I remember a colleague in the south east who taught descriptive writing by means of the five senses: touch, smell, sight, hearing and taste. When I open the door to our shed it is the second that strikes me - the scent of herbs.
The noonday sun that shone in full strength on our back garden has begun its decline towards the west. By mid afternoon we are mostly in the shade. The warmest and the most aromatic spot is our potting shed. Here we are drying lavender and coriander seeds; the background tones to their perfume aprovided by resinous wood and an earthy partially opened bag of compost. Perhaps later, when it gets colder in our greenhouse we shall blend the scent of the geraniums that we are over-wintering.
The sounds of our shed are easily drowned out. The music of the birds beginning their autumn songs, the wind in the birch trees in the park compete with the motorway traffic, the pile drivers and diggers on the new estates to the north of us; the chug of a helicopter taking a casualty to the hospital or the tearing sound of a fighter jet being trialled before export.
So I sit in the sun and inhale the scents of our shed: coriander for curries and cookery, lavender for calm. Life will go on.
