Skye

by Walker Minton, 15 December 2008

Image:Landscapes: Walker Minton / Bottle: Trumpers

Having recently returned to London from the Isle of Skye in the West Highlands of Scotland, I thought it was past time I purchased some Skye cologne from Geo F. Trumper. It had been on my mind while I was there, though I had found none to buy. I examined the notes on the Trumpers official site; they list rosemary, geranium, ylang ylang and musk but state it is made with eleven essences. I wondered what the other seven could be and why they may not be listed. Perhaps a fine extract of midges? Averted by the punishing price increases over the last few years from my favourite purveyor of barbershop goodies, I turned quickly to a well known auction website and made my deal. I sat back and awaited its arrival, eager to stretch out the memory of my trip which was fading fast in the smog.

I wondered if it would transport me back to the stark theatre of granite which is the Cuillin hills. Rising steep on all sides, the harsh rock dribbled with rivers and waterfalls, they frame the soft valleys where the meanders are gentle. Climbing up, powered by oatcakes or whisky, we had crossed their rich boggy green feet, sodden with spring water and peppered with purple heather and yellow gorse. We walked on up the lower slopes through the regiments of pine. Emerging from the tree line and looking up, we saw the craggy outcrops and rough grass supporting the loose stones and bare rocks which form the top protrusions.

Back in the city, I knew I couldn’t go there but I yearned to bring a little of there to me. Could my new sky blue liquid conjure up the shimmer of the nearly still surface of lochs, green with glacial silt and misted with drizzle, later crowned with a rainbow as the sun finally emerges from behind the sparkling damp rock?

It is a dangerous thing, the naming of a perfume after a beautiful place. My expectations were high, although in the back of my mind I had wondered why nobody on Skye sold Skye.

Maybe it could return to my nostrils the sensation of cool air, rich with peaty damp yet also sharp, light, sweet and new? Or help me close my eyes and recall the glow in the North at night where the sun holds up, not quite behind the horizon, streaking the brown darkness with blue-grey long after total blackness has enveloped everything far to the south.

The darkness of the London night was broken by white street lighting, the quiet by the rumble of double decker buses and lorries spewing diesel dust. The voice on the radio told me the gas pipeline from Norway bubbled priceless energy up through the sea and into the overloaded atmosphere. My cologne had not yet come.

Perhaps when it did, the hulking presence of the island on the other side of the loch in the moonlight would spring to mind. It sat just on the edge of vision, entirely larger and older than the human minds which project onto it their meanings and myths.

It is the indifference of this land to human endeavour that provides its impression of cold sobriety (which the Scots challenge so vigorously) and inspires the drone of the pipes against which the melody of human life is played out.

But has it inspired this perfume I now hold in my hand?

My anticipation intense, I squeezed a healthy squirt of the contents of my new bottle onto each forearm, waited for the alcohol to evaporate and tried to relive my holiday in my bathroom.

I was immediately struck by the lack of craggy ridges or intense smells. I had been expecting something sharply defined, this was soft and impressionistic. I realised that I would have to disentangle myself from my romantic memories and focus on what was in front of me, make an assessment of a scent, its components and their sum. Smell is always going to be abstract when related to geomorphology. No cologne is an island. If it captured something of Skye, I would have to let it come to me. It would carry the perfumer’s representations, not mine. Steering away from disappointment caused by unrealistic expectations, I carried on.

It started very soapy with minimal top notes and little diffusion but soon I smelled a little citrus, some warm barbershop florals and a big mossy musk. Astringent rosemary and a characteristic Trumper bergamot slipped in alongside. I found a doughy cake shop quality, some greenness and blue aquatic touches. I tried to relate these accords to traces of Skye. First I discovered the mist; the haze was there in the form of musk with its opaque blur. As I allowed the perfume to develop, the sparkling dampness of the rock could have been the geranium and moss. The fresh air and green were the ylang ylang, the austerity the rosemary. Led to them like a blinkered horse, I found the references. It didn’t smell how Skye smells but there was enough there that I could believe an impression or a reflection. It occurred to me that the abstraction and suspension of belief required for this could allow for a whole range of pleasant isles. Had I been steered to be sniffing for signatures of the Isle of Wight, I suspect I may have found those too. This is why they had to name it Skye. It is not a trick but a guide.

Names aside, and heading back to the laboratory, marketing men and shop in Mayfair, I think this is essentially an attempt to update the wonderful classic which is Trumpers Eau de Quinine. Skye is lighter with a friendly floral core which hints at ozone, a pronounced synthetic Musk and is perhaps more wearable in this day and age. It remains quiet throughout its development, eventually arriving at the lightly rosemary-bitter musk and moss drydown. It keeps one foot firmly in the traditional barbershop while holding appeal also to younger customers. Skye is a very valid offering from Trumper, significantly different to anything else I have smelled and certainly interesting. In the round, I am pleased they didn’t name it Quinine 2K.

About the author

Walker Minton is a jazz musician and freelance writer with a lifelong interest in scent. He lives in North London with his partner and two sons. Walker was shortlisted in the 2008 Jasmine Awards. walker_minton@yahoo.co.uk

All articles by Walker Minton