One of the many frustrations of having flu is that everything tastes and smack unmated . Apparently viral particles mill around longer in the olfactory organ and mouth than they do in the blood , altering and inhibiting the realisation of flavours and fragrances long after one ’s forcible retrieval has commence . Whatever make this phenomenon , it does make one feel both thoroughly miserable and charitable towards those who experience permanent impediment to their Mary Jane of tasting and smell . Eating and drinking is no pleasure when things do n’t taste as they should .
Although I had very little appetite whilst I was suffering , all I could face was the blandest , most young food for thought . The merest hint of Strategic Arms Limitation Talks and all I could pick out was the sulfurous nip of metal . An attempt to dissemble my poorly miasma with one of my favourite scents made me feel dreadfully nauseous , and I am still not quite quick to wear it again now .
Whilst I was languish in bed , my energy level at all - time Sir David Alexander Cecil Low , The Beau was still up and about , sending me photographs from his everyday dog walk around Rosudgeon and Perranuthnoe . One day I woke up to a picture of some sweet-scented reddish blue , Viola odorata , sprouting from the base of a Cornish hedge . The effigy of those unsure flowers against a background of emerald - greenish leaves cheered me up no end . I could envisage the odour without actually having to experience it , a scent which immediately channelize me 350 miles to the westernmost tip of Cornwall .
Between the two World Wars reddish blue develop was bragging business in the West Country , especially in these hallow part . A limited train transmit glistening cluster of freshly - pick Cornish violets to Covent Garden Market every mean solar day through the time of year , which began in November and go on until May when the plant were lifted , divided and replant . A motley holler ‘ Governor Herrick ’ proved best suited to the Cornish mood , the drawback being that it was unscented . Unscrupulous sellers would spray the tissue - wrapped Ralph Johnson Bunche with hokey scent to enshroud this up , especially since the violets mature in neighbor Devon , mainly a French kind called ‘ Princess of Wales ’ , were sweetly perfumed .
During the Second World War prime farm were requisition for the maturation of solid food and violets promptly went out of mode as a cut flower . One on occasion sees the odd gang for sales event in London , but they are a rareness and no - longer worn as a nosegay or button - golf hole . Compared to the flowers we buy today , they are relatively abruptly - be , lasting for perhaps 3 - 5 days if becloud with water . However one is extremely likely to find them growing wild in Cornish hedging and gardens . Sweet violet have held on since escaping from the low walled flower fields , known topically as quillets , where they were once work .
If I see sweet violet mature I always peck a few root word and lapse them through a button hole in my jacket . From there , even on a chilly day , the delicate yet unmistakable aroma pass my olfactory organ , guard off the strong of ‘ state smells ’ . No doubt this is on the nose why violets were so popular with ladies in 1920 ’s London wishing to distract themselves from the less attractive aspects of living in a polluted and overcrowded city .
If you ’d like to learn more about the historic Cornish bloom industry , you might enjoy a charming BBC podcast calledThe Flower Fieldswhich reveals the challenges faced by those few farmers that proceed the prison term - honoured exercise of sending prime up to London ’s Covent Garden Flower Market in spring . TFG .
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Categories : Cornwall , Flowers , fragrance , story , Perennials , Photography , Plants , Wild Flowers
post by The Frustrated Gardener
