Kington, Herefordshire – In a world increasingly dominated by mass production and fleeting trends, Jeremy Atkinson is a quiet anomaly. He is, as multiple sources confirm, the last traditional clog maker in England. His story isn’t one of grand ambition or calculated career moves, but of a deliberate retreat from the unsustainable, a search for peace and a dedication to a craft that has largely vanished.
Atkinson’s journey began not in a workshop, but in Ceredigion, Wales, surrounded by sheep. A lack of local employment opportunities in 1976 led him to rely on benefits, a situation that coincided with a difficult personal experience – a breakup that triggered extreme anxiety. Seeking a therapeutic outlet, he stumbled upon clog making while apprenticing with Hywel Davies in Tregaron. The demanding nature of the craft, the inherent danger of the carving knives, required a complete focus, offering a much-needed respite from his internal struggles.
While he explored other shoemaking techniques, Atkinson consistently returned to clogs. He readily admits he didn’t possess a natural talent for the work, attributing his perseverance to “sheer will.” This dedication is evident in the painstaking process he employs today: sourcing green sycamore wood from around Offa’s Dyke, hand-dyeing the leather, and meticulously shaping each sole to perfectly match the contours of a customer’s foot. Each pair, he estimates, takes approximately 15 hours to complete.
British clogs, Atkinson clarifies, are distinct from the all-wooden footwear often associated with other European traditions. They are a combination of wood and leather, a design that prioritizes both durability and comfort. His clientele is diverse, ranging from everyday wearers to morris dancers who have found his clogs to be the only shoes comfortable enough to dance in all day. He’s even received orders from as far afield as Tasmania, though his regular customers remain primarily based in the UK.
The business isn’t about volume. Atkinson recounts a brief period in his 20s where he managed to complete almost two pairs in a single day, but concedes the quality suffered. Now in his 70s, and with the physical demands of wood collection and carving taking their toll on his back, the pace is slower, more deliberate. He acknowledges the possibility that his time as a clog maker is limited.
His commitment to traditional methods extends beyond the crafting process itself. He actively seeks out wood from felled trees, even fulfilling a unique request from a man who asked him to create clogs from a tree on his property, resulting in pairs for the man, his wife, and his daughter. This personal connection to the materials and the customers underscores the bespoke nature of his work.
Atkinson’s story isn’t simply about preserving a dying craft; it’s about resisting the relentless march of industrialization. He recognizes that he can’t compete with machines in terms of quantity, but firmly believes his handmade shoes offer a superior fit and a level of quality that mass-produced alternatives cannot match. This sentiment echoes a broader cultural conversation about sustainability, craftsmanship, and the value of slowing down.
His expertise has even extended to the world of film. He was consulted by production companies on the historical accuracy of clogs, and ultimately crafted footwear for Carey Mulligan, the lead actress in the film Suffragette. Initially asked to create a historically inaccurate pair, he was then tasked with producing shoes that were authentic to the era.
Despite the challenges, Atkinson maintains a pragmatic outlook. He supplements his income with work as a National Trails surveyor and has even authored a booklet on clog making. However, he emphasizes that financial gain isn’t his primary motivation. He recently discovered a trade journal from over a century ago that expressed surprise anyone was still practicing the craft, a realization that underscores the precariousness of his position and the likelihood that clog making, as he knows it, is a practice destined to become a relic of the past.
Atkinson’s story, as told to Elizabeth McCafferty, is a testament to the enduring power of individual passion and the quiet dignity of a life lived in harmony with tradition. It’s a reminder that some things are worth preserving, not for profit or recognition, but simply because they represent a connection to a slower, more deliberate way of life.
