Not all candles are meant for the table. This one is.
Vine is that fresh, green whisper that doesn’t compete with your food but somehow makes everything—from the sourdough crusts to the last pour of wine—feel more intentional. It’s the kind of scent that lifts, not lingers; that threads between guests like an extra course no one ordered but everyone remembers.
It smells like green stems after rain and fresh things chopped hastily for dinner—herbaceous, clean, slightly nostalgic.
Made for the centre of the table, or to flicker quietly in odd-numbered groups along its length, this candle doesn’t shout for attention. It softens. It flatters. It sets a scene you didn’t know you were capable of conjuring.
Scatter several down a linen‑soft banquet or let one preside at the centre of a simple supper. The scent is lively, without being sharp—an olfactory tap on the shoulder that says: you’ve thought this through.
Not all candles are meant for the table. This one is.
Vine is that fresh, green whisper that doesn’t compete with your food but somehow makes everything—from the sourdough crusts to the last pour of wine—feel more intentional. It’s the kind of scent that lifts, not lingers; that threads between guests like an extra course no one ordered but everyone remembers.
It smells like green stems after rain and fresh things chopped hastily for dinner—herbaceous, clean, slightly nostalgic.
Made for the centre of the table, or to flicker quietly in odd-numbered groups along its length, this candle doesn’t shout for attention. It softens. It flatters. It sets a scene you didn’t know you were capable of conjuring.
Scatter several down a linen‑soft banquet or let one preside at the centre of a simple supper. The scent is lively, without being sharp—an olfactory tap on the shoulder that says: you’ve thought this through.
