Cinnamon

Cinnamon comes from the inner bark of Cinnamomum trees — stripped, rolled and left to cure into the quills that have been traded across the world for at least four thousand years. The name reaches back through Greek and Phoenician to an Arabic root, and long before refrigeration or global shipping, the bark carried the same associations it carries now: warmth, sweetness, the sense of a kitchen with something good in it.

Two species dominate the market. True cinnamon — Cinnamomum verum, sometimes called Ceylon — is pale, fine and mild. Cassia cinnamon, most common in European shops, is darker, harder and carries a more assertive warmth. Both smell the same at first encounter: the familiar, unmistakable lift of warm spice. But cassia opens sharp and sweet, with a faint edge of clove and barely-there citrus; it settles into something deeper, almost woody, that lingers longer than the opening note suggests.

The tradition places cinnamon where the year turns: autumn markets, winter kitchens, the slow build toward the end of the year. Afternoon is its natural hour — not the bright start of a day but the quieter middle and after, when the light goes amber and the body needs a small recharge. In our intention vocabulary it belongs to Abundance and Energy; in mood, to Joy and that particular kind of Energy that doesn't need to rush.

The suggestion the tradition offers is simple: light a cinnamon-scented candle at the same hour on autumn afternoons, and let the scent mark the shift. After a few weeks, the body will begin to recognise the hour before you've lit it. That is the practice. The scent is the cue; the practice is yours.

Below — our catalogue's cinnamon shelf: essential oil, candles, incense and blends for the warm, sweet-sharp register of the season's turn.