Total Reviews: 12
This stuff is brilliant! On first spray, the topnotes are complicated and should be a mess, but somehow combine into something transcendent. It's bright and citric like a traditional eau, but also deep green and spicy like a powerhouse chypre, but also a touch modern with pepper and leather.
Walking down the street, I'm surrounded by spiced oranges mixed with lavender and sage. Meanwhile, smelled up close, a nice lavender-smeared sandalwood comes in and fills in all the cracks, creating the complicated but cohesive smell that Sandringham keeps going most of the day. My best description is that it's like an especially good woody powerhouse scent, but with a sanalwood-heavy classic "oriental" amber along the lines of Coromandel sandwiched between the spicy green topnotes and the leathery mossy base.
If Clive Christian has the recipe for this, I could totally imagine paying those sorts of prices for something of this complexity and magnitude. But it's doubtful that this could be resurrected without Mysore sandalwood and real bergamot oil, so I guess it's destined to be a museum-quality obscurity. Smell it if you can...
A delightful lavender-neroli mix opens this fragrance, soon to be joined by a floral note in the drydown. At this stage lily-of-the-valley is dominant. This is a floral that is never sweet; on the contrary, it has a herbal-harsh undertone on my skin. This is developed further in the bae, where moss joins woody notes; I get a whiff of pine. Very good projection and silage for the first six hours; I get a superb longevity of over eleven hours in total. A classic masterpiece. 4.5/5.
Sandringham is the Edwardian British masculine floral personified. It sits poignantly among other greats such as Dukes of Pall Mall Cotswold, Dunhill for Men, Floris no. 89, and even Hammam Bouquet. Sandringham features a realistic--likely natural--muguet note (lily) which is tempered by spices, woods, and musks to keep it safely masculine. Sandringham is an Edwardian dandy's scent (blast that it doesn't have an animalic element though) built around quality ingredients and traditional craft. We can only pray that Clive Christian chooses not to renew his trademark over Crown Perfumery when it expires in 2016 and that someone will revive these lost gems.
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On me, this is a powerful, aromatic mossy-herbal scent. The citrus and floral escape me, or disappear instantly. The herbal notes are very interesting. I detect thyme in abundance, and also perhaps marjoram, mint and/or rosemary. There are supposed to be “sweet woody notes” but I find they are very minor, compared to the assertive and slightly sweet herbal notes. I appreciate herbal scents, and I enjoy this one. But for me, it is so assertive that I must apply lightly. I find it really gains in intensity in the drydown. It definitely has an old-school vibe.
As is often the case with fragrances with strong wood notes, I don’t pick up any opening citrus except that there’s a fresh sharpness to the pine in the opening accord that most likely is attributable to citrus notes. The opening I perceive is a unique wood / lavender accord: Unique in the sense that it is not at all mass market or plebian: It has a blue-blooded air about it. It, in fact, is as snobbish in its use of wood, moss, and lavender as Penhaligan’s Blenheim Bouquet is in BB’s use of citrus, lavender, and pine. This wood / moss accord in Sandringham is not what I would call refined or sophisticated — it’s more rustic and demanding. It’s a unique accord that obliges respect while it flaunts attitude — a self-assured panache incorporated into a potent streak of well-rehearsed aloofness. Of course these attitude notes have a certain country elegance about them, but there is more attitude than style. Sandringham is fairly linear and there is basically only one wood / moss accord and that particular accord accomplishes everything. It is as tenacious as it is as imposing. There is no letup for hours — except for the gradual reduction of its swagger as time goes by. Woods are my favorite category of fragrance, but Sandringham is so much more than an excellent wood scent: It is an arch-alpha male personality. (Edit of 24 April 2007 review.)
Dirty doings in the library! Has our gent brought in a lady of questionable background? To me, Sandringham is like a member of the upper crust slumming in his own heavily wood-paneled manor. This is most bitter of all the Crowns, topping Eau de Quinine or even the face-slapping Esterhazy. Do I detect quinine amidst the herbs and wood? There is definitely a non-citrus bitter component that performs a great balancing act with the sweetness.
I love to occasionally wear Sandringham for a bit of shock value. On a woman, it's twice as in-your-face as on a man.
Some have called this a chypre, but the predominance of lavender in it makes it seem more of a fougère to me. That is neither here nor there, I suppose. What is interesting about this is the sort of old-world, old-school masculine vibe that was so dominant in men's scents until thirty years ago or so. Dating from 1873, Sandringham (named for Sandringham House, a crown estate of the British royal family in Norfolk) seems like a snapshot of mid-to-late-Victorian masculine elegance and (perhaps not too happily) probity. It does have a bit of the stuffed shirt about it. At the same time, the woody base in the back note is a tad rougher, leading the redoubtable Baron de Charlus (channeled as archly as ever by our own Naed_Nitram) to allege that it has "perhaps a hint of the royal brothel about it." The drydown is softer, and comes fairly promptly, though it lasts quite a long time. In fact, for longevity, this is one of the more remarkable scents. It is getting hard to find, as with so many bygone classics; nonetheless lovers of period pieces will quite likely adore this.
A wonderful scent. To me the scent is as regal as Penhaligon's Blenheim Bouquet, Trumper's Wellington or Crown's Town and Country. Not in the least the same scentwise but categorically at the same stage of wearability. The woodsy-herbal drydown is divine.
Ugh, I so wanted to like this one based on the reviews below, but my God it's the first fragrance I've ever worn that I found repugnant: a harsh, abrasive, lemon start that dries down to a harsh, abrasive bug spray. This is one of those fragrances that you remember even after you scrape it off your skin, and in this case that's not a good thing!
As English as a perfectly tended Wimbledon lawn, scones with homemade strawberry jam and Devonshire clotted cream, or Prince Charles complaining about contemporary architecture (he's right, too). Classic, but indeed Edwardian rather than Victorian, i.e. no priggish fusty-mustiness here, but aristocratic joi de vivre in perfection. Fresh citrus opening, settling into a very refined blend of lavender and woods, with a continuous subtle floral note (and the neroli) keeping it sexy. Citrus plus wood does not get more sophisticated or well constructed than this. No matter what his other achievements, Clive Christian's head should grace Tower Bridge for discontinuing such a national treasure.
As ever the good Baron has summed it up beautifully. I do wonder what happened to the top notes? To my nose this scent almost immediately becomes 'rich, royal, sensuous and sweet'. I do not detect citrus or lavender notes. It is none the worse for that. It is a fragrance from another era but one which enhances this dull age. How could they discontinue it?
The Baron de Charlus once told me: 'I recall the time when I was a house guest at the Sandringham estate of Bertie, Prince of Wales (or "Tum-Tum" as we used to call him on account of his girth). He gave us each a bottle of Crown's Sandringham aftershave.
"Tell me, de Charlus," the Prince inquired, "as a famed fragrance aficionado, what is your opinion of Sandringham, what?!" "My dear Tum-Tum," I replied, "it is extraordinarily strong and long lasting for an aftershave, being almost of cologne or even eau de toilette strength. It is rich, royal, sensuous, sweet and generous, most certainly an extrovert dandy's scent, possibly rather too exuberant if one is feeling at all fragile or reflective. I feel it to be poetically suited both to your good self and to your illustrious ancestor King Henry VIII, since it is a touch gross and overblown. There is perhaps a hint of the royal brothel about it, but it is none the worse for that in my estimation. I believe that latterly both Davidoff's Zino and Guerlain's Heritage have explored a somewhat similar terrain a trifle more subtly."
Although I believed I had given Crown's Sandringham my qualified approval, I fear my judgement may have offended the Prince, since he never again invited me to one of his Sandringham weekends. Needless to say, that was his loss.'