SMELLS AND ODOURS

Since childhood, smells have accompanied us like little invisible presences. They slip into our memory, settle in silently, and then sometimes resurface, intact, triggered by a gesture, a place, or a breath of air. Everyone keeps them inside like a secret herbarium, made of houses, faces, and moments long gone.

I can still recall the smell of my baby bottle, that warm and familiar Lacson’s milk, and especially that of my bib when the old stains, embedded in the fabric, took on that unique sharpness of oxidised milk when exposed to the air.

I also keep, with an almost touching clarity, the trail of 4711 cologne. My grandmother, my parents, my mother-in-law, and then my husband wore it in turn. That note of bergamot, fresh and bright, seems to have crossed generations to reach me again. It will probably never leave me; it will remain linked to them like a scented thread stretched between the living and the absent.

Other scents remain engraved deep within me: freshly cut grass, dry harvest under the sun, straw resting in the fields like blonde hair. Even the white nettles in the ditches, when they raise their almost virginally white flowers, exude a discreet, humble, and poignant presence.

Other scents remain etched deep within me: freshly cut grass, hay drying under the sun, straw lying in the fields like blonde hair. Even the white nettles along the ditches, when they raise their almost virginally white flowers, give off a discreet, humble, and poignant presence. 

Pharmacies and drugstores, on the other hand, had their own atmosphere: a mix of remedies, wax, old powders, and slightly stuffy air. You’d enter them like stepping into another world, sometimes poorly ventilated but immediately recognisable, with that serious smell of care, bottles, and secrets tucked away behind the counters.

In the garden, the marigolds, planted to keep slugs away, sometimes imposed their strong scent over the finer aromas of lilies of the valley, roses, or wisteria. And in churches, the incense from services and funerals rose in persistent spirals; its heavy, penetrating smoke made me sway, as if the very air were turning into prayer, mystery, and vertigo. 

And what about the smell of leather in a new car? That short-lived, almost luxurious scent always faded too quickly. There were also wardrobes, where lavender sachets perfumed the underwear with a gentle, comforting freshness. I can still remember my mother’s perfumes: Chanel No. 5, then other heavier fragrances, chosen to mask the lingering smell of moth repellents on her fur coats – Joy by Jean Patou, maybe a Guerlain whose name escapes me now, Chamade or Terracotta.

On the flip side of these warm memories, nicotine remains for me one of the most unpleasant smells: it would cling to the rooms, the clothes, and the bathrooms frequented by heavy smokers, like grey dust that’s impossible to get rid of. Luckily, awareness of the dangers of tobacco has gradually reduced its presence and, with it, that harsh trace that weighed so much on non-smokers. Even darker are the smells of rotting plants or decomposing bodies. I remember a warning I’d heard long ago: never buy a used car in which someone had died. That smell, they said, seeps everywhere, sticks to the fibres, the seats, and the tiniest folds, and no air freshener can really conquer it.

Even darker are the smells of rotting plants or decaying bodies. I remember that warning I once heard: never buy a used car in which someone has died. That smell, they said, seeps everywhere, clinging to the fibres, the seats, and every little crease, and no air freshener can really get rid of it. 

But what a joy, on the other hand, to open the door of a well-kept house, where a bouquet of fresh flowers greets you before any words are spoken: French lilacs, peonies, or simply that clear smell of cleanliness, laundry, calm, and peaceful living

City Live

 

                                                                               

                                                   Watercolour by Amarie, the city of Antwerp    

          City life has always been familiar to me: I was born there, raised there, and drawn to its old buildings—sometimes worn, yet always full of character. My family lived right in the centre between the police office, the city hall and the church of St Nicholas in perpetual renovation. Our house was facing the belfry, with its carillon diffusing folkloric melodies every 15 minutes Those ancient streets and stones were both my shelter and my horizon. The steeples and towers, the sound of bells, the rumble of traffic, the yellow trams ringing as they came closer, sometimes throwing sparks from the rails, the hungry pigeons circling over the squares, and the constant stream of hurried pedestrians all formed the backdrop of my daily life. The old post office, the courthouse, the station, the many churches, the prestigious cathedral with the world-known triptych of the Van Eyck brothers and the bridges created a sequence of memorable city views. The parks offered quiet places of escape, where we walked our pinscher, and the city garden, which my father shaped like a little paradise, was the kingdom of my childhood. At its centre stood an old weeping willow, whose branches held the swing that carried my wildest dreams. Nearby, a small shelter protected us on rainy days, beside the vegetable patch where picking ripe vegetables delighted us with their scents, colours, and flavours.

Yet those places of childhood disappeared with the city’s rapid growth. Today, I recognise almost nothing, and it seems that the vivid, picturesque landscapes of the past have been erased by modernity.

Among the finest cities in Flanders, I would name Antwerp, Bruges, and Ghent. They too have surely changed over time, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. I know Antwerp only a little, but I am certain that, like my hometown, it contains places of remarkable beauty. Curious readers might turn to the book written by our Prime Minister, whose many anecdotes make it both lively and enjoyable.

Bruges, however, is more familiar to me. I shared many happy moments there with my children while they attended the city’s leading schools, where they formed lasting friendships. Bruges is a city on a human scale, threaded with canals and filled with almost unreal mediaeval vistas. Throughout the year, it welcomes visitors from all over the world who come to admire the city rightly known as the Venice of the North.                

 

Japanese garden

Nature has always appealed to me, particularly structured gardens that are generously planted and require little to no lawn maintenance. After caring for a half-hectare plot composed largely of grass—soon transformed into a meadow—we wanted, following our move from the coast to the center of the country, to create a new garden that would be more ornamental and richly flowered. Our aim was to develop a subtle blend of inspirations, drawing from each garden style the qualities that appealed to us most: the symbolism of Oriental gardens, the topiary art of French gardens, and the light spontaneity of English gardens.

The Japanese garden seeks to represent an idealized version of nature on a small scale. It evokes mountains, lakes, rivers, and the sea, while harmonizing subtly with both its immediate and distant surroundings. Unlike the French garden, it values asymmetry, suggestion, and the art of revealing without exposing everything at once. Straight lines are used sparingly, as are even numbers, once associated with misfortune. Its guiding principles are sobriety, serenity, flexibility, and balance, all serving contemplation and of course meditation.

Japanese gardens are built around elements that are both natural and symbolic. Rocks and stones may represent sacred mountains, islands, or mythological figures such as the turtle and the crane, symbols of longevity and happiness. Water—whether in the form of rivers, ponds, or waterfalls—symbolizes life and movement. Trees, bamboo, ferns, and mosses express the changing rhythm of the seasons and the art of miniaturization. Lanterns, originally intended to illuminate temples, now bring a sense of mystery and elegance. Paths and bridges guide both the eye and the visitor, gradually revealing the garden without ever showing it all at once. 

In a Japanese garden, each element carries a spiritual or poetic dimension inspired by Buddhism, Taoism, and Shintoism. These gardens are conceived as living paintings, where the balance between fullness and emptiness, together with the integration of the surrounding landscape, creates a condensed representation of nature. Miniaturization allows vast landscapes to be suggested within a limited space, while symbolism and borrowed scenery enhance the contemplative quality of the setting.

Several types of Japanese gardens can be distinguished. The dry or Zen Garden, composed of gravel, stones, and moss, is defined by its simplicity and meditative purpose. The water garden, organized around ponds, streams, or islands, encourages peaceful observation and gentle wandering. Miniature and pocket gardens, designed for smaller spaces, can be created in courtyards or even on a windowsill with bonsai trees.

In essence, the Japanese garden combines nature, symbolism, and philosophical thought with great subtlety. It invites serenity, contemplation, and a harmonious relationship with the environment.

By contrast, the French garden is characterized by strict symmetry. Its spaces are divided into square or rectangular sections, structured by straight paths. Pools, imposing fountains, and carefully trimmed hedges contribute to a composition that is orderly, elegant, and fully controlled. Buildings are integrated coherently into a classical and harmonious overall design.

The English Garden, on the other hand, favors winding paths that suggest mystery and escape. It brings together a wide variety of trees and wildflowers, arranged in a freer, more natural, and picturesque manner. Its design is based on spontaneity, while bridges and grottos often reinforce its romantic and intriguing character.

Drawing inspiration from these contrasting approaches, we wanted our botanical garden to become a synthesis of their respective qualities. Our primary goal was to eliminate the need for lawn mowing, especially on a plot with a fairly penty slope. We therefore favored shrubs and plants with staggered flowering periods throughout the four seasons, so that the garden would remain attractive all year round. White gravel paths guide the visitor through the space, while a few trees provide welcome shade for delicate plants as well as visitors during periods of intense heat.

The result is a rich and varied garden in which certain species, sometimes rare, have found their place according to their needs for water and light. The driest and sunniest areas naturally accommodate the plants best suited to those conditions. Around one hundred and fifty species thrive there, with varying degrees of success. Naturally, some disappear from time to time, whether because of minor cultivation errors or because of an exceptionally hot or, conversely, particularly wet year.

Nevertheless, the overall result remains remarkable, fully meeting our desire for color, fragrance, and successive flowering throughout the seasons. The garden conveys a sense of peace and tranquility. Its maintenance can be spread over time, since pruning can easily be postponed without causing harm. It is simply a matter of preserving for each species the space it needs to develop according to its rate of growth.