I close my eyes, that smell! I’m watching Dad mow the lawn out in the back garden, the first cut of spring.
The loud rattle of the lawn-mower fills the air as freshly cut blades of grass stick to our bare feet. My two brothers chase each other around the garden, their laughter mixing with the scent of earth and springtime.
Dad paused, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, smiling as he surveyed his work. ‘Smells like spring now,’ he said, as the rich, green scent lingered in the air.
At dusk, Mum called us in for dinner, and the scent of cut grass followed inside. Even long after the sun had set, the smell of the garden would drift through the open window, a gentle reminder of carefree days.

The fields behind our house stretched wide and were edged by a dark wood.
Hide and seek at night was different, thrilling. I counted against the old oak, loudly so everyone can hear. ‘One, two, three...’.
At twenty, I turned. Silence. Then – a rustle in the trees. The harvest moon cast a glow as I stepped forward, breath held. A twig snapped. I spun, heart hammering. Movement – a figure darting between the hedgerows. I lunged, fingers grazing fabric, laughter spilling out
as I caught the edge of a jacket.
One by one, they emerged, breathless, collapsing into the cool grass, grins flashing under the moonlight glow.

On a quiet stretch of Donabate Beach, the fire crackled as we huddled together, a tight-knit group of friends revelling in our stolen hours of freedom. We had ignored our parents’ orderto be home before dinner.
I tossed another log into the flames. ‘Has it ever been this warm in September?’ ’An Indian summer?’
The scent of the burning driftwood wrapped around us, mingling with the rhythmic crash of waves – the perfect soundtrack to our small act of rebellion.
Later, no matter what excuses we spun, the smell of beach fire clinging to our clothes gave our whereabouts away.

In an instant, I am a child again, standing at the edge of the sea at Malahide beach. As children, we would run, shrieking with laughter, over the damp sand, small hands sticky with salt from the sea spray.
The water looked inviting and daunting at the same time. Dad would wade out, knee-deep in the water, calling us in despite our protests. “It’s grand!” he’d shout. The first touch of the sea was always a shock – cold enough to steal your breath – but soon we would be splashing and chasing each other through the shallows.
At night, wrapped in warm jumpers, we would sit on the seawall, hair tangled with the wind. Mum would pass around mugs of tea as the scent of the sea, salt and sand clung to us.

Sundays at Granny’s house have embedded precious memories.
The rich, comforting aroma of sweet tea filled delicate china cups. Warm bread, slathered with creamy butter, carried the scent of home and comfort.
Aunt Millie’s baked apple tart filled the kitchen with it’s fragrance. The buttery pastry crisped in the oven, releasing a scent so rich it made mouths water long before the first bite.
Long after Sundays at Granny’s had passed, these smells – tea, bread, and buttery pastry – bring back warm childhood memories in an instant.