A Velvet Veil of Cognac

I once described Baraonda as follows: “The most realistic whiskey note I’ve ever encountered. It begins as a dry and peaty single malt, but soon slides into a sherry cask, soaking up dried-berry sweetness, hints of toffee and a touch of spice.” Nowadays, my nose skips right past the peaty stage and lands directly in the sherry cask. For that reason, I find Baraonda more of a cognac than a whiskey, with the scent of aged oak every bit as prominent as the spirit itself.

Neither the booze nor the wood vanishes, but a dark-rose jam soon wraps around them both - no delicate petals, but a velvety richness that feels almost edible. For all its apparent heaviness, the combination is made surprisingly airy by the musky brightness of ambrette. To my nose, this is the real star of the composition, giving Baraonda its radiant, sensual, skin-like texture.

Wearing this transports me to an old, timber-clad library with spiral staircases and dim golden light. Ancient tomes lie open on polished desks, their pleasantly dusty pages mingling with warm cognac in crystal glasses and bowls of rose potpourri scattered throughout the room. Yet there’s something almost dreamlike about the scene: despite all its richness, it’s as though I’m experiencing it through a translucent veil, the density filtered into something weightless and luminescent before it reaches me.

In comparison to Pardon, which opens more quietly but soon projects confidently throughout the wear, Baraonda behaves quite differently. It’s strong and all-encompassing for the first few hours, but then noticeably softens. By the five-hour mark, I can barely detect it in the air - just an occasional light whiff when my skin warms up, though traces remain for up to twelve hours.