Every voice in the archive.

My grandmother's garden was full of herbs and currants. You could hide between the bean poles. The smell of the earth after rain stays with me.

My grandmother's garden ran down to the sea. Roses, mint, and rhubarb. I can still smell the salt in the wind and the warm earth of the vegetable beds.

My grandmother's garden was small but full. Beans, a ditch, and a pear tree. In summer everything smelled of pears, and a little of the water in the ditch.

Grandmother had a herb garden — sage, thyme, rosemary. She always said: a garden must smell before it looks.

Apple trees and beans grew in my grandmother's garden. In summer it was a green tunnel between the rows. I always smelled tomatoes and earth.

My grandmother's garden had geraniums and sorrel leaves. And peach trees — so many peaches we gave them to the neighbours. The smell of peaches in the afternoons.

I remember my mother's hands smelled of soap and dough. When she hugged me, I always smelled her. Hands that smelled of work, of home.

My mother's hands were rough from working in the stable. But when she tucked me in at night they felt soft and smelled of soap.

My mother's hands always smelled of soap and butter from cooking. Sometimes of the garden, of thyme. In the evening I could smell her hands on the sheet.

My mother's hands smelled of soap and flour. They were always busy — bread, washing, mending. When she tucked me in, her hands smelled of lavender water.

My mother's hands smelled of soap and butter. Sometimes also of the garden — of earth and the herbs she picked. In the evening I could smell her hands on the sheet.

My mother's hands were rough from doing the laundry, but in the evening when she stroked my hair they felt soft. They smelled of lavender.

My mother's hands smelled of soap and flour, sometimes of the garden — of earth and herbs. When she tucked me in at night, her scent stayed on the pillow.

My mother's hands were small but strong. She always smelled of earth and herbs, especially in summer when she worked in the garden. I remember her hands on my hair.

Sunday morning was the sound of the wagoners' church bells far across the mountain. My mother made porridge and we sat in silence while my father read the Bible.

On Sunday morning the whole house smelled of coffee and fried eggs. My father read the newspaper, my mother sang while she set the table.

Sunday morning was quiet. First the church bells in the distance, then the bread from the oven and the voice of my mother humming the psalm under her breath.

Sunday morning was the smell of bacon and the sound of church bells across the dales. My father read the paper, my mother hummed in the kitchen.

Sunday morning was very quiet. First the birds, then the church bells across the water. Mother made porridge and we sat together at the table.

Sunday morning was quiet. The church bells in the distance, the bread from the oven, and my mother singing softly in the background.

The bread was round, crusty outside and soft inside. My grandmother baked it every Friday in the outdoor oven. The whole yard smelled wonderful.

The bread was dark and large, a whole week on the table. My mother baked it every Tuesday. The smell of fresh bread and flour on her apron.

The bread was a great round loaf, baked twice a week in the wood-fired oven. The smell filled the whole cottage — it's what I remember most from my childhood.

The bread was big and heavy. The baker came every week with his horse. The whole house smelled of fresh bread and cake all of Tuesday.

The bread was dark and heavy, a whole loaf for the week. My father fetched it from the baker — the smell hung in the house all of Sunday.

The bread was made from wheat my father ground himself. Dark, strong, with salt. We ate it with butter and jam — every day the smell was the same.