In Praise of Dandelions

In one of Len Deighton's novels, Dawlish, an MI5 senior, has a garden composed entirely of wild flowers and, let's say it, weeds. Deighton's principal spy, whom we always think of looking like the young Michael Caine, says, "Must be easy to cultivate." Dawlish bristles: "It most certainly is not! Takes a great deal of care!"

Our roving reporter thought of this today when passing boulevards covered in golden dandelions. He thought, how wonderful that these lovely volunteers appear unaided each spring. While everyone praises the cherry blossoms and forsythia and rhododendrons, and rightly so, we should also be grateful for the wild flowers that pop up on their own--crocuses, buttercups, snowdrops, dandelions.

If Wordsworth had come upon an expanse of dandelions instead of daffodils, he might have written a different verse:

"My mind was filled with negative ions/'Til I saw a field of dandelions."

And as if the beauty of the dandelion were not enough, it can also be turned into wine--a tiny thimbleful of which, we are told, can induce a memorable hangover.