We fand the thocht for Tam O'Shanter ae winter e’enin on Rose Street, Edinburgh - that narrae run o cobbles atween Princes Street an George Street, lined wi auld howffs an mistit windaes. The air wis thick wi the scent o aik casks, tobacco, an rain on stane. It felt timeless; the same toun Rab Burns yince waundered through, hauf in shadow, hauf in sang.
That atmosphere becam the core o this perfume. It opens wi smoked aik an black pepper, follaed by amber an whisky, roondit by a trace o patchouli. Warm, mirk, an a wee mischievous - a nod tae the poet's nicht-time speirit an the lowe o guid company on a cauld nicht.
It's a scent that lingers like a story tauld efter midnicht.
