The Grand Halls of a Forgotten Palace

Despite the name, if you're expecting oud here, you'll be disappointed. It doesn't hit you with oud, but instead opens with a bright, green spark. Lime and bergamot flicker over polished wood, sharpened by the bitterness of galbanum. It’s not like strolling through a bright forest, but something polished and aristocratic. I picture ornate cedar panels in a sunlit drawing room, steeped in centuries of citrusy resins gathered from all corners of the globe.

As the brightness dims, warm pepper adds a spicy depth that makes me imagine the late-afternoon sun baking old floorboards. Even as the woods darken, there's not a whiff of real oud here, but rather something that feels noble, smoothed with years of wear.

The drydown arrives quickly. Frankincense adds a solemn, resinous veil, while ambergris brings its ineffably sophisticated musky sweetness. These woods don't just smell expensive; they smell pompous and aloof, echoing an era when the perfumes we so like to speak about were certainly out of reach for us common folk.

But how many wood-forward fragrances does one really need in a well-curated collection? I wouldn't like to put a figure on it, but for me at least, Royal Oud doesn't make the cut. It leans too posh, too formal, best suited to an older gentleman living a life of unapologetic luxury. It stays a little too airy and fades faster than I'd like, too, but perhaps that's a me thing - if the idea of expensive-smelling woods sounds appealing, it's definitely worth a sniff.

**Edit** – I had another sniff of this earlier, and while I still stand by everything I said, it really is such a gorgeous scent and absolutely deserving of 5⭐️. BUT, and this is a big but, the performance is even worse than I remember. So the 4⭐️ are staying, despite how good it smells, and I'm knocking a couple off elsewhere.