Sometime every winter, I realise I’ve been doing it all wrong. Mine came last Tuesday at 7am outside New Street Station. I was wearing what I thought was winter-appropriate attire, watching my breath puff out in clouds and trying not to hyperventilate while a random guy wandered past me wearing – judging by his attire – about half of what I was wearing without batting an eye.
I thought I was being pretty clever wearing this bulky winter jacket I’d specifically bought for “the real winter” that was bound to come. However, halfway through my morning commute, I found myself certain that winter had entered my body through my skin and decided to build a family there. The lady serving me coffee at the coffee cart smirked at me when I made this mental note. “You’re dressed for a Canadian winter, love.
Not an Birmingham winter,” she said. She was both right and judging me for buying a jacket based on articles titled “Your essential winter wardrobe” from people who had clearly never felt rain-soaked cold.
I knew at that moment I wasn’t just failing at winter, I was failing at British winter.
See, British winter isn’t winter. It’s wet. All.
The. Time. It’s not like living in places with cold weather where you can actually acclimatise to single-digit temperatures.
British winter is that limbo land between 2 and 6° where everything just feels damp and never quite dry enough. My whole life I had been trying to dress for winter like I was living in Chicago winter and British winter is nothing like Chicago winter. Instead, I watched people who were clearly going places without sweating profusely and actually took note of what they were wearing.
Namely, my coworker James, who bikes to work in all weathers and refuses on principle to wear a proper coat. The dude was wearing what looked like a hoodie and a lightweight jacket while I’m here trying to Tetris all of my body parts into a jacket that takes me 20 minutes to zip up. Clearly there was layering advice I was missing. “Hey, James,” I asked him one day, sweat dripping down my back because Britain loves nothing more than 100% humidity. “What are you actually wearing under that hoodie?
Cos trust me, it’s not just a cotton t-shirt.” James gave me one of those breezy British laughs where they laugh at the concept of you existing. “It’s all about the base layer,” he said. He pulled down his sleeve to reveal a tiny jersey knit label hidden under his green hoodie. “Merino wool,” he said. Merino wool.
It sounded so…British. Up till this point I’ve started every morning with cotton t-shirt. It’s just what you wear under your clothes, right?
Well no, no it isn’t. Cotton absorbs moisture then clings it to your body. The worst.
I purchased my first merino wool base layer that weekend. I spent far more money on it than I’d like to admit but it was life-changing. From that moment on, I could actually wear enough clothes for it to get warm without getting there and both sweating from overheat stress while also feeling like I was frozen solid.
The beauty of merino wool is that it’s warm even when damp. British weather will ensure you feel like both those things on the regular, so being able to wear a thin layer next to your skin that can handle both was a gamechanger. I now own three and cycle through them constantly.
They’ve revolutionised how I layer in the winter. Once I figured out my base layer, everything else started falling into place. I actually paid attention to how middle layers worked.
Which, praise be, is where we come in handy again. Being British means we have literally centuries of knitwear experience under our belts. Not only does proper wool jumpers actually WORK they also look bloody great too.
I picked up this lovely lambswool crew neck in Edinburgh for about £40. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was well-made Scottish wool knit tightly enough to block wind without restricting breathability. Five years later it’s still my go-to winter jumper.
It gets worn so often it’s actually softened with age, but it’s still as fitted as the day I bought it. Layers under jacket without bulky seams, looks smart enough on its own for indoor meetings, and most importantly, keeps me warm. One winter about five years ago, I discovered quilted gilets.
Okay, before you send me hate emails about ruining my dad points, let me explain. Quilted gilet as a middle layer underneath your jacket is legitimately life-changing. It traps heat around your core without restricting arm movement like a bulky jumper would.
They also come in so many different colours and seam options you’ll undoubtedly find one you love. Mine is actually navy* (*I know I’m breaking menswear laws by saying this) and slim fit so it doesn’t add any bulk underneath jackets. The trick with layers is to avoid going overboard.
I learned this the hard way when I attended a wedding in December and layered so much that I couldn’t properly move my arms. Sure, layering is great for trapping heat, but not if you squash every layer together so tightly you’ve eliminated all the air that’s actually keeping you warm. There is such a thing as too many layers.
My outer layer took me a wild journey of waxed jackets. They looked like the British answer to my problems, so I bought one. Then I spent almost £300 on a Barbour jacket that felt incredibly heritage-worthy but also weighed a ton and made me look like I worked on a farm.
Wax jackets are great if that’s what you’re going for, but I wanted something a bit more versatile. Luckily I stumbled across this wool overcoat years back and it’s been a godsend. It looks smart enough to pack onsite, but has enough room to layer under.
The wool is dense enough to block wind, but doesn’t restrict airflow like other fabrics. It’s likely the priciest singular article of clothing I own, but when you break down wear versus winters it’s probably spent plenty of time in my wardrobe. My quest to wrap my legs in warm fabric took far longer than it should have.
I was stubbornly clinging to wearing jeans all year round until I finally woke up and realised why my legs were always cold. Thin denim does not hold up to cold, windy weather. It’s basically wearing shorts that just happens to look like trousers.
Heavier winter-weight fabrics make all the difference. I picked up these moleskin trousers whilst living in Berlin and they quickly became my office uniform. They look similar to chinos but feel worlds different.
They’re smart enough to pack in the office, but provide far more warmth than your average cotton trouser. My weekends consisting of heavy selvedge denim. They aren’t waterproof like some wax jackets, but they block out far more wind than your standard jeans.
The material is just that little bit thicker to allow for more air resistance. The trade-off is always going to be restriction of movement, but that never stopped me when it came to denim. As an added bonus, I also invested in some nice accessories.
You spend far more time thinking about gloves and hats in Britain than you would realise. I used to be that guy who’d leave his gloves at home and spend his commute with his hands shoved deep into his pockets trying not to die. Leather gloves with wool lining became a staple.
Make sure you get ones with wool or fleece lining and touch compatible fingertips. I could never get on the hat-train because I was afraid of hat hair. Then I realised how dumb that sounds because you can totally wear a wool beanie pulled down slightly to keep your ears warm without ruining your hair.
I picked up this charcoal one years back and it goes with just about any coat without looking like I raided the Yeti’s wardrobe. Footwear is honestly where winter gets me every time. There is nothing worse than cold, wet feet.
Once I realised this during my first British winter in Manchester I slowly climbed the ladder of leg- and foot-covering fashion. Like any good English man I started with regular leather shoes. Then I learned that wet and windy weather made them suck.
Not only did my feet get soaked through by 10am but because there was no insulation, my feet would also be freezing. Luckily I stumbled across Tricker’s, because their country boots are life-changing. They look smart enough to pack, but have rubber soles and are weather-resistant so never let in water.
They’re also pricey as hell but will last you years if you take care of them. Socks are another thing I wish I’d paid attention to sooner. Cotton socks with winter boots is a one-way ticket to Coldtown.
Once I started wearing wool blend socks with some synthetic fibres for durability, I was all about it. These are the ones I buy mine in bulk. They offer lifetime replacement if they wear out, which was a complete gimmick to me until I actually had to use it.
Layers aren’t just for outside, either.
I was heating my flat to 25°C (about 77°F for my American readers) whilst wearing a cotton t-shirt wondering why I was still cold. There’s the same theory at play with indoors as there is with outside layers.
Pick better materials and your body can trap heat better than just throwing the thermostat up to 11. I picked up what my girlfriend likes to jokingly call my “house cardigan” years back and it’s become a bit of an obsession. Big enough to layer under things but primarily serves as my go-to house coat.
It was actually abroad I first realised how handy they can be. We once stayed in an flat in Spain that had no heating and European October is surprisingly chilly. Thank you British wool addiction.
Oh and speaking of looking great? Layering correctly actually makes your winter outfits look better than slipping into a giant puffa jacket. You get textures with different wool weights, fun colour variations, and actual personality once you ditch the idea that every winter outfit must consist of one big coat to “keep you warm.” Sorry Thom Browne winter collections, you lost me at blocking actual warmth.
