I went for a walk this morning.  Been doing a fair bit of walking lately, in an attempt, possibly vain, to prevent (or at least stave off) the moment when I must upgrade to a new size of trouser.  Indeed, vanity has thus far prevented me from throwing away the moderate stock of lesser-sized clothing that continues to gather dust in my wardrobe.

So. A walk.  It didn't look very promising when I left - a light drizzle was falling, and it looked very gloomy.  However, as I left the flat, I was hit by that wonderful smell of fresh rain on hot, dry ground.  I pressed on.  An urban walk - Oldchurch Road, and up Crow Lane as far as Whalebone Lane - then just retrace my steps; nothing fancy, about three and a half miles.

With every step, I was assailed by new smells.  Smells of Spring, of things growing, of the earth.  The smell of damp wood and fresh compost in the underpass beneath Oldchurch roundabout.  By the remains of the old hospital, deep drifts of forgotten autumn leaves, mouldering aromatically in the damp, pierced by fresh spears of green, overflowing with the creamy scent of cow parsley.  The sun came out, and the humid, intimate smells of spring were suddenly joined by the broader, extrovert ones of blazing summer.
Every garden I passed fizzed with a new wave of glories.  Cut grass; an early iris; a moment of heady, almost unbearable sweetness from an unseen jasmin; a freshly-painted fence; sawn timber; the hint of a barbeque... and everywhere a mélange of unidentified, but intensely familiar smells; smells I've known all my life; the smells of every family camping trip; of every school nature walk; of every lazy, sunny, grass-stained summer afternoon.

I can't deny that I'm a sentimental old fool, and experiences like this make me rather glad of it.