The hangovers of lockdown are easy to spot. Hand sani pumps at every till; judgy, wide-eyed glances when you breathe too much, a cockapoo on every corner. And sartorially, we’ve let ourselves go. Stretchy and/or loose fabrics still reign, the suit is dying (or perhaps just evolving), and ‘smart’ shoes are out the window, along with the shoe polish.
The fashion weeks ever speak of new trends that will wriggle down the pipeline for normal folk to feast on. But one user-generated skew seems to have emerged. A dress code that at once evokes the scruffy, make-do-and-mend vibe of the pandemic, a break from the rat race and the wearer’s own detachment from the gaudy churn of traditional fashion. No more seasonal collections, only seasonal produce, and things ‘built to last’. Welcome to Allotment-Core.
You probably grew stuff in lockdown; herbs, or a sourdough starter or whatever. Maybe you picked up a woodwind instrument or bought a pottery wheel. Perhaps you journaled. Whatever you did, you found pleasure in the simple things. A ripe English pear, pale afternoon light on the parlour wall, the first lamb of spring etc. And then when restrictions lifted, you ditched it all and went back to your normal life, or some semblance of it. But some people were changed irrevocably. They might have hightailed it out to a pile in the Quantocks, or quit their job in the city to set up a direct-to-consumer sauerkraut brand. They might even have gone off-grid, adiosed the socials and invested in a dumb phone. Either way, there is a linking aesthetic for these people, a kind of folky ‘authenticity’, a sartorial red-pilling centred on natural fibres, hardwearing goods (made with love) and the aspiration to have one definitive garment for each purpose.
I should know, because I can feel the fetish taking hold. It came to me whilst sitting at the Casablanca show in Paris, a collection that couldn’t be further way from this movement if it tried. There I was in my Blundstone boots, straight-cut ecru jeans, roomy overcoat, burglar beanie and jaunty neckerchief, while all around me was velour, spangle, flesh and glare. I was a yeoman in a discotheque.
It starts with the Blundstones. The Blunnies. The impossibly comfortable Chelsea boot by the Australian brand. You see everyone in Stoke Newington and Dulwich wearing them, so you buy a pair and then you never want to take them off. You have to rebuild your wardrobe around them. Rebuild your life. Move to the Norfolk Broads and dig turnips for money.
Then comes a roomier, heavy twill or coarse denim trouser to accommodate the boots. Then a matching work jacket. Then a chunky sweater vest (preferably fair isle). Then soft collar shirts, and a selection of neckerchiefs. Then braces. Then bigger trousers with buttons for braces. Then a floppy Provençal hat and a collapsible pruning knife. Then suddenly it’s been a year and you’re Monty Don, pootling around a kitchen garden.
I haven’t done the full-Monty, yet. I still like trainers (even if I feel like a lil’ baby man when I wear them) and I still pine after Neapolitan tailoring, American prep, retro sportswear etc. But I worry that I can see my sartorial biography written to its end. A life measured in ever thickening corduroy. Still, it could be worse. I might be dabbling in pastiche, a facsimile of something more salient (like all dressing, I’d wager) but there are plenty of pre-pandemic allotment core-ers considered to be genuine style icons. Fergus Henderson, for example. No one looks better in a butcher’s stripe suit. Or Enzo Cilenti, actor and purveyor of honest clobber, via his family brand, Carrier Company. And, of course, David Hockney, that impeccably scruffy devil. We can all but hope to be just half as stylish as he.
Allotment-core has permeated social media, too. Take Julius Roberts, a boyish cook, farmer and gardener, influencing from a 50-acre 'smallholding' on the Dorset coast. His videos offer a window into a bucolic idyll, replete with prancing lambs, beach barbecues and sunsets over the meadow. In a recent shoot for clothing brand Oliver Spencer (above), Roberts is pictured in chunky wool mock-necks and voluminous cords, leaning coyly against a mud-spattered Land Rover or pulling carrots from the ground. So charming, so aspirational. Dear god it looks like a nice life. Can I replicate it inside the M25? No, but the trousers are lovely.
Of course, you don’t need to go to Dorset to find clothes like this. You could go and see Spencer on Lamb’s Conduit Street, or Toast in Marylebone, head to Carrier Company’s website or stop in to Blundstone’s charming new store in W14.
And if you need inspiration, just pop down to Parliament Hill Farmers’ Market this weekend. You might not find many farmers, but there’ll be plenty of dudes that look just like them.
