The first thing that I do whenever I visit a new city, once the tiresome business of arrival has been settled and I’m free to take to its streets and walk, is to stop and take a deep breath. Close my eyes and let the scent of the city soak in. I feel it’s the best way to get a feel for a place. Now, you might think that Milton Keynes would smell of nothing more than sterile concrete and traffic fumes, but come with me as we start from the station to take a walk and breathe it all in.

Well, there’s traffic to smell for sure. The diesel reek from buses coughing into their stops and the petrol clouds drifting from the taxi rank, but the press of commuters we dodge through provides the scentscape here. Warm floral perfumes fight the sharp aldehydes of aftershave, all defeated by the billowing candy floss clouds of the vapers. Their sweet fruitiness makes catching the odd drift of cigarette smoke feel old-fashioned, almost nostalgic.

We’ll head straight up towards the centre and, once enveloped by the underpass, there’s the scorched-rubber-herbal burn of skunk – and oh, mind your footing there! Someone must have had one too many last night, and decorated the pavement with their dinner. We’ll be glad of the cleaner air as we emerge and head up the hill, past the hotel, past bars and office buildings, catching the fresh-pine scent of new wood drifting across from that housing block that always seems to be under renovation before passing the Turkish restaurant, aromatic smoke from roasting meat momentarily infusing the air with the essence of the best summer barbecues.

We’ll trot quickly on through Midsummer Place: we’re here for scents, not shopping. Out the other side, and we’ll weave through the crowds into the market where heavy incense from the clothing stalls gives way to the wet seaside slap of fresh fish, startling in this land-locked place. We’ll let that carry us onwards beyond the new hotel reaching up to touch the clouds, its fresh linens and cocktail spritz wafting somewhere high overhead, before crossing the bridge into Campbell Park. We’ll take a turn around the rose and pause for a quiet moment in the centre where a profusion of bouquets have been laid in remembrance. We’ll breathe in those mingled hothouse fragrances, crushed chrysanthemum petals and the funeral breath of lilies filling the stillness.

Respects duly paid, and we’re nearly at the end now, we’ll stride out towards the light pyramid up ahead. The wind freshens here, swirling in from the turbines dotting the far horizon and bringing with it the scents of clean, green growing things, of warm earth, of open land. Here, at this bright beacon, our backs to the city and our faces to the expanse of countryside beyond, we’ll take great deep lungfuls and know that this contrast between the urban and the open really is the essence of this complex, fascinating and fragrant city.