BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN

Sated by a superb Sunday roast and verging on tipsy from claret, with the soft glow of Dartmoor’s evening light filtering through the gaps in our host’s drawing room curtains, I was presented with a truly rare treasure from his private stash—the Second Growth. This exquisite cigar, crafted by the legendary Henke Kelner (pictured above), had apparently ‘been waiting patiently for the right moment,’ and this evening felt just perfect. ‘I want these smoked before Starmer’s Stasi get their hands on them,’ remarked our host with a chuckle.

From the moment I opened the airtight plastic wrapper, my schnozzle was assailed by the rich aroma of aged tobaccos. While I awaited my turn at the V-cutter, the cigar’s Parejo shape felt special in my hands, as though I were an avid violinist given the chance to play a Stradivarius.

This was by far the most expensive cigar I would ever smoke. Yet, I wondered privately whether it could rival the cheapest cigar I had ever enjoyed—the best cigar I’d smoked—its leaves plucked off a washing line and wrapped before my very eyes back in 2010 by a buxom old dear with blackened teeth in the mango-lined grounds of a humble finca near Chaguaramas in Venezuela.

With gentle precision, I clipped the cap and took my first draw. The initial notes were bright and lively, reminiscent of sun-kissed citrus—an exhilarating start that awakened my senses. As the cigar settled into its rhythm, I found myself bombarded by flavours, akin to Charlie with his everlasting gobstopper.

The citrus notes gracefully gave way to floral undertones, reminiscent of a gentle breeze rustling through a blossoming Dominican garden. In this moment, I envisioned a topless, 1990s Halle Berry, her intergluteal cleft undoubtedly enhanced by gold Hermès bikini bottoms as she stooped to water ocean lilies. Each draw became a simultaneous reminder of Mother Nature’s elegance and her fiery ferocity, accented at times by hints of cedar and a touch of nutmeg that evoked warm, comforting memories of a tiny island off Vancouver in the noughties, its owner—an old Icelandic model to whom I played toyboy—and laughter we shared beside a burning hearth in many a frenzied snowstorm.

The texture of the smoke was rich and creamy, coating my palate in a luxurious fluff. Subtle earthiness unfurled like a soft, warm blanket in a cold, damp tent on the Kenyan savannah, complemented by cheeky notes of leather and toasty oak.

As the five of us—four men and one woman—puffed away on our cigars, a perfect fog of silence enveloped the room. In that moment, it dawned on me that to conjure such a smoke, Kelner must have sold his soul to the devil or traded his good looks for genius.

Progressing into the latter part of the cigar, this smoking experience took an unexpected turn— a peppery spiciness emerged, akin to that found in the very best cider wines (the kind farmers keep hidden away for years in dusty old barns, labelled ‘cow urine sample’ to keep their teenage children from quaffing them).

By the time I reached the final puffs, I was both contemplative and exhilarated, reflecting on the rarity of the moment and searching for the right words to thank our host. Knowing that only 1,000 boxes of the Second Growth had ever been produced, I realised I should consider my words with great care. As the last wisps of smoke curled into the air, I felt a profound sense of gratitude towards Henke Kelner (‘the Steven Spielberg of cigars’) and our host.

The Second Growth is a superb cigar; it represents a moment suspended in time. I leant back in my chair for a while after finishing, satisfied and content, cherishing the memories of this extraordinary smoke and the richness of its sensations. While the name could use some improvement—it sounds like a dreadful quasi-Christian Korean cult or, somewhat appropriately perhaps, a terminal cancer diagnosis—there is little else that requires refinement.

To the old dear in that finca near Chaguaramas, should you still be alive (though I somehow doubt it), I would say this: Kelner’s Second Growth is undoubtedly formidable, but you remain unbeaten in the charts with your humble offering. It’s not the money that makes you rich; it’s the richness of your experience.

Dominic Wightman is the Editor of Country Squire Magazine and the author of Dear Townies and Arcadia among other books including ‘Conservatism’ which publishes next month.