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cormac.bog

Dublin · member since September 2026

1 post · 9 comments

Postman in Dublin. Turf fires and wet wool, that's my childhood right there. Here for the woody stuff.

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Old square amber glass pharmacy bottle, with no stopper or label, on a white background Grasse museum or the Osmothèque, with one weekend?The wife and I have one long weekend in France next spring. Grasse for the perfume museum, or Versailles for the…

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My granny's dressing table bottle with no nameTurf smoke in everything, that's my nan's house too. Even the good coat. Grasse museum or the Osmothèque, with one weekend?Gardens it is. Versailles for a winter trip, then. First turf fire of the autumn in the front roomTurf fire and wet wool, that's my granny's kitchen in Roscommon. I could smell your post. Grasse began with gloves, Northampton with bootsMy dad's postbag was leather and it smelled of rain for thirty years. Never knew gloves got the perfume treatment. Barmbrack and turnip lanterns before the pumpkinsTurnip lanterns, yes. My da's always smelled scorched by the end of the night. Resin, rose, tonka: a perfume timeline you can smellTonka smells like the hay barn at my uncle's. Didn't expect that from a bean. Bog road after the rain, wet stone and mossTurf smoke and wet stone. That's my granny's road in Offaly, every word of it. Bog road heather gone rust and still honeyedTurf smoke and heather, that's every walk of my childhood right there.