Yaringa

Yaringa arrives as a distinctly briny proposition—Christian Carbonnel has constructed something that smells genuinely of the sea, not the sanitised aquatic fantasy most perfumers peddle. The coconut and kelp opening creates an unusual tension: tropical sweetness immediately complicated by umami-tinged seaweed, as if you've squeezed lime over oysters. What prevents this from becoming a gimmicky niche exercise is the perfumer's restraint and structural clarity. The white thyme emerges with a subtle peppery bite that cuts through the coconut's creamy potential, keeping everything pitched towards minerality rather than comfort. That passion fruit in the heart feels almost defiant—a brief flash of actual fruit brightness that the salt immediately undercuts, preventing any descent into gourmandise.

This is a fragrance for the conceptually curious rather than the nose-seeking-reassurance. It's distinctly unisex because it refuses the softening gestures both masculine and feminine marketing typically demands. The myrtle adds a gentle herbal melancholy, whilst cedar provides architectural support without ever announcing itself. The woody-musky base refuses to sweeten or warm in the conventional manner; instead, it dries further, becoming almost dusty—as though you're standing on a salt-worn jetty at dusk, the day's warmth still radiating from timber.