Fragrance glossary

On page 49 of August's The Simple Things, we enter the world of independent, small scale perfume makers. Flick through the feature for a handful of indie perfumers that are trying something different, and read on for our fragrance glossary.

Good to nose: Fancy fragrance-related words explained

Accord

This is where magic happens. A perfume’s accord is a blend of individual notes that lose their own identity to create an entirely new scent.

Ambergris

Made from a digestive secretion found in sperm whales (although much more likely to be synthetic today), ambergris, or amber as it is often called, is woody and sweet.

Base note

The deep, lasting scent of a perfume. It’s what you’re paying for, so make sure it lasts.

Chypre

In 1917, Coty launched their fragrance, Chypre, inspired by the island of Cyprus. It was so popular that it’s now the term used to describe woody and mossy scents.

Drydown

That lingering residue of scent that stays on your scarf for days.

Fougère

French for ‘fern’, this term refers to herbaceous plants – lavender, coumarin and oakmoss. It’ll make you think of the French countryside in the sunshine.

Gourmand perfumes

So good, you could eat them. These evoke the smell of food such as vanilla, honey and chocolate.

Middle note

The heart and dominant fragrance of the perfume – like the main film after the trailers.

Sillage

The glorious aerila trail of scent that a perfume leaves behind. We all want a perfume that does this, even though it’s not something you can smell on yourself.

Toilette

This is your everyday fragrance that’s a little easier to wear than eau de parfum.

Top note

The first burst of a fragrance, the moment it has been spritzed. This is what you smell in the shop, so hang out with your perfume for a while before you buy.

Vetiver

A green, mossy fragrance that’s often at the heart of a woody scent. Every perfume house has a vetiver perfume, and they are not all created equal, so shop around.

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What I treasure | My walking boots

It’s strange to think that my most treasured possession is a pair of boots that are so actively ignored when I don’t need them. Usually, accidental steps in hidden bogs that cause stagnant water to seep inside is the reason for their being left in the boot of the car. Always with a pledge of a deep clean and oil, but so often exchanged for a brisk bash in the car park to get rid of the biggest clods of mud before the next walk.

These boots are older than I am. Worn in for 15 years by my mum and then passed down to me, the tricky size five-and-a-halfs have been moulded to fit from a constant cycle of damp fields, sea salt and mossy woodland paths. The laces have grown plump and awkward, sometimes stubbornly immovable through rusting eyelets and the promise of drying them out after long walks.

When I was seven or eight, I plodded alongside Mum, who wore them then, on the farm we stayed at every year; a little girl who held onto her mother’s little finger. I’d pull the grass seeds from their husks and scatter them like chicken seed. When I was ten, these boots would run away from the waves and dry with a sea salt line when we didn’t escape the swash in time. When camping, they held my tiny feet as I fetched water but couldn’t be bothered to pull on my own shoes, instead shuffling across the heath to a tap, sloshing the kettle all the way back until half of what was collected remained.

They took us through summers spent in Herefordshire: soles worn from two decades of pushing down on spades and forks to lift onions – and from standing for a photo in front of the same spot of a pine forest, year after year; a family tradition that saw my brother and I grow tall with the saplings. They were mine after new waterproofing deemed Mum’s leather boots second best. Yes, they always let the water in; yes, they barely support my ankles, but they bear the marks of a love of the outdoors that bloomed in the hills of the Brecon Beacons and along the shores of North Norfolk. They’ve taken me up mountains and down valleys when
I couldn’t afford boots of my own.

The ritual of wearing thick hiking socks and sliding into Mum’s walking boots is a kindred moment. I always send her a picture of wherever me and the boots have been; a digital scrapbook that continues the photo albums stored on the family bookshelf. They are the anticipation and adventure that pulls me away from concrete and carpet. Well used. Well loved. Irreplaceable.

We’d like to know what you treasure - whether it’s a sentimental artefact, a person, a place or something else. Tell us in 500 words what means a lot to you - email thesimplethings@icebergpress.co.uk

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Think | Sixth sense

Natural navigator Tristan Gooley explains how sixth sense can help us appreciate the world around us

It’s possible to achieve a level of outdoors awareness that, although once common, is now so rare that many would label it a ‘sixth sense’. This is the practised ability to draw conclusions from all of the evidence presented to our senses almost without thinking. It is not mysterious but expert intuition, a honed ability to join the dots offered by our senses to complete a fuller picture of our environment. Once you know how, it is easy to sense direction from stars and plants, forecast weather from woodland sounds, and predict the next action of an animal from its body language – instantly.

At the most basic level, we have not entirely lost these skills. Imagine you wake in a room that is perfectly dark, thanks to heavy curtains, and hear a cockerel crowing outside. It may not take any conscious thought to appreciate that it is growing light outside. The dog’s bark at the usual time tells us that the postman is arriving. But these examples are infantile compared to what our minds are capable of outdoors. But how do we know it is retrievable? Because a few individuals have held on to these skills; indigenous tribespeople, expert hunters and fishermen...

I have sat with Dayak tribespeople in Borneo as they explained that a deer would appear over the brow of a hill, and was amazed moments later when my eyes met those of a muntjac in the predicted spot. After careful discussion it became clear that the Dayak were subconsciously tuned to the relationship between the salt on a rock, the bees, the water, the time of day and the clearing in the forest, all of which suggested deer would come to lick salt at that time.

Remnants of this ability can be found in our relationship with domesticated animals. When you’re walking a dog in a city park, it’s fairly easy to tell from the way it turns whether the person approaching from behind has a dog with them or not. Time spent enjoying this way of experiencing the outdoors helps us to begin rebuilding our lost sixth sense. And if we make this a regular part of our outdoors experience, we soon find that our brain takes over, forging shortcuts and allowing us to draw conclusions without conscious thought. We sense a dog behind us, and we sense that the weather will be fine tomorrow. It is only a small leap from that to sensing what we will find round a corner or what an animal will do next.

For the past few years, I have been researching ways we can develop this sense. Central to this are the ‘keys’, a collection of patterns and events in nature worth our attention. We notice a shape in a tree or cloud and pair that with its meaning and very soon we don’t have to think it through – we just sense the meaning. In the same way, we can watch animals and learn to appreciate the key stages in their body language. It is unbelievably satisfying to be able to predict what a squirrel or robin will do next.

To get started, try playing ‘Grandma’s Footsteps’ with a bird on a lawn. Notice how you can take a few steps towards your bird when its head is down and it’s pecking. But if you try this when its head is up, it flies off. Practise this simple little game a few times and you’ll have learned your first ‘key’ - I call it ‘The Peek’. Add a few more keys and you’ll soon be predicting not just when the bird will fly off, but the tree it will fly to and what it will do when it gets there.

Very little in our surroundings is random and, with a little practice, we can learn to sense things that we may find astonishing. Understanding how and why this happens opens a new, and very old, way of experiencing our environment. It is a more radical experience of the outdoors than has been common for centuries.

Tristan is author of Wild Signs and Star Paths: the Keys to our Lost Sense (Sceptre). Read more at naturalnavigator.com.

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Listen | Songs about swimming

Grab your cossie, we’re going for a dip

Listen to our songs about swimming playlist now.

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Six amazing sea creatures

The seas around the UK are home to creatures as wondrous as any found in more exotic waters

Long-snouted seahorse (Hippocampus guttulatus)

With its protruding spines, downward gaze and prehensile tail, this most beguiling fish looks like a shy, prehistoric ghost. Floating upright, it hangs motionless waiting for its prey to pass, which it then sucks up through its long snout. Found in seagrass habitats from Scotland to Dorset.

Moon jellyfish (Aurelia aurita)

Most often seen when masses, known as a ‘bloom’, are washed up on the beach. Which is a shame, as they look most beautiful floating in transparent clusters. Moon jellyfish can grow up to 40cm in diameter and have short hairy tentacles that hang from their dome like a fringe. They are mostly harmless, though may sting sensitive skin. 

Brittle star (Ophiothrix fragilis)

This elegant starfish has long slender arms which they can cleverly self-amputate if being attacked; the arms regrow. Brittle stars prefer to live in great gangs (called ‘aggregations’) on the sea bed, their arms raised to catch plankton; can number up to 1,500 per square metre. Usually in deep water but sometimes under boulders and in rockpools.

Snakelocks anemone (Anemonia viridis)

Unlike other anemones, Snakelocks anemone’s bright-green tentacles remain out all the time: all the better to sting and capture small fish. They can be found on the seabed, attached to large seaweeds, and in sunny rockpools, where their flowing tentacles with their purple tips sift through the passing currents.

Goose barnacle (Lepas anatifera) 

Attached to rocks and other objects by a long black penduncle and with a chalky white shell which opens to reveal spiky fronds, this unusual creature has an alien-like quality. 

Spiny spider crab (Maja squinado) 

Often disguised by seaweed and sponges that grow all over it, this large knobbly crustacean has long-jointed legs, small claws and spiky shell. It can be found in South and West England and its sustainable numbers mean it’s increasingly eaten in the UK, although most are exported to France and Spain.

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Bookshare campaign | Bookplates

On page 24 of July’s The Simple Things, we introduce our Bookshare campaign

How it works:

1 Choose a book to pass on.

2 Find a place you’d like to leave it.

3 Stick one of our book plates in the first page.

4 Write in your name, date and where you’re leaving it.

5 Leave it for someone else to enjoy.

6 Share socially: say where you left it and tag @simplethingsmag on Instagram.

DOWNLOAD OUR BOOKPLATES

You’ll be able to print them at home, A4 size, to cut and paste into your books.

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Listen | Songs of faraway places

Yearning for some foreign travel? Let the music transport you

Listen to our faraway places playlists now.

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250 years of the circus | Five famous clowns

To mark 250 years of the circus, we wonder at its feats, honk its red nose and cheer at its colourful past - turn to page 90 of June's The Simple Things

Five of the most famous clowns

Joseph Grimaldi 1778–1837
Not strictly a circus clown (he performed mainly in panto), but deserving of a mention as he was the first to sport ‘whiteface’ and a red smile, and is known as ‘the father of modern clowning’.

Grock 1880–1959
A Swiss acrobat, Charles Wettach started as a clown in 1903. He left the circus to perform in music halls instead, subverting the form, as someone who ran away from the circus rather than to it.

Emmett Kelly 1898–1979
American, Kelly, clowned as ‘Weary Willie’, a character based on the ‘hobos’ of the depression era. His son, Emmett Kelly Junior later continued the act.

Charlie Cairoli 1910–1980
French clown of Italian descent, Charlie began clowning at the age of seven as ‘Carletto’ and later worked at Blackpool Tower’s circus for 40 years.

Lou Jacobs 1903–1992
The first ‘Auguste’ clown (the ‘red’ clown types with big shoes, lairy trousers and orange wigs), Lou Jacobs is credited with popularising the ‘clown car’ and also being the first to sport a red rubber ball as a nose.

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How to stay up late (without the aid of matchsticks)

Getting less than seven to eight hours’ sleep a night isn’t great for our bodies. But, if you want to stay up for midsummer revelry, these will lessen the damage

Get prepped
Increase sleep leading up to the big night. On the day, have a nap in the afternoon.

On the night
Drink lots of water
Use caffeine carefully – in smaller, regular doses rather than huge cups.
Practise deep breathing (see The Simple Things January 2018 for a guide).
Eye drops are your friend versus tiring, dry eyes. Resting with eyes closed for 10 minutes also helps.
Keep moving - Extra points for mingling or dancing.
Step into the light - Bright light fools the body that it’s not yet bedtime.
Snack on foods that provide long-lasting energy, such as peanut butter, Greek yogurt or apples.

Next day
Don’t drive or operate machinery when drowsy.
Have lots of water and fresh fruit and vegetables... and an early night!

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Summer horoscopes | Gemini

The start of a new season is a natural time of transition, where we pause to reflect and plan for the next phase of the year. Astrologer Donna Taylor looks at the coming season in your star sign and offers her guidance on how to find balance and contentment in the months ahead.

Gemini

21 May – 21 June

“Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?” asks Canadian author Danielle LaPorte.

We all need to recharge sometimes and the Sun’s journey through your sign in June is your chance to replenish your spirit by honouring your needs and engaging in pastimes that plug you into the universal battery. August builds on this theme of time out as Mercury goes retrograde, so whether you schedule a regular massage, daily meditation or creative hobby, know that this isn’t so much a time for pushing out into the world, but a time to reflect and heal, physically and emotionally.

Turn to page 126 of the June issue for the other twelve star signs.

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The Titanic | A liner to remember

The sinking of the Titanic in 1912 is one of the world’s most famous tragedies, with the loss of around 1,500 lives. “As the first major international disaster in peacetime, it generated a huge interest,” says Eric Kentley, co-curator of ‘Titanic Stories’ at National Maritime Museum, Cornwall. “Not just in America, Britain and Ireland, but also in Scandinavia and the Baltic countries. No area seemed to be untouched.” But it continues to fascinate.

As Kentley points out, “Few people have heard about the Doña Paz or the Wilhelm Gustloff, which are far worse tragedies.” The reason, he thinks, is “partly because it is so rich in stories.” He explains: “In the two hours 40 minutes it took for the ship to sink, you can see every type of human behaviour – self-sacrifice, self-preservation, bravery, cowardice, duty, incompetence... It’s very easy to imagine ourselves on the deck of that ship and wonder how we would behave.”

Some positives did emerge from the disaster, however, such as a re-examination of safety measures at sea. And, for the QE2, a perhaps surprising surge in bookings following the release of the James Cameron film.

‘Ocean Liners: Speed and Style’, sponsored by Viking Cruises, is at the V&A until 17 June, and opens at the Dundee V&A on 15 September. ‘Titanic Stories' is at National Maritime Museum, Cornwall until 7 January 2019.

Turn to page 86 of May's The Simple Things for more on our look back at ocean liners.
 

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Listen | Music that makes us dance

“Dancing helps relieve the pain
Soothes your mind, makes you happy again”

Listen to our dance playlist now.

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Find your natural strength

Treating resilience not as an innate quality, but as a skill to be practised and nurtured, allows you to make lemonade whenever life throws you lemons

The Finnish word sisu refers to a mix of courage, resilience, grit and ‘guts’. In her new book Sisu: The Finnish Art of Courage (Gaia), Joanna Nylund explains how the Finns’ close connection with the weather and nature has played a crucial role in forging the resilient nature of the people. “Living in Finland means living with sharp contrasts,” she says. “It is the extremes that rule our lives – from gritting our teeth and summoning our sisu at the approach of winter to celebrating the eagerly anticipated summer with a devotion to the sun that most closely resembles Celtic worship.”

After that long, hard winter, the Finns’ summer ritual is more about celebrating discomfort than luxury hotels or even glamping. In late June, the country collectively withdraws from everyday life and heads out into nature, spending a few weeks in a mökki (summer cabin). The cabin will have a fireplace and cooking facilities, but rarely central heating – and sometimes no electricity or running water.

“Squatting by the lake to wash your dishes in cold water is so romantic!” says Nylund, who explains how their ancestors grew resilient through hardship. “We are modern people living in a modern world, but at heart we are still rural, and we love our sometimes harsh environment. It has given us our sisu.”

Nature is grounding, it teaches self-sufficiency and spending time in it boosts self-esteem. You don’t have to spend four weeks in a cabin – start by spending a bit of time outdoors every day, read and learn a little about the nature around you, dabble in being more self-sufficient by growing a few veg or salad leaves in your garden, spend a night under canvas, and go from there.

Turn to page 92 of May's The Simple Things for more of our feature on How to bounce back.
 

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Processions | 100 years of votes for women

On 10 June walk to mark 100 years of votes for women. With handmade banners and wearing the suffragette colours of green, white and violet, marchers will form a river of colour through London, Cardiff, Belfast and Edinburgh. Details at processions.co.uk

PROCESSIONS is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to take part in a mass participation artwork to celebrate one hundred years of votes for women. In 1918, the Representation of the People Act gave the first British women the right to vote and stand for public office. One hundred years on, we are inviting women* and girls across the UK to come and mark this historic moment as part of a living portrait of women in the 21st century.

On Sunday 10th of June, women and girls in Belfast, Cardiff, Edinburgh and London will walk together as part of this celebratory mass participation artwork. Wearing either green, white or violet, the colours of the suffrage movement, the PROCESSIONS will appear as a flowing river of colour through the city streets.

One hundred women artists are being commissioned to work with organisations and communities across the UK to create one hundred centenary banners for PROCESSIONS as part of an extensive public programme of creative workshops.

Sign up: processions.co.uk

DON'T MISS: Next month, we look at why women march, plus how to make your own banner or pennant. All in the June issue (on sale 30 May).

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Being boring

There's much more to boredom than watching paint dry, says aficionado of the dull, James Ward

Boringness is easy to embrace. Slow down. Read Species of Spaces by George Perec. Go for a walk without a destination. Write things down. Don’t start with an end goal in mind, just see where things take you. Once you’ve landed on something, go and read the Wikipedia page about it. Then look at what else the people who edited that page also edited and read those, and so on. Before you know it, it’s three weeks later and you’re obsessed with something you didn’t even know existed at the start of the month.

When you’re on train or a bus, everyone is in a cocoon staring at their phone. I’m loath to be judgmental about people’s relationship with technology. Someone could be playing Sudoku, the person next to them could be reading the New York Times, or a new novel. Someone might be listening to a podcast about wooden palettes or emailing their best friend on the other side of the world. What we do need sometimes is time out from the constant updates and notifications. This is what stops you exploring. Having a day off from that is good.

I always say about Boring, that “nothing of any importance will be discussed”. The conference is a day away from people’s hot takes, where things are just a little bit smaller.

Turn to page 92 of April's The Simple Things for more from James Ward and his Boring Conference.

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Listen | Music for train journeys

Choo, choo! Get your ticket and climb on board

Listen to our train journey playlist now.

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What I treasure | My kayak

My kayak is a bright, cerulean blue, and sturdy, with smooth, solid curves. When I see photos of me in it, I look different, somehow – alone, strong, adventurous. This person, paddle slicing through glassy water, is free. She can take off on a whim, cope with whatever is thrown at her, and is always on the cusp of discovering something new – a hidden cove, a shoal of darting mackerel, a secret house only glimpsed from the sea. This person knows exactly where she is going, isn’t lost in the day to day.

My husband bought it for me after a hospital stay. Me, clock-watching as his 30-minute operation became four hours, words muttered about haemorrhaging, cauterising, complications. When he finally emerged, he still wasn’t well. I remember the nurse’s flushed face, the young doctor’s shaking hand as it dawned things weren’t quite going to plan. I’d never faced death like that, right in the eye. What scared me was how lonely it was – my husband was the one I turned to in a crisis, but this time the crisis was him. My stomach dipped as I thought about our two young daughters. What would I tell them?

But he made it through, and after, there was a freedom about him – something loose,
untethered. We did the things we’d only talked about before, dreams we’d squirrelled away inside our heads – took the risky job, adopted the kitten my daughter wanted (not just one but two), bought the kayak I’d been coveting.

There’s something primal about paddling. It feels ancient, the rhythm of it. I’m part of the water, literally feeling it, its movements, as it resists the paddle stroke by stroke. So low on the water, without the grumble or whine of a motor – the birds mistake me for one of them. They arc through the sky, or sit perched on a nearby rock, feathers slick with water. Cormorants dive headfirst into the waves right in front of me, reappear a minute later, black heads gleaming.

I chart the changing seasons from the water, and I’ve learnt that the sea has its own topography. I now know where the rocks are, crusty with barnacles, just jutting out of the water, and where the beds of sea grass hide, the swathes of seaweed – gelatinous green ropes and brown fern-like growths that loop around the paddle.

I can’t wait to show my daughters this world, but I’ll still kayak alone – remembering why we bought it, to become the person I am inside my head.

We’d like to know what you treasure - whether it’s a sentimental artefact, a person, a place or something else. Tell us in 500 words what means a lot to you - email thesimplethings@icebergpress.co.uk

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What I treasure | My hand-written recipe book

Among my collection of recipe books is a special one with a plain, blue cover. It’s filled as much with unforgettable moments as it is with edible delights. Whenever I flick through its pages, I find myself back in 1986. I’m 17 and living with a family in Belgrade in what is now Serbia. At that time, it was the capital of the ‘non-aligned socialist republic’ of Yugoslavia: neither Western nor fully behind the ‘Iron Curtain’.

My strongest memory is of sitting at the table in the hallway that doubled as a dining room in my host family’s flat, noting down recipes in my notebook. Most were ones my host mother, Marija, taught me to cook. We had little shared language and cookery was an activity we could do together without words. Weighing, chopping, stirring, and rolling could all be done by watching or gesturing to each other.

I wrote down some of the recipes in English, others in Serbo-Croatian, occasionally a mix of the two. Many only detail rough quantities: three cups of flour, two cups of sugar, one of oil and large amounts of eggs (10 or 12 is not unusual). There are smudges and stains showing where ingredients strayed onto the page.

Marija’s cooking was different from what I knew from home, restricted by shortages imposed by a communist state. Food was strictly seasonal and local. Special dishes stood out because they were a rare treat.

On birthdays and important holidays, Marija would spend hours making cakes or savoury bakes from scratch. Filo-pastry filled with spicy ground meat or salty cheese; a strawberry cake with whipped cream that will forever be the best I’ve tasted; and plum dumplings so juicy that they burst in my mouth at first bite.

I still make these dishes, and just looking at the list of ingredients sends me back to a specific moment in time. The little chocolate, cream-filled išleri biscuits Marija made for my 18th birthday. The cinnamon-scented apple cake she baked to celebrate her son’s return from military service. The simple delight of a pile of pancakes filled with rosehip jam on a cold winter’s night.

I treasure my recipe book for many reasons – for the memories it contains and the fact that, woven into every page, are recipes for a good life as well as fabulous food.

We’d like to know what you treasure - whether it’s a sentimental artefact, a person, a place or something else. Tell us in 500 words what means a lot to you - email thesimplethings@icebergpress.co.uk

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History of the t-shirt

The t-shirt evolved from 19th-century underwear. Light, well fitted and easily washed, it became popular as a bottom layer of clothing for workers and those in the armed forces, and made its first written appearance in 1920, in F Scott Fitzgerald’s debut novel, This Side of Paradise. The first printed t-shirt ever worn publicly is believed to be an Air Corps Gunnery School t-shirt, which appeared on the cover of LIFE magazine in 1942. While in 1938, an American marketing campaign argued that “you don’t need to be a soldier to have your own personal t-shirt”, the style really took off thanks to film appearances on Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire (1951) and James Dean in 1955’s Rebel Without a Cause. They’ve been worn by everyone, from heartthrobs to more normal types since.

Turn to page 80 of the March issue for more on the T-shirt and how much it says about who we are, what we believe and where we belong. 

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Listen | Songs from the movies

Our favourite songs from the movies.

Listen to our movie soundtrack playlist now.

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