Bayolea Penhaligon's 2014 Eau de Toilette

It opens with the crisp, clean scents of mandarin and tangerine. Notes of cardamom and black pepper add a lightness to the fragrance, becoming more pronounced upon contact with the skin. Beneath this lies the cooling sensation of lavender, subtly balanced by a comforting undertone. It is a clean, refreshing scent entirely devoid of citrusy sweetness.

It gradually transitions into a sophisticated woody profile featuring cedarwood, while oakmoss lends a distinctly masculine air.

While the spices create a cool impression right from the top notes, the inclusion of neroli spreads a pleasant freshness; the final impression evokes a classic masculine image. As a recreation of a fragrance originally launched in 1870, it carries a subtle vintage feel that exudes a sense of refinement.

On the skin, the spices are more prominent than expected—acting almost like leather—to create a cool, edgy impression.

Bayolea starts out very interesting, very dry and masculine, I thought I found a new favorite! But within minutes, it actually starts to stink. Nasty.

Anyone who looks at the images of the commanders of the "Gorch Fock" from 1958 to the present (http://esys.org/gofo/Kommandanten.html) may share my suspicion that, up until the 1990s - alongside all the self-evidently indispensable professional qualifications for commanding a large sailing vessel - visual aspects also played a significant role in filling this position. The gentlemen did resemble each other quite a bit in type.

One could argue that it is ultimately a very exposed position that simply requires a certain "overall package." This is already evident from the rank classification. During my time there, Immo von Schnurbein was the only one still sailing as a "Kapitän zur See." All of his (few) fellow officers, to my knowledge, occupied some commander's or similar chair somewhere on land and left the sailing to the ranks below the so-called "Fregattenkapitän."

However, I suspect that the Navy maintained an idea of the ideal image of a naval officer well into the Federal Republic, where internal and external characteristics were unpleasantly linked.

As always, Immo von Schnurbein fit this mold perfectly. Gruff, taciturn, upright, and undeniably commandant-like. He liked to chew on a matchstick, which was occasionally replaced by a cigarette. By the way, he smoked less than he probably believed - the navigation petty officer also helped himself to the pack during the lonely night watches.

On its own, such a habitus appears, especially to a young sailor, initially ruggedly individual, and only with a broader perspective do the role or cliché become apparent. And that brings us to the scent: Smelled on its own, it comes across as strong, distinctive, if you will, masculine, and altogether completely impeccable. Nevertheless, it unfortunately carries a somewhat interchangeable quality considering the many similar scents of its kind. This does not detract from the quality, of course, and it is understandable that some enjoy 'Bayolea' in the mixed Penhaligon’s range.

Citrus, moss, soap; it starts in this order. Within minutes, it becomes almost bitter, with the spices definitely emphasizing their stern side. But above all: soap. As it develops, I think of floral hints that act as small dots on secure green. Violets perhaps? For heaven's sake, no florals! That would be like catching the commander at the ballet barre.

Just to be safe, the scent takes a turn halfway through into a bitter green herbaceousness à la Duc de Vervins before allowing a temporary touch of (sandalwood) sweetness in the afternoon. Otherwise, typical base products are primarily showcased as it progresses, leaving no doubt about their angular masculinity. After barely eight hours, the scent ends in a musk-dominated green-soapy artificial cream, now again without any sweetness.

Cream. Cream?!? Was the commander caught in skincare?

I thank Ergoproxy for the sample.

The fragrances from the English house of Penhaligon's are among those in my collection that are the most expensive and dear to me. They are sometimes touchingly old-fashioned, but never outdated - conservative, yet never dull. I like the pretty bottles with the silk ribbon or - cuff - although they are only glued and not tied - and I love the small, wonderfully old-fashioned shops where shopping is much more enjoyable than in the large department stores.

Whenever I am in London and have the opportunity, I visit one of these shops - my favorite is the one on King's Road (coming from Sloane Square, a few minutes on the right side) - and yet I sometimes leave them a bit disappointed. My enthusiasm for Penhaligon's newer creations is too limited, as they struggle to balance honoring their heritage with the understandable urge for innovation.

And then I discovered Bayolea - to be precise, I rediscovered it. I had probably smelled it a year or two ago and mentally pushed it to the back burner as 'quite nice, but unremarkable.' However, upon sniffing it again - somewhat disappointed by trivialities like Oud de Nil and Alizarin - it reveals once again all of Penhaligon's skill and takes me on a journey into English barber bliss.

Bayolea flirts with a herb-fresh old-school soapiness that is modern yet has a retro-cool charm. One could call it a post-hipster fragrance - too old-fashioned to be worn over chestnut avenues with trimmed full beards and jute bags. Citrus, cardamom, and cedar form a very traditional triad for a men's fragrance from the UK, which is fresh and pleasantly rugged - and yet different and 'surprise.' And lo and behold: they can still do it!

Conclusion: a good one among Penhaligon's new releases. Hopefully not the last of its kind.

I meet Peñha Ligòn, a quirky old Spaniard, in his cottage with a large garden in Southeast England. "Is zeig dirr, warum is ier errgekommen biin!" he grins and leads me, with one hand on my upper arm, through his picturesque orangery. Casually, he picks a few mandarins and tangerines from the little trees and bushes while he raves about the Brits, laughing heartily in between. Before he takes me into his garden, he tosses the citrus fruits nonchalantly into a large wicker basket filled with soap. "The English like it to smell like soap in summer, is like frriisch gewaschenn." he says, laughing again as he notices the surprise on my face.
Then we step outside. The mist still hangs over the lush meadows, and the cold from the previous night is immediately felt on our clothes. For a moment, Ligòn pauses: "Siehs du, dessalb bin is irrergekommen! The English call this Temperraturr Crisp." He laughs again. "Is denke dann immer an Cornflakes." He takes a step onto the meadow, and you can hear the lightly frozen grass crunching under his shoes. "You don't find this in España. Crunchy fresh!" Then he cuts off a handful of it and throws it into his basket before he uproots some grass along with soil and moss from another spot and stuffs it in. On the way back, he plucks a few lavender and pomeranate flowers from the meadow and lays them on the greenery. "Flowers are always good." he says, and on the way to the kitchen, he also takes some bunches of lemongrass from his front yard. There's a crackling sound again as he grabs the bunches. Finally, in his kitchen, he pours the contents of the basket, along with the citrus fruits (with soap crumbs), a few spices, and barks into a large old press and begins to turn a gigantic wooden screw. Soon, the greenish-yellow syrup flows into a bowl. He dips a small test tube in, seals it with a sprayer, and sticks it in my pocket. "Sprrüh es Dirr auf im Verano, ääm, Sommer." he says before grinning and bidding me farewell with a friendly "Bayolea!"
When I test it on a very warm spring day, I understand why he moved to England. The soapy fresh, citrusy top note acts like a brief refreshment, not sharp, more like freshly showered. Soon, the lemongrass becomes dominant, leading the scent into the green after 15 to 30 minutes, where the spicy floral notes join in and convey for some time this unique impression of frost-kissed, dew-fresh meadows. It comes across angular, rough, yet never sharp, which can certainly be attributed to the cedar and moss. Unfortunately, this wonderful impression lasts only about four to five hours at most, before the Bayolea bids farewell with a rather fleeting hint of light musk and a bit of amber.
Despite the short longevity, it will be my summer scent, the crunchy green fresh morning air.