Ducker & Son: The shoemaker I missed

Apparently I used to walk past Ducker & Son almost every day for three years. But I never noticed. I wasn't exactly into clothes at Oxford - baggy Gap jeans and an untucked shirt were the best I rustle up. A bespoke shoe maker like Ducker's would have made little impression.

But on the recommendation of someone on this blog, I made sure to look in when I was up in Oxford last week on business. Bob and Isabel were both friendly and warm, and talked me through the shop's variety of footwear, which is probably best described as diverse and unassuming.

Ducker's sells shoes costing everything from £80 to £3000. It caters for the cash-poor student trying to buy a decent pair of brogues, or boat shoes to kick around in, as well as the bespoke enthusiast looking to unleash his tastes on exotic hides.

Bespoke starts at £1500, which is pretty good compared to London and only an hour away. While measurements and all fittings are done by Bob, the lasts are made by Springline to his specifications. So some difference from the London shoemakers there. Closing is done by a series of outworkers around the county and all the making is done by friends using spare space in Northampton factories. Though entirely handmade, the production is therefore a little scattered.

Although the turnover of bespoke shoes is not large, its clients have included JRR Tolkien, Evelyn Waugh and various Maharajas. More recently, Eddie Jordan and Jeremy Clarkson were added to the list. And demand is still consistent, pushing the delivery time for bespoke orders out to around 36 weeks.

The stock of ready-made shoes lines the walls of the shop on Turl Street. But it is still not that extensive and made-to-order is heavily emphasised. Depending on the style and timing with the producers in Northampton, made-to-order shoes can be delivered in anything from 4 to 14 weeks. The ability to thus pick your last, leather and sole is highlighted.

That's the diversity dealt with. The style of the shoes, a last that Bob says he personally commissioned and designed, is unassuming. No Gaziano-style sculpting here. Just nice brogues and Oxfords with smooth, clean lines.

Ducker & Son was founded in 1898 and has been in the same family ever since. When Mr Ducker arrived in Oxford, he was one of 20 shoemakers in the city. Now there's just one. Let's hope it stays around, for more sartorial students than I to discover.

How great things age: Edward Green 3

Well, my favourite pair of shoes, the Oundles from Edward Green, are back from refurbishment and looking pretty darn good. As requested, here are a few pictures of them in their new, refreshed state.

The upper is unchanged, save for a few layers of meticulous polish. It still has that antiqued look created by dozens of layers of polish over the past few years. But the sole and heel are entirely new - clean and hard and ready to be worn - and the sock inside is new too. So my personal imprint (and therefore bespoke comfort) is retained in the insole and the upper. But the rest is new.

EG have also added in a full-length sock rather than the half sock it originally had. Because if I had to choose, they were a little big rather than a little small.

It's a blessed relief after seeing them torn apart just a few weeks ago.

The two previous posts on the refurbishment, how the shoes are stripped down, followed by their repair, can be seen by clicking on those hyperlinks.

Silk suits and shantung

Two opposite types at the horse show

Esquire, July 1934: "They hold these things all over America in the summertime, particularly in the country fair regions. We guess the guy on the right didn't know he was coming to this one. Probably he just happened to be here on his summer vacation, because his clothes merely typify current fashion for any resort or country place.

The silk suit is worn without a vest. The shirt is of brown patterned white oxford with a wide spread collar. The tie is of rough shantung. The black saddled shoes are of white elk.

Now the other fellow, he's horsey, like young Renny in the Jalna books. He wears a tan linen riding sacque with slanting flap pockets and ten-inch side vents, grey checked white flannels, a blue foulard bow tie with white polka dots, a blue felt pork pie hat and brown reverse calf shoes. There will be no prize whatever for guessing which one drives the Begatti."

I like the riding enthusiast's desert boots, though no mention of them is made here. I also like the silk suit, but maybe a silk mix would be safest.

Murdock’s: Learning how to shave

I’ve always been pretty terrible with grooming. Never wanted to spend any time on it, certainly didn’t want to spend any money on it. But in the same way that I have gradually accepted I need to be better at looking after my clothes, I realise now I need to be better at grooming.

Shaving is the biggie. Though I wear a beard, I shave a portion of my cheeks and a good couple of inches of my neck every other day. Although it wasn’t uncomfortable, shaving always seemed to produce redness and little lumps on the skin. It would calm down after a few hours and wasn’t that noticeable, but it wasn’t exactly chic either. I’m not about to start cleansing, but I recognise that I should look neat.

In order to try and learn something, I arranged an appointment with Murdock’s. It always looked like a very pleasant place to be – proper old reclining chairs, steaming towels and an army of unguents – but I had never been in. Probably due to the urge not to spend money, as mentioned.

Alex Glover, my barber, was very tolerant: I asked a lot of questions. (Not necessarily a sensible thing to do when someone is shaving you with a cutthroat razor.) It turns out that most of my preoccupations about shaving well, probably gleaned from skimming but never actually reading GQ articles on the subject, were all wrong.

I assumed the redness on my neck was because my skin was too cold, creating goose bumps that were being cut by the razor. Sometimes I would put a hot flannel on my neck to try and warm it up. Then I’d feel guilty when I was in a rush and couldn’t be bothered. No need to worry, according to Alex. As I usually shave after a shower, the skin should be warm enough.

I assumed that I should only use a blade two or three times before changing it. And again I felt guilty when, through cheapness, I didn’t. Wrong again. Alex says modern razors should be good for a few weeks, certainly with my usage. “The industry is set up to encourage you to change it all the time. Think through the marketing.”

So what should I do? Well, my hair swirls a little at the neck and has a few ingrown hairs. Both make it hard to shave cleanly. But the job is made harder by using modern, multi-blade razors. These press the skin down and, though they shave close, can cut the follicle or even press hairs into the skin. If your hair is arranged nice and neatly, it’s not a problem. If you have my swirly pattern, it will create more ingrowing and more inflammation. Use a plain two-blade razor instead.

The other thing that can damage the follicles is shaving against the grain. Although doing this does get a smoother finish, it’s hard to do consistently if your hair isn’t perfectly aligned. At the most, pick and choose wear you go against the grain. Your neck is likely to be the hardest part and therefore least suited to it.

Clean your shaving soap off with cold water rather than hot, so the pores close up again before you moisturise (I knew that one). Avoid using hard soap in an area with hard water as it’s hard to get a decent lather (that one I didn’t); use cream instead. The badger brush should be made use of to work into the skin and lift any recalcitrant ingrowers away from the skin.

Finally, if your neck is inflamed, try a moisturiser or repair product that contains some Salicylic Acid. Alex recommended Clubman’s Bump Repair Gel.

I don’t know which of those tips made the difference, but my neck is looking a lot better this week. Thank you Alex and thank you Brendan.

Photography: Andy Barnham

Bespoke shoes at Cleverley: Part 5

Onto the next stage of the bespoke shoe process this week, with the clicking (cutting) of the leather.

It turned out my shoes had already been clicked and closed (sewn together) – that’s them above, a half brogue in espresso brown. So to demonstrate the clicking stage John Carnera cut another pair to show me, in this case a pair of half brogues in black calf.

John is largely retired now but fills in when there is a lot clicking to be done, which is the case at the moment with George Glasgow and Dominic Casey just returned from Cleverley’s tour of the US.

The four staff at Cleverley’s can switch between most of the jobs, but they all have their specialities. John trained as a cutter and pattern maker, for example, while Teemu, whom we saw in the last post making my lasts, is best in that role. Adam Law, just finishing his traineeship, can do both roles while Dominic does the bottom making. Only the closing has no overlap, all done by four different closers scattered across England.

Cleverley uses Freudenberg leather, made by Weinheimer Leder. This used to be made in Weinheim but production has switched to Poland. It is largely chrome tanned. In John’s view it is “the best leather we can find anywhere in the world”.

The skin here is 17.5 square feet, slightly above the average of around 15. Generally a smaller skin is better as it means the calf was younger and will have more pliable skin.

The best part of the calf is the rump. It is less marked generally, stretches less and has an even thickness. So it is used for the most visible part of the shoe – the upper. The two uppers will be cut either side of the backbone, in a mirror image of each other. This is so they are as similar as possible and because each has to be cut ‘tight’ from heel to toe.

The ‘tight’ line runs in an imaginary curve around the belly of the calf, starting at its front leg and finishing at its back. The parts of the shoe must be cut so that this line runs down the shoe, to minimise the chances of the leather stretching (and stretching unevenly). John is demonstrating that curve above.

Usually three pairs of shoes are cut from each skin, so one set of uppers is cut at the bottom of the rump, one more just above it and a third either side of the first pair, towards the outer edges.

Then the sides are cut, further up the skin. The outer one of each pair is prioritised, again being slightly more visible than its inner partner. “Though the only person that would probably notice the difference is me.” So two sides either side of the backbone, and two more just above it. Four more, for the other two pairs of shoes, will be cut around it. The outer side is also a slightly different to the inner, having a tab at its end to overlap on the heel.

Next, the lining of the shoe. The back half is lined in the same leather as the uppers, which is just a house style. One side of this lining is made slightly longer than the other, so that they join at a different point to the outside of the shoe. This makes the shoe stronger and more comfortable.

The front half of the lining, being against a man’s toes and joints, needs to be softer and so is lined in horsehide that is tanned to be much spongier. That’s the yellow-coloured skin being unwrapped above (the horse is bigger so this comes in two halves, split at the backbone). Tongue linings are cut from that horse leather as well.

As to the cutting itself, it doesn’t have to be too precise as it leaves two or three millimetres all around to provide some slack for the closer to work with. Indeed, the front lining is cut straight across the U-shape of the upper, leaving a lot of excess (below).

The cutting does not require a lot of pressure, but it has to be consistent and there is no room for mistakes. Having to get down another skin is not cheap. The key is to keep an index finger on the cardboard pattern at all times, keeping it in place and guiding the knife around. “It just takes practice to get the cutting technique right,” says John, “but then you have to concentrate consistently.”

Next: the bottom making

Navy tweed and good flannel for golf

Onto all golfers some rain must fall

Esquire, May 1937: "Competitive golf, like the mail, must go through and it is heresy to wonder why. Hence the handsome umbrella and the rainclothes on the spectators.

The man on the left wears a blazer of homespun tweed with patch pockets and brass buttons, grey flannel trousers, brown reverse calf shoes, soft flannel shirt with attached lounge collar, solid color crocheted tie and the new willow green semi-sport hat.

The player wears chalk striped grey flannels, Norwegian model golf shoes, a light-weight taffeta flannel shirt with striped tie, an Alpaca cardigan and a checked tweed cap with flat one-piece top. The Alpaca cardigan has only recently won widespread acceptance for country wear but it is now often seen worn under an odd sport jacket on cool days.

Two of the members of the gallery, incidentally, are wearing the short oil, silk rain jacket and plus fours, while the third is wearing a raincoat of cotton gabardine."

Some definite inspiration here. A navy tweed jacket, a good cardigan for golf, grey chalkstripe flannel. Perhaps the latter in a suit.

Edward Green: Tips on fitting

Continuing the Edward Green theme of last week, a recent acquisition of Asquiths had been proving rather uncomfortable so I took them with me to Northampton to get some advice. This resulted in two tips on fitting.

First, half brogues can be uncomfortable on some people if the gap between the toe cap and the facings is too small. There is too little room for the foot to flex, creating a sharp crease that can hurt the joint of the toes. As you can see on the photo below, the gap on my Asquiths is far smaller than the wing-tip behind them (and would be even if those shoes were Oxfords, not Derbys).

This seems to be a problem for me because my big toes are rather large, making them closer to the upper and therefore more sensitive. For most men it won’t be an issue, but if do find half brogues uncomfortable, this may be why.

Second tip, if you go up one size (length) but down one fitting (width), the width will remain roughly the same. You’ll just have a longer shoe. So if a pair is uncomfortable at the joint or in the toe-box, this can give you more room to wiggle while retaining the necessary snugness around the in-step.

I tried this method with the Asquiths, going from an 8.5 to a 9 but dropping the fitting from an E to a D, and the fit seemed to be much better. I don’t think I ever experimented enough with widths, assuming that as an E fitted me fine on some shoes or sizes, it would do for all. But fittings can vary between shoemakers just as much as sizes. So try all the permutations.

Thanks to John Garner for his time and help.

Finally, I thought I’d share a few snaps I took in the leather room at Edward Green. Though not necessarily known for their exotics, they have an astounding range of leathers and make some very unusual bespoke shoes.

The first shot is of (left to right) elephant hide, ostrich leg and Indian shark, and the second of stingray, bullfrog and python. As they say, anything with its back facing the sun.


The third is of some bespoke suedes ordered for slippers and the fourth of a calf leather with a metallic finish that, again, was a special order. This effect is achieved in the same way as the corrected leathers that some cheaper shoemakers use – sanding down the skin and then spraying it with a finish to give the impression of a perfect hide. The problem is, it won’t burnish in the same way as an untreated hide (not that that’s a problem with metallic silver).

Yellow crepe soles and a special hat

A day at the anglers' club, Key Largo

Esquire, February 1937: "Mr Fellows says it's Key Largo. The dock says Key Largo but the background says Cat Cay. So you can take your chance, as you probably will anyway.

The outfit on the left is very smart and highly recommended for general horsing around at tropical resorts and even for posing with a fish pole, but it is not recommended for more than the first five minutes of fighting a really big fish. It consists of the now very popular bush shirt, gabardine shorts, Norwegian leather peasant slippers and a Jippi Jappa hat.

The other outfit, of linen beach slacks, blue canvas shoes with yellow crepe soles, crew neck lightweight wool shirt and white duck cap with green underbrim is better for actual fishing. It's also perfectly okay for wear to the beach. Both outfits are socially correct and this is a very handsome picture indeed and we would like it even better if there were some guides on that big game fishing rod."

Struggling for inspiration here, but I do like the idea of yellow crepe soles and a Jippi Jappa hat.

How great things age: Edward Green 2

Following on from a previous post on the refurbishment of Edward Green shoes

Once just the upper and insole remains, both are tacked together in a couple of places around the toe. Everywhere else on the shoe the two are already tacked together, but the toe is secured by a wire during the lasting process (using a bed-lasting machine), so once the sole is removed there is nothing there to secure them.

A plastic bag is then pulled over the shoe to prevent damage to the upper. Usually these bags are just used for suede and lighter coloured leathers, which need more protection. A cling film (at a fraction of the price) is used for everything else.

The new welt is then soaked in water to make it more pliable and sewn on. [Quick fact: the welt-sewing machine shown here was made by British United in the 1950s. Generally ones in this light blue are post-WW2 and the iron ones are pre-WW2. This one in particular used to be used by Wellingborough College for those training to be shoemakers.]

The thread is then sliced off and the shoe put into an in-seam trimmer, which removes as much of the welt (and plastic bag) as possible on the inside. Although there’s not as much on a resoling as there would be on a new shoe, it needs to be cut down as far as possible to make the sole flush with the bottom. Otherwise the sole would stand away and the welt would have to curve down to meet it. The next machine, the welt beater, has the same aim, hammering the welt even closer.

Next a seat lift is tacked onto the heel. This is essentially a continuation of the welt but is less bulky to do in a separate section. The join is skived to make it as close as possible.

A new shank is added and glued on (glue also known as ‘hot melt’) and the seat lift hammered into place. And finally, rubberised cork is filled in and smoothed over. (This machine is a ‘bottom filler’. Understandably, its operators, who are usually also ‘seat lifters’, refer to themselves as plain shoemakers.) The cork is given a couple of days to dry before the sole is stitched on, the plastic bag removed and the whole finished off with some tender care and polish.

[Second quick fact: it’s a urban myth that when a shoe squeaks, at least an Edward Green shoe, the shank is broken. That used to be the case before hot melt, when a shank would be nailed in place, but nails haven’t been used for 20 years. Also, even then the shank would have to break when it was first nailed on – it wouldn’t break from wear. So if a shoe suddenly started squeaking it wasn’t the shank. More likely on high-end shoes is that the lining and upper are rubbing together. Better shoes keep the two layers loose to create greater comfort; others glue everything together and last them as one layer.]

How great things age: Edward Green 1

Following on from my recent post on Globe-Trotter suitcases, this is a look at how my Edward Green Oundles are being refurbished at the company’s factory in Northampton.

They were probably my first pair of really good shoes, bought about five years ago. Though as the collection accelerated fairly quickly, they’ve only just had enough wear to need resoling. So I took them up to Edward Green last week to see it being done.

First, the sock is ripped out in order to be replaced later. Edward Green uses a half sock as standard but can replace it with a half or full.

Then a hammer and chisel is used to pry off the heel. It’s not easy work, fighting against several pins and a fair amount of glue; but after three or four hammerings the chisel gets far enough it to lift the heel stack off.

Next is the painful bit, for me at least. The back of the sole under the heel is ripped off with a chunky pair of pliers, with a wrenching sound as the tacks give way. It’s quite an emotional moment – this is my favourite pair of shoes remember, with the investment of 30 or 40 polishings and my foot printed comfortably into the insole.

A knife is then inserted between the welt and the sole, slicing the stitches so the sole can be lifted off.

Once that is all removed, the cork filling is chiselled out, taking care not to damage the ribbing that runs around the inside (the white serrated canvas you can see at the edge). A little bit of damage to the ribbing, such as the part lifted away on my shoes in the image below this one, can be glued back down or patched with a small length of the stuff.

But any greater damage requires the insole to be taken off to add new ribbing. This is a shame, because it means replacing the insole with a new one and losing the comfortable imprint created by my foot. (You can just about see the indentation created by the ball of my foot in the picture below.)

Replacing the insole and ribbing also means relasting the shoe, which can create problems as the upper will inevitably have shrunk over time. Even using a last that’s a half size smaller, there’s a danger that the lasting will be done too tightly. This isn’t a big risk, but it does create needless complications.

That’s also a reason you should take your shoes for repair as soon as you can see the cork filling through a hole in the sole. The cork, being shredded and rubbery, can just fall out – leaving you walking on the insole. Once that happens it has to be replaced in the refurbishment.

The next stage is removing the welt, which can just be ripped off, and taking out the thread – which requires slicing it near the heel and pulling all the loops out of each hole.

Next: the resoling

Half-lined and unlined jackets

An image-heavy post this week, to illustrate options for summer jackets. In particular, those half-lined and unlined.

An unlined jacket is a nice way to create greater ventilation in hotter temperatures. The major disadvantage is that the jacket is more likely to rumple and catch on your shirt underneath. Those that have experience basted fittings will know what that’s like – sometimes the friction between cotton and wool can be so much that it is hard to see how the jacket really hangs.

A half-lined jacket restricts that problem to your back, which is less noticeable. And the back is where most men need the ventilation, as the shirt and jacket are so consistently pressed together.

That can be particularly welcome on heavier cloths such as tweed, making them more like three-season garments. Below is an example, a green W Bill tweed jacket being made for Luke (a fellow writer on Gentleman’s Corner) by Graham Browne. Note the curved patch pockets, a particular favourite of his.

On an unlined jacket, the seams can be ‘taped’ with the same material as the lining would have been, creating an opportunity for decoration, or they can be sealed with the same cloth as the jacket.

One example of each shown below: a check number being made for another Graham Browne client, Jeremy, and an old Zegna jacket of mine. Jeremy, again, is a fan of the curved pocket.

I’m going to go for a half-lined jacket in the cloth shown below, a lovely bunch called Sandringham recently released by Hunt & Winterbotham (under the John G Hardy label). The cloth is a cashmere/silk blend and each jacket option is paired with a cotton trouser. Always nice to have suggestions.

.

Options on pockets, and avoiding a tie

Gentlemen, the brown, brook or rainbow

Esquire April 1935, "Brown, by the way, is a new colour for trout-fishing boots. The notion being that they are much less readily discernible to the fish. Other features of the outfit on the left are the tweed hat, stuck with flies, the odd jacket of deep lovat tweed, the grey flannel shirt and trousers and the crochet tie.

The other outfit is as British as the name Connaught, which designates the close-fitting tweed hat with semi-stiffened brim. The English waders come from your toes to high above your waistline - about like a pair of overalls with feet in them. You can't wade rocky streams, of course, with no more foot-covering than this thin rubberised material, so wool socks go over the feet of the waders and over these go light-weight canvas wading shoes with thick hob-nailed leather soles.

The cashmere muffler obviates the need for the collar and tie when the checked tweed jacket is being worn. Under this, any old dark shirt."

It may be me, but I can't take my eyes off the curved pockets on the right and bellows pockets on the left. So many options.

The history of the ‘red gang’ in Shanghai

There was a generation of tailors in Shanghai known as the ‘red gang’ early in the twentieth century that fused techniques learnt from Russian, British, Japanese and Chinese tailors. They formed their own approach and their own training system, putting all new recruits through a three-year programme (similar to many Savile Row houses) before allowing them to cut trousers and, later in their career, move on to jackets.

Houses like WW Chan and Baroman are descendants of these tailors. Mr Chan himself took apprenticeship in a tailoring shop at the age of 14 (in 1936) before enrolling in a tailoring school and learning the ‘red gang’ trade. The Ningbo fashion museum in China, which features a long history of the gang, also holds a few of Chan’s artefacts, including his ring.

WW Chan founded the shop in Hong Kong in 1948, and handed the business down to his son Peter. Today there is just a handful of these Shanghainese tailors in Hong Kong, who have resisted the temptation of mechanised production and high turnover. Chan’s cutting and tailoring, for example, is still all done on site. That’s a stretch beyond even most Savile Row tailors today (though it does help that Chan owns the premises).

Interesting to know how a different group of tailors arrived at similar practices on the other side of the world. And if anyone reads Chinese, they can peruse the Ningbo museum.

For those that are interested, Patrick Chu, head cutter at WW Chan, will be over in London from May 13th to 20th. Suits are usually around $1500 to $2000 and, the way Chan works, have the option of a basted fitting the next time Patrick is in the country (usually every six months). If you can make it to Hong Kong – or the US where the team visits every three months – the process can be quicker.

The current Chan site, while the full one is being updated: wwchan.com/special/