I’ve been looking at a lot of photos of A.A. Milne recently (who knew I had so many on my hard drive?) and a startling majority feature Milne’s constant companion: his pipe. I’ve come across several pieces of his writing about smoking (including “Smoking as a fine art“) but was most entertained by a memory his son had of a traumatic instance when Milne found himself without his pipe:
My father smoked a pipe. In fact he was seldom without a pipe in his mouth. I remember on one occasion he and I went for a swim together while on one our Dorset holidays. We had just dressed and were preparing to spend an hour or so reclining on the beach, idly throwing stones into the water, when he felt in his pocket. ‘My God!’ he cried. ‘I’ve left my pipe behind. Quick. We must go home at once. ‘ And he set off running….
–The Path Through the Trees by Christopher Milne