Bold claim: I’m the last traditional clog maker in England, and I’m choosing a life off the beaten path to preserve a fading craft. But here’s where it gets controversial: does preserving an obsolete method justify the personal cost of aging hands and a back that keeps score of every carved groove? If you’re curious about a profession that blends art, history, and stubborn persistence, this is the story you’ll want to read.
Experience: I am the final practitioner of handcrafted clogs in England
I never sought to contribute to an unsustainable society. I’ve always aimed to live peacefully, away from the bustle of big cities. Today, I’m the last English artisan still carving clogs by hand. Most days I work in my studio in Kington, Herefordshire, where I carve green sycamore wood I gather myself, hand-dye the leather, and tailor the soles so they hug a wearer’s foot as closely as possible. That quiet, focused routine feels like the peak of peaceful living to me.
I grew up in Ceredigion, surrounded by sheep. Jobs were scarce, and in 1976 I relied on benefits. After a painful breakup with my first partner, I developed severe anxiety. Convent schooling and boys’ boarding schools aren’t ideal for learning to build healthy relationships, so I sought out a therapeutic craft to anchor myself.
I met Hywel Davies, a clogmaker in the nearby village of Tregaron. I began an apprenticeship with him and found the craft utterly captivating. Clog carving knives demand your full attention because the work can be dangerous; it’s the kind of discipline that doubles as therapy.
I even taught myself how to make other kinds of shoes, but clogs have always held me. I can’t claim any natural talent for the trade—it's mostly grit and determination that have carried me this far.
British clogs are built with a combination of wood and leather, unlike the all-wooden clogs popular in some parts of Europe. Each pair requires about 15 hours of meticulous work. Women’s and children’s footwear tend to be easier because they’re smaller, but men make up the majority of my customers. Some feet are so large I can only compare them to yetis’ feet.
There was a time in my twenties when I nearly produced two pairs in a day, but the results weren’t up to standard. Now, in my seventies, the process takes much longer. Collecting the wood and shaping it by hand is hard on my back, and I don’t know how many more years I have left as a maker.
I still cut small trees around Offa’s Dyke, the border region between England and Wales. A man once asked if I could fashion clogs from a tree he needed felled; I made him two pairs and gave a pair to his wife and another to his daughter.
My clogs have reached far corners of the world — as far as Tasmania — though most of my regular clients are in the UK. I send wooden soles to customers first to ensure a proper fit. Counting the exact number of clogs I’ve made over the years would be impossible.
Fifteen years ago, a client ordered seven pairs over several months, placing more faith in my work than in my own longevity. He had flat feet and found bending painful, so I carved a gentle curve into his clogs to accommodate him. People often think clogs are hard to walk in, but that’s a misconception I’ve heard before. I only wear clogs I’ve crafted myself. I’ve even made pairs for Morris dancers who told me they were the first shoes they could wear comfortably all day.
People often ask whether I’m worried about competing with machinery. Traditional clog making began to decline as early as the 1950s, and while I’ll never match machines in output, my bespoke shoes offer a better fit for many customers.
I’ve advised film and theatre companies on clog history. I created shoes for Carey Mulligan in the film Suffragette. Initially they asked for a pair of clogs that would have been anachronistic for that era, so I shifted to producing something historically accurate instead.
To supplement my income, I’ve worked as a National Trails surveyor and even authored a booklet about clogs. Still, I’ve consistentlyreturned to clog making; I’ve managed to teach one person to carve safely, and that student now works at a museum.
While the financial rewards aren’t large, the motive isn’t money. I came across a trade journal from more than a century ago that was astonished to find clog carving still being done by anyone—an artifact of its time that hints at a future where this craft might become a thing of the past.
As told to Elizabeth McCafferty
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