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I can’t remember quite when, but it was only a little while ago that a bit of research led me to the discovery that the word ‘petrichor’ speaks of the wonderful scent that delights us after heavy rain meets soil after a long period of dry weather.
My bare hands have been working in the soil of raised beds until past dusk this evening and – in the liminal spaces that are a happy feature of light gardening – I’ve been aware of three things:
Of petrichor. The soil, loosened, raked and weeded, albeit in the absence of heavy rain, released a quite lovely scent – a touch of coal tar, perhaps a drop of creosote? – something, anyway, that smelled different, healthy, and unusual. I was glad of it.
Of a robin. How is it that robins appear to be talking to us when we set about even minimal works in a garden? This one’s little head cocked from side to side, his tail rocking up and down. He looked thoroughly interested and I don’t quite know how that can be so – how his little face is so expressive. I am glad of it, too.
Of bacteria. Especially of that particular bacteria that soil apparently nurtures – which, I learned last week, when coming into contact with bare human hands, releases dopamine in them. Here, in part, is what makes us happy when we’re pottering about in gardens – along with a wide sky, the scent of the lawn, apple blossoms, green shoots, the gradual stilling of post-dusk birdsong, and yes, the scent of the glad, the perfume – on such an evening – of the gratefully content.
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