Cuir de Connolly

That time of year.

Dark early and dark till late.

& mind wanders into the just lit fire.

Outside town and country chimney stacks blow smoke rings of Christmas letters, hopes, dreams, wishes and memories into the starlight black, crisp winter air.

It’s funny how scent triggers; coal and wood fires; wet London streets and raincoats; home food cooked with love; moss warming after first frost; muddy horses and muddier dogs; all take me elsewhere.

Freshly cut flowers and hand plucked vegetables; coffee beans you just ground; warm cardamon buns; too hot really to touch, from the oven bread; that restaurant we all dream about.

And then there is perfume, well certain perfume.

Thing is the above and other smells I love are the by-product of something else. Perfume? Its sole purpose is to provide joy with its scent.

The creation of something from scratch initially to seduce, then remind us of something else, tell a story, set the scene, and if great, now beloved, it becomes something which places us here in the now but also if caught on the breeze one day, takes us wherever ‘there’ may be.

It is simply alchemy. The suspension of hopes, dreams and memories in liquid to be spritzed or dabbed on wrist, neck, chest and crook of my elbow, magic made, time travelling, and mind taking all wrapped in a glass bottle.

There is ‘that’ one in the yellow bottle, from Italy, which is just my dad.

I love it, but I cannot wear it,  instead I use their beard serum, mostly because it is good and gives me that brief moment when I feel like I am having a chat with him.

It is his story.

My story for the past 9 years has been accompanied by Perfumer H, Lyn Harris’ superlative perfume house.

But good stories evolve, new chapters added and the oil painting of life becomes a little more defined here, fuzzy elsewhere and better by the day.

Which brings me to ‘Cuir de Connolly’, not a collaboration in the modern, trendy, and pointless sense - what a naff concept - but a product developed by two product obsessed brands at the height of their game, the master perfumer & Connolly, which is, well Connolly.

They say it smells of Paris, which it does. It also smells of trouble, the very best kind and who doesn’t need a bit of that? 

Leather and vetiver, quite 70’s, very this moment and rather timeless. The scent of Connolly the store, but also the car of my dreams and in said dreams, me. Myself as I hope and wish to be, and myself today, flaws and all as I cannot stop wearing it.

I’ll admit, I’m yet to wear on sun streaked Boulevards, nor to step in and out of Parisian hot spots, and no trouble thus far; that comes when least expected, but I have worn it on the farmyard at home, in town and about, cashmere clad and mud covered.

As well as trouble, it smells and is a celebration of the good stuff, of those little moments which added up make life worth living.

A soho cowboy, marauding across Mayfair, before going full Chelsea horticulturalist, into the disco, lab in boot, barn coat on back & pressing down my 303 Edward Green boots, down the A road of same name, quick glance at Stonehenge and home. 

Have an Atelier Arena whistle in the works, double breasted, sexy. I’m going to wear this with that. White Rubato denim shirt underneath, dangerous. Man on a mission. Up town and in charge. 

Same Rubato tucked into RRL 5 pocket straights, off to The Three Horseshoes, pie on mind, sat by fire, pup under feet. Reminds me of that too.

Catching the sunset on the new Severn bridge as I drive across the old.

Lou Reed playing in the car with my dad telling his New York tales.

A spritz before I head out the door, off to buy Landrace pumpkin pie, an espresso made by Pete and drive the long way back.

Cosy corners, crisp leaf covered pavements, draughty barns and rain tamped woodland. The dog’s smile as we head out or return home.

That time, that place, those people, life loved, just love in its simplest form.  

Smokey, woody, mossy, sensual, a little sweet, but not really, it starts strong, bold even, then turns Connolly suede soft and whispers late into the day and hints next morning as Patrick the Shetland with his goat friends stalk me and dog across field.

There it is caught on the neck of my shetland jumper deep into Salisbury Plain.

A suggestion when tying bandana in morning becomes a brief reminder in my denim jacket chopping wood, a suggestion of the road ahead.

That road? Set off and run into someone and then adventure and memory made.

Now talking of roads, heading out, adventure, let’s see where we end up, Perfumer H big bottles come with refillable 10ml travel sprays, which live in felt pouches, I usually keep one in breast pocket when in town. Post barber, quick spray.

This does the same thing, but rather than a felt pouch for two, it’s a leather sleeve for one. Connolly leather, cut, stamped and stitched. The modern American Express, don’t leave home without it, a social passport, curio, talking point and vital bit of kit.

I suspect it’ll age a little better than me, but I have a funny feeling that it’ll continue to be in my pocket when in town, or in my bag for a flight or safe next to keys in the Landy. Maybe we’ll skip through London and drive on to Paris, a day and night trip to Scotland, or just slip through Welsh mud.