Douro Eau de Portugal Penhaligon's 1985

A recurring (and particularly popular) archetype in light English literature is that of a man beyond societal - and moral - conventions. A man who has long since completed his 'Grand Tour' and now lives solitary in a garret at Piccadilly, who engages unreservedly with disreputable women and occasionally dares to appear at Almack's with a loosely tied cravat, despite the disapproving glances of the strict patronesses.

Due to his high birth, he is courted by the ambitious mothers of debutantes - and feared for his lamentable manners and his ruthlessness, capable of compromising even girls of impeccable reputation with his coarseness - and sometimes even bringing innocence to ruin. By the end of the story, the young (or perhaps not so young) heroine will, of course, tame him and take her place in society as a Duchess or Marchioness at his side.

The rake is a man in his mid-thirties or older. He is stately or wiry, but not an outright athlete, usually impeccably dressed thanks to his valet, though not a dandy with a gardenia in his lapel. He is equally skilled with a sword and pistols as he is with card and dice games. There may already be silver threads at his temples, but when necessary, he still drives his high-built phaeton faster than any hot-headed young man.

The rake has a haughty, sometimes fiery disposition, quickly bored by sycophants and immune to flattery. He possesses natural authority, has a clear voice and straightforward speech. And although he is open to earthly pleasures, often indulgent and sometimes a gambler, he is loyal as a friend and always true to his principles. Perhaps he was once deceived in his youth, for romantic sweetness is not his forte.

The rake is also largely impervious to trinkets and baubles. He always knots his cravat in the same way. The valet continually replenishes that one little bottle with the dark blue silk ribbon and the 'Portuguese Water' inside: a touch of hesperidic lightness, a flower or two - but only briefly - and finally a dry soapiness that, despite its Iberian name, is as English as canned beans on toast and slightly too cold bathwater.

Conclusion: the entire soul of Penhaligon's in a bottle. A precious old-school gem among men's fragrances - light-footed yet full of character. And are not the rakes ultimately more pleasant than the groomed fashion fops with their pink silk handkerchiefs at their chests?