Surrounding the garden of our house when I was a child was a lilac hedge. In the south-eastern corner, near the twisted old apple tree, where the lilacs grew especially tall and dense, was my favourite place. At the base between two bushes was a small opening, just large enough for a small child to crawl through; it opened up into a bower of sorts, a little den, which became my secret hiding place.
Surrounded by the intoxicating scent of the lilacs, I would play house; and later, reading whichever book I had on the go, whilst sucking the nectar from each of the tiny flower-ettes.
25 years have passed since my parents sold the house with the lilac hedge, yet every year when they are in bloom, I am transported back in time, their scent ensuring that a part of me remains firmly rooted in that garden. Their roots and mine are tightly intertwined, reminding me of the long, carefree summer days of my childhood.