In the 1950s my father was caretaker of a TA (Territorial Army)centre where we lived on site.

There was a large area of rough grass which he cut with a sythe so he could use the hay as bedding for his chickens and rabbits but sometimes my brother and I would gather the grass into mounds to play in. If it had not had time to dry the grass would begin to "turn". The delicious new-mown-hay smell soon became one of musty fermentation. That smell reminds me of being 7 years old.

Dad, before he got his electric clippers, would spend several hours cutting the tall privet hedges with hand shears. It is a sound rarely heard nowadays, that steady clip clip of a hedge being cut by hand. But I still enjoy the smell of flowering privet on a sunny evening. It takes me straight back to the treasured time of my early childhood before he had his stroke and was unable to do manual work again.