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