They’re known as ‘travelling moments’. Those special parts of a journey or a holiday that enliven the senses, instantly opening a new box file in a part of your brain that will only ever passingly be re-opened by a sniff, sound or sight of something reminiscent of the original moment.
These typically include the first glimpse of a renowned landmark or a sunset somewhere, the sound of haunting tranquility or the hustle and bustle or, yes, maybe even the unmistakeable smell of those Tuareg campfires.

I don’t whether you’re meant to get this at home, does it count? I reckon I experienced something approaching a ‘travelling moment’ earlier today.

An early errand in the delightful April morning. The last throes of an endless winter are evident in the chill breeze and on the conquered frosted roofs of the passing cars. Meanwhile, the sun blazes defiantly, ushering in the belated season upon the tardy woodland and rolling brown frustration of farmers’ fields.
The commuter-less roads are on half-day as the exec cars sweep past. Foreign lorries mope along on, belching fumes haplessly while the middle lane is pockmarked by patchy pilots on their bi-annual weekend use of the big road.

Job done, I’m sallying back to base. As an early Blur album rambles to its murmured conclusion, my mind is invigorated by thoughts of a handsome omelette and the huge pot of black coffee that I’ll never get round to luxuriate in. From the depths of this relaxation comes the sound of a soaring synthesiser which in turn is joined by organ, bass guitar and drums.
Galvanised by this unfolding musical brilliance, my senses heighten, my right foot gets heavier and my beloved old Golf matches Rog’s vocals by cranking into life and giving it the big one down the fifth-full motorway.

A ‘travelling moment’ with little travelled. There’s not much that can match the exhilaration of a sunny spring morning in dear old Blighty.