A different sense of place

Something just occurred to me that is so obvious I'd completely missed it. Now that I'm stretching my own canvas again, with the unused canvas stored in the room where I paint and the stretched canvas only primed on the front, all  my paintings made during cold weather will end up smelling not just of oil paint but also of wood smoke. My only heating is a wood burner. I use it as an easel in the morning and light it in the afternoon. It dries my paint and warms my toes. My work, which on one level is about my relationship with a place, will now smell of one of the ways in which that place nourishes me. Call me an old hippy, but I find that very pleasing.