There is a particular kind of magic hidden in the air around us—an alchemy of molecules and memory.

One inhale, one subtle scent, and suddenly we are not where we stand but somewhere else entirely: back in a childhood kitchen, the warm smells of cinnamon and spices rising from an old oven; or in a grandparent’s garden, where roses bloomed with a sweet fragrance never experienced again.

Smell is our most ancient sense, and perhaps the most emotional.

Unlike sight or sound, it bypasses logic and goes straight to the heart. A whiff of an old perfume can stir up love long lost.

Sometimes it happens by accident—walking past a bakery, or opening a long-closed box. Other times, we seek it out: lighting a candle, uncorking a familiar bottle, hoping for a fleeting reunion with the past.

For me, it happens each year, when the wild garlic is in season and starts to release its unmistakeable, heady aroma.

This memory is stirred each time I drive past the Fairy Bridge in springtime; I smell the allium whooshing in through my open windows, breathe it in, and I’m a little girl once again.

In a world that moves so fast, smell slows us down. It reminds us not just of what once was, but of who we were.

It’s proof that even the smallest things - a slice of citrus, the scent of rain on pavement - can hold entire stories.

Allium Sea

I am 8 years old

a carpet of emerald green beneath my feet

tiptoeing forward deliberately

so as not to damage the delicate tendrils

that dance beneath me in the breeze

like viridescent fingers beckoning me forth

as the sun shines on the verdurous ground

it warms the thick beds of wild garlic

the sweet smell of allium fills the spring air

I breathe in until my lungs feel fit to burst

then breathe out slowly

bending down to pick a choice handful

from a patch of lush silken leaves

their white flowers swaying gently

stark against the deep peridot of its undergrowth

I bite into the glossy blade tenderly

it’s faint to begin with

but the unmistakeable fiery flavour of garlic

swells slowly as I chew

my grandad appears beside me

with his frayed wicker basket

full of foraged delights

I present my handful for his inspection

eager to contribute to the collection

no imperfections noted

my offering is added to the harvest

I beam with pride

that was many years ago

now I forage alone in the places I was shown

lying down in the depths of the deep allium sea

these sweet spring memories

wash softly over me