Dispatches from the hills.

There is a moment, usually in the second week of October, when the sloes on the blackthorn along the lane out of Brook finally give up their bitterness. The frost has done its slow work: the skins soften, the fruit yields under the thumb. Any earlier and the gin turns astringent; any later and the blackbirds have you beaten.

A pound of sloes, half as much sugar, a bottle of good juniper gin. Prick each berry with a pin — some swear by a blackthorn spine from the same bush, which feels right even if it makes no difference — and leave it in a cool cupboard for three months. It is a fair analogy for the clothes we like.

A proper field coat is heavier than fashion likes. That weight is the point: warm enough to stand about in on a December morning, supple enough to sit down in without cracking at the elbow.

The shoulder is the harder question. We prefer a soft, unstructured line — a jacket that follows the body rather than announcing it. It takes a little while to warm to you. After that it is yours.

English summers are polite rather than climatic, which is a gift: a cotton polo, a light jacket for the evening, and something to sit on damp grass in. The warm months ask for less, not more.