I Never wanted to be a part of an unsustainable society. I have always tried to live as quiet a life as possible, outside of the big cities. Now I am the last person left in England making clogs by hand. I spend many days in my studio in Kington, Herefordshire, carving green sycamore wood that I collect myself, hand-dyeing the leather and making sure the soles are as close to someone’s feet as possible. I don’t think you can get a more peaceful life.
I grew up in Ceredigion, surrounded by sheep. There were no jobs in the area and in 1976 I had to go on benefits. After breaking up with my first girlfriend I suffered from severe anxiety. Convent schooling and boys’ boarding schools were not the best places to learn to develop relationships, and I needed to find some form of therapy.
I met a craftsman in a nearby village called Tregaron. He was a clog maker named Hyvel Davies. I started training under him as an apprentice. I found the craft fascinating. Clog carving knives are dangerous, so the activity demanded my full attention: it was the perfect therapeutic outlet.
I also taught myself to make other types of shoes, but I always got stuck. I can’t say I have a natural aptitude for the craft, but it’s probably something you’ll absolutely love.
British clogs are made from a combination of wood and leather, not to be mistaken for the more popular European all-wooden footwear. Each pair takes about 15 hours to make. Women’s and children’s shoes are usually small, but most of my customers are men. Their feet are so big that I can only compare them to yatis.
Once, when I was in my 20s, I managed to make about two pairs in a day, but they weren’t very good. Now that I’m in my 70s, it takes me a lot longer. Collecting wood and shaping it by hand is also hard on my back. I don’t know how long I can stay as a producer.
I myself cut small trees around Offas Dyke on the border between England and Wales. A man once said he had a tree that needed to be cut down and asked if I could make him something to clog from the pieces. I made two pairs for him and one each for his wife and daughter.
My clogs are sent all over the world – as far as Tasmania – but my regular clients are mostly in the UK. I send wooden soles to customers, first checking that they fit properly. I can’t even begin to count how many obstacles I’ve done over the years.
Fifteen years ago, a client ordered seven pairs in a few months – he had more faith in my work than my longevity. He has flat feet and can’t bend them without pain, so I carved an arch into his clogs to help him. People think that walking is difficult for them, but that is a myth. I only wear clogs that I make myself. I’ve made pairs for morris dancers who say these are the first shoes they can comfortably dance in and keep them in for the rest of the day.
I am often asked if I am worried about competing with machinery. Traditional clog making began to die out by the 1950s, and while I never kept up with machines when it came to sizing, my bespoke shoes fit well.
I have advised film and theater companies on occluded history. I made some shoes for Carey Mulligan who played the lead in the movie Suffragette. Initially they asked me to make a pair of clogs that would be inaccurate to that era – I was tasked with producing something historically accurate.
I had to subsidize my income over the years and worked as a National Trails Surveyor. But I always came back to clog making, even writing a booklet about them. I have only successfully taught one person how to carve correctly and safely: he now works in a museum.
Even though I didn’t earn much, it didn’t matter. That’s not why I do it. I recently came across one A trade journal from over a hundred years ago in which the author expressed surprise that anyone was still doing clog carving. It’s time – soon to be a thing of the past.
As told to Elizabeth McCafferty
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