Douro Eau de Portugal Penhaligon's 1985

Colorfully dyed scarves and tie-dye T-shirts in every imaginable color hang from worn strings along the red brick walls. I escaped the dreadful hustle and bustle of Camden Market through a narrow side alley when a initially biting, somewhat indefinable scent wafts into my nose. I follow the smell and squeeze through the narrow passage between old wooden stalls filled with various fresh citrus fruits and spices (especially basil), which seem to be sweating their sharp freshness in the midday heat.
After a while, I find myself swept through the entrance of a hippie shop that I spotted-perhaps by chance or maybe by scent-amidst the dense stalls. Hanging closely together, like on an endless line of laundry strung up from the ceiling, are huge colorful batik scarves with unique patterns. But it is not the scarves themselves that captivate me; it is their scent. With a good wine, one can recognize its aging by its smell and taste, and it seems to be similar with these scarves. With my nose buried in the fabrics, I let myself drift through the shop with closed eyes, moving straight ahead, scarf by scarf. After dyeing, they have apparently been washed with detergent and partially wrapped in Nag Champa incense sticks and various floral-scented soaps, I believe I can detect dark rose and lavender. A more precise identification of the other flowers and citrus fruits fails due to the omnipresent Nag Champa sticks. Wonderful flashback, I think to myself, and I can't tear my nose away from the scarves for hours. Anyone who had a true hippie friend knows this scent, associates it with youthful exuberance, squatted houses, summers in a VW bus or on the grass of a festival, the moment when you smell their dreadlocks or sleep in their knitted sweater in a tent at night, hopelessly in love, of course. A scent with moderate sillage but astonishing durability - in the clothes, hair, and memory.
After more hours, I believe I perceive some resinous wood slowly diffusing through the gaps in my memory. I must have fallen asleep somewhere in a corner of the shop, probably on an old English sandalwood bench.
When I eventually find myself back on the street at night, the scent still lingers in my clothes. Unconsciously, I whistle an old Motorpsycho song, "I'm still wearing your smell," just like back in the day.
Do I have to be a young hippie again for this scent, I wonder.. Nonsense, I still enjoy the music from back then, I love feeling the memories. The old vintage bottle actually fits perfectly with that. So be it!