FATHER, DEAR FATHER

gordons

My own father used to say that his favourite smell in all the wide world was that of jugged hare, on the high side*, with fried stuffing balls and red currant jelly on the side. In a rather more orthodox manner he loved the scent, sight, taste, touch & effect of gin and tonic. And this is how he preferred it to be prepared:

One would take a heavy cut glass tumbler and place it in the fridge to chill and frost an hour or so before serving. This would then be crammed to the top with ice cubes: much as he loved and relied on the gin (apart from 40 days’ regular abstinence during Lent), my father preferred to drink nothing at all rather than liquor without the ice – “lukewarm! Take it away!”. Woe betide him who had forgotten to refill the ice trays. I’d then pour about three fingers of Gordon’s or Beefeater over the ice and tuck slices of lemon down the sides of the glass. These he liked to chew as he drank. Occasionally one might add a sprig of fresh mint from the garden. Angostura bitters were applied liberally to turn the gin blood-red rather than pink, while a dash of Schweppes tonic water (on no account the Slimline version – “take it back!”) provided sparkle. (And of course aerated waters get the alcohol into the system quicker). We always had a case of tonic to hand as Pa required a fresh bottle every time, having a horror of it being served flat. He’d have maybe three of these restoratives nightly before supper, and each one had to be served perfectly else there would be ructions. His enjoyment was derived almost as much from the aesthetics as from the undoubted alcoholic stimulation: “look at that Beautiful Drink…..!!”

F13-CE 200ml PackshotWEB

Many perfumers have paid homage to the great G & T, whether intentionally or not: from Lubin’s self-evident Gin Fizz to Annick Goutal’s classic citrus Eau d’Hadrien which always used to provoke drinks trolley comparisons. Atelier Cologne’s stunning CEDRAT ENIVRANT at Les Senteurs has the exhilarating kick of the fabulous WW1 ‘French 75’ champagne & gin knock-out; while EAU DE CAMELIA CHINOIS breathes a green icy chill from its leafy tea-scented depths. Check out Frederic Malle’s BIGARADE CONCENTREE, too, for a wild high of iced bitter orange, cedar and cardamom, glittering with freshness.

The Sexiest Scent on the Planet straightWEB

Fascinating and inventive, THE SEXIEST SCENT ON THE PLANET was inspired by the ineffable Sarah McCartney’s smelling of the ten botanicals in Bombay Sapphire – and then creating a perfume with her favourites. SEXIEST SCENT, Sarah confides, is “smooth citrus, soft woods, a little spiciness and a dash of vanilla. It’s not designed to smell like gin, just to blend well with it – the ultimate mixer”. It stirs up emotions as well as taste buds, that’s for sure.

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My father’s optimum scent, chosen by his doting son, was GRAIN DE PLAISIR – that extraordinary sweet and spicy woody fragrance which incorporates patchouli, amber, oud, lemon cedar and mint with a unique kick derived from the dry pungency of celery seed, regarded for centuries as one of nature’s most powerful aphrodisiacs. As with many great fragrances, less is more – a drop is all you need for a long slow glowing realisation and a powerful sillage which enfolds you like a flame coloured cashmere scarf. To me there is a hint of barley sugar about it with a faint suggestion of coffee beans: but I have just shown a bottle to a customer who detected the delicious odour of freshly made Pimms, brought out to the lawn in the shade of the cedars of Lebanon. Dad had a great love affair with the Pimms jug of which he amassed something of a collection, so maybe he too caught this subliminal association.

Perfume is in origin a male accessory being worn millennia ago by the god-kings of the ancient civilisations. Perfume was the route to Heaven, burned to please the nostrils of the gods and to call their attention to their worshippers here below. From this use it was a short step to wearing scent as the ruler incarnated the divine in his own society. So there can be no more appropriate gift on Father’s Day to honour the head of your own family and to celebrate his unique role in your life and origins. Younger dads have grown up in an era which has seen a much broader, sophisticated and detailed approach to the wearing and appreciation of fragrance; those of a more mature generation will be intrigued and fascinated by the vast scope of modern perfumery. Select a scent which reflects your parent’s personality and lifestyle with – should you require it – our expert help and guidance. Offer a Les Senteurs Voucher or a Private Consultation for the gentleman to explore our shelves in person, with all his questions answered. My papa was over sixty when he first became bewitched by scent and perhaps he was inclined to overdo the application, spraying and rubbing it very liberally and enthusiastically over his head and neck with great zest and vigour, just as he behaved in most areas of life. He enjoyed making his presence felt. Perfume is a delight at any age and opening a new bottle is as festive as popping champagne. HAPPY FATHER’S DAY to all our readers!

* he would hang the hare in the coal house for as long as allowed – ergo, until there were protests.

Everybody Out!

Image: guardian.co.uk

Image: guardian.co.uk

Another Tube strike, another adventure! The weather being so glorious on both days I walk to Les Senteurs from Holloway down the Camden Road and so through Regents Park into Baker Street. It takes an hour and having lived in Holloway for nearly 30 years it proves a curious trip down Memory Lane besides being a strike-buster.

My life is an open book – but who would want to read it? I have often considered conducting a recherché guided tour around London pointing out all the landmarks of my life but I don’t suppose there would be many takers. The streets of Camden are full of souvenirs of the past: a mural of Amy Winehouse, looking like a Mexican Madonna; the days when the great Elizabeth Jane Howard was creating a garden at her home in Delancey Street; emotional meals at the eponymous café in the same road. Do you know the plaque celebrating the martyrdom of St Pancras as you walk up Parkway, and the mysterious hidden garden in a deep valley beneath the bridge as you cross over Park Village East? And that strange stark building almost opposite, which I used to fantasise might be a private lunatic asylum or former workhouse but which is in fact a school – nowadays, at any rate.

Then the Outer Circle around the Park: on a night of freezing fog in 1999 I wandered round and around here for over two hours after a dinner party in Fitzroy Road, unable to break out of the maze. Now it is a mass of pale pink and creamy hawthorn blossom reminding me of Elizabeth Bowen’s darkly comic ghost story “Pink May” and the poltergeist, conjured maybe by a guilty conscience, which destroys a woman’s love affair. Or perhaps the phantom is the scent of the may itself, which has been likened both to the smell of human decomposition and the odour of procreation: the scent of Life and of Death. Bowen lived for many years in the white fortress-palace of Clarence Terrace, over across the lake. In the last days of this warm April the Park is almost vulgar, overwhelmed with blossom and fragrance: rioting over every hedge and railing are cascades of lilac, choisya, clematis and the sea-blue ceanothus which takes me back to its azure waves across the walls of my school quad. I remember staggering up to the Rose Garden with huge picnic baskets in the 1980’s, a memory now stimulated by all the paper beakers of coffee being toted – and slopped and spilled – by fellow walkers.

The Lilac Alley which I recall being planted, timid saplings in a morass of mud, is now a bosky thicket of abundance candled with every shade of flower from imperial purple to delicate blackcurrant mousse. The tulips are blown and lifted, only few snow white camellias remain but in Queen Mary’s Rose Garden an astonishing number of blooms are already out, especially our old English roses. To walk past the beds, reading the names on metal plaques, is like riffling at top speed through a series of encylopaedias and phrase books. Names historic; names whimsical, comic, surreal, banal and dotty – Pensioners’ Voice, Ingrid Bergman, Quaker Star, Princess Alice, Annick (can this be celebrating Mme Goutal?), Mountbatten, Lili Marlene, Diamond Jubilee, Radox Bouquet, Easy Going, Lady of Shallott, English Miss, Royal Philharmonic, Gertrude Jekyll, Singin’ In The Rain, Britannia and dear old Sexy Rexy. The full massed fragrance is yet to come but, as so often in life, the anticipation is often keener than the final experience.
On, on! On towards morning! “Felix kept on walking”: past the irises in their stony beds, flowers of perfumery’s most costly ingredient – the glorious buttery orris powder; past the last of this year’s guelder roses. I fall into a bush, trying to catch the last of their scent, but right myself and set my face towards the rigours of Baker Street and the scented oasis of Seymour Place. Despite the strike, an enchanted passage from one perfumed Paradise to another!

Cake or Pastry?

From ilovemuffins.es

“If the people have no bread then let them eat cake”. How that apocryphal royal recommendation dominated my childhood. My grandmother thought that Marie Antoinette had come out with it completely straight-faced, dumb blonde style: a Rococo Marilyn Monroe trying to be helpful. The diminutive droll, Charlie Drake (big on ’60’s tv), took it up as his catchphrase, even making a little song of it, as perhaps my older readers may remember. How mad was that? We know the Queen never actually said it, yet – strange but true – Marie Antoinette’s nutty advice now has a new resonance: if you look at the supermarket shelves you’ll see that cake is often the cheaper these days. Slabs of Battenberg, railway fruit loaf, angel cake and boxes of garish fondants come in at well under the price of a large sliced loaf.

Now why? Cake has undergone a cultural metamorphosis. It once used to be rather common, a dish to treat servants and the lower middle classes, eschewed by ladies and served stale to children when some of the richness was thought to have burned off (as calories are said to fall out of broken biscuits). Regency slang for “daft”, it later became the Mitford nickname for the late Queen Mother, apparently on account of that great lady’s enthusiasm for wedding cake. Rasputin’s assassins tried to poison him with tiny cream cakes, playing on greed like that of a mad dog. Today cake is the order of the day: cook books, tv shows, coffee shops all breast the recession with the cult of cooking – and more importantly, eating – Cake.

Cake is comforting and it satisfies with fats and sucrose; I have a sweet tooth myself but the modern store-boughten gateau is often quite overpoweringly inedibly sweet. Is this an act of infantilised defiance in an austerity society where health and health-foods are constantly preached? Baking is  a miniature act of creation and much emphasis is placed on the “look”; often there seems more emphasis on the filling, icing, colour and decoration than on the cake itself.  All the goods in the shop-window, as it were. One might theoretically get just as much of a kick (and more nutrition) from bread-making, but this is a less showy art. One cook I spoke to thinks we’re seeing a deeply guilty pleasure dressed up and disguised as an art form: animal greed masked by deft decoration. A sociologist might regard the phenonemon as ritualised obsessive self-loathing; compulsive baking, prettifying and eating of something which does the body no good and which can only lead to the most despised and dreaded affliction of the neurotic Western world: weight gain. Hence the obsession with “soggy bottoms” I guess.

It’s hardly coincidental that gourmand perfumes are booming again: ice creams, fruits, citrus coupes and above all patisserie. This is a trend in scent that goes right back to that black cherry and almond mood at the back of L’Heure Bleue a century ago, and the Guerlains’ love of vanilla. Sometimes the foodie note appears almost accidentally, not evident to every nose: I’m thinking for instance of the smell of lemon drizzle cake in Songes, Goutal’s cornucopia of tropical flowers. Or the ginger biscuits at the heart of Love in Black, the powdered icing sugar of Teint de Neige, the candied pineapple in Une Crime Exotique. Cakey perfumes which appear comforting and innocent are by definition deeply sexy in intention: the wearer is proposing herself as a dainty dish to devour, despoiled and wolfed down with the fragile raspberry meringue of Brulure de Rose or the dripping melted butter (so sticky and tactile) of Jeux de Peau. And gourmand scents are increasingly accessible to men; the feral tiger’s tea in Fougere Bengale, the sacrasol and Flemish pastries of the latest Malle, Dries Van Noten, and the smoky toffee bonfire of Aomassai. All reminiscent of that ultimate compliment paid to a bonny baby,”I could eat him!”

Talk about having your cake and eating it…No danger of piling on the pounds with these, just the teasing of the senses and the flirting with naughty urges promoted by that close relationship between memory, nose and tongue.  Some gourmand fanciers even claim that these fragrances satisfy forbidden appetites; others find they stimulate the desire for sugar melting on the lips, and not only vicariously on the skin. Maybe the scents are more fully satisfying than the cakes: they certainly last longer and leave nothing on the hips. All in the mind: and this where we came in – a fantasy world of cakie-baking, as at Marie Antoinette’s toy hamlet at Trianon. Playing at shepherdess and poultrymaid in couture gauze; patting out cheeses and butter in a Sevres china dairy. All the beguiling accoutrements and a great appearance of productive activity but finally just a delicious illusion.”

Picture from: ilovemuffins.es

The Obsidian Butterfly

On a clear evening you nip out to the dustbin or call the cat and gaze up into the night sky at the glittering infinities of space. Worlds within worlds; burned out stars from millions of years ago shining out with a phantom light. The great constellations, abstract memorials of mortals abducted or rescued from Earth, are displayed in the heavens like skeletons of giant insects pinned to the cork board of the firmament. Or as the Egyptians saw it, the arched body of the goddess Nut roofing the world like a gigantic croquet hoop. The Evening Star, the radiant personification of Isis goddess of magic,still looms low in the sky and suddenly the unending vastness of the universe, the oppression and menace of it all (what IS out there? WHO is out there?) is overwhelming and you leg it for the sanctuary of a fugged-up kitchen. Five minutes contemplation of the stars puts everyday cares and worries into a very meagre perspective

I love the kind of stories where science fiction meets fantasy and mythology. Something along the lines of Rider Haggard’s She, with its themes of suspended time and eternal youth. Or Rudyard Kipling’s terrifying little black comedy which begins with the author’s teasing information that this is only one of 355 stories about King Solomon, “..it is not the story of the Glass Pavement, or the Ruby with the Crooked Hole, or the Gold Bars of Balkis. It is the story of the Butterfly that Stamped”. It’s probably banned now, being somewhat misogynistic: Solomon’s 999 nagging wives (and the Butterfly’s shrewish mate) are taught a severe lesson when at a turn of the King’s ring, the whole golden palace and its seraglio are lifted into the outer darkness of space by Djinns and Afrits. Screams and shrieks fill the black void as the world temporarily whirls into nothingness until the ladies, Royal and Insect, learn to behave.

Pierre Guillaume’s bizarre and beautiful Naiviris is an uncanny but unconscious echo of this tale: Kipling lists the plants in Solomon’s gardens with incantatory relish – the tall iris, pink Egyptian lilies, hyssop, camphor trees, spotted bamboos, orange tree and ginger plants. Naiviris picks up this theme of oriental heat revolving around scarlet African iris (“so spikey and unfriendly” remarks Ann Todd in another context) and scented woods; a swoon of glowing red earth, dust and pollen. It is hypnotic and erotic, but at the same time weirdly metallic and withdrawn – a hot garden without earthly heat, torrid yet somehow inhuman with no animal sexuality, all sense of flesh or skin witheld: an alien interplanetary garden of the upper air. Fabulous and fantastic in every sense.

Plunge deeper among the stars, try Guerlain’s superbly named but appropriately hard to track down Vega; or Goutal’s Nuit Etoilee. L’Eau Guerriere evokes the sense of a pressurised cabin, the glittering clear air of the stratosphere, the purity of upper air and the blinding light of the sun. Cold metal, fitments, restricted oxygen levels, the exhilaration of soaring into space. Escape from this world: the smell of a perilous alien liberty

Image from user ADiamondFellFromTheSky on Flickr.

Our Vegetable Love…

“You’ll fall into the flames of hell if you dig any deeper” said our gardener Mr Sarson as I grubbed about in my own little patch of garden aged 5 or so. Mr Sarson must have been in his eighties but was lean and wiry after a lifetime working as a railway ganger. He had once found a severed human head on the line – “it took three men to lift, it weighed so heavy”. And I wondered how the executioner had coped with Mary Queen of Scots who we had learned about at school: the infant curriculum was very different in the 1950’s. After Mr Garner died, eating a pickled onion, Mr Cannon came to help: he had sailed German POW’s down the Rhine in a caged barge in 1919; been a professional dancing master, and as a boy had pinched the behind of Violet, Duchess of Rutland in the shrubbery at Belvoir Castle: “I took her for the parlour maid”.

These two gentlemen introduced me to the vegetable world which flourished exceedingly in my father’s garden since so many of his animal patients were buried there. Vegetable lore we learned, and the smell of all the old favourites. Radishes are easy and quick for even the youngest child to grow, though their leaves may sting a bit; and their rose pink hue is as vivid and exciting as their cracked-ice peppery scent and tart hot/cold taste. Our neighbours, elderly maiden ladies, lived on radish sandwiches and dripping: it sufficed.(Their brother was a morphine addict, in the nonchalant respectable style of a Victorian bachelor).

So many vegetables have the most bewitching scents: the dry hot spiciness of celery; the rubbery, flowery earthiness of purple sprouting broccoli; the searing sweet and sour pungency of wild garlic especially on a cliff patch in bluebell season. Carrot has been recently added to the perfumer’s palette as a sweetener, and can contribute to an excellent synthetic fleshy fruit accord. Tomato leaf has something of the same magic as geranium – hot, green, spicy, and dusty. It is replete with the nostalgia of those ruined walled kitchen gardens, frost-cracked glasshouses and stagnant water butts that you sometimes discover abandoned beyond the formal gardens of a minor stately home. Now, I know tomato is a fruit, but in the minds and habits of most of us it is treated as veg. It was probably Annick Goutal who pioneered its use in her Eau de Camille – a perfume smelling of broken flower stems and the inner pale flesh of wild grasses.

Yet vegetables and man have until the twentieth century had a wary relationship: for millenia vegetables were the preserve of the poor, served up like animal swill while the rich dined on white bread, meat and sugar. The onion and the lettuce may have been sacred emblems of fertility in Ancient Egypt (due to their propensity to run to seed in a phallic bolt) but they still fed the pyramid toilers rather than grace Pharaoh’s table. When the Americas were first colonised, the treasure fleets brought back potatoes, avocados and tomatoes; all snapped up in the West as intriguing novelties but just as quickly abandoned. They took centuries to fully assimilate as part of the food chain; and for westerners to learn how to cook and season them.

This often seems to cause the British unreasonable difficulties: one thinks of traditional Christmas brussels boiled to mossy mush,and marrows cooked to rags. My grandfather used to say that his favourite way to prepare a cucumber was to cut in half and put in dustbin. Highly distrusted by European doctors, American produce became notorious for other qualities. Avocado is a Mexican Nahuatl word for “testicle” – as “orchid” is in Greek – and so could be choked down as a flavourless if stimulating aphrodisiac. Potatoes turned out to be of the same family as the enchanters’ nightshades, clearly poisonous and possibly diabolic; and as for the colour of these “love apples”, these tomatoes! Painted like harlots and obviously to be avoided. According to Lady Diana Cooper, her mother Violet (the same woman who was goosed by our gardener) banned tomatoes from her dinner table as impossibly common. This prejudice is still not entirely extinct in some circles, I can assure you.

Vegetables are still, I suppose, generally thought dull and worthy; your dreary 5 a day to keep you regular and minimise the household bills: one can still live very cheaply live on roots. Therefore the scents of their leaves and flowers, though often delicious, lack the psychological glamour demanded by perfumers: though the scent of field of broad beans in flower rivals Grasse jasmine, and see how a bed of scarlet runners (grown in Tudor gardens purely for their gaudy flowers) drive the bees wild with their fragrance. Even the wonderful scents from vegetable-related flowers (the cabbage-cousin wallflower; the sweet pea) rarely make it into the commercial perfume bottle; maybe unconsciously rejected on account of their humble relations.

Be that as it may, our niche perfumers continue to garner a little romance from the kitchen garden: try The Unicorn Spell where an eccentric and beguiling top note of dawn-picked runner bean leads into frosty violets. The cucumber in En Passant helps to spangle the white lilac with rain. Gorge on Gantier‘s sweet, rich, outre Grain de Plaisir, a presentation of celery as aphrodisiac – as used so famously by Mme de Pompadour and her eighteenth century contemporaries, brewed up with ambergris, chocolate, truffles and vanilla. I think the 21st century will continue to see fascinating new experiments with the odours of the vegetable kingdom just as our cooks soldier on promoting their vitality and potential excitement in our diet.

Image from wildaboutgardens.org.uk

Gardenias! Joan Crawford’s Favourite!

Gardenia Jasminoides Illustration

“She’s got a fabulous figure she no longer puts to any use and skin like a gardenia that’s been one day too long in the ice-box”. Here’s the inimitable Sue Kaufman describing one of her party guests in Diary Of A Mad Houswife, a book I loved so much I literally read my copy to pieces. The horrible guest is “a minor movie queen from the 1940’s” and if ever a flower symbolised the great years of Hollywood it is the gorgeous gardenia: exotic, unreal, like flowers cut from ivory velvet or white satin. They gleam and glow in their waxen creamy purity like Von Sternberg’s mad beautiful sets for The Devil Is A Woman: painted white and sprayed, like the costumes, with aluminium paint. Gardenias are like artificial flowers come to life, with their impossibly shiny dark emerald leaves that rustle like Garbo’s paper camellias in Camille: and then that glorious unearthly scent. I’m quite happy to kneel in the muck on any London street to inhale gardenias outside a florists.

“These Foolish Things” … remember how the line “Gardenia perfume lingering on a pillow” once got this song banned on radio? The young Bette Davis was seduced on a bed of gardenias by Howard Hughes; Jean Harlow was buried under a carpet of them; Orson Welles’s muse, the Mexican beauty Dolores del Rio, ate salads of gardenia and rose petals to intensify the velvety pallor of her skin. Joan Crawford went through her famous “gardenia phase” when the fan magazines featured her swimming through drifts of them in her pool. She wore them in movies and publicity shots, and pinned them to furs and shoulder straps for premieres: but as she tells us, they so quickly turned brown, “just too much body heat”. Joan had perforce to substitute Tuvache’s heady “Jungle Gardenia” for the real thing.

Gardenias are real Art Deco blooms: their geometric Rene Mackintosh look, their snowy whiteness, perfect for a Syrie Maugham interior and an era when white and platinum was de rigueur. This was also the era when Chanel made sun bathing fashionable: nothing looked sexier and more stylish than a gardenia against a honey-gold tan. Mlle liked it so well she brought out her own gardenia scent in 1925. Men loved them too,as boutonnieres on dinner jackets and black cashmere evening coats. But these iconic flowers of the late 1920’s and early 30’s were first categorised in the 18th century: and their wonderful name is merely an eponym, deriving from the botanist Alexander Garden of Charleston, Carolina. For me that’s the only faintly disappointing thing about them: it equates with tuberose meaning “propagated by a tuber”, when you long for both names to have some fantastic and extravagant Latin derivation to complete their fantasy.

The first gardenia perfume I fell under the spell of was by Goya. It was only the talcum powder, hidden in a bathroom cabinet, but it came in a wonderful white and green can with a gardenia worthy of Redoute on the label; the smell was sweet and dry and powdery/spicy. Really nothing like a living gardenia but entirely bewitching: a highly stylised interpretation of the fragrance, like the versions by Crabtree & Evelyn, Floris and Penhaligon’s in years to come. Annick Goutal created Gardenia Passion – closer to the real thing, even to the faint hint of brown bruising. Ma Griffe worked a miracle with an entirely chemical rendition. The thing is, the oil can be extracted from the plant but the yield is infintesimal, thus making it very very pricey. Most perfumers prefer to synthesise, using natural oils such as neroli and tuberose to create a wholly convincing ersatz gardenia. Kind of suitable for such a fabulousy unreal bloom.

Isabey have recreated another great 1920’s perfume: their Gardenia claims to use precious vital extract from the plant and appropriately comes in a glamorous flacon like a cube of gold. It’s heavenly: soft, whispery smooth – like cream silk velvet – with sandalwood and iris to add even more depth. Goutal’s recent Matin d’Orage blossoms in a Japanese Zen garden; gardenias drenched with summer rains opening under a stormy sky of purple and violet. And I love the diaphanous transparency of Pierre Guillaume’s Gardenia Grand Soir, a delicate breath of a corsage from a beautiful woman’s shoulder.

Heartbreaking fragile beauty; powerful emotional perfume. No wonder Billie Holliday made gardenias her trademark.

Image from guide-to-houseplants.com

The Best Smell of All

Tsarina Alexandra Aroma Folio Les Senteurs Blog

“Delicious cool air” wrote the poor Tsarina Alexandra in her diary during her final imprisonment at Ekaterinburg. Over and over again she and the Tsar write about the smells dominating the last months of their lives in the hot Russian spring + summer of 1918.

Cooped up on the first floor of the Ipatiev House with their five children, residual staff of servants and a battery of Bolshevik guards Nicholas and Alexandra were oppressed by claustrophobia as a double palisade was erected to shield the “House of Special Purpose” from the outside world. The final horror was the whitewashing and then sealing of all the windows, to be opened only as a special privilege after much bargaining, pleading and resolutions of the local Soviet.

All the Imperial Family felt the heat dreadfully and the Tsarina was most afflicted by the constant miasma of cooking and food prepared on oil stoves. The Tsar chain- smoked which exacerbated halitosis caused by chronically bad teeth, neglected for twenty years due a phobia of the dentist’s chair, despite the Russian Imperial dental service being  the finest  in the world. The guards reeked of alcohol, sweat,unwashed hair and clothes, stale tobacco; there was an insufficiency of lavatories;a couple of Imperial dogs romped around; while a group of dusty stuffed bears moulted and shed on the staircase. The days when the window sashes were dropped a few inches were recorded in ecstasy in the prisoners’ diaries

The Tsar writes lyrically of a June thunderstorm which cleared the air, the rain bringing the scent of all the gardens of Ekaterinburg into the rooms. Outside in the garden bloomed lilac and honeysuckle which the Romanovs were allowed to pick during their brief periods of exercise. The Grand Duchesses still had the last of their favourite Coty perfumes, each of the four girls her own flower scent; the Tsarina used her personal white rose perfume. Lights burned in front of the ikons: had Alexandra managed to bring the attar of roses which always scented the holy images at Tsarskoye Selo?

That image of the rain-soaked gardens is so powerful; the desire for this kind of perfume experience is so popular,so instinctive. Matin d’Orage recreates a thicket of gardenia flowers and foliage scenting the air after a storm; the sublime Lys Mediterranee evokes a springtime garden on the Riviera, on a morning spangled with dew and the breath of the sea. Find your own freedom and refreshment – and escape – in scent.

Image from Wikimedia commons