In english “petrihcor“ was coined in 1964 by Australian scientists: Bear and Thomas. The word comes from Ancient Greek pétra ‘rock’ and ichór ‘ethereal fluid’, blood of the gods.
The scent is as wonderful as it is undescribable, it can best be explained through poetry.
The scent varies depending on which type of soil is wet by the rain.
Each of us has a specific memory of having experienced that scent.
My experience with it brings my soul a strong feeling of belonging, one that talks about my land, my Liguria.
In english “petrihcor“ was coined in 1964 by Australian scientists: Bear and Thomas. The word comes from Ancient Greek pétra ‘rock’ and ichór ‘ethereal fluid’, blood of the gods.
The scent is as wonderful as it is undescribable, it can best be explained through poetry.
The scent varies depending on which type of soil is wet by the rain.
Each of us has a specific memory of having experienced that scent.
My experience with it brings my soul a strong feeling of belonging, one that talks about my land, my Liguria.
As a kid, my grandfather used to take me to what I believe was his favorite olive grove: Cà Sottane. There was a large rectangular water tank where he kept the trout, an odd thing to do, given that most wells in the countryside were round and uninhabited. Last summer I went back to Cà Sottane by myself. I retraced my childhood, its flavors, its smells. The summer adventures of when we came back home soaked after a storm had taken us by surprise. It was then, immersed in these memories, I found what I had lost.
As a kid, my grandfather used to take me to what I believe was his favorite olive grove: Cà Sottane. There was a large rectangular water tank where he kept the trout, an odd thing to do, given that most wells in the countryside were round and uninhabited. Last summer I went back to Cà Sottane by myself. I retraced my childhood, its flavors, its smells. The summer adventures of when we came back home soaked after a storm had taken us by surprise. It was then, immersed in these memories, I found what I had lost.
My grandfather is gone and so are the trout, all that is left is a lemon and a fig tree.
I wondered why he had planted those fruit trees in that specific spot, in the middle of nowhere in between the olive trees. After a while I discovered that old farmers, during the summer, used to bring with them some bread and salami to eat. They used to drink from the wells and added some lemon to the water and for some sugar they used to eat ripe figs. Nowadays we carry our water bottle, pick the lemons only when we remember and more often than not let the figs rot.
This is also a type of abandonment: willingly forgetting recent history. I don’t want to do it, instead I want to cultivate this land of stones, pebbles and fragments. I want to take what it can offer me, to not forget, to not waste but to value it.
My grandfather is gone and so are the trout, all that is left is a lemon and a fig tree.
I wondered why he had planted those fruit trees in that specific spot, in the middle of nowhere in between the olive trees. After a while I discovered that old farmers, during the summer, used to bring with them some bread and salami to eat. They used to drink from the wells and added some lemon to the water and for some sugar they used to eat ripe figs. Nowadays we carry our water bottle, pick the lemons only when we remember and more often than not let the figs rot.
This is also a type of abandonment: willingly forgetting recent history. I don’t want to do it, instead I want to cultivate this land of stones, pebbles and fragments. I want to take what it can offer me, to not forget, to not waste but to value it.