Madeleines, famously, did it for Proust. One bite of the delicious little hump-backed, buttery breakfast cakes immediately whisked the French James Joyce back in time to his childhood in his aunt Léonie’s house, filled with the smell of freshly baked madeleines.
For others, it can be the opening bars of an old hit that immediately unlock teenage memories of every lyric, every drumbeat. Or it can be a scent – walking through a trail of perfume in an airport that reminds you of your mum, of an old flame, or maybe of your aunt Léonie. Or maybe Lucy.
Right now, I’m like good old Proust, chowing down on a whole plateful of automotive madeleines. The road has just opened up – a dry, warm and temptingly sinuous B-road, which has unfortunately been blocked for the last several miles by a vanilla crossover, going about its own business at that annoying speed that is just far enough below the speed limit to be a bit frustrating, but a touch too fast to just squirt past easily. But, finally, here’s a safe chance to despatch it – not quite a straight, but the kind of straight-ish kink that gives you clear vision to start the overtake, even though you know you will be unsighted halfway through the manoeuvre and will have to keep the faith and the throttle pinned to complete it safely.
