No photo as I left the phone at home on charge. Spent the afternoon on some land I recently acquired at the other end of town, cutting brash and sawing up the larger bits for firewood... and had a superlatively good smoke of Peterson's Irish Flake in my Jersey Elliott of doubtful arboreal origin (whatever it is, it's a great little smoker). I'd not tried Irish Flake before, and took the sage advice offered by a wise and learned elder on this forum, viz. to cut a flake into tiny cubes and gravity feed it into the bowl after some drying (an hour and a half, in this case). Well, it lit easily and needed very few relights, very forgiving to a puffer, didn't bite, and waited patiently for me in between sups of coffee. If this weed were Chinese it would have to be called 'The Amber Gate Of Heavenly Peace', or something like that. It gave me a feeling of contentment akin, almost, to some Proustian memory of sucking in one's mother's warm milk when only months old (Yes, Mum did smoke when nursing me, but not a pipe - it would have been Wills' Three Castles cigarettes, I think). What also helped was that it was one of those still autumn evenings when I could hear the river murmuring over the rocks nearby and in the opposite direction the bellringers of the local parish church change-ringing peals after Evensong. If I'm coming across a bit strange it's probably due to the unaccustomedly heavy nicotine high
I deserve this Chenets cake in a Suhr.
