Ever pictured yourself as a Balkan bandit?
By and large I suspect not. Nor indeed, mild parson that I am, have I much dreamt of a life of brigandry. Fearless - near desperate sometimes - descent from mountain fortress intent on fell havoc on peaceful valley folk below. That sort of thing.
This though is the glory of the pipe, as filled from Eastern European tobacco and purveyed by harmless, eirenic no doubt, London retailers.
Tonight, through them, I can be the fiercest bandit alive, should ever I wish to be such.
Latakia based baccy in a Churchwarden pipe?
'À rebours' as dear Joris-Karl Huysmans would say.
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