Gloves in brown deerskin with fawn tweed back

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£90.00 — ex VAT

Gloves, handmade in south-west England with russet-brown deerskin, a back of organic fawn-colour tweed from the Inner Hebrides, and a lining of cashmere from the Scottish Borders.


To work out your size, measure around your hand at its widest point — thumb excluded.

Hand size 8—8½ 8½—9 9—9½
This is a traditional type of glove, the construction of which hasn’t changed much for over a century. It has fourchettes, for instance — with the ring and middle finger comprised of four separate panels; the index and little finger three; and the thumb two. Thus the digits have a good sense of space and movement.
They are made with deerskin from the world's leading maker of gloving leather — which just so happens to be a stone's throw from the glove factory. The deerskin has grain and character. It is cut and shaped to stretch sideways, to adapt to the shape of your hand over time, but never lengthways — e.g. out of shape.
The back of the glove is made with tweed woven from the organic, undyed fleece of heritage sheep: the grey and brown yarns are from the Hebridean breed; the fawn from the Manx breed. The mill in Scotland is surely the only one in the world to rear, shear, and effectively weave its own heritage sheep.
The gloves are lined with natural-colour cashmere. This lining, indeed, is a complete glove in its own right. It is lightweight cashmere, knitted in Scotland: the very finest fibres knitted into a remarkably soft and highly comfortable hand-shaped thing, which is at once both breathable and warm.

As worn

The gent here has hands of moderate size, and wears M.

Makers of

The gloves are made in the crucible of English glove-making, by a group of master craftspeople who, every day, act out the old saying about a silk purse and a sow's ear. There are many easier and faster ways to make gloves — but here, instead, they stick to what has served them well for two-plus centuries.
The makers here, indeed, are standard-bearers of tradition — from the masterful and tailoring-like cutting of the leather, to the use of a fleet of Singer machines so old they'd be in Singer's own museum were they not still working so well, to the extraordinarily intricate repertoire of finishing techniques.
The cloth is woven by a mill in the Inner Hebrides. Doesn't do things by halves, this place. The yarn is pure and undyed, and comes from sheep reared across the mill's vast and open and organic backyard. And no ordinary sheep, these; they are heritage breeds, sheared in a barn beside the loom-shed.
It is no ordinary cloth, either: they are very clever geometric twills, woven on a clunking Victorian power-loom — a proper cast-iron, wood, and string contraption, which is operated with calm and grace by a small team of highly skilled weavers, who either live on the island or the one next-door.