An overshirt built like it’s already survived a sentence. L’île d’Oléron, that bleak patch of French coastline where they used to stash poor bastards awaiting deportation. And the overshirt carries that ghost of exile in its bones, but in a way that makes you want to wear it, not flee from it.

The canvas is a hefty 350-gram sergé, proper British grit spun by Brisbane Moss.
Worn-in blue, but not the fake mall-bought distressing; more like the slow bruise of time, as if the thing’s been leaning against salt-bitten walls for decades.

A single flap chest pocket sits up front, square and honest, like it’s daring you to stash contraband in it. There’s another pocket hidden inside, quiet, complicit, exactly where you’d slip the things you don’t talk about.

Raglan sleeves give it that slouchy, ready-for-anything stance, the kind of cut that lets you swing a pickaxe or lift a pint with equal conviction.

Natural corozo buttons, smooth and stubborn, turned by French makers.

Altogether you get an overshirt with the soul of a condemned man who somehow crawled out the other side and decided to look damn good anyway. Rugged, functional, and quietly rebellious: an outlaw’s second skin.

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