It is a truth universally acknowledged that an Englishman in possession of a pair of shoes never wants them to look new. They should shine like the mirror of Venus, regularly cleaned and brushed with a military spit and polish, but that surface gloss should not conceal the decades of living in this rough-and-tumble world; that lustre should enhance, not camouflage the patina of age. Old shoes are comfortable, the leather gradually softening and stretching to accommodate the shape of their owner’s feet. But for the English, well-looked-after but obviously elderly footwear is also a matter of pride – even of a harmless kind of snobbishness. As well as advertising a proper notion of thrift, longevity implies quality. Only the very best shoes will last for years and years.
But not, alas, for ever. Last week, I came to the sad conclusion that it was time to have my favourite shoes put down. They are a pair of old-fashioned cap-toed English brogues bought in London more than 20 years ago as a birthday present from my mother. But what makes them unique is their colour. It is the rich raw sienna of the golden-brown crayon in my prep school pencil case, paler than a palomino pony’s coat but slightly darker than its mane, and the original shoemaker had worked extraordinary depth of tone into his creation. Harry Rosen himself once complimented me on their colour (a memorable moment). He had only seen brogues of such a particular hue once before, he recalled; shoes that had sat for years in a Roman calzolaio’s front window until the sun faded them to a unique tan… He had tried to buy them but the salesman had urged him towards another pair of a more conventional tone.
I remember the first time I wore my shoes, a trifle self-consciously because they looked so very new – but we were in Manhattan not England and I thought I could get away with it. We spent the entire day walking through Central Park and then around the Metropolitan Museum, and by teatime my feet were in agony. I walked into the hotel in my socks, carrying the instruments of torture. Clearly, these were not shoes that could be taken for granted. They would need time.
Years passed and tolerance changed into a comfortable affection. They became my favourite summer shoes, well-matched to beige or tan trousers – not so good with blue jeans which made them look, in certain lights, almost orange. And they acquired the desired patina – small scars and scuffs, lovingly attended to but, once acquired, never completely disappearing. I had them soled and heeled whenever necessary, changed the laces when required, used nothing but neutral polish on them, but, God help me, I abused them. They were made for boulevards and cricket pavilions but I wore them on rocky Mediterranean beaches and over gritty Moroccan dunes and into the damp heather of Scottish moors. Indeed, it was on a recent trip to Scotland that I realized their time might be up. Like two faithful golden retrievers they gazed up at me with loyal but exhausted eyes. The stitching had been lost around the top of both heels and on the top of one heel a ribbon of leather had torn away. The uppers were split, a tongue frayed. Gaps between the sole and the welt had started to let water in and the heels were once more in need of replacement. Even the colour seemed to have darkened a little, while the polish looked more like a coat of varnish than anything that could still penetrate the layers of time to reach and refresh the actual leather.
Only one slim chance remained – to find a cobbler who would commit to a complete refurbishment, who could somehow repair the terrible damage, close up the wounds, stitching them with a surgeon’s patience, cleanse the layers of age and return them to their former glory. It seemed a superhuman undertaking – impossible, surely.
Lorena Agolli is the owner of Sole Survivor, a low-ceilinged, dark basement emporium in Kensington Market. She has had a lot of press recently, and deservedly so, but it was the Toronto Star that first drew attention to her work in an article that made much of how unusual it is to find a woman in her twenties taking on this traditional craft. Her tools are vintage, her prices more than reasonable and she has recently found considerable success. The first time I took a pair of shoes there – chestnut Oxfords in need of a simple heel and sole replacement – she was doing everything herself. Now she seems to have an apprentice and sometimes a third young woman to work the antique till.
I handed over the brogues. Can anything be done? Like a kindly veterinarian, Agolli examined them and explained the work they needed, how the back of the heels could be rebuilt with a new leather lining, the upper patched from inside, the stitching replaced and, yes, she could thoroughly clean and repolish the leather, bringing back its youthful glow. Her calm confidence was encouraging. The tiny ember of hope began to smoulder. “Come back in a week,” she said.
The day in question dawned. I reached Sole Survivor before lunch, ducking into the deep shade of the shop, my eyes still dazzled by the sun. The shoes were ready. Everything was as Agolli had promised – the heels restored and firm again, the splits invisibly patched, all the leather soft and supple. The whole transaction, including a new pair of honey-coloured laces: just over fifty bucks. My brogues are back, so comfortable, and familiar. They certainly don’t look new – but that, of course, is the point.
Sole Survivor is at 16 Kensington Avenue, 647 995 3306, solesurvivorshop.com.