To whom it may concern,
It is not every day that a man of my lineage, pedigree, and rather impressive collection of tailored trousers puts pen to paper regarding a fragrance that dares walk in the lofty shadow of Green Irish Tweed, a scent born of my familys heritage, artistry, and a vaguely aristocratic afternoon spent galloping through impossibly green meadows.
However.
I must confessno, I must declarethat I have recently come across a creation by a certain house known as Ariana & Evans, and I find myself rattled. Humbled. Slightly aroused.
The scent in question? Ascot & Tweed.
Good heavens, its magnificent.
It opens with a lemon verbena so bright, so jubilantly crisp, I briefly believed I had awoken face-down in a silver breakfast tray in County Kildare. The green notes are not just greenthey are verdant. Alive. They do not whisper of meadowsthey recite sonnets about them.
And thendear Godthe violet leaf and iris emerge. Dignified. Elegant. Like a perfectly timed entrance at a royal ball. It doesnt shout wealth. It assumes it.
Now, Ive long believed that only we had perfected the balance of sandalwood, musk, and ambergris. But here? Ariana & Evans has taken that formula andbrace yourselfimproved it. I said it. Im wearing a three-piece suit and Im saying it.
This is not a scent for mere men. It is a scent for legends. For those who sip their whiskey in silence and stare out at moody hillsides contemplating wars theyve never fought but somehow won.
Ascot & Tweed is not a copy. It is a refined rebuttal. A knowing nod across a candlelit gentlemans club. It says, Yes, Mr. Creed, we adore your work but weve taken it out for a spin, added a bit of danger, and made it available to people who dont summer in Monaco.
And I say: well played.
In conclusion, should you find yourself yearning for the fresh snap of Irish countryside air, wrapped in elegant florals and anchored by luxurious woodsAscot & Tweed is your carriage.
Just dont tell my ancestors.
Cordially, if slightly dethroned,
James Henry Creed (ish)
