Cire Trudon is one of my most favoured chandlers.
Their story opens with its founder Claude Trudon in 1643 and is a tale steeped and thoroughly intertwined with the history of France. By 1687 Calude’s son Jacques entered into the court of the Sun King Louis XIV as the personal apothecary and distiller of Marie-Thérese, queen of France. Trudon went on to supply candles to the French court and to many of the most important churches throughout France until the demise of the monarchy when it continued its survival by supplying candles to Napoleon. Today, through the company’s resilience and continual provision of excellence, Cire Trudon is the oldest and most prestigious wax candle maker in the world.
I have owned two of their candles. Both were bought to mark sentimental anniversaries and both served me very well.
//Spiritus Sancti. The scent of my childhood memories of being forced to sit through mass each Sunday stewing in my doubtful malaise . A Catholic mass distilled into flickering wax. This is heavy with smoking incense, rife with the dusty smell of bibles of old. A fragrance of mischief hidden behind heavy velvet and of confession boxes and of course prayer candles burdened with the hopes of the faithful.
//Dada. Quite a revolution in scent. A mix of tea, earthy vetiver sodden with muddled mint and eucalyptus leaves. This is like a cocktail of fresh confusion and it brought an intriguing resonance into the room each time it was lit.
Cire Trudon candles are made with vegetal wax and are biodegradable. They burn evenly and last a long long time releasing fragrance even when unlit.
Some candle makers produce some lovely illustrated brochures to accompany their candles. These are not given away willy-nilly but if you ask for them they are there for the taking unless you are in the Paris shop when you may get a miserable old mare regarding you with a most disdainful leer.
The current brochure is illustrated by Lawrence Mynott and is is a joy to behold. I am very glad that I have one.
\Listening to Go it Alone by Beck:
“See me down at the station
By the lane
With my hands in my pocket
Jingling a wish coin
That I stole from a fountain
That was drowning all the cares in the world”