I am very fond of my beautician; she is an enthusiastic foodie with the common sense not to ask banal questions about my long-forgotten holiday.

Today’s chit-chat was all about smells because both of us kept getting whiffs of buttered popcorn — don’t ask me where from. It led us quite nicely on to the topic of favourite smells: freshly made bread, clean laundry, sweet peas, roast chicken . . . the usual things.

Then, as you would expect, we turned our attention to wine. I have always argued that wine aroma is certainly half, if not a bit more, of the pleasure. It raises expectations and gives clues of what’s to come.

I love the challenge of identifying smells and, in a more complex wine, picking out the individual aromatic compounds that help you piece together the wine’s own story.

Simply by sticking your nose in the glass you can start to make guesses at the grape variety and where it was made. The better practised can take a stab at the way the wine was made and how young or how old it is.

The point is though that certain aromas can trigger very strong emotions. In all the time I have been buying and enjoying wine, there is one smell that I can sniff out at a hundred paces and which, no matter how hard I try, I cannot fall in love with. The scent of pine resin in the air from Greek retsina is enough to turn me teetotal. I am totally unable to move beyond the smell and take a taste.

On the other hand, I am invariably totally seduced by the aromas of the Italian grape Nebbiolo. Many talk of its ‘tar and roses’ qualities but, for me, it is the often challenging combination of herbs, red cherries, spice and new leather that set it apart. On a sensory level, it is a grape that pushes all of my buttons and I love it.

What you smell can also be a sign of trouble ahead, and, for once, I’m not talking about faulty bottles. Many moons ago, at the start of my wine career, I was out for dinner with my sister and a group of her friends.

The wine list was passed to me and — poor and cautious — I selected a modestly priced red. The wine waiter came back with a bottle that I barely glanced at and uncorked it. As soon as the wine hit my glass I knew I was in for an extremely expensive night. Even at an arms length away I could detect the red berry fruits, the earthiness and hints of vanilla. I caught sight of the bottle and watched as a very fine, very expensive red Burgundy was distributed among my buddies.

It is a salutary tale. If you don’t open your eyes, your nose will rarely let you down. I have never since underestimated the power and pleasure of smell. I am, though, much more disciplined about checking the bottle before allowing the waiter to open it.

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