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Montecristo Petit Edmundo
I woke early again today and headed down to my shack to smoke the last Petit Edmundo from my humi. Only in the holidays can I spend quiet time smoking like this alone and at such an early hour over a big mug of Assam tea.
These cigars are fat buggers and quite beautiful. Once again, an overwhelming citrus-y punch came through to me from the start. I adore the final third which amplifies all the qualities, and which required me to pull more frequently and harder on the stick so it wouldn't die. I love the Petit Edmundo more than the full Edmundo, and much more than the Montecristo Number 2 which is the only other Monte I have smoked. (I find the Monte no 2 quite acrid. I'm not a big fan).
It was first light when I lit up, and I watched the slo-mo smoke moving through the cabin air before curling wonderfully and rising above the heater to move across the skylight and leave eventually through an opened window.
I watched cats, doves, pigeons, blackbirds and rutting seagulls. I watched weeping willow branches moving in the light breeze. All in solitude and silence.
It was magic.
I watched the overcast sky change to broken powder-blue patches with occasional full morning sun on the garden and house walls.
My ashtray down there currently has four centimetre-long fat butts with long grey ashes. The remains of my shack smoking week. I don't normally keep dead cigars like this, but as there are few absorbent things down there, it hasn't stunk the place out too much, and I do like the very quiet cold cigar tobacco hum when I walk in there from time to time. It smells quite sweet. It's also a bit of a 'cigar smoker's trophy' to me, that ashtray, but I will clear it out today for when I move my sofa in later. I don't want my mates who will help me transport it to think that I'm a complete smoking slut!
I thought about an idea I have to write a story. I'll have to curb my usual ridiculous writing style, but this idea is now stored for when - if - I get the time to write something beyond posts on here and boring official-type documents for work. It won't ever come off - and it will be written 'better' than this - but the time lost in the clouds at least gave me the genesis of something based on experiences I've had this last week visiting all sorts of people all over Kent, and I'd really like to write something fictional with determination one of these days. I like observing things and keeping quiet notes of phrases in conversations, and so on. I have a pretty good ear for that.
A pipe dream, really. Or, more accurately, a cigar dream.
I smoked a puro down there with my wife who was doing some work earlier in the week, and I feel good that my smoking was not a trauma for her, and that I wasn't mocked or moaned at. I watched her being enveloped in the smoke. This lack of moaning is an achievement when your lady is a Cancer specialist, as she is. She accepts me as a cigar smoker these days. That might seem silly to state, but it wasn't always as easy-going as this when I puffed a good Cuban cigar near her in the past. I said I was sorry if the smoke was tainting her work, and she said the people receiving it were smokers anyway. Sorted.
This habit is a joy. It relaxes me. It inspires me. It wakes up my senses. It lets me act like a child, too. In writing, and in real life out and about.
I adore it and I can't easily do without it.
And I wanted to write that here this morning before I start the day in earnest.
I woke early again today and headed down to my shack to smoke the last Petit Edmundo from my humi. Only in the holidays can I spend quiet time smoking like this alone and at such an early hour over a big mug of Assam tea.
These cigars are fat buggers and quite beautiful. Once again, an overwhelming citrus-y punch came through to me from the start. I adore the final third which amplifies all the qualities, and which required me to pull more frequently and harder on the stick so it wouldn't die. I love the Petit Edmundo more than the full Edmundo, and much more than the Montecristo Number 2 which is the only other Monte I have smoked. (I find the Monte no 2 quite acrid. I'm not a big fan).
It was first light when I lit up, and I watched the slo-mo smoke moving through the cabin air before curling wonderfully and rising above the heater to move across the skylight and leave eventually through an opened window.
I watched cats, doves, pigeons, blackbirds and rutting seagulls. I watched weeping willow branches moving in the light breeze. All in solitude and silence.
It was magic.
I watched the overcast sky change to broken powder-blue patches with occasional full morning sun on the garden and house walls.
My ashtray down there currently has four centimetre-long fat butts with long grey ashes. The remains of my shack smoking week. I don't normally keep dead cigars like this, but as there are few absorbent things down there, it hasn't stunk the place out too much, and I do like the very quiet cold cigar tobacco hum when I walk in there from time to time. It smells quite sweet. It's also a bit of a 'cigar smoker's trophy' to me, that ashtray, but I will clear it out today for when I move my sofa in later. I don't want my mates who will help me transport it to think that I'm a complete smoking slut!
I thought about an idea I have to write a story. I'll have to curb my usual ridiculous writing style, but this idea is now stored for when - if - I get the time to write something beyond posts on here and boring official-type documents for work. It won't ever come off - and it will be written 'better' than this - but the time lost in the clouds at least gave me the genesis of something based on experiences I've had this last week visiting all sorts of people all over Kent, and I'd really like to write something fictional with determination one of these days. I like observing things and keeping quiet notes of phrases in conversations, and so on. I have a pretty good ear for that.
A pipe dream, really. Or, more accurately, a cigar dream.
I smoked a puro down there with my wife who was doing some work earlier in the week, and I feel good that my smoking was not a trauma for her, and that I wasn't mocked or moaned at. I watched her being enveloped in the smoke. This lack of moaning is an achievement when your lady is a Cancer specialist, as she is. She accepts me as a cigar smoker these days. That might seem silly to state, but it wasn't always as easy-going as this when I puffed a good Cuban cigar near her in the past. I said I was sorry if the smoke was tainting her work, and she said the people receiving it were smokers anyway. Sorted.
This habit is a joy. It relaxes me. It inspires me. It wakes up my senses. It lets me act like a child, too. In writing, and in real life out and about.
I adore it and I can't easily do without it.
And I wanted to write that here this morning before I start the day in earnest.
I shouldn't be smiling but I am....
Names TJ, TJCoro, and weekends are made for fine puros.
don TJ and the 
Coros
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