Daffodils for St. David

Last night I finally got around to finishing my daffodil post from 2023, it was more notes than a blog post. And I put the finishing touches on it today, so I do not have a new post for Saint David’s Day. My brain hurts. I can’t believe that it took me a year before I could wrap my head around my notes and craft it into an article. Not sure why it was so difficult. But today I struck gold while researching daffodils. I was trying to find out when narcissi were introduced to the British Isles and got railroaded with false information, with noted writers insisting there was a native daffodil. I finally put that theory to rest via genetic analysis. Their homeland is Iberia (they have the most genetic variation while the cultivars have a limited gene pool.) It looks like they and the word daffodil were introduced to England sometime during the 1590s, but it could’ve been as early as 1400. The information is lost in the mists of time. But now I can stay unequivocally that narcissi are not native to the British Isles. However, I had a great time tracking down the literary references in the process of writing that piece. and the reason why I write is about discovery.

• The cultivated history of daffodils as we know it

The cultivated history of daffodils as we know it

A daffodil admiring itself in the mirror, ca. 2008. I forgot to date it.

Note bene: This blogpost began as an excerpt from a letter I wrote to novelist Gregg Dunnett who emigrated to Spain from Britain and was missing his daffodils. I never did get around to reshaping my notes into a blogpost, until a year later, so these notes are convoluted. 

Lechyd da! Those daffodils that everybody bashes over their neighbors’ heads in Wales on March 1 may not be native to Britain because daffodils, as we know them, along with rabbits, originally hailed from Iberia! So get your repatriation papers in order. 

In Wales, the daffodil is known as cenhinen Bedr or ceninn Pedr in Welsh—that which is like St. Peter’s leeks. It’s a complicated simile. The daffodil leaves resembled a leek that rules out daffodils as being native in Wales as they didn’t even know its name. According to a 1630 broadside ballad, the Welsh wore leeks in their hats to recognize friend from foe before the battle won on St David's Day. And ate them afterwards. Crossing leeks and daffodils, the national flower of Wales, could be dangerous as they are, like all lilies, extremely toxic. Don’t tell Saint Dewi.

Sant Dewi stained glass window at St Non's Chapel; note the flowers—daffodils. Wiki

To be fair, there might also have been a “native” plant that resembled the narcissus/daffodil/jonquil in the British Isles. However, I don’t trust the sources (since they’ve all copied each other, warts, and all) though I’ve included the links below. People often confuse the concept of native wildflowers with escaped naturalized cultivar flowers. Like with mustard, forget-me-nots, and Scottish bluebells…. the word “wild” can swing both ways.

But I did find this: “ The only species of narcissus native to Britain is the rather demur Lent Lily…” However, The National Records of Scotland misidentified the daffodil, or narcissus as a member of the Primulaceae family. Ak! Nope. Strike the word, “native,” add “naturalized.” (Unless it is a primrose —not a daffodil.) At least Wikipedia got that part right—they came from Iberia. I should’ve just begun my quest with Wikipedia, and saved myself a lot of grief, but I wanted original sources.

That classification error by The National Records of Scotland led me on a merry Google chase—because despite Easter being movable feast, the idea of a flower named after Lent certainly suggests a long-term cultivation. For the record, the narcissus or daffodil is a member of the Amaryllidaceae family, a lily with six tepals, and not a four-petaled primrose (oxlip looks a bit like a narcissus). And narcissi are not native to the British Isles.

In the middle ages, narcotic cowslips were called St. Peter’s herb. Wiki

And it doesn’t help that the origin and symbology of the daffodil is muddied by the strife between Catholicism and Protestantism. I suppose we could blame Martin Luther who never saw it coming when he nailed his theses on the church door at Wittenberg in 1517.

The folklore surrounding the daffodil is diverse. During the middle ages, narcissus was associated with the Virgin Mary and resurrection. Its leaves were compared to a spear, its sap was a gateway drug to the undiscovered country from which no one returns. Elysian Fields and all that. I can see the leaves of daffodils compared to spears, and Dame Edna (yes, I met him too) said that gladiolus refers to the Celtic Claymore sword. (See Narcissus in Culture.)

Etymology Online revealed that the word daffodil possibly arrived by way of Middle English affodill " (ca. 1590s) by way of the Dutch affodyle), via medieval Latin, via Ancient Greek—to make numb. Narcissi, like all lilies, are extremely toxic. But despite the added-on article, “d,” an accretion from the Dutch “de affodyle,” references cite the word (d)affodil itself as from an unknown source. Another source stated that affodyle means 'that which comes early.’

I tried another approach. First reference in English. Terminus post quem (TPC—that is, the first ever literary mention I could find…) During the “late 16th and early 17th century botanists and herbalists John Gerard and John Parkinson described them as "Pseudonarcissus Anglicus pleno", "Gerrards double Daffodill".

Ok, that reference suggests that cultivated daffodils were introduced before 1629, as there were notices concerning the introduction of daffodils to the British Isles. This may be one of the earliest citations. (And don’t forget the 1630 Welsh reference to daffodils as Saint David’s leeks). When I looked up the original source, the gardener-monk Gerard wrote that “The common yellow Daffodilly or Daftodowndilly is fo well knowne to all, that it needeth no deicription.” He also noted with almost a nod that they originally came from Spain.

“The double yellow Daffodill hath fmalf finooth narrow leaues of a darke greene colour: among which rifeth up a naked hollow ftalke, of two hands high: bearing at the top a faire and beautifull double yellow flower…The common yellow Daffodilly or Daftodowndilly is fo well knowne to all, that it needeth no deicription. We haue in our London gardens another fort of this common kinde, which naturallic groweth in Spaine, very like vnto our beft knowne Daffodil in fhape and proportion…” —Gerard’s Herbal 1597

Gerard’s Herbal may be a TPQ for the term, daftodowndilly/ daffodowndilly, not A.A. Milne. Move over Winnie the Pooh! But Milne got it right, when the daffodil arrives, it’s a sure sign of spring. Winter is dead. 

Garden historian, Dr. Twigs Way, who is associated with the Cambridge University, gets it wrong too as she too repeats that Britain also has wild daffodils. She goes on to say “Daffodils… have been seen in England since the 17th century; Shakespeare celebrated them as the flower that “comes before the swallow dares”, and bunches of wild blooms were sold by flower girls on the streets of London.” 

The full Shakespeare quote: “Daffodils/ that comes before the swallow dares, and takes /the winds of March with beauty…”, (Winter’s Tale, Act IV Scene 3), which makes the reference date ca. 1609-11. Too late. Not TPQ.

Dr. Twig’s 17th century reference is too late on the cultural horizon, as by the Elizabethan era, daffodils and asphodels were firmly ensconced, if not entrenched in English literature. Somehow the dubious connection with the asphodel and daffodil ca. the 15th c. isn’t exactly a TPQ either. By the time the Daffodil Society was founded in 1898, the greeny asphodel dominated the decorative arts—especially William Morris’s wallpaper. No, not the wallpaper Oscar Wilde morbidly objected to. (And yes, like Winston, I ended that sentence on a preposition.)

I was reminded that William Carlos Williams wrote: "Asphodel, that greeny flower." I always wondered what the greeny asphodel was. (I was lazy and went to school before internet!) You know how the poets are overfond of death as muse. But Milton said it earlier: “To embathe in nectared lavers strewed with asphodel.” (Comus, 1634). And Tennyson wrote: "Others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel." 

And somewhere along the way, the similar sounding asphodel and daffodil and their death mythology were conflated with each other. cross colonization. Deep botany as we know it hadn't yet been invented. Asphodelaceae (which includes the red hot poker plant) wasn’t identified by Carl Linnaeus until 1753. Let that sink in.

So here’s the rub, asphodel is a completely separate family that got kicked out of the lily family along with aloe and asparagus by the way. DNA never lies. Allo? Who’s your daddy? And they do look like our New World Oenothera, aka evening-primrose. And there were no less than 10 different species of asphodel on the Iberian peninsula. The yellow ones do look a bit like daffodils if you have a good imagination, or need glasses and hearing aid.

Cleric Robert Herrick, in To Daffodils (1648), described narcissi as portents of death: Fair Daffodils, we weep to see/ You haste away so soon…And of course, By the time Wordsworth wrote his famous 1804 poem, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, When all at once I saw a crowd/A host, of golden daffodils;/Beside the lake…daffodils were thoroughly naturalized and canonized ad nauseam in English literature.

A teacher asked me for a drawing to go with Wordsworth. I got an epic sunburn in Feb.

Digging deeper, I found a vague reference: “Daffodils were introduced into gardens in about 300 BC. The Greek botanist and philosopher Theophrastus listed and described many of the earliest known kinds of narcissus in his nine-volume 'Enquiry into Plants'. Daffodils were brought to Britain by the Romans who thought that the sap from daffodils had healing powers.” (What? 300 BC? Asphodel or daffodil? Whose gardens? Where?)

I found another plagiarized source: “Narcissi were introduced to the UK in about 300 BC by the Romans who later inexplicably abandoned these blooms.” What? Somebody lifted and condensed  the sentence out of context, replete with the arrival date typo. Now, I’m fairly certain that the Romans had not settled in Britain circa 300 BC. That quote should probably read that in Greece and also in Rome people were cultivating daffodils circa 300 BC. In the Mediterranean, not Britain.

Trying to find out the truth about daffodils from the internet is like trying to sort out whether or not rabbits were brought to southern Britain by the Romans, or if they were introduced later during the Norman Conquest. See, that inexplicable line of logic suggests that daffodils were not introduced to Britain at all by the Romans, but much later. Like the rabbits. It always amazes me that people post nonsense and don’t even verify the basics—like a timeline.

A close-up, Mr. deMille, stabilo, pencil, ca. 1994; original drawing was destroyed.

I tried another approach. DNA. Yep, genetics definitively rules out the possibility of there being any endemic narcissi in Britain (see excerpts from a paper, below). Genetics can measure what is lost in the process of cultivation, and defines Iberia as the homeland of British “wild” daffodils. Iberian narcissi have the most genetic diversity whereas the daffodil cultivars of Britain have a truncated genetic pool. And the answer is daffodils were not introduced by the Romans. Certainly not in 300 BC! 

Also, narcissi weren’t even cultivated until Muslim era ca. the 10th -12th centuries. Etymology Online, footnotes daffodil with: “First reference to the yellow, early spring flower we know by this name (Narcissus pseudo-Narcissus) is from 1590s.” So, I didn’t get my TPQ closure as to when daffodils were introduced to the British Isles, but I can surmise they arrived from Holland somewhere around the 15th to the 16th century, and, as they say, the rest is history. at least the Welsh had enough common sense to not conflate the daffodil with the asphodel and made a leeky simile instead. Ceninn Ped. Happy St. David’s Day.

I was playing with backlighting. These daffodils were miniatures from the supermarket.

Breakfast of campions

One summer day around 32,000 years ago, during the Pleistocene epoch, an arctic ground squirrel stopped to sniff the Siberian wildflowers and nibbled on little white campions gone to seed. As the squirrel digested his breakfast on the banks on the River Kolyma, we will never know how his life abruptly ended. Did a flood cover his burrow? Did a mastodon tread on his home, grinding him into the earth? Too much ice to burrow through, come spring thaw?

Enter Time present: in 2007, the squirrel’s tiny body, buried 12 stories deep, still asleep in his burrow, was recovered from the melting permafrost with hundreds of seeds still in his gut. And a well stocked larder, a seed cache for the coming winter. Russian scientists sorted and counted the seeds.  

Years later, enter Svetlana from the Russian Academy of Sciences who tried her luck at resurrecting the seeds, she extracted placental tissue and nurtured the silene stenophylla embryos along. Sure, it was a longshot. Damned if the 32,000 year-old Methuselah seeds didn’t sprout and grow leaves. All 36 seeds sprouted and bloomed in profusion all at once like good little Soviets as if they were thrilled to be free from the permafrost at last. Not a false spring—like so many others.

Winter was finally over. The little white campion flowers bloomed for the first time in 32,000 years. The lab was perfumed with a spicy clove-cinnamon odor as they unfurled their finery and went about the business of pollination. Svetlana and her sable hair brush did the honors. A squirrel, a freaking carnation. A regeneration of the world’s oldest seeds. Talk about bloomin’ luck. It was like Lazarus rising from the dead. Nostrovya, they said.

I love this story of silene stenophylla, a.k.a. white campion. 

I remember finding bladder campion in Wengen, the Swiss Alps in 1972— it had little pink and white candy stripes on its bladder as if it was the frilly apron, or fancy bloomers worn by a volunteer nurse. I was lonely working as a waitress, in a hotel one summer, without a common language. So I turned to that of flowers. 

The campion, a silene, was similar to an Indian pink (actually a scarlet wildflower with pinked, or sheared decal edges), that I knew from West Marin. Gentian and chicory I recognized. Dandelions and buttercups, eiderweiss and pearly everlasting. But there were so many flowers I didn’t know, I was hooked. It got me interested in botany. 

That summer I collected, pressed and dried alpine flowers between the pages of old books. Though I was desperate for my mother tongue, I forfeited my novels weighted down under the legs of my bed, they had a more important job— preserving flowers. I didn’t know the names of most of the flowers—other than edelweiss and gentian, heather and clover. But the silly silene, a card-carrying member of the pink, or carnation family, (Caryophyllaceae) is what kicked off my interest.

Some say that the carnation stands for fascination, and others say for love, whether filial or maternal. Agape. According to one legend, white carnations grew from the Virgin Mary's tears as she wept for her son hanging on the cross. 

But the red ones were the eyes of the shepherd that Diana, the huntress, plucked from his head for throwing her off her game. Dianthus: either way, is the flower of the goddess. White for luck and pink for gratitude and red for revolution. I remember buying carnations from the street vendors in Red Square keeping their fragile blooms warm in little glass houses lit by candles, snow falling like feathers on the corpse of a failed experiment.

A few years ago, I was hiking in the deep canyons above Santa Barbara, headed towards the top of the ridge. I was winded and grateful for a chance to rest—I was on my hands and knees with nose pressed to the ground. Right in front of me, on the umpteenth switchback, was a plant I’d never seen before, pink, like a carnation, but thorny. 

It reminded me of those alpine campions. My memory wandered back to those good old days, hiking in the Swiss Alps, startling other hikers who found me on my hands and knees by the side of the trail, doing a faceplant. I later realized I was looking at a member of the Cichorieae (Dandelion) tribe. Santa Barbara wire lettuce. Not a campion, but close enough—call it convergent evolution. Even way back then, I was always looking for equivalencies. Call it simile. Or perhaps metaphor.

• Summer's End in the Alps
• USSR journal, Russian New Year’s, Eve, Scrying the future
• With thanks to Marc Nassar’s FB post.

Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Hapus! A daffodil for Dewi Sant, photos

I'm not sure how the tradition first began, but about 40 years ago, daffodils, sold at a buck a bulb, were planted along Sonoma County roadsides to raise money for cancer research (the tradition may have begun in Canada as early as1965.) However it started, it was a wild success story. And daffodils have been used to raise money and promote cancer awareness ever since. Because daffodils have a chemical, esemastine, that kills breast cancer cells, they have become an international symbol of hope. (Narcissus pseudonarcissus, Amaryllidaceae family, are native to Northern Europe). 

In Sonoma County it has become a tradition that when someone dies of cancer, family and friends plant daffodils in remembrance—like the transplanted Mexican tradition of roadside memorials for car crash victims. The two traditions are beginning to merge in West Marin—shrines with la virgin de Guadalupe, trinkets and toys—even baby shoes—now include a stand of daffodils or narcissi. Most North Bay county roadsides are a riot of daffodils—a living reminder for those who have died. 

Car botanizing, Hick's Valley, West Marin

Hick's Valley, West Marin. Car botanizing enroute to work on the back-backroads of home. All this beauty and I can't even leave my car. I slammed on the brakes and flipped a uiee for this one. And my camera is on its last legs, er, lens.... autofocus is going, among other things—dirt inside the lens, unintentional blind spots create solar flares. I eke out photos with a wing and a prayer as I go, each one might be the last. I got lucky this time. So beautiful, it almost hurts. Nowhere near as intense as the SoCal poppy blooms, but impressive nonetheless. We have more non-native grasses to contend with. The area used to be laden with vernal pools, so on the other side of the rise are vast swaths of meadowfoam blazoning the hillsides. Where to even begin, California poppies, sky lupine, owl’s clover, cream cups, buttercups, mallow, popcorn flower, aka snow on the mountain, grass nuts, red dock?, yarrow in the distance. Tomorrow, the hills will be a little less green, a fleeting moment. I am reminded of Robert Duncan’s 

the 

Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow.

as if it were a scene made-up by the mind,
that is not mine, but is a made place,

that is mine, it is so near to the heart,
an eternal pasture folded in all thought
so that there is a hall therein

that is a made place, created by light
wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall.

When I was a young and uninformed poet, Robert Duncan always included me in readings, encouraged me to keep on writing.

I had been ogling a deluxe Stabilo pencil set for over a year, it arrived all the way from England in a cherrywood box, just When the coronavirus struck. Some Friday the 13th. My mind was alternately  elastic, or  a black hole—expanding and contracting—leaving me lost on alien shores. I couldn’t make art. I had the attention span of a newt. The only thing that saved me was driving the back roads to my job. I went the long way home whenever possible. Botanizing from the car. 

This tree, and rock became my anchor. My salvation. I watched the greenery meld into a rainbow fest of flowers unfold. First on the scene were the yellow buttercups and creamcups, then orange poppies, magenta mallow, and owl’s clover, indigo lupine, and purple ookow. Meanwhile, the mountain watched the passage of the season. In this way I began to find my out of the horror of what it is, and what will be for a long time coming. This meadow, my salvation. —Maureen Hurley

the 

On the other side of that hill you can see where it’s been plowed as the meadowfoam follows the tracks of the plow from previous years past makes for an interesting braided effect of yellow and green. And now it’s blooming by the fire station. If you look carefully in the upper left corner, you can see  thin blue band of reservoir just below the meadowfoam.

Guerrilla photobombing the wildflowers

To see the flowers go to Facebook

Easter Monday: I was botanizing on backroads while driving back & forth to work today (I’m a care provider.) Most pix are from Nicasio, or Hick’s Valley, West Marin. Since I can’t park the car—or risk getting a ticket, these are all stolen roadside shots. Guerrilla photography at its worst—no time to compose or focus. And my camera is losing its ability to focus so I snap madly & hope I get something. I was pretty numb by Easter Sunday, with SiP, is sing my family, and taking photos of wildflowers helped pull me from the darkness. I mean, who can resist a wild goose guarding his buttercup kingdom....


“The true and durable path into and through experience involves being true … to your own solitude, true to your own secret knowledge.” —Seamus Heaney – born this day. My old friend’s last words were “Noli timere.” Go raibh maith agat, mo chroidhe. Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine.
More pix here of Sonoma County flowers

Hiking up Loma Alta Trail (photos)

I wrote a blog about hiking up Big Rock in 2010, the last time I went up that ridge trail. It took me ages to recover—because I wore rubber crocs with holes in the bottoms. Not very bright of me, I know, to hike nearly 15 miles in crocs. But I was mesmerized by the trail. It led me ever onward. And I never went back.

I realized that I prefer to hike up the trail on the western side of Big Rock, the Loma Alta Trail, but I never seem to get around to writing about it, other than this lone 2010 post: Long Way Home—Hiking Loma Alta Ridge.

I injured my left knee in 2013, which put an end to hiking up the ridge. My right knee, having to bear the brunt of the work, also began to fail. An attempt in 2015 was too painful. I despaired. Last year, I noticed my knee was healing—despite the fact that my doctor wanted to give me a new knee. The cortisone shots have paid off. But it took long enough.

I am fussy when it comes to footwear. But I wouldn't get far in my latest version of rubber crocs, or flipflops. So, wonky sneakers it is. Maybe I should dig out my old hiking boots but I can't stand the weight of them. Besides, my knees are compromised, to say the least. The weight would just exacerbate my knees.

My big toe is recovering from my latest jaunt up the Loma Alta Open Space trail. The nail is turning the color of purple irises. I had washed my trainers, running shoes, or tennies—whatever you want to call them—and they shrunk. The toes curled up like elf shoes, but I wore them anyway. They were fine going uphill, but not for going back down again.

Fields of fil-filaree, fil-filaree, fil-fil-filaree.

Loma Alta Open Space Preserve, near Big Rock, Lucas Valley, is part of the Bay Area Ridge Trail. At 1592 feet, this “tall hill” is one of the highest points in Marin, separating the San Geronimo Valley, where I grew up, and West Marin from urban Marin, or "town" as we called it. It also divides the four major watersheds of Marin.

Looking north from Loma Alta

The quickest way to the top of Loma Alta is via the steep Gunshot Fire Road off White's Hill, just outside Fairfax. But the gentle grade from Big Rock is the most rewarding approach—especially if you're on the hunt for rare wildflowers as there are vast tracts of south-facing serpentine meadows.

I did not make it to the summit of Loma Alta this year either. I had already started the morning off compromised: a coughing fit, from that dread virus 2.0, threw my back into a spasm, so it was hard to draw a full breath. There were some rough moments, but I worked through it. No chance of mountain-goating this go-round. I was content with that, slow-poking up the hill. My knees were holding, but I still had to come down the mountain too.

When we got to the first cattle gate, near the top of Loma Alt, my new hiking companion, whom I had just "met" on Facebook, suddenly stopped, and said she didn't want to go any further, but told me to go ahead.

I woefully eyed the crest of the hill, so near, yet so far. I rounded the cheek of the hill to hit the bushes for a wee loo break, and was startled by a serenading meadowlark. I finished my business, snapped a quick photo of the lark, and hoofed back down to the fire road to also take a last photo of Elephant Mountain. My spasm had eased up when I was walking, but because I had stopped, it slammed me again. Breathing was a chore. But the view took my breath away.

A meadowlark fo sorts, a horned lark?

My new hiking companion at the cattle gate, was champing at the bit, and decided I was taking far too long on the ridge. She bolted down the mountain—leaving me alone on the hillside, with a gimpy knee and a bent ski pole—the lyrics to a Beatles song rampaging through my head. TIming is everything. When I later looked at the time stamp embedded in my photos, less than ten minutes had elapsed. I was the fool alone on the hill.

I tried to catch up to her, but my knee determined the snail's pace. I caught up with her in the parking lot at Big Rock. Apparently it was a migraine setting in. She was also miffed because I didn't immediately turn around when she shouted at me (I didn't hear her).

A misunderstanding, a slow knee, and that photo of Elephant Mountain (below) have cost me a potential hiking partner. Unfortunately the experience didn't set a good pace for the rest of the journey. At least she didn't abandon me at the parking lot. it could've been worse.

The iconic Elephant Mountain, aka Black's Mountain.

Shockingly my repaired knee held up fine (despite the fact that it took some abuse, I had to take it slow coming back down off the mountain), but the rest of me didn't fare so well, nor did my new camera. Close up is not its friend. I have no decent photos of many other species I saw: woodland stars, bluedicks, blue-eyed grass, yarrow, goldenrod, or popcorn. The photos posted here are what I could salvage from the remains of the day.

I originally posted some of these photos on the Marin Native Plants group page on Facebook. So this blog is a bit of a rehash. Or a draft. I didn't want what I had learned to disappear and sink back into the void.

Panorama looking west towards Bolinas Ridge; Mt. Barnabe, and our hill, dead center.

Botanist, photographer, and retired science teacher Doreen Smith, who hails from Bristol, UK, coordinates the Marin Native Plants group on Facebook. She also coordinates the website for the Marin chapter of the California Native Plant Society (a non-profit organization dedicated to the conservation of California native plants and habitats). Doreen was instrumental in helping me get the correct Latin names. My knowledge is spotty, at best. All mistakes are my own.

And of the few Latin names of plants I do remember from the 1970s, most plants have changed their taxon address. So, I'm all in a muddle. I joined the Facebook plant ID groups just so I could update my knowledge base. Such as it is. Slow going, but I've "met" many nice people, especially Doreen, and her husband, Vernon Smith. Sam Gilbert and David Greenberger are also knowledgeable folks. Mrs.Terwilliger, or Mrs. T, as we called her, may no longer be with us, but they are the next generation.

Lupines, poppies

Tall Silver bush lupine, or Silver lupine (Lupinus albifrons var. collinus), a perennial lupine named for its silvery leaves, California poppies  (Eschscholzia californica), and their close cousins, some lovely hairy cream cups (Platystemon californicus), some little red clovery bits, some yellow vetchy, or lotusy bits, and vast lavender swaths of invasive longbeak cranesbill weed (Erodium botrys), so thick, it looked like heather.

Sky Lupines (Lupinus nanus) poppies, cream cups.

Sky Lupines, poppies, cream cups, popcorn.

The small lupines are Sky lupines (Lupinus nanus), poppies (Eschscholzia californica), and their close cousins, cream cups (Platystemon californicus), with vast swaths of filaree, or invasive longbeak cranesbill weed (Erodium botrys). I feel like I should break out into a Robin Williams routine: Lupinus nanus nanus nanus.

Cream cups, Platystemon californicus

Cream cups, poppy cousins, Platystemon californicus

Lupinus albifrons var. collinus, a perennial bush lupine.

Lupinus albifrons var. collinus, see also Wiki

poppies (Eschscholzia californica)

poppies (Eschscholzia californica)

Owl's clover. Castilleja densiflora

The owls have it.

There is another purple owl's clover that is similar, Castilleja exserta, but the nested owls are much smaller, and it's more tufted like Indian paintbrush.

So the beaked yellow owl's clover is butter-and-eggs! I kind of thought so. I found a link that gives a different Latin name, also yellow owl's clover aka butter-and-eggs, is it a different species, or reclassified?

One yellow fellow among the purple owls.

The plant ID groups frowns upon using Wiki links but I find them useful for finding out about common names and folklore. Calflora, the wildflower bible is rather dry by comparison, but it's less likely to lead you wildly astray than Wiki. So, whenever possible I defer to using Calflora links. Wiki links are added as secondary backup.

Castilleja densiflora and the yellow Triphysaria versicolor. Wiki entry for butter-and-eggs. Wiki entry for Owl's clover.  Another link from Wildflower.org.

We never called these owls Indian paintbrush—only the tall red ones. There's purple owl's clover, purple Indian paintbrush, Indian paintbrush, escobita, formerly known as Orthocarpus.... Will I ever get it straight?

You can see why it's called butter-and-eggs

Leptosiphon androsaceus.

What is it? Not gillia tricolor, or gilia or splendens. It seems different than bird's eye gillia you see in deep summer. Nearly 40 species in California alone! I found: Leptosiphon rosaceus, (which, despite its name, is not pink!), and  Leptosiphon androsaceus, (Wiki) which seems to be the right plant. A little searching and I found that it was once aka a Linnanthus, a phlox. Aha! That much I recognize.

I learned the Latin names of these plants so long ago, and so many have been renamed! It's like starting out from ground zero. Or worse. I think I would be better off if I didn't know some of the old school names. At this point, I'm lucky if I can remember the common names. Poco a poco. False babystars, or Stardust (I do love the common names).

Doreen Smith noted that "the Wiki article has a picture of "L. parviflorus "French hybrids"a cultivar. The name has been revised for many years from when the two spp. were considered the same. i think Plantsusda still has them confused."

AUGH! Yes, the Wiki photo is a red herring. Which is why it's a good idea to cross recvference from several sites: Calflora.org, calscape.org, inaturalist.org. If you can make it to the first bend in the road, there' a very thick patch above the bank.

 A rather pale example of Phacelia distans

 They were all pale Phacelia distans

Nemophila menziesii, Calochortus umbellatus.

Pale Baby blues eyes (the white-eyed kind!) (Nemophila menziesii), and an endangered pink Oakland star-tulip, Calochortus umbellatus, like the kind you see on Ring Mountain (Wiki). Sorry about the lack of definition, my camera was not cooperating. Perhaps it was blinded by their beauty, despite teh fact that it was partial shade.

Doreen Smith said: Oakland star-tulip, Calochortus umbellatus (CalPhotos) and plain old Nemophila menziesii (Wiki). Like with wild iris, you can't go by color alone to ID either of these flowers.

Another botanist, David Greenberger said: This is regular old Nemophila menziesii var. menziesii. N. m. var. atomaria is typically all white and it will always have black dots running from the center out across the petals.

The Calochortus genus contains four distinct floral syndromes -- cat's ears, mariposas, star tulips, and globe lilies. C. umbellatus is truly a star tulip (spreading petals that lack dense trichomes) and not a mariposa lily (showy, bowl-shaped corolla typically with dramatic spots).

Nemophila menziesii, Calochortus umbellatus.

Larkspur and buttercups

Red Columbine, Aquilegia formosa

Red Columbine, Aquilegia formosa, aka Scarlet, or Crimson columbine, Sitka columbine, Western columbine. The flower of Columbkille, with its five doves.

Bowltube, Ground, Long tubed iris. Iris macrosphon 

I thought this was Iris douglasiana but I couldn't find a definitive link. And I sure can't key out the flowers. Since I couldn't find an ID for the purple iris, it threw me off. It was much lower to the ground than a Doug iris. I was not expecting two subspecies of Iris. Doreen Smith says it's Iris macrosphon. It loves serpentine soil. Apparently finding any blue-flowered Iris douglasiana is uncommon in East Marin.

Iris douglasiana...and spider.

Doreen Smith says It is the local (Lucas Valley) variant / color of Douglas' iris.

She also said: There is a "complete" plant list for Marin Chapter of the California Native Plant Society website. Only a few spp. are not yet mentioned on that pdf. The Big Rock to Loma Alta trail's populations of Leptosiphon androsaceus are magnificent this year.

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And then there are the weeds, the interlopers. The bane of native plants. Oddly most are from South Africa, or the Mediterranean.

Filaree, (Erodium botrys), and poppies

  Erodium botrys

Filaree is a cranesbill. AKA longbeak stork's bill, Mediterranean stork's-billl and broadleaf filaree. Filaree is more lavender than the Geranium molle (common cranesbill). Long-beaked cranesbill, or stork's-bill gets its name (Wiki) from the shape of the carpel, which resembles the head and beak of a stork (the Latin Erodium is derived from the Greek. Not native to California; it was introduced from elsewhere and naturalized in the wild. Lovely weeds!

Lysimachia

Doreen Smith said: Lysimachia (was Anagallis) arvensis, Scarlet pimpernel, an alien weed. This was a rather well-behaved invasive weed. Only two clumps. Not like the cranesbill (Erodium botrys) which was everywhere. 

The origin of the name pimpernel comes from pympernele [1400–50]; late Middle English, derived from Middle French pimprenelle, Old French piprenelle; Vulgar Latin *piperīnella= Latin piper pepper + -īn- -ine + -ella diminutive suffix. —Wiki

Rosy sandcrocus, Romulea rosea

This one looks a bit like pink blue-eyed grass. I'd never seen it before. Charlie Russell says it's Rosy sandcrocus, Romulea rosea, (Wiki) a non-native from South Africa. Invading Romulans from South Africa? Sort of like Sparaxis tricot, or harlequin flower. Beam me aboard, Scotty.

Romulea rosea is a herbaceous perennial in the family Iridaceae. It is endemic to the western Cape Province (Western Cape, Eastern Cape and Northern Cape) in South Africa and is naturalised in Europe, Australia, New Zealand and California in the United States.[1] [2] Common names include Guildford grass, onion grass and rosy sandcrocus.  Wiki

More on Romulea rosea. And the best revenge is eating those weeds.

Buttercups, Elephant Mountain in the distance.

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After Loma Alta, my hiking companion wasn't ready to call it quits, so we took a jaunt over to Mt. Burdell, but her migraine ad not eased up, so she was not up for another hike, so we detoured the backroads out to Abbot's Lagoon in Point Reyes for an odd, hurried visit. My cousin met us enroute for coffee at Tobey's Feed in Point Reyes Sta. In hindsight, I should've bailed then and there, but I didn't realize how awkward it would all become.

As we headed home again to the East Bay, my hiking companion's migraine got the best of her, her meds weren't working, and she just wanted to get home and didn't want to drive on the freeway (I get it), but she dropped me off at the El Cerrito BART Station. Whoa Nellie!

I was a bit shocked as my new hiking companion had originally offered to pick me up at home, so I expected a ride back home as I was on foot (and very tired). Our place, though near Highway 580, is not near a BART station. Also, after paying up for gas, I only had $2 to my name. The Magical Mystery Tour coda was pulsing through my brain: they're coming to take you away....

My partner Neil wasn't home and I didn't have taxi money to get back home from BART, and it's too far to walk. My abandonment issues intensified. A sour note to an otherwise glorious outing. If we ever go hiking again, I will meet her at the trailhead in my own car.

Luckily my friend Dulcie, who was catsitting in San Pablo, was home, and she came and got me. Chips and dip, a bottle of wine and a sleepover on the couch with the cats nicely finished off the remains of my day with a flourish.

More of my Bloggy bits:

Hiking up Big Rock Ridge

Long Way Home—Hiking Loma Alta Ridge