Fragrance Reviews by Amarie

I am in the foyer, a newer addition to the old house, not too distinct and artistically done. There is a fine floral arrangement with sprays of orchid amidst greenery that is a centre piece on entering, and some lovely chairs newly upholstered in fine leather. This is a cool room with plenty of space, and as time passes a gentle intrusion of incense seeps upwards.

I am in the western sitting room. The low late autumn sun streams in. I am nestled in Grandpa’s chair, the ornate patterns in the velvet worn to indeterminate flows of ruby, rich brown, amber, and warm olive green. The chair still holds traces of his herbal rub and sandalwood and somehow the cold traces of the stones he cut and polished amongst all the reflected warmth of his personality. As the smells fade and the light disappears I am left with the amber warmth laced with distant spice and cinnamon melting into vanilla pod and a remembered smile.

I am encased in a beautiful white gown, sewn with seed pearls and intricate lace work, white gauze over reflective silk. I know it is stunning but the lacing seems too tight in all the wrong places, too feminine in the blousing of the sleeves and the heels of the exquisite shoes will send me tumbling with one tiny step. I long for my comfortable old leathers and to escape to the forest.

I leave the side door and step out into the cold citrus blossom laden wind. The stone path brushes past lavender and mint but the rosemary rises tallest, dark and resinous. As I walk the fresh breeze passes across me, carrying the scent of open plains and rocky peaks beckoning me on.

This spring morning is damp and chill and wandering in the neglected old borders of the garden I am unexpectedly caught by a high note that speaks of sweetness. I search and find the tiny lily of the valley flowers, their miniature appearance betrayed by their unmistakable uncomfortable piercing scent. I sit back, my knees now damp, and the surrounding garden mutes the fragrance into greenery with a creamy undercurrent of jasmine. As I wander away the scent lingers jangling with its darkened tone at the edge of my being.

My fingers move aside the floral silk and cotton skarves that drape the corner of the mirror. My hand caresses then passes over the sepia photo tucked under the edge, moving down to the tortoiseshell bowl of dried roses and carnation pinks, riffling the petals as my fingers pass. My fingers turn to the bakelite container. I lift the lid and powder drifts up and hangs in the still air. I lean forward, the layers of my dress rustle against the old leather of my stool. What next? Ah. My hand pulls the ornate brass handle of the drawer and sifts through slips and stockings. There- I fish out the elusive cylinder and scroll it open to apply the deep dusky pink to my lips.

I sit on the veranda dappled in the early morning shadows and clear light. The dew lifts the scent of greenery to lap at my senses, interleaved with the fresh scintillating lemon and warm peach that hang buoyant from the over-reaching trees.
I stretch and settle. The light mutes and meanders amongst the stray sprigs of white jasmine and creamy honeysuckle and a lone Cecile Brunner spray of rosebuds. The gentle woody warmth of growing things soaks through me as I contemplate my morning.

I walk through the silver birch trees of dappled white, the leaf strew dry and dusty underfoot. Ancient moss covered boulders squat turgid with slow thoughts whilst forest incense is warmth surrounding and rises peppery and resinous. I am held within its embrace.

I am ensconced in the small private room and the oriental carpet is scratchy beneath my feet. I sway into the warmth of the enveloping incense that snakes its way through scattered vanilla pods and geranium leaves on the side table. Velvet curtains make the room mysteriously close and almost claustrophobic and I can sense the crouching creatures in the shadowy corners that give a sharp edge to my unease. Memories of my mother are irresistible and overwhelming. I cross the room to sink into the gilt threaded amber silk of the corner armchair. Slowly, gradually, the room lightens and I am left with a gentle golden glow and memory of spices.