Just saw a note over on StyleForum that our friends Kieran & Shaun Molloy at Molloy & Sons have gotten some stock together for retail sale. This is a relief to me, as ever since I posted our video on the Molloys, I’ve been inundated with questions about when consumers will be able to buy yardage from them. The price is a modest 39 Euros per meter, and they have a selection of basic styles in a traditional heavy weight of 18 oz for the plains and 20.5 for the herringbones. You can see the selection on Flickr here, and get in touch with Shaun & Kieran directly here to place an order.

I had the first length I bought while I was visiting the Molloys made up into a suit last month, and you’ll be able to see it in our second season.

One of my favorite blogs, Heavy Tweed Jacket, has a habit of long hiatuses wherein he takes down his content completely. Luckily, he’s back, posting pictures of Secretary of State Dean Atcheson in three-piece tweed suits. Which is tremendous.

One of my favorite blogs, Heavy Tweed Jacket, has a habit of long hiatuses wherein he takes down his content completely. Luckily, he’s back, posting pictures of Secretary of State Dean Atcheson in three-piece tweed suits. Which is tremendous.

“The tweed hat is favored by men of intellect and science, who would not wish either their foreheads or their thinking to be restricted by rigid hats.” — Bernhard Roetzel, “Gentleman: A Timeless Guide to Fashion

Our friends Shawn & Kieran Molloy, of Molloy & Sons, are featured in this very short, very lovely piece by filmmakers Jamie Delaney and Keith Nally. This is what happens when you send a professional instead of a dumb blogger with a camera phone.

This is the picture I’m taking to my tailor when I get my Donegal tweed made up.

This is the picture I’m taking to my tailor when I get my Donegal tweed made up.

David Saxby & Old Hat

On my recent trip to the UK, I had the good fortune to spend a couple of days in London, and I decided to head out to what I’d heard was the best vintage store in town: Old Hat. It’s on the Fulham High Street, which is about a half-hour train ride from the center of town, but it certainly delivers on its promise.

It’s actually more of a complex than a shop, with three storefronts - men’s vintage, women’s vintage and a made-to-measure gallery. Old Hat is a classic vintage shop, with racks and racks of dusty tailored clothing, ranging from the perfectly good (ready-to-wear Daks) to the fantastic (Savile Row bespoke). The lower level looks like the basement where your elementary school held gym class when it was raining, with pipes running here and there and halogen torchieres providing the light. My kind of place, in other words.

It’s the kind of spot where there are piles of trousers for day formal on top of the counter, and fifteen or twenty feet of rack space dedicated to evening wear. The staff is lovely and pleasant, and while I went home empty-handed, it was a blast to visit the store.

Even more of a blast was connecting with the owner of the place, David Saxby. Saxby was behind at the counter at the made-to-measure shop that bears his name. It’s filled to the brim with classic country clothes in bulletproof tweeds. There are stacks of sock garters and piles of driving caps on every surface. Saxby himself is a charming and fascinating host.

He told me he got into vintage clothes after a stint as a camera dealer (before that, he’d been a professional photographer). When he wanted more country clothes than he could buy second-hand, he started contracting with English manufacturers to make them for his customers. One by one, the manufacturers shut their doors, until David found himself buying the plant and hiring the staff of the last. Now, his factory, an hour or so outside London, makes the kind of rare breed clothes you really can’t find anywhere else, short of bespoke.

When I was there, David was wearing a preposterously loud country ensemble, and he looked spectacular. His manner matched his look - sharp, funny and very slightly outrageous. We discussed suit silhouettes (he only makes one and three-button coats), Fred Astaire (he says if Fred Astaire wore a butonniere with a pocket square, then it’s right, because Fred Astaire is Fred Astaire), the best American factory-made suits (that’s Oxxford, if you’re keeping track) and more. I’d meant to get back on the train and hit another shop before heading back to my wife and baby, but between the conversation and digging in Old Hat, I ended up in Fulham for two hours.

If you’re in London, or making a trip, be sure to stop by and say “hi.” You’ll enjoy the experience.

Donegal Tweed at Molloy & Sons

I just got back from a visit to the UK and Ireland, and one of the highlights was a sidetrip to Donegal, and the two-man woolen mill operated by Shaun Molloy and his son Kieran.

Donegal’s in the northwest corner of the Emerald Isle, and it’s known for its distinctive tweed. Donegal tweed is easy to pick out from other styles - its hallmark is the nubby flecks of color in the weave. Fabrics that may look like one color on the surface reveal a rainbow when you get in closer. It’s a look that’s been sought after for a couple hundred years now.

Shaun and Kieran come from generations of weavers. Shaun’s father, John, founded a woolen mill in the mid-20th century, but over the years that mill has gone from making tweed to making knits almost exclusively.

A couple of years ago, Kieran brought an industrial design degree back home, and he and his father decided to take the tweed-making equipment out of mothballs and start up a tiny artisinal weaving company. They called it Molloy & Sons.

The Molloy archive of patterns stretches back into the 60s, and the pattern has to be transformed from a swatch on the page into a pallette and a set of instructions.

The process of making tweed starts with dyed wool. It’s processed into yarn in Donegal, according to the Molloy’s specifications.

Then, that yarn is taken from its spools to a huge de-spooling machine, which sets it up to be woven. (All of these machines, by the way, are forty-plus years old.) When I was there, they were working on a fabric with a pretty simple color scheme (for a company whose name rhymes with “day shoe”), but for more colorful fabrics, every color has to be in exactly the right place.

Once the yarn’s unspooled, the Molloys program the weaving pattern into the big mechanical loom. Believe it or not, they do it with punchcards.

The long threads that go through the machine are called the warp. The machine’s job is to lift these up and down while shuttling through the weft yarn, which weaves over and under, back and forth, so fast you it doesn’t even show up in video.

The flecks, which you can see even in this black-and-white pattern, come from wool that’s been washed and felted before it’s spun into yarn. Because little bits of color are felted and don’t stretch out, they just glob onto the yarn like bubble gum on a piano string.

The flecks are a built in defect, in a way. Because they’re so unpredictable, the machine runs at a quarter the speed it would if it were weaving a plain worsted wool, like you might see in a suit at Macy’s. Shaun and Kieran have to keep a constant eye on things, tending to these imperfections as they come along.

Once the fabric comes out of the machine, they load it onto a huge roller, and run it through to check for problems. Their goal is to make a product that’s perfectly imperfect.

Weaving used to be one of Donegal’s largest industries, but today it’s almost gone. Unlike Harris & Lewis, where Harris Tweed is made, there are no trade protections for Donegal Tweed. Anyone can call anything “Donegal Tweed.” If you see a tweed in the store in a Donegal style, it was most likely woven on the cheap in China or Italy.

When Shaun and Kieran started making tweed again, there was only one tweed mill left in Donegal. Their factory, if you can call it that, sits just a few steps from the house where Kieran grew up… and where his father Shaun was raised. Something like half a dozen generations of weavers have lived there, in fact.

These guys aren’t quaint, and they’re not museum pieces for tourists to gawk at. They’re two sharp businessmen determined to develop a craft that has helped define who they were, who their families were, and what their home is. I think that’s pretty spectacular.

A few photos from my recent trip to Molloy & Sons, a father-son tweed mill in Ardara, County Donegal, Ireland. I put together a little video slideshow deal that you’ll find here tomorrow morning.

This is Sean and Kieran Molloy, two generations of a Donegal tweed weaving tradition that goes back many more. Kieran’s grandfather (Sean’s father) John Molloy started a tweed mill in Donegal, on the west coast of the northernmost part of the Republic of Ireland, fifty or so years ago. John was already a fourth- or fifth-generation weaver. 
Over the years, John Molloy’s business moved further and further away from weaving and towards knits, so Sean and Kieran started Molloy & Sons to make the traditional Donegal tweeds that the family had always woven. The factory sits in two barns, one new and one old, on land that has been used by Molloys for weaving for more than a century, a few steps from the house where both Sean and Kieran were reared. Above, Sean and Kieran are standing in front of their warehouse, a converted community theater.
I spent a wonderful morning with the Molloys today, touring their modest two-man operation and learning about how tweed is made. Donegal tweed is a distinctive and remarkable form of the fabric, but it isn’t protected by trade law as Harris Tweed is. This has meant that cheap Chinese and Italian knock-offs have pushed the industry in Donegal to the brink of disappearance. There are only two commercial tweed mills left in Donegal - the venerable (and sizable) Magee and these two fellas: Molloy & Sons. There’s a recession bordering on depression in Ireland at the moment, and these two gifted craftsmen (and sharp businessmen) are fighting for a future for a textile tradition that their family has guarded for hundreds of years.
I’ll have a fuller writeup of my visit to Kieran and Sean’s shop when I’m back in the States, but for now, check out these brave guys and their wonderful firm.

This is Sean and Kieran Molloy, two generations of a Donegal tweed weaving tradition that goes back many more. Kieran’s grandfather (Sean’s father) John Molloy started a tweed mill in Donegal, on the west coast of the northernmost part of the Republic of Ireland, fifty or so years ago. John was already a fourth- or fifth-generation weaver. 

Over the years, John Molloy’s business moved further and further away from weaving and towards knits, so Sean and Kieran started Molloy & Sons to make the traditional Donegal tweeds that the family had always woven. The factory sits in two barns, one new and one old, on land that has been used by Molloys for weaving for more than a century, a few steps from the house where both Sean and Kieran were reared. Above, Sean and Kieran are standing in front of their warehouse, a converted community theater.

I spent a wonderful morning with the Molloys today, touring their modest two-man operation and learning about how tweed is made. Donegal tweed is a distinctive and remarkable form of the fabric, but it isn’t protected by trade law as Harris Tweed is. This has meant that cheap Chinese and Italian knock-offs have pushed the industry in Donegal to the brink of disappearance. There are only two commercial tweed mills left in Donegal - the venerable (and sizable) Magee and these two fellas: Molloy & Sons. There’s a recession bordering on depression in Ireland at the moment, and these two gifted craftsmen (and sharp businessmen) are fighting for a future for a textile tradition that their family has guarded for hundreds of years.

I’ll have a fuller writeup of my visit to Kieran and Sean’s shop when I’m back in the States, but for now, check out these brave guys and their wonderful firm.

In Praise of Green Ties

Like my buddy Doc Hu, I’m a big fan of green ties. Pair them with a gray suit and dark brown shoes, and you’ll be one of the most uniquely and elegantly dressed men around. You can also wear a green tie with any number of country tweeds, especially those with big checks and windowpanes, or shirts with a similar country sensibility, such as brushed twill tattersalls. Ideally, if you wear something with checks, it would be good to have one of the minor colors in those checks also be green, so that you can play off the color in your tie. 

Unfortunately, most men don’t have any green ties. If you’re just getting your first, start with the basics - grenadines and knits. On the high end, there is Drakes of London’s kelly green grenadines and tartan green knits. Those will be some of the best on the market, but at $150, not everyone can spare the money. Much more affordable are Sam Hober’s green grenadines, which he has in four different shades, and come in garza grossa and garza fina. The difference between the two varieties is in how evident the weaving is; garza grossa is bigger and garza fina is finer. I have a strong preference for garza grossa, but it’s a matter of preference. Hober’s ties are custom made and cost $80. The quality is remarkable and gives up nothing to other high-end labels. In fact, as you can see from this picture, Hober’s ties are often better than some of luxury-end ties. While both are handmade, Hober’s looks more cleanly made while the Borrelli has a bit of crinkling at the tip. 

For an affordable green knit, check out Mountain and Sackett. It’s made from a nice crunchy silk and is respectable width of 2.5 inches - nothing too wide or too narrow. I have the tie myself and the quality is excellent. 

I think green ties can be worn year-round, as long as it’s paired with the right items, but it’s especially nice for the Fall season. Since that’s approaching, if you already have items such as a grey suit, consider getting a green tie for yourself before September arrives. 

(Photo credits: top photo by Ethan Desu for The Armoury; bottom left photo by Kenneth Lim for The Armoury, bottom right photo by an unknown photographer)