It’s the doldrums of winter, and I’m gearing up for the winter edition of Pitti Uomo.

This will be my second time going. After the first, I promised myself I wouldn’t be caught flat-footed again—or, more accurately, frozen-footed. Florence in January was colder than I expected. The days were beautiful and brisk, full of low winter sun and espresso breaks. But once the sun went down, it got very cold very quickly. I met the evening cold with Negronis, which was brave but not strategic.

This year, I’m not messing around.

Tweed was never designed to be fashionable. It was made to survive cold wind and rain, long days outdoors—and somehow became a classic along the way.

That origin matters. Tweed didn’t come from trend cycles or seasonal color stories. It came from places where the weather has opinions, and where cloth had to work. Its durability is what gives it credibility. It’s why tweed feels grounded rather than nostalgic, even now.

Over time, tweed developed distinct regional identities.

Irish tweed grew out of necessity rather than leisure. This past fall, I traveled to Ireland and visited the Magee store in Donegal, where they still keep an old hand loom to demonstrate how traditional Irish tweed was made. Irish tweed was designed for real weather—wind, rain, endless hours in the fields. The colors often come straight from the landscape: flecks of mossy green, peat brown, slate gray. It was never about estates or sporting weekends. It was about work, survival, and making something that could last.

Scottish tweeds sit somewhere between utility and tradition. Strong regional identities, specific patterns, and a deep connection to place define them. Harris Tweed, in particular, carries a sense of authorship—handwoven, regulated, unmistakably tied to geography. These were cloths built for rugged terrain, later adopted by people who appreciated what that toughness represented.

English tweed has a different lineage altogether. It is inseparable from land ownership, sport, and the rituals of the countryside. Estate tweeds were developed to identify where you belonged—patterns tied to specific families and properties. This is the tweed of shooting parties and country weekends, later pulled into town wardrobes as a way of borrowing country authority. More controlled, more deliberate, and unmistakably tied to tradition.

That sense of place is what makes tweed special—and why the best versions of it feel personal.

My most worn jacket of 2025 was made at Tailors’ Keep from a tweed collaboration between my friend Matt Hranek aka WM Brown Project and Harris Tweed. The cloth was designed to evoke upstate New York in autumn. I grew up in rural western New York and spent enough years wandering among the sugar maples to know when someone gets those colors right—and they absolutely nailed it.

That, I think, is the quiet magic of tweed. Because of its color and texture, it has the ability to transport you. It doesn’t just keep you warm; it pulls memory forward. When I wear that jacket, I’m back in the woods of my childhood and early adult years—cold mornings, damp leaves, that brief window when the landscape turns before winter sets in.

And, not for nothing, the Bills never seem to lose when I wear it.

The tweed itself sits right in the middle weight range. Not overly heavy, not insubstantial. Enough to be useful when the sun goes down, but comfortable to wear all day. The kind of cloth that reminds you why tweed earned its reputation long before central heating and technical fabrics entered the picture.

For winter travel—and winter dressing more generally—tweed remains one of the most rational choices you can make. It carries history, warmth, and looks great. It simply does what it was always meant to do, and looks better the longer you live in it.

If you happen to be in Pitti this year be sure to say hello. Allora!

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