11AM in London.
The city hums quietly. The light is soft. You’re in Notting Hill, where colours feel brighter and time moves slower — just enough for the moment to sink in.
On Portobello Road, the flower market is in full bloom. Stalls packed with herbs, wild shrubs, and roses — especially the Centifolia. A rare kind from Grasse, soft and full like velvet. This is the heart of the fragrance. Earthy, rich, and a little unexpected. Like the people who pass through here — artists, dreamers, strangers who might become something more.
Around the corner: W11 2ED, the postcode for Electric Cinema. A historic Notting Hill gem where plush seats, warm coffee, and timeless films set the scene. More than a cinema, it’s a space where creativity brews, stories unfold, and inspiration lingers in the air.
The scent drifts.
To Queen Mary’s Garden, where over 12,000 roses bloom in perfect rows — a haven in the city. To David Austin’s (1926 – 2018) greenhouse legacy, where roses were re-imagined: classic beauty, modern soul.
It’s in the tea, too. Rose Pouchong. Tea dried with rose petals — subtle, warm, a little nostalgic. A favourite of the perfumer, paired with chocolate or late-morning thoughts.
And then there’s The Rose Room. Not a garden, but a dream. Pink onyx, gold leaf, and soft lighting. Tucked away in Annabel’s, one of London’s most iconic private clubs. Designed by Martin Brudnizki, it’s like walking into another world — full of detail, full of magic.
But this isn’t a perfume about just one place or one person.
It’s about the idea of the English Rose — not the cliché.
Not delicate. Not only feminine. But real.
Powerful, layered, evolving.
Like Diana (1961 – 1997) — remembered as England’s rose, strong and kind.
Like Dolly Alderton & Pandora Sykes (High Low podcast) — voices of a generation, sharp, funny, thoughtful.
Like you — whoever you are — at your best at 11 AM. Fully awake. Fully alive.
What you’re wearing is a memory
of roses and roads, tea and time,
London in layers
A scent for everyone, made for right now
It’s 5PM in Mayfair.
The sky’s beginning to blush, the city softens, and London slips into its most stylish hour. Not quite evening, not quite day — a moment made for porcelain cups, whispered gossip, and a little splash of Rosé.
This is Teatime, but not the quiet kind.
Somewhere between Piccadilly and Park Lane, footsteps echo into Palm Court at The Ritz, where silver teapots clink and time slows under chandeliers. Across the street, Fortnum & Mason waits — tea since 1707, in tins so pretty you almost forget the price tag. The fragrance of the hour? It’s classic with a twist — just like the tradition that inspired it.
It all began in the 1800s, when the Duchess of Bedford, hungry between meals, decided afternoon tea should be a thing. It caught on. Fast. Soon, it wasn’t just tea. It was a ritual. It was fashionable. It was a reason to see and be seen. Somewhere, Lady Mary (yes, Downton Abbey’s own) would absolutely approve.
5PM is made of this legacy.
But don’t expect cucumber sandwiches and lace gloves.
Expect peppermint — fresh and cool — slipped in where you didn’t expect it. A surprise. Like the first sip of sparkling rosé in a room full of strangers who might know all your secrets. The scent is sharp, social, and just a little scandalous.
There’s movement.
Past the velvet walls of Annabel’s on W1J 5AT, where tea becomes a party in disguise. Fairy-tale décor. The Rose Bar glowing like a fever dream. A champagne flute clinks. Someone smiles too knowingly. Someone else spills tea — in both senses.
Because yes — tea also means gossip now. You don’t just drink it. You spill it, share it, and sip it slow. At Mount Street Gardens, hidden behind old mansions, people talk softly on park benches donated in memory of those who once did the same. Secrets live here. So does elegance. Quiet, but never boring.
Back in Mayfair, the streets know too much. Queen Elizabeth II (1926 – 2022) was born just around the corner — a royal touch woven into the very air. The scent holds that too. It’s regal, but playful. An heirloom with attitude.
5PM is not just a time
It’s a setting. A mood. A ritual.
Of peppermint stirred into Earl Grey.
Of laughter behind linen curtains.
Of perfume that lingers longer than a rumour.
It’s 9PM in Marylebone.
The city shifts. Day fades. And London pulls on a velvet blazer, straightens a cuff, and orders something strong — maybe a Vesper.
This isn’t just nightlife. This is The Club hour. The moment things get interesting. The line between polished and playful. Past and present. The scent of mystery — and maybe gin.
You’re walking down Savile Row, where tailoring isn’t just tradition — it’s a statement. Here, Winston Churchill (1874 – 1965) had his suits made. Bold pinstripes. Perfect shoulders. Confidence sewn into every seam. And not just for men. The black tie look is unisex now — sharp, simple, powerful. Just like this scent.
The air carries something cool and dry — juniper, the soul of gin. It’s what gives 9 PM its edge. A nod to cocktails and conversation, to glasses clinking in low-lit lounges where secrets are exchanged more than phone numbers.
You turn onto Chiltern Street — W1U 7PA.
The Chiltern Firehouse glows like something out of a dream. Red brick. Gothic arches. Celebs slipping in and out. Sailor caps and velvet ropes. Inside: mood lighting, crushed velvet, perfect music. This is one of the perfumer’s favourite spots — and it shows.
Somewhere in the shadows, James Bond would feel at home. Ian Fleming (1908 – 1964) was born just around the corner, near Regent’s Park — close to where MI6 once “secretly” stood. A gentleman. A spy. A myth. The Vesper cocktail he made famous? It’s in the DNA of this scent — classic, crisp, quietly dangerous.
But this fragrance isn’t stuck in the past. It’s modern. Bold. Ready to rewrite the rules. London’s private members’ clubs aren’t just for gentlemen anymore. They’re for the daring. The stylish. The curious. Whoever you are — if you know, you know.
You pass 221B Baker Street, the home of Sherlock Holmes. Another London legend. Another clue in the mystery of this city after dark.
And just when you think you’ve seen it all, you find yourself in Regent’s Park, under a midnight sky. The air is still. Cool. A little electric. The scent lingers like the last line of a great story.
And the train hums in the distance. Mind the gap.
Because this scent lives in the spaces between — mystery and glamour, tradition and rebellion, story and reality.
9 PM is not just an hour
It’s an atmosphere.
A toast.
A tailored suit at golden hour.
A cocktail made with precision.
A story whispered across the table.
London, dressed for the night.