There’s something almost comical about the phrase “new heritage brand.” It’s an oxymoron, isn’t it? Heritage implies history, legacy, dust gathering on leather-bound ledgers in some atmospheric workshop that’s been operating since Queen Victoria was on the throne. Yet here we are in 2025, and some of the most interesting British brands are precisely those walking this contradictory tightrope—creating products that feel steeped in tradition while being, in reality, younger than my nephew’s pet goldfish.
Last month, I found myself in a converted warehouse in Walthamstow, watching a woman not much older than me hand-stitching the most beautiful leather satchel I’ve ever seen. The workshop belonged to Whitten & Co., a leather goods brand that launched in 2018 but looks and feels like it’s been around since the Industrial Revolution. Its founder, Melissa Whitten, a former buyer for a major department store, told me she “wanted to create the sort of British brand that people think has always existed.”
And she’s done exactly that—from the typeface on the discreet gold-embossed logo (inspired by Victorian shop signage) to the traditional saddle-stitching techniques used on every piece. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear your grandad might have carried one of their briefcases to his first job. But here’s the kicker: not a single product existed before 2018. It’s heritage without the actual, well, heritage.
This new wave of British brands playing in the heritage space fascinates me. They’re not pretending to be something they’re not—they’re quite open about their founding dates—but they’re tapping into something deeply appealing about British craftsmanship and tradition, just without the decades (or centuries) of backstory. And honestly? Some of them are making products that put the actual heritage brands to shame.
Take Blackshore Coastal Clothing, founded in 2017 in Southwold, Suffolk. I discovered them during a rainy weekend away last year when I ducked into their tiny shop to escape a particularly vicious downpour. Inside, I found the perfect fisherman’s smock—boxy, practical, made from heavyweight cotton that felt like it could withstand a force 10 gale. The kind of garment that manages to look both completely timeless and oddly fashion-forward.
“We’re inspired by coastal workwear that’s been worn in these parts for generations,” the shopkeeper told me as I dripped all over their beautiful wooden floors. “But we’re not claiming to be something we’re not. We just make really good clothes that serve a purpose.”
There was something refreshingly honest about that. They weren’t spinning some yarn about being “established in 1862” or pretending their patterns had been discovered in some dusty archive. They were simply making excellent products inspired by a rich tradition of British coastal workwear, with a keen eye for both functionality and aesthetics.
What’s interesting is that many of these new heritage brands have emerged as a direct response to the decline of actual British manufacturing. When so many traditional factories and workshops closed in the ’80s and ’90s, we lost more than just jobs—we lost skills, techniques, and a certain kind of production knowledge. The founders of these new brands often talk about wanting to revive those capabilities before they disappear completely.
That’s certainly true for Community Clothing, established by designer Patrick Grant in 2016. It’s not pretending to be heritage in its aesthetic—the designs are clean, modern, and unfussy—but its mission is rooted in preserving British manufacturing traditions. When I interviewed Grant last year, he talked passionately about using the quiet periods in British factories (the times when the big orders from major brands aren’t coming in) to create high-quality basics that keep skilled workers employed year-round.
“These factories contain decades—sometimes centuries—of knowledge,” he told me as we walked through a knitwear facility in the Midlands that dates back to the 1800s. “Once that’s gone, you can’t just bring it back with the snap of your fingers.” The sweatshirt I bought from them that day is still one of the best things in my wardrobe—perfectly cut, incredibly well-made, and under £50. It doesn’t look “heritage” in the tweed-and-leather sense, but the knowledge that went into making it certainly is.
Then there’s the curious case of brands that are genuinely old but have been resurrected so completely that they’re essentially new entities with vintage names. I’m thinking of labels like Universal Works (established 2008 but with a name that sounds like it’s been making workwear since WWI) or Labour and Wait (founded 2000 but selling household goods that look like they’ve been in production since the Victorian era).
One of my favorites in this category is Carrier Company, founded in 1995 by gardener and designer Tina Guillory in Norfolk. I stumbled across their work jackets in a small shop in Shoreditch about five years ago and have been slightly obsessed ever since. Everything they make feels like it was designed in about 1937 and hasn’t changed since, from the canvas work coats to the fisherman’s jumpers. The fact that they’re only 30 years old seems almost impossible when you hold one of their pieces.
“We get people coming into the shop saying their grandfather had a jacket exactly like ours,” Guillory told me when I interviewed her for a piece last year. “It’s not true, of course, since we’ve only been around since the ’90s, but it speaks to how familiar and timeless the designs feel.”
This sense of timelessness is perhaps the most interesting thread connecting all these brands. In an era of fast fashion and rapid trend cycles, they’re deliberately stepping outside of time, creating products that could have existed 50 years ago and could still exist 50 years from now. There’s something deeply appealing about that permanence.
I felt this most strongly when I visited the workshop of Hiut Denim in Cardigan, Wales. This small company was founded in 2011 specifically to bring denim manufacturing back to a town that had previously been home to a factory making 35,000 pairs of jeans per week before production moved overseas. When that factory closed in the early 2000s, hundreds of people with specialized skills were left without jobs. Hiut deliberately set up shop to tap into that expertise.
Their workshop is almost absurdly small compared to the massive operation that once existed in the town, but the skills on display are extraordinary. I watched a woman named Elin, who’d worked in the old factory for 16 years, construct a pair of jeans with the kind of precision and speed that only comes from deep experience. The jeans themselves are beautiful—made from premium Japanese and Turkish denim, designed to last for years, and cut in simple, classic styles that aren’t going to look dated six months from now.
“We’re not trying to be the biggest, just the best,” co-founder David Hieatt told me as we drank tea from chipped mugs in their small office. “And being the best means making things that last, both physically and stylistically.”
This focus on longevity links directly to another common thread among these new heritage brands: sustainability. Many of them cite environmental concerns as a primary motivation. By creating products designed to last for decades rather than seasons, they’re pushing back against the disposable nature of contemporary fashion.
Take Hiut’s “No Wash Club,” which encourages customers not to wash their jeans for at least six months, allowing the denim to develop a personalized wear pattern. Or Blackshore’s lifetime repair service, which will fix any of their garments free of charge, no matter how old. Or Community Clothing’s transparent supply chain, which minimizes carbon footprint by producing everything within the UK.
“It’s not just about being nostalgic for some rose-tinted past,” explained Hannah Rochell, fashion journalist and author of “En Brogue,” when I asked her about this trend. “It’s about recognizing that many traditional making methods were actually more sustainable by default—using local materials, creating products that would last, establishing an entirely different relationship with consumption.”
That different relationship with consumption is evident in how these brands price their products. None of them are cheap—you’re looking at £180+ for a Hiut Denim jean, £95 for a Carrier Company work jacket, £225 for a Whitten & Co. leather satchel. But they’re selling items designed to last for years, possibly decades, which changes the cost calculation entirely.
“I have customers who initially balk at spending £200 on a bag,” Melissa Whitten told me. “But then they work out that if they use it daily for 10 years, that’s about 5p per use. Suddenly it doesn’t seem so expensive.”
This value calculation is something my mum understood instinctively. She’s still using the leather handbag my dad bought her for their 10th wedding anniversary… in 1985. It’s been repaired twice but looks better now than most bags do after six months. When I was younger, I couldn’t understand why she didn’t want something new and fashionable. Now I look at that bag with a completely different perspective—it’s not just an accessory but a piece of family history, something that’s moved through time with her.
Perhaps that’s what these new heritage brands are really selling: the potential for their products to become part of our personal histories. In a world where so much is ephemeral and digital, there’s profound appeal in objects that will physically accompany us through our lives, acquiring scratches and scuffs that tell our stories.
For all their apparent traditionalism, these brands are actually doing something quite radical. They’re challenging the very notion of what a fashion or lifestyle brand should be in the 21st century. Not chasing trends, not pushing for constant growth and expansion, not trying to be everything to everyone. Instead, they’re focusing on doing one thing exceptionally well, maintaining skills that might otherwise be lost, and creating products designed to become more beautiful with age.
I bought that Whitten & Co. satchel, by the way. It cost more than I care to admit (especially since my editor will probably read this—sorry about that expense claim, Rebecca). But two years on, it’s traveled with me to fashion weeks in four countries, been stuffed with notebooks, laptops, emergency flat shoes, and once, memorably, a half-eaten sandwich that I completely forgot about for three days (the bag survived better than the sandwich). The leather has deepened in color and developed a patina that tells the story of everywhere it’s been.
Will it still be with me in 40 years like my mum’s handbag? I hope so. And perhaps that’s the true test of whether these new heritage brands deserve the title they’re claiming. Not whether they’ve been around for generations, but whether their products will be.