Memo Paris Irish Leather

One of those icy, biting mornings. Pink pepper. The sun peeks through the heavy grey clouds. Oil of clary sage. The wind slips beneath your clothes. Juniper berry. Morning dew soaks the grass. At last the stable, the wooden tack room doors, the burning scent of leather, wood, amber and honey. An age-old odour. Green maté absolute. The soft whinny of the horse. Oil of flouve. The smell of freedom. The leather gathers in the wind, the grass warms with the wood. Tonka bean absolute. Irish Leather gallops off into the horizon.