Weather will soon be changing here in Washington. For the moment, however, a high pressure system has lodged somewhere beneficial, bringing some late August scorchers. The pavement retains the heat until well after sunset; the roses in my garden responded by dropping most of their petals.
I’m determined to walk the last hours of daylight while I can, before rain sets in for months. I do this remembering once again the walks Timothy and I took in whatever neighborhoods we found ourselves. In all seasons but darkest, dampest winter, we would set out — along Monterey’s waterfront, Port Townsend’s cliff-top village, Ealing Common.
Until well into fall, enough British daylight lingered to let us see the gardens we passed by. As days grew shorter, we perceived the gardens’ shape by breathing in the scents floating on a mild English night.
Take Twyford Crescent. When we occasionally strolled there in midday, the park was noisy with romping children from the flats down Uxbridge Road that had only a postage stamp of lawn. It sported a modern play-frame and swing set, protected by a stern notice (but no fence) forbidding dogs. At high noon, the flowers looked dusty and annoyed.
But in the cooling dusk, refreshed by dewfall, the white ‘Iceberg’ and pale pinky-gold ‘Peace’ roses glowed. The petals of my favorite peppermint-striped rose fairly vibrated in the dim blue light. The aroma the sun-warmed roses gave off at sunset was heavenly. Not as sharp as the vial of Attar of Rose my parents brought me from Turkey, not as cloying as the suspiciously pungent potpourri bought at a Covent Garden market stall. Rich, musky, and with a sweet top-note… It was the olfactory equivalent of the whistle of the blackbird over-topping the chatter of finches inspecting the blackberries before all went dark for the night.
The delicious smells continued all the way home. The neighbour with the late-season lilac hedge. The scented night-stock in baskets round the pub door, doing their best to mask the aroma of stale beer and work boots. The indestructible English lavender and geraniums stoically guarding the entrance to Ealing Common tube station from their concrete planters. I believe they were placed there at the dawn of the second Elizabethan Age and renewed by the station staff who were channeling the spirit of Victorian railway station masters.
Sitting on the patio as a soft Pacific Northwest breeze blows, I can still walk these English streets with my eyes closed. I lift my nose in a vain effort to smell the wonderful aromas once more. Sometimes, late at night, I tell Timothy about my memories of these places and moments. I’m sure he hears me, because someone nudges the westerly breeze, bringing the English lavender pot a little closer to my heart’s nose.
Photos by Min An from Pexels and Eftodii Aurelia from Pexels