The centre last weekend played host to thousands of the golden blooms. Ten thousand saw I at a glance, at a guess, but maybe not that many.
Good folk were selling them, the cut bunches stacked high, and also displaying them in never-ending lines of competition pots.
Best in show: Moon Shadow, grown by Denise McQuarrie, of Ngatimoti, up near Motueka. I thought Moon Shadow was all right, but fell in love with Pacific Waves, gazing at me in triplicate, mesmerising as peach-and-orange windmills. (Technically, according to the world daffodil colour-coding system, that would be orange-orange, or O-O, windmills.)
I looked at other blooms. Phuket was tropical-looking with a flouncy yellow cup. Danger was tame, but perhaps deceptively so. Trumpet Warriors should have their own part in a ballet, in which they march on and overthrow the tulip junta. And Yeah, a shrugging white-white bloom, well, you had to agree with Yeah.
Yet for me nothing compared to Pacific Waves. Daffseek.org describes it thus: "Very round flower with soft orange tones in the petals and small bright orange cup." So dreamy, so beautiful.
So like a face? After giving some thought to why I might fixate upon a particular variety, and in general why humans have so much devotion for the genus Narcissus that we would hold a World Daffodil Convention, I hypothesise it is because daffodils, more so than many flowers, look like faces. They stimulate, somewhere in the brain, memories of people. And not baddies, either: we feel warmth and affection for daffodils, rather than wanting to flee them.
I have done my reading on this. The New York Times said it doesn't take much for humans to see faces where there are none, such as here :-) and here :-o and in the singe marks of toasted sandwiches. In fact, scientists have found we have special brain cells  dedicated solely to face recognition.
See a daffodil, see an approximate oval with ears, and a nose in the middle. See Pacific Waves and think it is someone special. No wonder daffies cured Wordsworth's cloud-like loneliness.
Perhaps something similar can be said for prize-winning cabbages.
I attended the convention with a woman who had a baby in a pram. We spent the earlier part of our time inspecting the bonsais and the vegetables in separate regional contests.
"See, now what makes a champion cabbage?" she had asked. "I mean sometimes you can tell one's a winner before you see the first-prize certificate alongside, but what makes it so?"
The champion cabbage was seated beside a champion cauliflower. The cabbage was about the size and shine of a human head, and was purple-red, not too far from a conceivable flesh tone. The cauliflower was also about the size of a human head; one with the perfect white curls of an old person.
I put to my companion that, maybe, being head-like is the mark of a good cabbage. She did not seem convinced. We moved on to the rhubarb. Now what makes for a rhubarbian best in show I do not know.