Anyone who knows me well is aware of my mildly unhealthy fascination with smells. I’m like an olfactory David Attenborough, but with less authority, gravitas, respect, knowledge, experience, expertise, grace, standing and qualifications. Basically, I’m the Steve Backshall of odours.

As a jobbing olfacto-phile, I see real commonality in the science of stink. After all, who of us hasn’t at one point or another been stopped in their tracks upon being hit with a stench of such pungency – sublime or otherwise – that they are immediately and vividly transported to a place seldom thought of, suddenly reminded of a person peripheral or a random event from a sepia tinged past previously hidden from conscious memory? Weird, right?

Well, maybe not – science tells us that smell and emotion are stored as one single memory, with the two so closely linked because the anatomy of the brain allows scent signals to rapidly reach the limbic system (the part of the brain involved with memory, motivation, and emotion) straight through the old snout. Experts in the field go on to say that memories associated with smells tend to be older and thought about less often, meaning the recollection can be extremely intense when it happens.

If you’re still reading and haven’t fallen into a coma, this is where the blog is going to take a tangential about turn. For I’m going to attempt something a bit different – a short travelogue based not on restaurant reviews, cultural highpoints, sights, sounds or scenery per se, but on smells and the evocative, emotional memories they can promote.

I’m like the Alan Whicker of smell-based travel reviews, but without the personality, charm, wit, broad mindedness, talent, grace, prowess, and flair for language. Basically, I’m the Judith Chalmers of pongs.

Growing up as a kid from a family with not much money, our annual holidays took on two distinct and polar forms – camping under hellish, condensation-sodden canvas in Cornwall or a blissful fortnight in the Canary Islands, namely – Lanzarote.

Unfairly dubbed ‘Lanza-grotty’ by many, especially in my heyday of the late 80’s and early 90’s, this autonomously Spanish volcanic moonscape, nestled off the coast of Africa, may not have had the glamour and charm of its Grecian or Balearic counterparts, but for a kid growing up on the mean streets of parochial West Sussex, it was a veritable paradise. A Fanta Limon-soaked fever dream of a place. Year-round ultraviolet nirvana. The place I learnt how to swim, how to play average 8-ball pool, and how to awkwardly and ultimately unsuccessfully chat up members of the opposite sex.

Having visited perhaps 15 times across the years, yet eschewing it as a destination for the past decade or so, I decided this year upon a glorious return, taking my six year old son, Beau, in what I considered a rite of passage experience – hoping that the memories of his formative years could, just like mine, be rendered technicolour by this most wondrous and unassuming of Atlantic outposts.

What I didn’t expect on my return to Lanzarote was just how evocative and emotive the memories that it stirred within me would be. Perhaps it’s because I’m now a father myself, a knackered, soppy old nag who should be put out to pasture and ultimately shot or made into glue, but as soon as the plane doors opened, I was immediately and violently transported back to my childhood – punched in the face by redolent memories driven not by sight or sound, but by smell.

Here is my potted testament to just a few of the smells of Lanzarote, 2024.

Spar But Not as We Know It

I’m not saying that walking into a UK Spar on a rainy Wednesday afternoon for a vape and some Andrex can’t be an enjoyable experience, it absolutely can, but until you’ve visited a Spanish Spar, you simply haven’t lived. Perhaps it’s the immediate rush of comfort gifted by the subzero blast of air conditioning, or the disarmingly alien selection of wondrous snacks on offer. But my memories are coloured most by the overarching olfactory punch of warm, baked goods – fresh breads, pastries, and the like – delivered daily by the local Bimbo van. Pick your poison, from giant pillowy croissants to unctuous Pastel de Nata, this is a wholly different sensorial experience; one worth the visit. If only to stick around to buy some Chips Ahoy and a deck of nudie playing cards.

Creaking and Unfit for Purpose Sewage System

Stick with me on this one, for its my assertion that even a bad smell can promote a pleasant memory. And this one is bad. Haunting, even.

Upon embarkation to Lanzarote, hardened vets will sternly and vociferously warn you against drinking the tap water. Make sure also, they caution, that the ice in your drinks is from a trusted source, as nothing will have you running faster for the khazi than dodgy agua. That said, if you stick to bottled water, you’ll be right as rain.

This crude example paints an evocative picture of the delicate infrastructure in place on the island. The acrid tang of tummy rubbish – given off by a creaking sewage system and exacerbated by year-round heat – is never far from nose-shot, and it’s almost impossible to find a coastal municipality free from the issue. That said, is it weird that I find the stench rather comforting? Yes. Very.

In fairness, my rationale is that just one whiff – no matter how violently odorous – immediately transports me back to those sunny, carefree days of yore. A younger, more unburdened Clancy. Of course, my poor son has no such frame of reference, to him it was just a terrible smell. He’ll learn.

Squid (Not Calamari)

Does squid have a smell? Don’t ask me, I’m not a shark. One thing I can tell you is that once this sneaky, shell-less subclass of cephalopod is hauled from its salty sub-marine home, de beaked and lightly charred over hot coals, it becomes a thing of sumptuous beauty. A light dash of lime, some sea salt and nothing else, transforms the humble squid into something of a Canarian delicacy. This is not calamari. No frying has taken place. The squid, now blackened, courtesy of flame, is served whole with Canarian new potatoes and a side of ‘mojo’ sauce and gives off an almost meaty tang, uplifted with clean, lively aromas of citrus.

The end result is simple, sublime and delicious. Something I return to instantaneously, eschewing all other menu choices. After a hard sell to my son, he decided upon a cheeseburger, much to my annoyance.

So, there you have it – my holiday in potted smell form. I want to make it clear that I have received no monies from the Canarian tourist board for this short but glowing testimonial.