Fleece in at the west door, folded blankets out at the east. One hundred and fifty-five years, one building, one river.
Fulling is the step that turns woven cloth into a blanket: hot water, soap, agitation, and a weaver who knows when to stop. Run it long and you get board. Stop early and it pills for a decade.
Everything we sell passes through that room, gets napped on the teasel gig, sheared level, and bound by hand on the sewing floor upstairs.
Raw fleece is skirted by hand, scoured, and dyed in the kettle house before it is ever carded.
Three card sets pull the fibres parallel; the mule spins a soft, lofty yarn that traps air rather than weight.
Dobby looms run at a deliberate speed. Slower picks mean fewer broken ends and a squarer, more even cloth.
River water, soap, the nap gig, the shear, then the binding tables. Every piece is inspected twice.
