TPD-Pologne 

Showing 1 - 7 of 7 items
  • One evening dry and arid, in a saloon seedy character, our glances crossed. Its hair felt freedom, big spaces wild and its skin, like a light fragrance of tobacco, something of bird and gilded. It left one night, pushed by the call of the high plains. Sometimes its memory cherishes me like a wild breeze. Its glance, its odor, smoke escaping from its lips.

  • There was its massive silhouette, cutting out in the incipient paddle. And its hands seeking in the waterway nuggets and gold dust. It was old mining, come with shovel and pickaxe to discover new seams. He me taught the patience and the slow drying of the tobacco. I hung to the wall his tools, memory of treasure ever found and unexpected friendship.

  • The city in a fuzzy point, far behind. A strip of ocher and clay lazing in the midday fires and the trot of black horse echoing north and south, free of obstacles. Then, suddenly on the edge of the road, a quiet plain to plant tent and tobacco. I got my first fragrance. A bitter, vegetal note, praising the road and promised lands.

  • On our first ride, he got up and down my saddle. A proud and wild purebred.Since then, I have never really tamed. Equal to par, we travel trays and valleys. His cadence became mine. I created a tobacco for my old companion, a tribute similar to his coat, powerful and black

  • Raised at dawn, I wait patiently for the passage of the flock. I have been looking for him for three days now. Its massive and robust body is in the image of nature, beautiful and strong. He observes me from afar, his beauty is animal, I can not help but admire him, behind his thick fleece, one gauges lengthily. His majesty left me speechless, so I...

  • Many meetings have marked my journey in these lands sometimes welcoming, sometimes hostile. I became friends with great Indian chefs, who shared with me their vision of the world in harmony with nature. Sitting Bull, Red Cloud, White Horse, accompanied me in a return to the saving nature. From these encounters was born Indian Spirit, a blond tobacco of...

  • That evening was dry and arid. In a shabby saloon, our eyes met. His hair had the smell of freedom, the savagery of the open spaces. From his skin escaped a fragrance of light tobacco, volatile and golden. She left one night, pushed by the call of the high plains. Sometimes, his memory comes to caress me like an unapproachable breeze. Her look, her smell,...

Showing 1 - 7 of 7 items