The Scent of Home: Wild Garlic and Memory

There's something about wild garlic that stops me in my tracks. Its pungent scent instantly transports me back to home and walking through Castle Eden Dene with my parents. This ancient woodland ravine, carved through limestone and boulder clay by persistent streams making their way to the North Sea, holds some of my most precious memories.

Castle Eden Dene is remarkable - the largest stretch of semi-natural woodland in Northeast England, largely untouched by human hands thanks to its steep, untameable valley sides. But it's the spring display that really takes my breath away. That's when the woodland floor transforms into an endless carpet of wild garlic, its distinctive aroma filling every corner of the dene.

My mother fell in love with this spectacle. Living in our modest council house in the neighbouring village, she dreamed of bringing a piece of the dene's magic to our own small garden. One day, she carefully dug up a single wild garlic plant and took it home. What started as that solitary plant grew into something remarkable over the years. The wild garlic thrived, spreading through her flower borders until each spring brought its own miniature version of the dene's display - starbursts of white flowers floating above broad, soft leaves. The plants were unstoppable, even attempting to claim the lawn as their territory. Their show was brief but brilliant, making way for my mother's other carefully chosen plants as spring melted into summer.

I can no longer visit that little garden, but experiencing wild garlic in the former industrial sites I document has become my time machine. Some people might just smell garlic, but I smell love, memory, and the persistent beauty of wild things finding their place in the world.