Quince in autumn

 

This glowing quince is the latest small masterpiece by Julian Merrow-Smith - autumn encapsulated in warm greys and defiant yellow with scattered leaves. If you haven't discovered his Postcard from Provence showcase of his daily paintings, you must, and tout de suite.

 

It reminded me that I was going to report back on our quinces left in a bowl in the hall, and whether the dying fruit really did release a sweet aroma. The idea was that we would be welcomed by the natural perfume of coconut and pear, guava, musk and violet, perhaps even a hint of rose. Here's the post: The fragrance of quince.

 

Well...sad to say the experiment was not an overwhelming success. We travelled more in hope than expectation, and though the quinces have wrinkled prettily, there's not a great deal of scent. When I hold the fruit right up to my nose there's a delicately pleasant smell of pear - perhaps with a hint of ginger - but that's about it. Perhaps some quinces are more powerful than others and these are just not the right type. Still, worth trying. And the bushy tree did look beautiful in the spring.

 

I'd love to hear from anyone who has managed to achieve a room full of fragrance this way.

 

  

The fragrance of quince



The end of summer hangs in the air. Streams of heavily-laden cars are heading north and the narrow streets seem to breathe a sigh of relief. On Radio Nostalgie, wistful growlers sing songs of love left at the beach and memories of balmy nights that will have to last the winter.

As we too pack up to leave, I've picked some quinces from the garden and placed them in a bowl. The quince is a brutish-looking fruit: a cross between a hard, knobby pear and a crab apple with a covering of soft fur, a neanderthal in the fruit world. But its fragrance is renowned; the skin of fresh quince is said to scent rooms for weeks with a perfume of milky coconut and pear, guava and musk and violet. Floral tones are there too, as is fitting for a fruit that is related to the rose.

I have tried before, in a half-hearted way, by placing one fruit on a stone mantlepiece. But we stayed away too long that time, and all we came back to were browning, mouldy remains. For the best results, apparently, two to three quinces should be placed in a bowl. That's all there is to it. I'll let you know whether we find ourselves opening the door on our return to a lushly-perfumed hall.