NYC, 1998. The sky still smelt like snow, but the morning after the fall. A lattice-crystal chill, suspended. I’d raced to a screening from a shoot. Bare shoulders. No tights. The wrong shoes. (I was always inappropriately dressed in NYC.)
A ragtag group of friends, mostly Brits abroad, huddled in a hotel bar, sipping whisky and sharing salty cashews. A tall kind stranger leant me his jumper. Not his tux. Not a scarf. An olive-grey hug of a Hermès cashmere V-neck. It took me a while to give it back. But no pneumonia. The power of luxe cashmere to seduce and romance. Protection from the storm.
A country childhood. Scratchy shrunken lambswool and graveyard grey M&S school uniform. A petal-pink cardigan with elaborate pearl beading scored on a sixth form vintage quest. My first cashmere. Bobbly, second hand. A little stained. But still.
On early fashion shoots I stroked the cashmere symmetrically stacked on set as if in a boudoir at Bergdorfs. Sometimes, when everyone else was still eating lunch, I’d try everything on, piece by piece, like an actress learning her lines or counting her jewels.
Soho in springtime – NYC brunches with Elle McPherson and her sleek entourage, all legs and French perfume and three-ply camel cashmere. My faux-nonchalant awe as they purred Basquiat and St Barths, mostly lost in translation. I was spending my rent on Miu Miu but I wore it with sweats. I was chasing the wild not the pretty. For a while.
The kittenish sensual allure of cashmere is undeniable, but I was also fascinated by heritage and the makers’ craft. The Scottish mills, the artisan design and the imagery, from Linda McCartney’s family photographs to Perry Ogden’s Irish Pony Kids, plus Marilyn Monroe on skis, of course. Knitwear as both hand-me-down connection and luxe survival wear. (I wore a favourite logo skinny knit by Bella Freud all the way to the summit of Kilimanjaro - under and over fleece and thermals.)
The real love affair started when I stopped saving it for best and started wearing it with denim and vintage print, walking boots and raincoats. More for adventure than tea, unrelated to a twin set and pearls.
Souvenir favourites, treasured and love-worn; a cashmere blanket the size of my daughter’s bedroom. The most decadent gift I’d ever been given. An old love letter. "So you’ll always be held and warm..." Still in my car boot, in case of emergency.
And Brora, now celebrating its 25th anniversary with a special collection, a brand that will always remind me of when my babies were babies, swathed in rainbow-striped blankets before graduating to mini Fair Isles and gloves on a string. Grade A cashmere, all sourced and produced ethically and sustainably from the Mongolian plateaux to a historic mill in the Scottish Borders, founded in 1797 and employing generation after generation ever since.
The best cashmere pieces are traditional and timeless, but with a twist. Like my favourite of the Brora birthday collaboration with stylist Jayne Pickering – a chunky black hooded snood that has become a favourite travelling companion. Skater-cool but with an Old-Hollywood luxe mystique. (Just add shades.) An easy pairing with a trench coat for changeable autumn days.
My daughter borrowed my Brora hoodie for a bike ride. "This is as soft as a marshmallow polar bear Mama!" Exactly. The cashmere caress. Not just for Christmas.
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