I was standing in the mud at Glastonbury five years ago when I had my wellies epiphany. There I was, one of approximately eight thousand people wearing identical green Hunter boots, looking like we’d all received the same fashion memo. My friend Leila pointed it out first. “Christ, Liv, it’s like a bloody Hunter army out here,” she said, gesturing around the field with her cider. “Could you be any more basic?” That stung. Me? Basic? The woman who once wore a vintage Westwood corset to a garden party? (Don’t try this, by the way. Sitting down was not an option and I ended up standing awkwardly by a rosebush for three hours straight.)
She wasn’t wrong though. I’d fallen into the great British wellies trap—that assumption that Hunter is the only acceptable option for keeping your feet dry while maintaining any semblance of style. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against Hunter. They’re brilliant boots, waterproof as hell, and they’ve got heritage coming out of their ears. The Queen wore them, for god’s sake. But when you work in fashion and pride yourself on having an “eye,” turning up in the exact same footwear as every festival-goer, dog walker, and country pub visitor in Britain feels a bit… well, lazy.
That night, back in my tent (which was slowly turning into a paddling pool because, of course, it was pissing it down), I made myself a promise. By the next rainy season, I’d find rain boots that didn’t scream “I have the same Instagram feed as everybody else.”
So began my slightly obsessive journey through the world of alternative wellington boots. My flat-mates staged what they called a “boot intervention” after the seventh pair arrived. “The hallway looks like a bloody puddle-jumping convention,” my flatmate Tomas complained, tripping over yet another box. But I was on a mission.
First, let’s talk about the old-school brands that fashion editors have been quietly wearing for years. Like Aigle—the French brand that’s been making rubber boots since 1853. Their Parcours 2 boots aren’t as instantly recognizable as Hunters, but they’re actually handmade by individual craftspeople (they call them “maîtres caoutchoutiers” which sounds much fancier than “rubber masters,” but there you go). I got mine in a dark olive that’s just different enough from Hunter green to make me feel smug.
The insoles are cushioned enough that I can stomp around Hampstead Heath for hours without getting that weird lower back pain that cheaper wellies give me. They cost around £150, so not cheap-cheap, but they’ve lasted me four winters of constant wear. My cost-per-puddle analysis makes them a solid investment.
Then there’s Le Chameau—technically the posh person’s Hunter. These are the boots that Kate Middleton wears when she wants to look relatable but not too common, if you know what I mean. The Vierzonord style has a neoprene lining that makes them properly warm, not just waterproof. Game-changer when you’re standing on a freezing train platform in February. Yes, they’re stupidly expensive (like, £180-ish), but I found mine in an end-of-season sale for £120, and I’m not too proud to say I did a little dance right there in the shop.
The funny thing is, among actual fashion people—you know, the ones who work at magazines and attend shows and such—there’s been a move toward wellies that don’t look like wellies at all. The Danish brand Ganni started it with their rubber Chelsea boots that caused a proper stampede at their London pop-up last year. I queued for 45 minutes in the rain (ironic, considering what I was buying) only to find they’d sold out of my size. Ended up panic-buying a weird floral pair that I’ve worn exactly twice.
But honestly? The most fashionable rain boots I’ve seen in the last year weren’t even marketed as rain boots. Arket—basically posh H&M—did these chunky-soled leather boots with a rubber foot that fashion assistants went mental for. Had to physically restrain myself from buying them because I already owned nine pairs of rain boots at that point, and my mum’s voice was in my head going, “Liv, there are children in the world with no shoes at all,” which is her standard response to all my footwear purchases.
If you’re after something that doesn’t scream “I’m wearing WELLIES!” but still keeps your feet dry, the Barbour Bede wellington boots are surprisingly low-key. They’re shorter than traditional wellies, so they don’t give you that weird sweaty-calf situation, and they’re about £75, which isn’t terrible. The navy ones with the tartan lining have a bit of a preppy vibe that works with jeans in a way that doesn’t make you look like you’ve just escaped from a country estate.
God, I sound like I’m writing a shopping page, don’t I? Sorry about that. Occupational hazard.
Look, the truth is, the fashion people I know fall into three distinct rain boot camps:
Camp One: The Heritage Hunters. These are industry veterans who’ve been around long enough to circle back to classics without feeling basic. They wear their Hunters with a knowingly ironic air and probably have some anecdote about how they found them in their parents’ garden shed. They’ve usually got the Original Tall in black, not green, because it’s marginally less obvious. This group includes at least two fashion directors I know who’d die before admitting they’re wearing the same boots as first-year university students.
Camp Two: The Stealth Wealth Splashers. These are the Le Chameau and Aigle devotees. Usually people who grew up in the countryside and actually know how to differentiate between types of rain (you know there are different types, right?). They’ll casually drop into conversation that their boots are handcrafted in France while looking at your Hunters with barely disguised pity. I may or may not fall into this category, depending on how honest I’m being with myself that day.
Camp Three: The Fashion-Forward Puddle Jumpers. These are the ones in the weird architectural rubber boots from Japanese brands you’ve never heard of, or the limited-edition designer collaborations that cost the same as a small car. One assistant at a major fashion magazine turned up to a rainy shoot in Loewe rubber boots that looked like alien feet. Completely impractical—she couldn’t actually walk in them—but she got photographed by three street style photographers, so who’s the real winner here?
There’s also a secret Camp Four, which nobody talks about: The Practical Realists who wear whatever’s on sale at Mountain Warehouse because they’re freelancers and the fashion industry pays them in “exposure” half the time. But we don’t discuss them in polite company.
I’ve got a friend, Meena, who works as a stylist, and she swears by the most un-fashion wellies going: Dunlop. The green ones that builders wear. Cost about twenty quid from Amazon. She wears them with Celine trousers and cashmere sweaters to fashion week because, according to her, “The juxtaposition creates tension in the visual narrative,” which is stylist-speak for “I like winding people up.” It works though—she was featured on about six street style blogs last season.
Then there’s the vintage route. I found a pair of 1960s red wellies in a charity shop in Frome for £8. No brand name, just “Made in England” stamped inside. They leak slightly around the seam on the left foot, which means they’re basically useless as actual rain boots, but they look fantastic in Instagram photos, which is half the battle won in my industry, isn’t it? (I’m joking. Sort of.)
Last winter, after all this extensive wellies research, you know what I ended up wearing almost every rainy day? A pair of completely unbranded black rubber boots from a garden center in Sheffield that my dad bought me as a joke for £25. “Proper boots for proper puddles,” he’d said, looking very pleased with himself. They’re plain, they’re matte, they have a grippy sole, and not once has anyone asked me if they’re “the new something-or-other.” They’re just… boots. That keep rain out. Revolutionary concept, I know.
There’s something quite liberating about wearing rain boots that have absolutely zero fashion credibility. It’s like a tiny act of rebellion in an industry that’s built on people noticing your clothes. I wore them to a press preview for a very fancy British designer last month, and when the PR asked me about them (with that specific tone that means “I can’t identify those and it’s bothering me”), I just said, “Oh, they’re from a garden center up north,” and watched her try to hide her confusion. Highlight of my week, not gonna lie.
Of course, the real secret about wellies that fashion people won’t admit? We all change into proper shoes the minute we get indoors. Nobody’s sloshing around the office in rubber boots, regardless of how premium the brand is. I’ve got a collection of loafers and mules stashed under my desk that would make Marie Kondo weep with despair. The wellies are just for the commute—that treacherous journey from front door to office, navigating London’s biblical puddles and the strange urban phenomenon where splashing pedestrians seems to bring taxi drivers genuine joy.
So if you’re looking to break out of the Hunter herd, my actual advice is: buy whatever keeps your feet dry and doesn’t make you miserable. Life’s too short for cold, wet feet. And fashion credibility means nothing when you’re standing at a bus stop in the rain with soaking socks.
But if you absolutely insist on wellies with fashion cred, get the Aigle Parcours 2. Just don’t tell everyone, yeah? They’re my secret weapon, and the British weather provides enough opportunities to wear them as it is.
Actually, forget I said anything. Hunter is fine. Nothing to see here. Move along.
