The brothers and sisters of the leaf are a worldwide community of romantics.

It’s a fraternity, a sorority, a subculture, a club, an unincorporated association of diverse individuals who have fallen in love with the wonders and mysteries of the cigar.

The members of this sect of tobacco smokers speak a language exclusive to themselves and abide by unwritten rules of conduct, etiquette and mutual respect.

They are a thoughtful, considerate and enlightened collective of human beings who have invested their energy into the ‘discovery of self’ through the exploration of a natural product that embodies all the magical beauty of a collaborative effort.

If discovery and personal development are the objectives of this tribe, the sharing of information, recommendations and personal experiences serve as a vehicle of conveyance, driving them towards their ultimate destination.

The nature of this tribe is somewhat nomadic; they are not indigenous to any specific land. Instead, they can be found in various places around the globe.

They can be identified by their habits and recognised by each other when they come into contact, usually in members’ clubs, smoking lounges, cigar-friendly bars and tobacconists that pride themselves on stocking a variety of brands that provide fermented tobacco leaves in the form of cylinders of enjoyment.

There is a distinct difference between a brother or sister of the leaf and someone who simply smokes cigars. Any adult with enough money and a taste for fine tobacco can purchase a cigar, enjoy it and develop an enthusiasm for smoking them. They might be a seasoned cigar smoker with many years of experience, or possess a wealth of information about cigars, the different brands, the growing and fermentation process, the different varieties of tobacco and the regions they are indigenous to.

They might work in the cigar industry and hold the coveted distinction as a Master of Havana Cigars, as awarded by the UK distributor of Habanos S.A. cigars in the UK market, Hunters & Frankau.

These attributes would certainly make any person a viable source of information, direction and recommendation, but unless that person was willing to share these gifts with a fellow cigar lover, that person would not be considered a brother or sister of the leaf.

It is not an obligation to show this kind of camaraderie; it is a choice. It’s the kind of behaviour that comes from an innate sense of duty to your fellow man or woman. Oftentimes, it comes from having a profound respect and appreciation for the product in question.

When a person who has a love of cigars meets another person who has a love of cigars, oftentimes it leads to a mutual respect born out of the appreciation both people have for cigars. When someone has been affected by the hidden pleasure of cigar smoking in a similar way to me, I can’t help but feel a sense of relatability to that person.

In that instant, the cigar has ceased being a product and has now been elevated to the realm of an institution. It’s like finding out someone went to the same school or university as you. You may have had different experiences, but the structure, culture and rules of that institution will have been implemented on both of you in the same way.

If you played for the same rugby team and the team had a nickname like ‘the Wildcats’, it would be similar to meeting a fellow Wildcat that you have never met before. That feeling of brotherhood that comes from the connection you both have to that institution is a powerful force.

You might feel compelled to buy the person a drink at a bar, offer them a lift to their next destination, or meet up for a catch-up. Even if you have never met this person before, you might feel very comfortable with them simply because of the association they have to the institution you have both graduated from.

This brings me to one of the most distinctive traits of a BOTL (brother of the leaf) or a SOTL (sister of the leaf), and that trait is generosity.

In my humble opinion, real cigar smokers smoke cigars regularly. Like me, for example, a good day for me would be one after every meal; a holiday or a day of rest would be two, so six in a day. Another opinion of mine is that a real brother of the leaf shares with others: information, time and, of course, cigars.

For me, nothing feels better than being able to give someone who loves cigars a cigar to smoke. Forget about it, you can’t beat it.

I’ve always taken pride in introducing people to music, items of food and drink, and products in general that I myself value for their exceptional quality. Coming from the school of ethics that I come from, we call that ‘putting on’. You put the people you care about onto quality things they will appreciate. As such, I find enjoyment in putting cigar smokers onto the cigars I like to smoke.

I’ll tell you a secret, and that is, it feels better for me to give a cigar than it does to receive one. When someone gives me a cigar, I almost feel embarrassed, especially if I don’t have a stick on me at the time to exchange with them in order to reciprocate the gesture.

I had the pleasure of meeting a gentleman who goes by the name of Miguel sometime last year, and Miguel is the epitome of a hard-working, God-fearing brother of the leaf. This guy’s quality, generosity and considerate nature know no bounds, so after meeting through Instagram for a cigar and a coffee, I am truly fortunate to say I consider him to be a brother.

The only problem with Miguel is this guy is always blessing me with cigars. I say that jokingly because I definitely appreciate the love, but sometimes, most times, he catches me off guard and I might not have anything on me to give to him. I think when you are fortunate enough to be around good people, these are the kinds of problems you will end up having.

That being said, I am not so different from Miguel in the sense that I like to gift people cigars too. I was reminded of this recently during a trip to Berlin, where I had another experience that perfectly captured what I mean. I was at a La Casa on the west side, looking for cigars, as you do.

The gentleman working there was an on-hand specialist, and although I had never met him before, he was hospitable and kind. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a lot of stock to choose from. So we spent about thirty to forty minutes talking about cigars that were not available.

We discussed what it was like working in the industry during these times when Cuban cigars were so scarce, and I shared some of my experiences working in London. I ended up buying a three-pack of Monte 4s and about five HPRs (Hoyo Petit Robustos).

He then showed me into a separate building, which was next door, where the company he worked for sold their non-Cuban cigars. I picked up a few Plasencia, Padrón and some Upmann HC’s (Half Coronas), which were, strangely enough, in the non-Cuban cigar humidor.

I decided to sample an HPR in the lounge and, after lighting my cigar, I brandished a P2 (Partagás Serie P No. 2) that I had brought with me from London. I presented it to him as a gift and continued to smoke my cigar.

On receiving the cigar, he smiled and said, ‘P2’. It was like he had just seen a close friend he hadn’t seen in a long time. I felt like I had reunited two close friends, and I could only see how happy one was to see the other. He seemed very grateful, and seeing this emotion in him made me feel good.

I was so focused on my Petit Robusto that I didn’t really notice him dart back into the humidor. When I looked up, he was already back in there. It looked like he was putting away the boxes he had brought out to show customers, as it was approaching the shop’s closing time. It made sense that he would be tidying up the humidor at the end of the day.

To my surprise, he popped out and handed me one of the cardboard boxes we cigar specialists use to package cigars for customers. He said, ‘This is a present for you.’

I was quite taken aback, but I showed my appreciation with a hand on my chest, a bow of my head and a heartfelt, ‘Thank you so much.’

Just because of the discreet manner in which he made the gesture, I did not dare open the package then and there, so I waited until I had left and was seated at a coffee shop table around the corner.

I opened the cardboard parcel to find not one but two E2s (Serie E No. 2), which carried two extra bands aside from the regular crimson-red band with gold text that you would usually see on a Partagás cigar from the letter series.

Both extra bands were burgundy; one was just beneath the regular band and bore the cigar merchant’s brand name and logo. The second extra band was a foot band that bore the date 28.3.2020. This meant both cigars were dressed with these special bands in 2020, so they were at least six years old.

What a gift, what a token of respect and appreciation. What a symbol of camaraderie and brotherhood.

I was a bit upset because he totally trumped my gift and left me feeling like I had short-changed him, but, of course, these were both genuine acts of generosity. The kind you see amongst friends. The kind you expect amongst brothers.

It’s experiences like this that add value to the experience of being a cigar smoker. Gestures like these are infectious; they inspire you to continue the practice of sharing.

It goes beyond being kind to a person; it’s now become about being true to the society. It’s about reciprocating the welcoming energy that was shown to you when you felt like an outsider stepping into that lounge for the first time.

It’s about giving someone the feeling you felt when you received that first cigar from a generous soul. It’s about upholding the integrity of the culture.

We are cigar smokers. We value time, quality, sincerity and the act of sharing all of the above through the product we love: a good cigar.

Long before private members’ clubs, tasting rooms and cigar lounges existed, people gathered around flames to talk, exchange stories, debate ideas, share food, drink, and simply enjoy one another’s company.

The fire gave people a reason to gather but the gathering itself was the point.

I believe there is something remarkably similar about the cigar.

A cigar slows us down. It asks us to put the phone away (unless we are taking pictures of and checking out the online information about the cigar we are sampling), sit for a while and allow conversation to develop at its own pace. It creates a natural rhythm. A group of people enjoying cigars together can become something more than a collection of individuals occupying the same room.

It can become fellowship. It is this fellowship which sits at the very foundation of The Crown and Compass Cigar Club.

I have spent some time exploring cigar culture and to be very frank, I have often felt like something of an anomaly within it.

Partly due to my appearance as a heavily tattooed black man with very distant ties to street culture through the music and street wear industries. I am also in my spare time a rapper / hip hop artist. I don’t necessarily resemble the traditional image that people might associate with the cigar world. Yet beneath the appearance is someone who is educated, deeply curious, culturally aware and fascinated by an enormous range of subjects, from history and craftsmanship to business, art, spirits and the stories behind the things we choose to consume.

I have sometimes felt like an outcast in a culture whose conventional image can be rather narrow.

I myself don’t see this as a negative thing. In fact I see it quite the opposite as a positive aspect to my experience.

Some people might appreciate my presence in this world as a breath of fresh air. New blood. A more vibrant spirit and perhaps that is exactly what I can contribute.

I sometimes think of myself as a chef walking into a kitchen where the dish has been prepared the same way for generations and deciding that it needs a little more seasoning.

Not because the original dish had no value but because it can be much better.

That is one of the reasons I decided not to simply find a club to join.

I needed to create one.

Crown and Compass is deliberately intended to welcome individuals who may have felt similarly disconnected from the traditional cigar stereotype. That being said, this isn’t a society exclusively for outsiders.

It is for cigar enthusiasts who are bold enough to be themselves, brave enough to question convention and ambitious enough to influence what comes next.

People who want to become better mentors, leaders, entrepreneurs, craftsmen, thinkers and friends.

People who overstand that strength and consideration are not opposing qualities.

Men and women who want to leave the next generation something better than they inherited.

At the centre of the club is the cigar, but the cigar is not the destination.

It is the camp fire, around it we talk, we learn, we challenge one another, we laugh and we share experiences.

Hopefully, we become better people because of the person sitting next to us.

My fascination with process.

A great cigar is not simply something that appears in a box. It represents cultivation, fermentation, rolling, ageing, storage and patience.

The same principle can be found in whisky, wine, rum, leather, watches, automobiles, art and countless other expressions of human craftsmanship.

The finished product is interesting and the process behind it is fascinating.

Crown and Compass intends to serve as a society for students of process.

We want to visit places where exceptional things are made. We want to meet the people who make them (Shouts out the big homie Scott Vines and his ‘Meet the Makers’ initiative). We want to understand what patience, repetition and discipline have contributed to their creations.

Things that appreciate with time require time to appreciate.

Perhaps people do too.

Personal refinement is not about pretending to be someone else. It is about becoming a more considered version of yourself.

This is what Crown and Compass is.

A table around which different backgrounds can meet without requiring anyone to disguise themselves.

A club built around the love for cigars, certainly, but also around curiosity, craftsmanship, conversation, personal development, culture and legacy.

We are beginning with 25 places.

Genuine fellowship requires intimacy, keeping the numbers of members at 25 allows us to really get to know each other.

If this is something you have been looking for, I would like to hear from you.

If you are interested in becoming part of The Crown & Compass Society, send me a direct message expressing your interest.

From there, applicants will be invited to take the next step, including obtaining a paid subscription to this publication as part of the club’s private community.

Successful applicants will then be invited to complete their initiation, including the £49.99 one-time membership initiation fee, which covers the cost of their Crown & Compass initiation starter pack.

There are only 25 seats.

The table is being built now.

Perhaps there is a place for you around it.

They say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Well, I don’t know exactly who ‘they’ are, but I think they were definitely onto something.

Sometimes it’s a bowl of porridge oats with a sliced banana, a little maca powder and a drizzle of honey. Other mornings, it might be a couple of boiled eggs with a piece of toast. Then there are the days when I decide that subtlety has no place at the breakfast table and I go for a pastrami melt with a side of eggs over easy.

For me, it’s the meal that sets my day into motion. It’s the one that gets my engine into first gear and keeps the motor running until lunchtime. Most significantly for me, as a ‘proper cigar smoker’, it’s the meal that lines my stomach for my ‘breakfast cigar’, which has now become an integral part of my morning ritual.

There is something about a cigar that changes the pace of the morning.

Breakfast is about fuelling the body; the walk to the train station while enjoying a cigar is about preparing the mind.

There is a lot of conversation going on about stress and the effect it can have on us. Mental and physical health can both be affected by prolonged stress, and while I certainly wouldn’t suggest smoking is a medical treatment, I do understand why many cigar smokers describe their time with a cigar as an opportunity to decompress.

The cigar gives you a licence to slow things down.

There is something inherently intentional about the process of appreciating a good stick, especially when you weigh it in the balance of all the aspects of life that encourage us to rush from one thing to the next.

That short respite occurs for me during my walk. This is what I refer to as ‘doing it moving’. I liken the motions of decompressing and meditating to the combinations a young boxer might throw while sparring or competing in a bout.

As opposed to throwing this sequence of punches from a stationary position, it may serve the athlete better if he puts them together while stepping with every shot, gradually taking him closer to his target.

These solitary moments offer me a form of liberation. The sheer idea of walking and smoking might horrify some cigar traditionalists.

There are plenty of people who believe a good cigar deserves to be enjoyed sitting comfortably, preferably somewhere serene and picturesque, with a refreshing liquid accompaniment in hand, with absolutely nowhere to be but in that moment.

I completely understand that approach. There is a lot to be said for sitting down and giving a cigar your undivided attention. That being said, I don’t feel the need to confine myself to one way in which to enjoy a cigar.

The stick is my friend, my confidant, the one who listens without interruption, the one that requires love and patience from me, but it is well equipped to reciprocate the same energy. For that reason alone, I see no reason to limit the appreciation of my friend to a specific idealistic environment. On the contrary, a conversation with my friend might be necessary in more situations than one.

My breakfast cigar prepares my mind for the commute to work, the crowds, delays and little irritations that come with it.

It’s been enjoyable for me to document these fleeting moments on Instagram of late, which has surprisingly accentuated and become an enjoyable part of the ritual.

What started simply as me sharing what I was smoking has now become a collection of memoirs.

It has evolved into a journal of sorts, one that allows me to retrace my steps along this journey of appreciation of the leaf while remembering the thoughts and feelings that came with those experiences.

Interestingly, my breakfast cigars aren't always the light- or medium-bodied cigars you might expect.

There have been mornings when I've reached for something considerably more serious, including a Partagás Serie P No. 2 or a Partagás Lusitania. Because sometimes the cigar you want in the morning isn't necessarily the cigar you're supposed to have in the morning.

And that brings me to one of the things I particularly enjoy about cigars: different cigars seem to suit different moments of the day.

Light- to medium-bodied cigars are particularly popular with seasoned smokers for precisely this reason. They can provide plenty of flavour and complexity without overwhelming the smoker, and because they're generally less demanding, they allow you to enjoy more cigars throughout the day.

I am absolutely one of those people.

If I can't get through six cigars in a day, I'd probably consider that a pretty good day by my standards.

For the breakfast cigar, however, my ideal is something with relatively low nicotine but plenty of flavour. I want something tasty enough to keep me interested, but not so powerful that five minutes later I'm desperately looking for somewhere to sit down and have a bowel movement.

There is a fine line between relaxation and regret.

Finding a cigar that sits on the right side of that line is part of the fun.

The beauty of the breakfast cigar isn't necessarily the cigar itself. It's what the cigar does to the moment.

That walk becomes my time.

My mind gets a chance to wander. My body is moving. I'm outside. I'm smoking something I enjoy. For those few minutes, I am not thinking about emails, meetings, deadlines, trains or whatever problems might be waiting for me when I arrive at work.

I'm simply walking and smoking.

And there is something wonderfully simple about that.

Cigar smoking is often surrounded by traditions, etiquette and unwritten rules about when, where and how a cigar should be enjoyed. I appreciate those traditions enormously, but I also think there is something to be said for breaking the rules occasionally.

Want to smoke a cigar sitting down with a whisky? Do it.

Want to smoke one after dinner? Enjoy it.

Want to smoke a cigar while walking to the station after breakfast? Why not?

Ultimately, cigars are about enjoyment. The important thing is finding the way of enjoying them that works for you.

For me, that currently means breakfast, a cigar and a walk.

It might not be the traditional way to start the day, but then again, perhaps that's exactly why I enjoy it so much.

Before the trains, before the crowds and before the challenges of the working day, there is breakfast.

And then there is the breakfast cigar.

My little ritual.

My few minutes of freedom.

And, most importantly, a very enjoyable way to start the day.

There is something rather human about a cigar.

At first glance, two people can appear remarkably similar. They may share the same upbringing, speak the same language, wear the same clothes and even have remarkably similar personalities. Yet spend a little time with them and the differences begin to emerge. The same could be said of cigars.

Take two cigars from the same brand, the same blend, the same vitola and, for all intents and purposes, identical in appearance. You might reasonably expect them to smoke identically. But tobacco has never been particularly interested in conforming to our expectations.

One cigar may draw a fraction tighter than the other. One may burn perfectly straight while its twin requires the occasional correction. One might produce thick, abundant smoke, while the other is comparatively restrained. Most importantly, they can taste subtly, and sometimes dramatically, different.

This is part of what makes cigars so fascinating.

We often approach our humidor with the benefit of memory. We remember a particular cigar we enjoyed enormously and, naturally, seek it out again. We remember another that disappointed us and decide it is not for us. There is nothing inherently wrong with this. In fact, previous experience is one of the most useful tools we have when navigating the enormous world of cigars.

But perhaps relying too heavily upon it can also be counterproductive.

If we decide that we like a particular cigar because we enjoyed the last one, we can begin to treat the cigar in front of us as though it owes us the same experience. Likewise, if a cigar once disappointed us, we may dismiss it forever without considering that the next example could be quite different.

The truth is that we never really know what we are going to like until we try it.

And that includes the cigars we dislike.

There is a tendency among enthusiasts to consider an unpleasant smoking experience a waste of time or money. I would argue that the opposite is true. The cigars we do not enjoy are every bit as important as the ones we adore. They help define our palate. They teach us what we do not want, and, perhaps more importantly, they make us appreciate what we do.

Our journey through cigars is therefore less about finding a definitive list of favourites and more about discovering ourselves.

This is where tasting notes become particularly interesting.

Cigar tasting notes are, by their very nature, subjective. A cigar sommelier can describe what they experience, but they cannot tell you what you are going to taste. Their palate has been shaped by an entirely different collection of experiences to yours. What reminds one smoker of espresso may remind another of a campfire. What one person identifies as leather might be perceived by somebody else simply as earthy tobacco.

There is nothing wrong with either interpretation.

I have heard countless stories of cigar founders, tobacco farmers and owners dismissing the elaborate tasting descriptors so commonly associated with cigars. Coffee, leather, nuts, chocolate, cedar and countless other references are frequently used to describe tobacco, yet those actually responsible for growing and blending it have sometimes been heard to say, quite simply, that their tobacco tastes like tobacco.

And perhaps they have a point.

Of course, tasting notes have their place. They give us a vocabulary with which to communicate our experiences. They can help us identify similarities between cigars and encourage us to explore flavours we might otherwise overlook.

But they should never become instructions.

If somebody tells you that a cigar tastes of dark chocolate and you cannot taste chocolate, that does not mean you are smoking it incorrectly. Nor does it mean the person describing it is necessarily wrong. Perhaps the cigar triggered a memory in their mind of something they have tasted before. Perhaps you have never had that particular experience, and therefore the association simply does not exist for you.

That is the wonderfully personal nature of taste.

Perhaps we could dispense with some of the elaborate terminology altogether. Strip away the coffee, leather, nuts, chocolate and everything else we have collectively attached to tobacco and reduce the experience to two wonderfully simple categories: good and bad sticks.

It sounds simplistic, but there is something liberating about it.

Because ultimately, the only question that really matters is whether you enjoyed the cigar.

Not whether somebody else rated it highly. Not whether it came from an esteemed factory. Not whether a famous reviewer detected roasted almonds, leather and dark chocolate in the final third. Not even whether you loved the same cigar six months ago.

What matters is what happened when you put it to your lips, lit it and spent an hour or two with it.

A cigar is an agricultural product, handmade and shaped by countless variables. Soil, climate, fermentation, ageing, construction and storage all play their part. Even within those parameters, no two cigars will ever be perfectly identical.

Much like us.

And perhaps that is precisely why the best way to appreciate cigars is to approach each one with an open mind. Past experiences should guide us, but they should not dictate our expectations.

The cigar in front of you deserves to be judged on its own merits.

You might love it.

You might hate it.

Or, most interestingly of all, you might discover something you never expected to enjoy.

That, after all, is the journey.