StenLaurel

I read about the sugar explosion. Yes, you can see it that way. Or deflagration. Deflagration is more like it. In any case, it didn't blow up in my face.

Well, what does it smell like? To cut a long story short, it smells like Angels' Share with an iron. That smell that everyone who has ever ironed a shirt knows. Or has been there. Photographers may remember the days when lighting was still done with Nitraphot lamps. Scorched dust, a very characteristic smell. In between lies Raghba Wood Intense. Between iron and singed dust. Married with cotton candy and a hint of old-fashioned aftershave.

Whether you like it? That remains to be seen. My better half said "Huiii!!!" It remains to be seen what that means. Let me put it this way: you can like it, but you don't have to. Jacket wearers with a penchant for dolce vita might like it. Whereby dolce is to be taken literally.

After about four hours, it has changed its face. There are pralines like this, with a chocolate-coated sugar crust, filled with Berentzen apple schnapps. That sums it up quite well, very palpable.

And yes, the classic review is of course a must: Not a candidate for a blind buy!

The Hufblack flashes in the setting evening sun. I painted Jack's fingernails. OK, not his fingernails, but his hooves. We're riding Pleasure tomorrow. We have to cut a good figure. The Stetson steamed and shaped again, the quarter horse's mane plaited, the vest ironed with bling bling, immaculate hooves. What could possibly go wrong.

I rub my saddle. With beeswax lotion. I put some Tobacco Honey in the lotion. That's the scent I'm going to spray myself with in the morning. That's how we become one. The nose rides along. We will smell of honey. Like honey and tobacco. Of honey and horse. Of honey and freedom. We will win. And then we'll light up a Marlboro.

At the campfire in the evening. The next morning, the campfire is out. But it's still there, immortalized. Immortalized in my clothes. I hold the shirt in front of my nose, take a deep breath, the campfire is back. I can't remember. Was it just the campfire, or did the whole forest burn down? My shirt says the latter. Is that how you say it, the second? Never mind. That's what the bear smells like. Smells like my shirt, smells like fire, smoke.

But that's just the first impression. When you've sprayed the bear on, when it gives you one on the nose with its paw.

Don't spray too much, the bear is sensitive. Less is more here. Then the paw becomes gentle and shows that it can also stroke. The bear then develops into a complex scent of forest and honey. Smoky honey and mysterious ingredients. It is, as they say, a dark fragrance. Dark and mystical. Mystical and enchanting. Or it can offend. It might not appeal to sweet-smelling lovers. Or maybe it's just something different, something completely different. And you certainly won't come across this fragrance on every corner. This unique fragrance!

I'm on a gentleman's hunt. After the fox. The pack has tracked him down. The side-lock shotgun speaks. From Purdey, so much shotgun must be. It has already killed many foxes.

My tweed jacket is at the cleaners. It was an exciting hunt. I pick it up. It's spotless again, smells like a tweed jacket should. A little conservative, a little like tailoring, classy, a little like marzipan.

Back in the master's seat, I spray myself. To match the jacket. 2 sprays, no more. Understatement, as befits a lord. Lord George. Tragedy of Lord George. That's the name of the perfume. The tragedy is not clear to me. Well, the bottle is almost empty. That is a tragedy, of course. Not exactly, but almost. The Lord will do for today. I really must get another one. It exudes a fragrance like the tweed jacket. A bit conservative, a bit like marzipan. Marzipan that's not in there at all. And yet it is there. Very subtle, not intrusive, simply classy. I have Lord George. I am Lord George!

"A lot of fun with the quartz gray. Not the first time I've heard it described as a "feel-good fragrance"."

This sentence, which I read in a forum, was my first encounter with quartz gray. I like gray, preferably dark gray. Machine gray. Like before everything turned green, reseda green. But I digress.
My curiosity was piqued. The perfumer himself had written this sentence. I wrote to Martin and ordered a sample. Everything in gray. Opal gray, Ceylon gray, malachite gray, quartz gray. Opal and Ceylon were not for me. Not that they are bad, no quite the opposite, just not for me.
Malachite and quartz, I liked them both. The malachite gray reminded me of something that I couldn't place at first. A familiar smell. But what? What was it? What did this scent remind me of? It was gear oil, good hypoid gear oil. I love the smell of gear oil, others turn up their noses. Then there was the quartz gray. That also reminded me of something. I didn't think of it for a long time. More on that in a moment. The samples were running out. I ordered a bottle. 100ml. Gray. Quartz gray by Grauton. This fragrance had flashed me. It still does. And I'm glad I ordered 100ml straight away, a treasure.

The year is 1971 and it is 6:00 in the morning. A fresh yet warm morning in May. I'm on the Elbe. On my bike. Through the city, through the dunes. Wooded dunes. Wooded with mighty pines. They no longer exist today. It's now an industrial area. Everything used to be better, they say. That's true here.
The water bubbles around my feet. It's not really light yet. I'm all alone, standing on a stack. They call it a stack here, elsewhere it's called a groyne. Foam is bobbing on the water, distributed by the current. The current is strong here, very strong, the stack is the third behind the weir. I cast out my fishing rod. Spinning rod, a thick lead-head spinner at the end of the line.
The smell of the Elbe fills my nose. The Elbe has a very characteristic smell. You can't describe it, you have to smell it. A pike takes the bait. I reel it in right up to my feet. It's not a giant, but it's not small either, I don't have a landing net. I'll have to grab it. With my bare hand. Behind the gills, the pike has sharp teeth, I have to be careful. The rod flicks up, the pike! Gone! The pike is gone. The black water gurgles, I have the feeling it's laughing at me. I'm all alone, on the verge of tears. But I don't cry, I'm already big. The smell of the Elbe rises up to me. I take a deep breath. Next time I'll get you!

I'm standing in the bathroom. Freshly bathed. I spray. Spray quartz gray. Close my eyes, breathe in deeply. The smell of the past. I'm back at the Elbe, the black water washes around my feet, today I'm catching it!