Bottled memories: Grief, scent and healing in Florence
Florence at dusk
On a threatening-to-rain August morning in Florence, I arrive in this cradle of the Renaissance at Profumoir Firenze, a bespoke perfumery in the historic district of San Niccolò.
In a pensive mood, I am silently celebrating my mother’s 85th birthday, a milestone she didn’t actually live to see.
I wonder, as I’ve done this date every year for the last 16, what she’d be doing had she made it this far.
I am sure she’d have loved another visit here. What unfolds in Florence this summer though is more than a visit, it is a journey into memory, artistry, and emotional alchemy, and transforms my small and stagnant grief into something big and beautiful.
Stepping into Profumoir feels like crossing into another era.
In a narrow street near Florence’s ancient walls, the interior of the atelier is a mix of 18th-century charm and modern elegance.
Shelves gleam with glass bottles holding precious essences, their scents mingling muskily: amber, rose… something earthy and unplaceable.
Beyond the building lies a garden, a serene oasis stretching from the back patio toward Piazzale Michelangelo, where roses and citrus trees bloom in defiance of the city’s buzz.
Time can be felt slowing as soon as you step onto the soft grass, inviting you to breathe deeply and to listen to all the forgotten sounds in your heart.
In a modest workshop at the garden’s end, I am introduced to Matteo Cheloni, the master perfumer whose passion for fragrance seems to pulse like Florence itself.
With tousled dark hair, a warm smile, and encyclopedic knowledge of all things perfume, Matteo believes a scent is more than fragrance, it can also be a story, memories bottled to carry and wear.
He speaks of plants, flowers, herbs, and spices, connecting them to the heavens, planets, astronomy, and astrology, weaving quite the cosmic tapestry.
Touring the atelier reveals a secret: it doubles as a boutique hotel with two sumptuous, regal rooms at the back overlooking the garden. Passing through the shadowy corridors, I vow to stay in one of those rooms one day.
Back at the front of the atelier, I decide to create a personal fragrance.
I’ve always struggled to find a perfume I feel I could be loyal to.
I’m mostly drawn to floral and fruity tones with a hint of musk; not for me the heaviness of sandalwood or the cloyingness of jasmine.
I have a good memory of smells, and certain aromas, from freshly cut grass to patchouli to summer sun on sticky tarmac, can wrap me in waves of nostalgia.
Certain perfumes still linger in my mind from my younger days: I can conjure up my favourites — the fresh peachiness of Calyx, Agent Provocateur’s signature rose aroma, and the Body Shop’s White Musk — in the blink of an eye.
Today, I want something totally different, something unique and special.
Thoughts and visions of my mother flood in. Florence was the last foreign city she visited and she’d fallen in love with it.
Was it coincidence that I was here on her birthday? Or a sign from the universe, angels, or God perhaps?
I don’t often focus on the spiritual, but something contained within the atmosphere of this quiet, softly lit, aromatic, almost church-like atelier, stirs a new reverence in me.
It is at this moment that I decide to craft this perfume as a gift to myself, but in honour of my mother, a woman ahead of her time, a strong, sensitive artist, coolly independent, wise, warm, and witty.
She’d worked in mental health as a nurse since 1969, then as a counsellor, and, finally, in her dream job as an art therapist.
She touched countless lives, was my friend, my advisor, a challenge in my youth, but the only person I sought for guidance after becoming a mother myself.
Losing her left a void I doubted anything — let alone a perfume — could bridge.
The fragrance-making process feels sacred. At a huge table, 20 vials, each holding a single essence before me.
Overwhelmed, I trust my gut, choosing blindly, letting my nose and intuition guide me.
I inhale each open vial with my eyes closed, trimming from 20 to 10, then five.
Only later do I learn what my choices are: lemon, bright and zingy, evoking my mother’s zest for life; rich florals, reminiscent of the flowers she loved to dot around her house in colourful jugs and vases; fig leaf for its grounding warmth; mimosa for its delicate lightness; and sugar,
because she always found life’s sweetness, even in the sourest of times.
Although I recognise the lemon, I can’t identify the other scents but, as I mix and measure, I become aware of something familiar.
Memories surge — childhood trips to Waterford (her home town), bus rides to Tramore in July with her and my brother, eating sand-spattered ice-cream in the rain, anorak hoods pulled tight around windswept cheeks.
Later, as an adult, on her final home on the Isle of Wight, I’d visit her with sunflowers and spend time rummaging in charity shops and giggling together in cafes.
A different memory surfaced later. After her death, her silver locket, engraved with swirls and lined with green felt, was left to my eldest daughter.
It was one of those lockets that could carry little photos but my mother had chosen to keep it empty. I never found out why.
My daughter, who wore the locket regularly, soon discovered that whenever she felt stressed, she could smell her grandmother’s perfume emanating from the silver heart, the scent vanishing when she was calm again.
We were never able to explain it.
In Profumoir, I focus only on creating a perfume I will love, unaware how deeply it will connect to my mother.
In the warm golden light, blending the essences, the atelier fades. I am back in Waterford, recalling her life — working at 17 in the glass factory, her move to London and her unexpected pregnancy with me.
The process stirs joy and sorrow, and bares the sadness I’ve been holding on to since her death 16 years ago.
Creating this fragrance has become a therapeutic tribute, a way to honour her without wordss
After the atelier assistant takes my blend to be expertly mixed, I sit at a low round table, sage burning at its centre, soothing classical music playing.
This is part of the process: the incense ceremony. I am tasked with naming my perfume.
It comes quickly: ‘Máthair’. I am handed the bottle, now capped with a beautiful grey marble stopper, and told not to open it for three weeks.
A little earlier than three weeks later, at home in my bedroom, I pull out the stopper and lift the bottle to my nose.
Time stands still once more. The scent that wafts upwards is an uncanny echo of my mother’s perfume, the one in her locket, a fragrance I hadn’t smelled in years but know instantly.
Tears well, my heart caught between paling grief and fresh wonder. How could a blind selection capture her so perfectly?
Was it subconscious memory or the alchemy of love? It feels as if she is there, her essence woven into the air.
Back at Profumoir, the staff had shared stories that deepened the experience.
They spoke of parents crafting heirloom scents, passed down like treasures; couples bottling love in freesia and cedarwood; families blending favourite smells into a home spray.
Set against Florence’s alchemical traditions, Profumoir feels like a modern apothecary, distilling emotions into something tangible, reviving lost memories. The plants in the garden are a visual echo of Matteo’s creations, a living, breathing palette.
Leaving with Máthair, I am emotional but lighter than I’ve felt in years. The grief hasn’t vanished but has softened, changed into something I can touch, hold, and breathe in. Florence, with its timeless beauty, was the perfect stage. I was meant to be here that day.
I was meant to find Profumoir, meant to create this tribute. This wasn’t just about a fragrance — it was about maintaining a connection, about keeping love and memories alive.
For anyone longing to bottle a memory or honour a bond, Profumoir Firenze is the place to go.
Bespoke fragrances start at €200, but what you gain is priceless: a tangible piece of your story. The garden, atelier, Matteo’s knowledge, and the staff’s guidance create a space where emotions find form, where loss becomes legacy.
I look at photos from that day — Matteo in his workshop, topping up bubbling concoctions in towering glass distillers; the serene garden; the old-fashioned, sumptuous interior — and realise beauty can grow from pain and that love can be bottled.
At home, Máthair is with me. Each time I open it, I’m transported to Florence’s pretty streets, to the garden’s tranquility, back to my mother’s warm embrace. It’s her and me, a thread across time, making that sad day in 2009 feel not so far away.
If you’re in Florence, seek out Profumoir in San Niccolò. Let the scents guide you and reveal the stories your heart wants to tell. You might find a piece of yourself, or someone you love, waiting to be discovered.
Jacqui was a guest of la Gemma.
The Profumoir tour is one of many excursions arranged by La Gemma Hotel.
Trips include guided walks, cooking classes and truffle hunting, Explore Florence and Tuscany from this luxurious base
To arrange a visit to Profumoir, see:
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