October 2020 — February 2021

Home — Worn — October 2020 — February 2021

The peacoat here is made with heavy melton — woven in West Yorkshire, and a perfect facsimile of military-issue cloth made on the same premises in the first half of the last century. It is, indeed, likely probably not very different at all from cloth the mill has been making continually since its establishment over 250 years ago.

As a jacket, the donkey is saddled (sorry) with a moniker which doesn't do it justice. It is best thought of, though, as a work jacket of medium length, with a whopper of a collar and more pockets than you might think, and employs sail-cloth from Northern Ireland and heavy melton from Yorkshire to Jack Frost-defying degree.

This polo shirt is a knitting lexicographer's wildest dream. It is hand-framed and hand-linked using superfine geelong lambswool selected for its roundness of handle. It is blended together before knitting for an even distribution, and the result as you can see has the look of a carefully combed gravel driveway.

There aren't many garments at the workshop as brazen in their mission statement as the bodywarmer, here in geelong lambswool, nor as direct in the way they try to accomplish it. It has a front which is eight-ply, see, or about three-gauge, which is so chunky it doesn't even look right written as a measurement.

The Chesterfield has a half-raglan sleeve — halfway between a set-in sleeve and a full raglan, that is — and it's what gives the Chesterfield its blend of soft shoulder with formal comportment. You don't see this style of sleeve much if anywhere these days, which is a great shame. The Chesterfield wields it with swelling pride.

This version of the Chesterfield is a gift for anyone predisposed to imparting technical textile know-how — as in, "oh, this old thing? Well, it is woven with a two-ply yarn spun in West Yorkshire; the two-ply nature giving greater texture to the weave, as well as higher tensile-strength and abrasion-resistance. And it’s 21-micron merino lambswool — I know you were wondering — hence the supple handle."

The ten-ply geelong crewneck, here, adorning the body of its wearer with so high a quantity of wool that cold mornings cease to be something to worry about.

Tucked into the side-seams of the crewneck, down by the waist, are pockets which fasten with a small button and loop. Warm, knitted, and surprisingly capacious, these pockets — with more than enough room for hands and loose change and keys and so on, or simply to tickle gently one’s belly, as seen here.

The gansey is hand-framed with soft geelong lambswool in the south-west of the British Isles. It foregoes the decorative elements of its nautical ancestors in favour of a brutally to-the-point "heavy top-half and light lower" motif, and has shape and sizing arguably better suited to the livelihoods of understated landlubbers.

The cloth here is a blend of merino lambswool and cotton, woven in County Donegal, and the result of adding the two fibres proves greater than the simple-seeming sum. The shirt is warm when you wish it to be, soft to the touch, but yet still neither thick nor fluffy enough to trouble the act of slinking a jacket over the top.

A little-known (despite being heavily publicised) fact about the duffle coat is that, as well as the twin two-way pockets at its front, there lurks beneath the front yoke — between toggle one and toggle two — a little sideways pocket, perfect for the surreptitious stashing of wallets, cards, and sundry other small personal effects.

The key thing with the donkey jacket is its back, front, shoulder, and sleeve all being cut from one piece of cloth. It is a cut sometimes found on continental hunting jackets or, curiously, old dressing-gowns. It is anyway a handy way to keep out the rain, and gives the jacket a soft shoulder and a tremendous amount of upward lift.

The balmacaan — it is undeniably brown. Get closer, though, and you'll soon spot the nobbles and bobbles of its chunky barleycorn structure. Another step in and the colourful nepps of authentic Donegal tweed become apparent — and with every step closer focusses into view an autumnal kaleidoscope of rich auburn and chestnut.

It is tricky to say for sure how many sheep (the woolly parts) go into the crewneck because sheep are individuals and come in all shapes and sizes. But they're sheep of the geelong family, whose fleece makes for the finest knitting wool in the world, and as such the crewneck is one of the most stratocumulus-tastic experiences around.

This is a middleweight cord, but with fairly narrow wales. It is a very soft cloth, particularly its interior, but — cord being a traditional working cloth — is exceptionally hard-wearing. And, despite being soft and warm on cooler days, it is eminently breathable, and so the shirt here is really rather good all the year round.

There are three shades of yarn in this particular edition of the watch cap: two greens of the darker order, and with a derby grey to maintain control and ensure the saturation doesn't get out of hand. The yarn is spun in Scotland — washed in local waterways, no less — by a centuries-old and world-leading spinner of fine yarns.

The workshop, being open almost none of the time, and quite inaccessible even when it is, due to the local predilection for potholes and iron security gates, doesn't really need a doorman, but if it did, he or she would wear the Chesterfield — especially this version, in heavy two-ply merino hopsack from West Yorkshire.

The top of the balaclava is a tuck-stitch, with no end of knobbly, bobbly appeal. The lower half is a plain-stitch: best for navigating chins, cheeks, and noses, and the most stealthy of all stitches (vital for balaclavae). There's rib-stitch here and there, too, such as at the face and neck opening, where grip is the order of the day.

The trucker jacket has more of an American twang than most other things at the workshop because somehow road haulier and vehicular logistics personnel jacket didn't have the same ring. It is made with Bedford cord: a tough, comfortable workwear cloth, with an endearing corrugated texture and brushed finish.

There’s a niggling suspicion with the parka that it'd swallow you up given half the chance. The height of the neck, the depth of the hood, the way it clunks shut with the brass sliders. The sail-cloth from Northern Ireland doesn’t give for at least two months, so if it ever did get the jump on you, it’d be nothing to smile about.

The crown of the cap is tuck-stitch, which is the undisputed champion of heartily textured knitwear. It is a dense stitch, with the strands of yarn folded up and over each other, and so helps keep in the heat very much in the manner of a military-issue tea-cosy. The rest is rib-stitch, which is top-dog for head-clamping reliability.