On my way to the shop, I ran into one of my neighbours. I’d noticed he’d been gone for a few weeks. I’d been mildly concerned. A planned one-week trip to Germany had turned into six. His grass had grown while he was gone and now back, he was debating the merits of mowing it at all. We agreed that we both preferred the wild look. Later that morning, another neighbour posted photos of the flowering hill in Gétye. A massive expanse of wild daisies. She warned though, that the grasscutters were coming; the flowers would be gone in a matter of days.
Thankful that we both have the types of jobs that leave us pretty flexible, we donned the hiking boots, jumped in the car, and headed for the hills of Gétye.
Our instructions were to park by the chicken farm, walk to the top of the hill, follow the electricity pylons, and then head west. No problem. I might be directionally challenged but himself has a good nose and an even better data package.
At first, I thought I was hearing a population of grasshoppers. A big population. A loud population. But then it dawned on me that the birds and the bees and the insects were shouting to be heard over the incessant hum of the electricity lines. Scary stuff. We spent a few minutes discussing whether our quest for daisies was going to cut our lives shorter by an hour or two. Man, they were loud.
We saw clumps of daisies here and there but nothing approaching the great expanse that I’d seen in my neighbour’s photos. But she’s a woman who values truth; I trust her implicitly.
We kept walking.
And then, there they were. In all their glory. The marguerites. Or in Hungary, margarétás.
Leucanthemum vulgare, commonly known as the ox-eye daisy, oxeye daisy, dog daisy, marguerite and other common names, is a widespread flowering plant native to Europe and the temperate regions of Asia, and an introduced plant to North America, Australia and New Zealand.
Last year we discovered Azalea Valley and duly marked the calendar for that epic bloom. The margarétás in Gétye have been noted for next year. We’re blessed indeed to live in such a beautiful part of the world. If you’re into photographing flowers, mid-May is when you want to be in Zala.
As we followed the cart track we hoped would lead back to the village, himself was recounting a hike he’d done with a Welsh mate a few hills over. They’d gotten off the beaten path and knew they’d rejoined civilisation when they came across a wayfarer’s statue. From his mouth to God’s ears. He’d no sooner said it when I turned a corner and bumped into Jesus on the Cross. Granted it was a millennium marker rather than one of the traditional markers, but it was perfectly placed.