Gloves in deerskin in terracotta

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Gloves, made in the south of England, with brown deerskin, a cuff of lambswool, and a lining of cashmere from the Scottish Borders.


To work out your size, measure around your palm at its widest point — usually above the thumb. The gloves are cut to stretch widthways — adapting to the contours of the hand — but not lengthways, and thus not out of shape.

Hand size 8—8½ 8½—9 9—9½
The gloves are sewn together by hand — a one-person, eight-hour undertaking. In the manner of centuries-old glove assembly, the thumb has two sides; the index and little finger three; and the middle and ring fingers four, with the inner panels (fourchettes) cut on the reverse for a subtle suede contrast.
The deerskin has a top-coat of fine pigment, which starts rubbing away from first wear. It slowly reveals, through a craquelure to make Mona Lisa smile, lighter undertones, which themselves darken with wear. The result is a depth of colour and texture which improves with every passing wear.
Sewn into the end of the glove, and partially submerged inside, is a knitted rib cuff, folded back on itself. The cuff is made with geelong lambswool — merino's softer and more handsome brother — in a ten-ply of two warm brown shades. It clings to the wrist without making a nuisance of itself.
The gloves have a lining of undyed cashmere. This lining, indeed, is a complete glove in its own right. It is light cashmere knit, made in Scotland: very fine-micron fibres teased into a remarkably soft and comfortable hand-shaped thing, and a source of endless private reverie for the digits.

As worn

Since the gentleman here has the most moderately sized hands imaginable, gloves in size M are the only thing him.

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 cuffs are hand-framed by a knitwear maker founded 100 years ago. They work with small, hand-operated machines overseen by one person, rather than automated machines, making them one of the last makers still to do so in Britain. It is slow going, but the results always bear out the work put in.