass For fear of trampling them, and you would see The crimson cup of that anemone….
“Along Mediterranean shorelines paperwhites and Chinese sacred lilies often occur together. Although closely related, they maintain separate populations because their genetic structures isolate them from one another. The paperwhite has a standard diploid (double) set of chromosomes. Its large cousin inherits a tetraploid (quadruple) complement. This accounts for the tremendous vigor of the Chinese sacred lily, and also suggests that hybrids between the two varieties will be sterile mules with a triploid set of genes. As we have already seen, such plants often make fine garden flowers.
“Crosses between Narcissus tazetta and N. papyraceus have, in fact, occurred, and several have been cultivated since the 1600s. These mules possess a number of distinctive characters making them unlike either parent. Instead of gray-green leaves like paperwhites, or fountains of light green foliage like Chinese sacred lilies, these hybrids often produce lush groups of dark green leaves. Their foliage and flowers emerge later and withstand more cold than their parents. In the South they are among the most cherished garden heirlooms.
“The first to bloom is a striking plant with slender petals the color of old linen and small citron cups. If the winter is mild, as is often the case, dark green leaves emerge in November and bear flowering stems around the first of February. The effect of the starry blossoms with their cheerful yellow cups is charming, especially when the narcissi are growing around an old homestead nestled under pines.”
You know those daffodils that are white That gleam iridescent They have them In a garden In Worthing. All the gold of Herrick washed away, Dancing like splendid ghosts, That painting by Anne Redpath The blue background with the jagged edges Round the white space Coming up all green and yellowy, Delicate white daffodils From a wood. All this colour contained In white daffodils.
Hello!
This is the first of two posts with photographs of white double daffodils from Oakland Cemetery’s gardens, that I took a few weeks ago while it was still sort of winter around here.
I’ve photographed these flowers before (see Twelve Dozen Daffodils (8 of 8)) — though later in the spring. I actually wasn’t aware that this variant — probably Narcissus papyraceus (often called Paperwhites — bloomed as early as it did; the growth in these photos took place in mid- to late-February, despite some very cold days that punctuated that month. So on this trip I was able to capture their new buds, along with a few of the fully bloomed plants. I picked the quotation at the top of this post because I think the author was referring to this daffodil variant, given he’s writing about southern gardens, early blooming daffodils, white doubles, Paperwhites, and their late winter/early spring bloom time.
This is where these daffodils were growing…
… or, more accurately, here:
You see, the asymmetrical placement of the grave markers bothered me — so I took them out with Lightroom. As it turns out, though, a memorial section with no other plants but a couple of batches of daffodils and no actual memorial markers just looked like a small field — so I put those markers back! The ghosts who live under them were pleased, too, and they stopped nagging me about “doing AI” on photos of their home — though I was supposed to keep that a secret.
Flowers that get the “double daffodil” label are interesting to me: other than the rows of flower petals that overlap and look a bit like piled tissue, the flowers have been bred to diminish or eliminate one of the daffodil’s most distinctive features: the trumpet. As you look at these photos, notice that what remains of the trumpet is but a few swatches of yellow color around those petals at the center of each flower, which disappears entirely as you move toward the flower stems. I’m learning a little about how that genetic variation was engineered throughout the daffodil’s history, which I’ll share in the next post.
