I was born in 1959 and I smoked my first pipe when I was 14. I wanted to emulate the myth of Sherlock Holmes, whose series were broadcasted on tv, at the time a monster in black and white which was beginning to claim its first victims.
This was when I discovered that peculiar sensation of holding in my hands a mirror polished wood object from which a pleasant warmth and evocative smells of faraway lands sprang.
I quit early (it was too inconvenient and, moreover, at that age, myths change quickly), but the attraction for that extraordinary material, the wood, has never abandoned me. Years later, to cultivate my passion for the sea even in winter, I began to build model ships. Leuds, frigates, xebecs, and vessels (never tried with the Victory, it was too much for me) invaded in my house, sharing the limited space with my books.
Then, as it generally happens, the time came to think about how to earn my daily bread. A degree in agricultural sciences, 5 years at the University of Palermo as a researcher involved in one of my other interests, wine, and finally the employment as an agricultural adviser. Today I work at the Regional Phytosanitary Service in Palermo, and I am dealing with plant diseases.
The desire to build my first pipe emerged when I decided to start smoking it again, in 2009. Why not try it? – I thought. In 2011 I found a man who stimulated me to try, the lovable Carlo Riggio, owner of the oldest tobacco shop in Palermo, and still a reference point for Sicilian pipe smokers. My apprenticeship started by consulting books on that subject, videos on YouTube and heated debates with Carlo, who was always generous with advice.
Then, one day, Carlo said to me: You are no longer a hobbyist. Go and learn with a Master and make an important breakthrough, because you have what it takes. So I started looking for a Master between Italy and Denmark, until I came to Mimmo Romeo. I sent him an introduction email with pictures of my pipes. As is his style, he had no scruples about telling me “they sucked.” It was my wife, Maria, who pulled me out from my despondency and insisted that I should write him again to ask what was wrong with my pipes.
