One of my favourite experiences of summer is the smell of rain steaming off a hot freshly-tarmaced road. Perhaps it's an odd thing to enjoy, but there is something curiously satisfying about that rich, slightly harsh smell. It's also a pleasure by association; evocative of the joy of summer holidays, it brings with it the memory of freedom: six whole weeks off school! Six weeks of hot sun and blue skies, filled with endless hours of doing nothing much at all.
It can't really have been all like that all the time, but one's memory has a clever way of editing reality. And of course, when I think about it, the smell is probably just the result of noxious chemicals being released from the wet tar, but hey ho! such is life..
Here in the village there is no fresh tarmac, and when I opened the front door this afternoon, to bring in the milk bottles, I was greeted instead by the scent of rain-drenched flowers and blossom. Such a rich perfume! It hung heavy in the air like incense, almost over-whelming in its richness.
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