Wales has few truly indigenous wild flowers, and none as mysterious, and as I found out, as dangerous as the Ghost Crocus. Lucky is the hill walker who stumbles upon of one of these in bloom, for not only is it perhaps the rarest plant in the British Isles, but also one that rarely flowers. It requires a combination of an exceptionally warm but sodden summer with an almost drought-like September, for it is a later flowerer, a cousin of the more familiar Autumn Crocus, beloved of both culinary enthusiasts and eastern Buddhists who both covet its bright yellow anthers to produce saffron. And should it flower spotting this elusive bloom amongst the rough and long grasses of its habitat is made even harder by the phenomenon that truly earns it its scientific name of Colchicum phantasma. For while the flowers are a startling, almost iridescent blue, and its sexual parts a visual cacophony of oranges, yellows and reds, it needs to be observed full on face view, because from any other direction these flowers take on an almost transparent aspect and they are invisible except to the most patient scrutiny. Botanists explain this disappearing act in terms of the way the cellulose of the plant cell walls are layered and grained to absorb or reflect light. As an observation this cytological analysis may be true, but as an explanation I say that the scientists do not know what I now know. Previously I informed you that the plant was dangerous, and would not be unreasonable of you to assume that I was implying that it was poisonous, possibly fatally so. This is not the case. Perhaps I should relate my story as it happened.

               A walk in the mountains of Snowdonia is best experienced without noise and clamour of other members of the human race, or at least that’s my opinion, but I’m a rather asocial individual at the best of times. This area is one of the most sparsely populated areas of Wales, so you would hope that you could avoid the masses. But the area is a magnet for those wishing to visit the ‘countryside’. However, you can find areas where if you are lucky you can walk a good few miles, enjoy the views, whilst relaxing and meditating on the move, without the intrusion of others. On this late September afternoon - it was a Tuesday, usually the day with fewest visitors, and I had only had to exchange the perfunctory ‘hello’ twice as I passed other hikers traversing the same slopes in the opposite direction. The path was an easy one, steadily downhill towards Moel Eilio, and it was a sunny warm day. Eventually the path levels out before a steeper upward slope, as it winds towards a high pass between two cwms. I sat down for a while to eat the snack I had brought with me, and I tried to imagine the vast glaciers that had carved this landscape just a few thousand years ago; yesterday in geological terms compared to when these mountains were thrust up by continental collisions in the Ordovician period. I was sitting with my back against a rock looking back along the rough track I had walked when I noticed the crocus. It was about 20 foot off the path, a slight splash of fresh colour against the dull greens and browns that predominated in the area.

               I arose, went along the path to where I should be level with it and it had disappeared, but retracing my steps it came back into view. I fixed my eyes on the flowers and walked directly towards it. I knew about the Ghost Crocus, how rare it was, and was thrilled and felt privileged to see one. I entertained myself by moving my head to the left or right and watched as the bright petals literally faded from view. The anthers were brilliant in the sunshine and were nearly an inch long. I would have expected a voice of conscience warning me not to do it, but instead felt compelled as if someone was instructing me. I picked three of the anthers and put them in the matchbox I carried with me on walks ‘just in case’. I would prepare some rice when at home and add this elusive spice to give it that rich yellow colouration.

               My lack of guilt for this act of vandalism was in fact justified. A book from the library next day informed me that this plant has been unknown to set seed, a fact that almost certainly contributes much to its rarity. Those magnificent sexual organs are purely for show and are as sterile as an operating theatre. My rice, when I cooked it a couple of evenings later, took on a pale orange colour and had a delicate honey scent. I’m no chef, so I was pleased to have created this simple and appealing accompaniment to a meal. But it was the next morning, Saturday, when I realised the full effects of the meal. As usual at the weekends I lay in just a bit later than I would on a working day. I arose, shuffled to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. As I turned away, the corner of my eye noticed that my reflection had vanished. I swung back, looked again and I was there. Turning slowly, but keeping my eye on the mirror I saw myself slowly fade from view. I was literally in a panic. What could I do? Were my eyes playing tricks? Could I be cured? Question after question swamped my thoughts. Should I consult a doctor? Could I even leave the house? Again and again I slowly turned in front of the mirror. If this was a dream it was very convincing. Then the doorbell rang. I stood there transfixed. Should I answer it and greet my caller in a semi-visible state. The person rang again, this time longer and more urgently it seemed. After the third ring I went downstairs and slowly opened the door. Of all the visitors it may just have been I never considered that I would be looking at a Buddhist monk, complete with saffron dyed loose robe. He was shorter than me, clearly of an oriental race with a serene, and somehow comforting, smile on his face. In unexpectedly good English he greeted me by name, adding that his name was Nosing. “I see that you have indeed eaten the Holy Saffron” he said. Lest the neighbours notice this strange event I invited him in and bade him enter the lounge. Still smiling he said “I wait here for you to get dressed, but we must leave soon.” His constant smile, once reassuring, was now becoming disconcerting, but his softly spoken words seemed to have a hidden power for I did as I was bade. On my returning to the room he had moved over to the window. But more remarkably he was now quite transparent. Uttering “Okay let’s go, the Derllys Lama needs to speak to you”, he made for the door. I meekly followed in a sort of dream, becoming aware that as we left my house we were now back near that path in the mountains and unbelievably there was an oriental temple build in the shelter of the mountainside to the west; a temple that I could not have missed before, but almost certainly did. It was built from the local stone and much aged, but the roofs seemed to be pure gold glinting in the sun, with red streamers flying in a light breeze from each corner. In front, where only hummocks of coarse grass and sedge would be expected were manicured evergreen bushes in intricate shapes, mirrored either side of a pair of tall wide wooden doors that looked like they could resist an army. These doors opened as if they had a will of their own, and we entered. A large hallway, devoid of people, led to a rectagonal courtyard which housed a central blue pond with large golden carp. We walked around the perimeter and entered another, larger hall. Red and gold prayer wheels turned silently on either side, their soundless incantations echoing in that room. Nosing had disappeared, leaving me alone; or so I thought. For at the far side I began to see a figure come into view. What was more remarkable was that he was levitating about two foot above the tiled floor. Without speaking he called me forward and I knew then that I could never leave the temple, but would be content there. My life story came into my mind and I realised that he now knew me, my life, personality, fears, dislikes and guilty secrets. This interview may have lasted a minute or a day. I do not know and it is of no consequence. I had two tasks ahead of me as a novice. I had to deduce, by mental logic alone, the seven secrets of the universe. It may take me for eternity, but that is how long I would be here. And when autumn approached each year, I would sit outside near one of the flowing ghost crocuses and entice a lone hiker into picking the anthers from the flowers, whispering gently to overcome any reservations that individual may have.