I set off, and as I reached the derelict outhouse a small white flower caught my eye and I saw that within the walls of the building was a small vine, draped, as if lounging, across rocks that had tumbled into and covered the floor space of the long drop’s interior.

At one time, the jasmine must have grown in abundance, its flowers cloaking the entire building, its perfume mixing with that of the toilet itself. When I went back to my caravan that evening I tested jasmine against the pine and thyme and found that its fullness and sweetness worked with the notes in a surprisingly pleasant way. All I had to do to finish my blend was add a slight touch of lemon to cut through the fullness of the jasmine and provide a rush of energy.

On weekends I take my homemade perfumes to the local market where I have a makeshift stall squeezed between a couple that sells deep-fried banana dumplings, and a retired local who paints flower and landscape scenes on river stones. I introduced my Wildings scent a few weeks ago and, to my delight, it has proved popular with both locals and summer visitors. Many of the people who tested it remarked that the smell ‘reminded them of something’, though not all of them could say what it was. If I wait, however, most of them manage to identify thyme among the notes. Those who can’t identify the individual ingredients when they first smell the perfume always nod in recognition once I provide the correct words. ‘Of course,’ they say. ‘It was on the tip of my tongue. I knew I knew the smell but I just couldn’t think of what it was. But now you’ve told me it’s so obvious. I get the thyme now. Pine needles. Flowers. Jasmine.’

I love the moment when my customers start sharing their memories of scent with me. One woman, who grew up on a farm on Banks Peninsula, described her childhood, and the mixture of fear and pleasure she used to experience when she had to go outside to the toilet during the night. I listened carefully as she spoke and wrote down what she said after she left.

‘The long drop was corrugated iron and almost completely covered in jasmine and honeysuckle. During the day, bees and flies and cicadas created a constant buzz. Inside, the toilet was warm, sometimes very hot from the sun bearing down on the tin. I noticed that the jasmine smelt like the contents of the toilet, and the toilet smelt like jasmine. They were a perfect pair. At night, the scent changed and became cleaner, as if everything had been washed in Sunlight soap. There were hundreds of moths bumping around the outside light. They scared me when they fluttered too close. The long drop itself was like a black well. I thought about all the things that might live in it, down there. When I went out to the toilet at night I could hear the waves lapping below on the beach. The wind used to blow through the macrocarpa hedge. I had a torch, and I balanced it on the frame of the toilet wall. The shadows were scary but beautiful. The toilet roll, spider webs and tendrils of jasmine … all crazy, unfamiliar. The outside toilet was peaceful and yet busy with life and smells. Funny what you remember.’