Walk towards a freshly fallen tree and pause there. Close your eyes, still your heart, and inhale slowly through your nostrils.
I did just that and received the heavenly mix of god-juice striking stone and the humus-scented bacterial release of Streptomyces. Petrichor and geosmin.
It took me back instantly, without warning, to Brighton, 1987. I had just finished the count where I worked and stepped outside into the tempestuous pre-dawn grey. The smell on The Steyn of uprooted trees was like a recently ploughed, rain-washed field margin, almost that of a freshly prepared grave.
It is smell that transports us through time, more so than sound. Photographs recall little. They are two-dimensional and bland, especially when cheapened by phone. Inhale, recall, and rejoice. You are alive.