For the ultimate Celtic smoking experience, pack your Peterson full of Erinmore and dream of fishing the Emerald Island for salmon with your amanchara (soul friend).

Imagine standing in the current of the Faughan River casting big flies for even bigger fish, getting increasingly aggravated all the while because the ravenous browns keep interrupting the anadromous action. Suddenly there's an unmistakable strike: certainly no trout, that's for sure. The rod doubles and so does your heart beat. An enormous silver-side missiles out of the flow and tail-dances the full length of the pool. Somewhat fearfully you carefully keep a nice tight line, but the leviathan dives hard, determined to tow your American wazoo clear to the Atlantic Ocean. Praise God for disc drag reels. After twenty minutes of tugging against relentless resistance the fish finally tires and you begin maneuvering the beast into position for a landing. The Irish gillie announces it's a keeper--like you didn't already know. Wishing to share the experience with your faithful soul friend, you ask him to handle the net. He starts for the scoop and does something unforgivably stupid, accidentally knocking the salmon free.

Both you and the gillie nod to each other in silent agreement. After your amanchara is safely buried deep within the fertile soil of the river bank, you sit upon the boulder headstone, pull out an exquisite example of Dublin briar and load it with a healthy pinch of Erinmore. The mixture is patiently lit with a wooden match, not a pipe lighter. Eminently satisfied with the subtle pineapple sweetness of the flavored Cavendish and Virginia tobaccos, you puff away appreciatively as the aromatic smoke chokes the pangs of a conscience acutely aroused by cursing over the loss of such a frightfully huge creature. The blend, however, turns out to be extraordinarily pleasurable, so you quickly jot a note in your fishing journal, reminding yourself to buy at least ten more tins stateside.

Fortunately, the day is still young and there's always fresh hope in the next hole. Better move along, you think, thus you reluctantly finish the bowl and amble down to the water's edge. One good cast is all it takes.