Worn by good men, on both sides of the Atlantic
A few notes from men who claimed a cap before the workshop closed for good.
Proper wool and proper stitching. Reminds me of the cap my father used to wear.
My new everyday cap, and all it cost was the postage. People keep asking where I got it.
Shipped all the way to Boston in a few days, beautifully packed. Feels like a real quality cap.
Warm on the moor and doesn't budge in the wind. Exactly what I was after.
Wore it straight out of the box down to the pub. Two fellas asked me where I got it.
Made better than caps I've paid a fortune for out here — and I only covered the postage.
A kind way to close a workshop — a proper cap that goes to good use.
Came faster than half the stuff I pay full price for. Packed lovely, too.
Ordered one for me and one for my brother. Two happy men, one small postage.
Grabbed mine before they sold out — the old boy genuinely isn't making any more.
Fits like it was made for me. I've already told my son to get one.
Two caps and the total was just the postage. Still can't quite believe it.
Sad he's shutting up shop, but glad I got one of the very last off the bench.
Honestly better made than caps I've paid forty pound for. Only covered the postage.
First cap that actually fits my big head — sits right and doesn't blow off.
Why Every Cap Is Free
I never planned to make caps. I planned to leave the Dales as fast as my legs would carry me. But the summer I turned twenty-two, my uncle sat me down at his bench, put a pair of shears in my hand, and said, “Cut slow.” I've been cutting slow ever since.
Now I'm closing the workshop for good.
I named every cap for a village I can see from my window — Kendal, Malham, Settle. Places that made cloth long before I made caps. I'm one man, a pair of hands that aren't as steady as they were, and a workshop gone quiet. These last caps are the last there'll be — and I'd rather they went to good heads than a dark box.
— Edmund 🕰️