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The Guardian - UK
The Guardian - UK
Sport
Tanya Aldred

Off the scent: how Atherton and Katich thrived in cricket without all senses intact

The grass cutter as it makes its way around the outfield at Wombats CC
The smell of mown grass brings with it anticipation of the cricket season to come. Photograph: Harry Trump/Getty Images

On the weekend, a friend and I went walking. As we strolled along the River Goyt, a sweet smell hit us like a packet of Love Hearts, which, as it turns out, is pretty much what it was. We had inadvertently walked past the Swizzels factory – producer of Parma Violets, Rainbow Drops and more in the Sett Valley since the company moved out of blitzed London in 1940, to an old textile mill in New Mills, Derbyshire.

Alongside the sugary cloud drifted a junk shop of memories, sweets handed out at jelly and ice-cream parties, shared on the curb outside the corner shop, sucked on the way home from school. Later on, we passed a man pushing a mower to and fro on his front lawn and that fresh hit set off a whole other chain of flashbacks. As a cricket lover, you probably know where this is going.

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