Take a look — this is why a proper cap beats a baseball cap.
1Every panel shaped by hand to sit low and hold its line — a proper flat cap, not a costume and not a baseball cap.
2Wool, tweed, cotton and denim chosen to soften with wear and last for years — not fall apart after a season.
3The cap you reach for without thinking — it goes with everything and earns its place on the peg by the door.
4I'm closing the workshop for good. Rather than box these up, I'd sooner they went on good heads — once they're gone, they're gone.
OUR MISSION
The last of the caps from my bench.
I'd rather every one went on a good head than sat in a dark box. — Edmund
I know a heritage cap is a considered buy — so here's the plain truth. I'm closing my workshop for good. After a lifetime at the bench, my hands and eyes have had enough, and there's no lad to take it on.
What's left is what you see: the last caps I'll ever cut, each one named for a village I can see from my window. I'd sooner they went on good heads than sat in a dark box in my garage.
When they're gone, they're gone — I'm not making any more.
— Edmund
A few notes from men who took one home before the workshop closed for good.
Turned up in six days, nicer than I expected. Sits low and looks the part — no complaints.
Bought two and I'm glad I did — the tweed one's become my everyday cap. Proper quality.
Well cut, sits low, exactly like the photos. Feels like a cap that'll last years.
I'm a sceptic. Ordered one to test it. The quality's the real deal — going back for the tweed before they're gone.
Bought three as gifts. Everyone thinks I spent a fortune on them — beautifully made.
Ordered it, arrived tracked in a week. Easy decision and a lovely cap.
The quality is far nicer than I expected. The stitching's proper — you can feel the hand in it.
Grabbed mine before it sold out — he genuinely isn't making more. Glad I didn't wait.
My new everyday cap. People keep asking where it's from — chuffed with it.
Came faster than half the stuff I order these days. Packaged well too.
A kind way to close a workshop — a proper cap that goes to a good head. I'm in.
Ordered one for me and one for my dad. Two happy men — he wears his everywhere.
Ordered on a whim and no regrets. Fits right, looks right. Done.
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 🕰️
This is the last of the workshop — not a gimmick. When the final caps are gone, that's the end of it. Each one is the last I'll ever cut.
