There is something reassuring about a good bar of soap. The smooth, waxy surface; the satisfying weight in the palm of your hand; the gentle, clean-smelling fragrance. It brings to mind a steaming hot bath, fluffy warm towels, freshly scrubbed faces, dressing for dinner. A bottle of shower gel, however nice, just doesn’t have the same charm.

The smell of certain soaps can bring back wonderful memories. Imperial Leather always reminds me of my grandfather, who owing to his wife’s reign of domestic terror was allowed to smoke only in the downstairs loo (referred to rather grandly as “the cloakroom”).

He would puff away with the extractor fan on full, before flushing his cigarette butt down the toilet, washing his hands and emerging in a cloud of Benson & Hedges and Imperial Leather. The soap also inspired my grandmother’s (affectionate) family nickname: Imperious Lather.

Whenever she had guests, however, out would come the Roger et Gallet. It was these little “toilet” soaps, with their exotic scents and ruched paper wrappers that really fascinated me. I loved the fact that something so mundane could also be so special. Sadly, these days they seem to have been relegated to the eternal naffness of duty-free shops.

In truth, though, R et G was only ever the Hyacinth Bucket of soaps: Floris was the choice of the truly refined basin. Now approaching its 300th year, this venerable Jermyn Street firm recently updated and repackaged its range. The soaps come three in a box (£15; florislondon.com) in a wide variety of scents. Rose Geranium is the bestseller, Lime is an uncharacteristically modern unisex, and Lily of the Valley steals the prize for retro glamour.

If Floris feels just a little too aristocratic, I suggest two modern alternatives. The first is Miller Harris, whose creamy, pure white, triple-milled cakes (£9 each, four for £35; millerharris.com) pack an olfactory punch. Girlish Coeur de Fleur and elegant Terre de Bois hold their fragrance well, and don’t go soggy when left on the sink (sogginess is a very unattractive trait in a soap).

The second is Ortigia (ortigia-srl.com; or call 020-7730 2826 for the London shop). This is a relatively new brand, but it has an impeccable pedigree. It’s the brainchild of Sue Townsend (not the author, but the woman who helped set up Duchy Originals) and a Sicilian countess, Ilaria Balduino Sartori. Their triple-milled soaps, which fit snugly into the hand, are a joy, and come in boxes that are little works of art. They also sell glycerine soaps in translucent jewel-like colours (from £4). My favourite is Zagara, a zesty, woody orange-blossom that conjures up visions of dashing, dark-eyed Sicilians: precisely the sort of thing every woman should keep in her understairs loo.

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