A tribute to the springs of childhood.
Nothing heralds spring like the emergence of the first daffodils breaking through the still-cold earth. This simple sight is enough to trigger a whole world of memories, landscapes, smells, moments suspended in the clear light of the between-seasons.
Growing up in the Scottish countryside was, in retrospect, a tremendous privilege. Among my fondest memories are those long spring wanderings in the woods near the village. As soon as the first thaw arrived, the undergrowth became a theater of effervescent aromas: grape hyacinths, bluebells, snowdrops, bluebells… and above all, thousands of daffodils forming a rippling carpet beneath the chestnut, oak, and hickory trees—those somewhat foreign trees, planted long ago by a friend's family.
A small stream wound through the heart of this living tableau, sometimes furious, sometimes peaceful like a mirror. But it was the daffodils that always left the deepest impression on me. Their strange, luminous, almost unreal scent filled the air with a diffuse warmth. Among them, the daffodils held a very special place in my heart. They were—and still are—my favorites.
All around the woods, fields of hay surrounded the clearing, adding a bucolic and intensely lively dimension to this sensory immersion, especially as spring gently slipped into summer, then into the first harvests.
I spent hours under the trees, with a book or a magazine, reading, dreaming, breathing. These moments forged my sensitivity, my olfactory memory, and directly nourished the soul of Vernus, just as they did that of Athenaeum.
Olfactory memories have this astonishing power to transcend time. Years later, during a trip to the Massif Central, I came across a field of daffodils mixed with a meadow of hay. The scent instantly took me back to my childhood, to those tree houses, the swings thrown over the stream, the hay collected by immense machines. I filled a notebook with notes and olfactory impressions, hoping to one day give them form.
I hope it will awaken in you, if only for a moment, a buried memory of light, warm wind and wild flowers.
