I’m not trying to encourage anyone to start pipe smoking and I don’t want to contravene any rules of the site, but I am interested to hear your stories; spend a little time with me down Memory Lane if you can?
My Grandad got me into pipe smoking. I spent a school holiday at my Grandparent’s house, when I was 13 or so; upon arrival, on the kitchen table, was a Hamlet cigar, a Woodbine and a pipe loaded with Condor; times were different in the 1990’s.
I hadn’t smoked anything up to this this point - the legal age being 16 in the UK and I looked all of my 13 years - and grandad said “You’ll be old enough soon; time for you to decide.”
I used to sit on his knee as a kid, listening to stories about El Alamein and Rommel in the desert, blue smoke curling up to the sky from his pipe as he told me stories that I couldn’t repeat here; the stem end of his pipe was used as a pointing device, as well as a rifle, a flag pole and anything else he could use it for.
That day, I opted for the pipe; it felt refined as it hung from my lip, I was hooked.
My Grandad had learnt to cut hair during the war and he would take me off, round the village with him, as he went to Mr So And So’s house to cut hair, everyone of them smoked something - Player’s cigarettes, Woodbines, pipes, cheroots; some took snuff if a blizzard of brown powder, sneezing and guffawing all round the place.
I wasn’t so keen on the cigarette smokers, there houses smelt like an ash tray but the pipe smokers? The smell was like heaven. I can’t remember a bad smell but I suppose there must have been: cherry tobacco, vanilla, walnut - all alien to me but smelling beautiful. To this day, if I come across a brother of the briar out on the street, I move into his slip stream and try and work out the blend.
There was an old chap, called Mr Croft - pronounced Mester in that part of Yorkshire - who was a carpenter by trade. His workshop was a meeting place for the menfolk - much like I imagine old barbers shops were in the States. One memory is of him turning some wood and the smell of the wood shavings mingling with the pipe smoke, will stay with me until the end.
I remember: tea and tobacco - the kettle was boiled 3 or more times in the hour and everyone used a cup and saucer to drink from, as my grandad stood, cutting hair.
He was good at cutting hair, if you liked a short back and sides.
My gran was not complimentary about the smell in the slightest, we were banished to the kitchen while she watched Dad’s Army, snorting and giggling at it but to me, that kitchen, smoking a pipe, is where I learned more about life and the true horrors of man than ever I learned in a classroom.
I hope that this thread doesn’t contravene any site rules or regulations but I love a good story; I’d be pleased to hear yours.
My Grandad got me into pipe smoking. I spent a school holiday at my Grandparent’s house, when I was 13 or so; upon arrival, on the kitchen table, was a Hamlet cigar, a Woodbine and a pipe loaded with Condor; times were different in the 1990’s.
I hadn’t smoked anything up to this this point - the legal age being 16 in the UK and I looked all of my 13 years - and grandad said “You’ll be old enough soon; time for you to decide.”
I used to sit on his knee as a kid, listening to stories about El Alamein and Rommel in the desert, blue smoke curling up to the sky from his pipe as he told me stories that I couldn’t repeat here; the stem end of his pipe was used as a pointing device, as well as a rifle, a flag pole and anything else he could use it for.
That day, I opted for the pipe; it felt refined as it hung from my lip, I was hooked.
My Grandad had learnt to cut hair during the war and he would take me off, round the village with him, as he went to Mr So And So’s house to cut hair, everyone of them smoked something - Player’s cigarettes, Woodbines, pipes, cheroots; some took snuff if a blizzard of brown powder, sneezing and guffawing all round the place.
I wasn’t so keen on the cigarette smokers, there houses smelt like an ash tray but the pipe smokers? The smell was like heaven. I can’t remember a bad smell but I suppose there must have been: cherry tobacco, vanilla, walnut - all alien to me but smelling beautiful. To this day, if I come across a brother of the briar out on the street, I move into his slip stream and try and work out the blend.
There was an old chap, called Mr Croft - pronounced Mester in that part of Yorkshire - who was a carpenter by trade. His workshop was a meeting place for the menfolk - much like I imagine old barbers shops were in the States. One memory is of him turning some wood and the smell of the wood shavings mingling with the pipe smoke, will stay with me until the end.
I remember: tea and tobacco - the kettle was boiled 3 or more times in the hour and everyone used a cup and saucer to drink from, as my grandad stood, cutting hair.
He was good at cutting hair, if you liked a short back and sides.
My gran was not complimentary about the smell in the slightest, we were banished to the kitchen while she watched Dad’s Army, snorting and giggling at it but to me, that kitchen, smoking a pipe, is where I learned more about life and the true horrors of man than ever I learned in a classroom.
I hope that this thread doesn’t contravene any site rules or regulations but I love a good story; I’d be pleased to hear yours.
