On a recent visit to Trumper’s to have my hair cut I bought a bottle of Portugal Eau de Toilette. I suggested to the salesman that I expected mule dung with top notes of drains and stale urine.
The official description is a refreshing and crisp fragrance of lemon and neroli essential oils; tones of Bitter Orange and an alluring base of musk. It must be popular as it has been in their range since 1938.
“Each country has its smell: Spain reeks of rank olive oil. The fumes of that oil, which is used by the peasants for lighting their fires, for burning in their lamps, and for cooking their food, hit out from every doorway with a blow that at first sickened. I struggled for two days with that stink, and then it conquered me, and permeated my system, gripped my limbs, possessed my palate, pervaded my nose – in fact, behaved like a Spanish stare so that henceforth I noticed it no more – and ate it unknowingly – the abominable stuff.” (Marching Spain, VS Pritchett.)
Well that was in 1927. England in 1948 wasn’t a breath of fresh air either.
“Everyone in the aeroplane on the return journey sweating and stinking. Oh, the smell of the English. I even notice it in the open Park.” (Midway on the Waves, James Lees-Milne.)
I thought I’d find some good Parisian smells in George Orwells’ Down and Out in Paris and London, the first part of which describes his experiences in Paris in 1928. Unless I’m mistaken there are no olfactory passages, if you know what I mean. I am mistaken. John Sutherland published Orwell’s Nose: a Pathological Biography in 2016. In my opinion he was short of ammunition and might have been better advised to turn to VS Pritchett.
Orwell’s nose sniffed out sweet corruption like Whitman with his lilacs. In “1984,” totalitarianism is “boiled cabbage,” seeping under the apartment doors in Victory Mansions. In “Down and Out In Paris and London” (1933), poverty is the “sweetish reek” of sweat and “foul linen” in a doss-house. In “The Road to Wigan Pier” (1937), the erosion of dignity by desperation is “a full chamber-pot under the breakfast table.” (Dominic Green in The Wall Street Journal, September 2016.)
I’m reminded of “Odour of Chrysanthemums “ by D.H. Lawrence, a short story which I read years ago. Both my father and grandfather grew them and I loved to look at the intricacies of the blooms, but couldn’t understand how they could smell so acrid.At my father’s funeral, the church in Little Gaddesden was full of them. T.S Eliot does good “smells” as well I seem to remember, although I haven’t revisited recently.
On to more pleasant matters, young Bertie ( great fan here) might appreciate a walk in National Trust Park/ woodland surrounding Asheridge House on the door step of Little Gaddesden and Berkhamsted. A longer journey for you, but worth the trip. The Alford Arms at Frithden is the best hostelry, dog friendly and Berkhamsted does have a Waitrose to purchase provisions for a light supper!