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Clove
Bergamot
Lemon
Nutmeg
Orange
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Base Notes 
Oakmoss
Patchouli
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Yatagan
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30
The Dignity of Lord Wisebottom (Part 1)
Gravely, he emerged from the leather seats of his Bristol Brigand, which had come to a stop with a soft crunch on the gravel of the driveway to his country house. Of course, he did not drive a Rolls Royce or a Bentley. Firstly, these brands had been taken over by German car manufacturers in recent years, which had given him quite a shock, and secondly, he left those rolling battleships to the Queen or tasteless nouveau riche show-offs who wanted to flaunt that they had come into money in more or less dubious ways. He himself stuck with Bristol, an English car brand that his father had preferred, and which did not at all reveal that its purchase price was hardly cheaper than a Rolls Royce, but was unbeatable in terms of understatement. The car was old, but designed for a lifetime of use.
His Harris Tweed jacket, which had become a bit worn from heavy use (as a member of the English upper class, he knew, of course, that a slight used look was almost a hallmark of quality), still breathed the scent of the high-quality leather seats of his luxury car. Only those who looked very closely would discover that the leather patches at the elbows were so worn that a repair would be necessary.
Just before entering his country house, he took a deep breath of the fresh air into his lungs and noted with satisfaction the scents of his garden: herbs and roses lining the driveway. Not very well-kept since he had to let the gardener go, but still beautiful.
Inside his house, then, the contrast: dark and shady, just as he loved it, perhaps a bit dusty. He would have to ask Rose... He was unmarried, but had never particularly regretted this circumstance. Of course, the question arose as to who would inherit his estate, but there were still enough greedy nephews and nieces to be considered. His only real concern was that the country house should not be sold. Everything, truly everything, should remain with the family and their descendants.
Rose, his housekeeper, had already prepared his tea. He preferred a blend of Earl Grey and Darjeeling. Only Rose knew how to prepare it correctly. Earl Grey should be prominent, the bergamot oil clearly perceptible without being intrusive. This light scent of bergamot, mixed with the smell of freshly baked scones and shortbreads, which today smelled intensely of spices: he had been looking forward to this all day. What had Rose used this time? Was that cinnamon? Yes, surely! Maybe nutmeg? Probably. Somehow, this mix of scents reminded him of something else, something familiar. Deep in his subconscious, a thought was forming, but he did not realize that this familiar scent could be the note of his cologne; he only sensed it, and quickly that intuition faded away. After all, he was no longer the youngest.
With measured steps, he moved into his conservatory, where lemon and orange trees stood, their gentle, barely perceptible scent making the stay in this part of his house so pleasant, reminding him of his past summer stays on the English south coast, where such plants also grew outdoors.
Just as he was about to sit in his worn favorite armchair, he heard the sound of the doorbell and shortly thereafter the hurried footsteps of Rose, who had taken over supervision of the front door after his butler's departure.
“Lord Wisebottom,” he heard her voice, “the bailiff is here again. I fear this time he really means business.”
He could wait. He had no intention of being disturbed during tea time. What these little officials thought they could do. Calmly, he picked up his beloved Times and allowed himself another sip of Earl Grey.
http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bristol_Brigand
His Harris Tweed jacket, which had become a bit worn from heavy use (as a member of the English upper class, he knew, of course, that a slight used look was almost a hallmark of quality), still breathed the scent of the high-quality leather seats of his luxury car. Only those who looked very closely would discover that the leather patches at the elbows were so worn that a repair would be necessary.
Just before entering his country house, he took a deep breath of the fresh air into his lungs and noted with satisfaction the scents of his garden: herbs and roses lining the driveway. Not very well-kept since he had to let the gardener go, but still beautiful.
Inside his house, then, the contrast: dark and shady, just as he loved it, perhaps a bit dusty. He would have to ask Rose... He was unmarried, but had never particularly regretted this circumstance. Of course, the question arose as to who would inherit his estate, but there were still enough greedy nephews and nieces to be considered. His only real concern was that the country house should not be sold. Everything, truly everything, should remain with the family and their descendants.
Rose, his housekeeper, had already prepared his tea. He preferred a blend of Earl Grey and Darjeeling. Only Rose knew how to prepare it correctly. Earl Grey should be prominent, the bergamot oil clearly perceptible without being intrusive. This light scent of bergamot, mixed with the smell of freshly baked scones and shortbreads, which today smelled intensely of spices: he had been looking forward to this all day. What had Rose used this time? Was that cinnamon? Yes, surely! Maybe nutmeg? Probably. Somehow, this mix of scents reminded him of something else, something familiar. Deep in his subconscious, a thought was forming, but he did not realize that this familiar scent could be the note of his cologne; he only sensed it, and quickly that intuition faded away. After all, he was no longer the youngest.
With measured steps, he moved into his conservatory, where lemon and orange trees stood, their gentle, barely perceptible scent making the stay in this part of his house so pleasant, reminding him of his past summer stays on the English south coast, where such plants also grew outdoors.
Just as he was about to sit in his worn favorite armchair, he heard the sound of the doorbell and shortly thereafter the hurried footsteps of Rose, who had taken over supervision of the front door after his butler's departure.
“Lord Wisebottom,” he heard her voice, “the bailiff is here again. I fear this time he really means business.”
He could wait. He had no intention of being disturbed during tea time. What these little officials thought they could do. Calmly, he picked up his beloved Times and allowed himself another sip of Earl Grey.
http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bristol_Brigand
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