I had this moment about two years ago when I was visiting my girlfriend's family in Vermont, and her dad showed up to breakfast wearing this perfectly worn-in Filson jacket, wool pants that looked like they'd been through actual adventures, and boots that had seen real work. Meanwhile, I'm standing there in my carefully curated "heritage workwear" outfit that I'd researched for weeks – raw denim, Red Wing boots, and a waxed jacket that still had that stiff, never-been-outside look. Her dad didn't say anything, but I caught him glancing at my pristine setup with this barely suppressed smile. That's when I realized I looked exactly like what I was: a tech guy who'd bought a costume online.
The whole thing reminded me of my early days getting into minimalist fashion, when I'd read about all these heritage brands and traditional styles but had zero context for actually wearing them. British country style was particularly brutal in this regard – you could drop serious money on authentic pieces and still look like you were heading to a Ralph Lauren photo shoot instead of, you know, living your actual life in San Francisco.
See, the thing about country style is it's incredibly functional when done right. These clothes were designed for people who spent time outside, dealt with unpredictable weather, and needed stuff that would last for decades. All things that should appeal to someone like me who obsesses over quality and longevity. But man, it's easy to get it spectacularly wrong and end up looking like you're cosplaying as someone who owns a horse.
I went through this phase – probably around year two of building my minimalist wardrobe – where I got really into the idea of "heritage" pieces. Read all about Barbour jackets, Harris tweed, proper English footwear. Spent hours on forums where people discussed the finer points of waxed cotton maintenance like they were tuning race cars. Bought this beautiful Barbour Bedale jacket in olive green, convinced it would be the perfect outer layer for my capsule wardrobe.
First time I wore it to work, three different people asked if I was going hunting after the office. In San Francisco. Where the most dangerous wildlife is aggressive startups and overpriced coffee. The jacket itself was brilliant – waterproof, well-made, the kind of thing you could wear for twenty years. But the context was all wrong. I looked like I'd ordered "English countryside" from a catalog and was trying it on for size.
That's the trap with country style, especially for those of us who didn't grow up with it. The full aesthetic comes with so much cultural baggage that it's almost impossible to wear authentically unless you actually live that life. Put on the whole kit – waxed jacket, tweed cap, proper country boots – and you're basically wearing a uniform that announces things about your background and politics that might not be true.
But here's what I learned after some trial and error: you can absolutely borrow elements from country style without committing to the full fantasy. It's about taking the smart design choices and quality construction while leaving behind the aristocratic theater.
The waxed jacket thing eventually worked out, but it took me months to figure out how to style it properly. Instead of trying to complete some imagined "country gentleman" look, I started wearing it with regular dark jeans and simple merino sweaters. Treated it like any other piece of functional outerwear instead of a costume element. Suddenly it made sense – just a really well-made jacket that kept me dry and looked better with age.
I remember this one weekend when we drove up to Sonoma for wine tasting (I know, peak Bay Area behavior), and I wore that Barbour with plain Outlier pants and white leather sneakers. My girlfriend commented that it was the first time I'd worn the jacket without looking like I was "trying to be someone else." That hit home because it was exactly right – I'd been trying to dress like some idealized version of a British landowner instead of just being myself in a really good jacket.
The footwear thing was another learning curve. Got completely seduced by the idea of proper English country boots – Tricker's, Church's, all these brands with centuries of history making shoes for people tramping around muddy estates. Bought these gorgeous Tricker's Stow boots in brown leather, built like tanks, the kind of construction that makes you feel like you're investing in your great-grandchildren's wardrobe.
Problem was, they looked completely ridiculous with my normal clothes. Too formal for jeans, too country for anything business casual. Took me forever to figure out that they worked best with wool pants in a relaxed fit – not the slim chinos I usually wore, but something with more room that didn't fight the chunky proportions of the boots. Now they're one of my favorite pieces, but it required completely rethinking how I put outfits together.
What really changed my approach was spending time around people who actually lived this stuff instead of just wearing it. Through my girlfriend I met some folks who grew up with country style as practical clothing, not fashion. They'd wear a waxed jacket with whatever else they had on, throw a wool sweater over a t-shirt, mix vintage pieces with modern ones without thinking about it. No costume, no complete look, just good clothes worn naturally.
One guy in particular – works in environmental consulting, spends half his time outdoors – had this way of combining practical country pieces with totally normal modern clothes that I'd never considered. Harris tweed blazer with dark jeans and Converse. Wool fisherman's sweater with technical pants and trail runners. He treated all these traditional pieces like they were just clothes, not artifacts from some imagined lifestyle.
That's when I realized my mistake wasn't buying country-inspired pieces, it was thinking I had to commit to an entire aesthetic. The minimalist wardrobe approach actually works perfectly here – pick one really excellent piece with country heritage, then style it with the rest of your normal clothes. Don't try to create a complete look, just add one element at a time.
So now my approach is much more restrained. That Barbour jacket gets worn with regular jeans, simple sweaters, normal sneakers or boots. I've got a Shetland wool sweater in this great oatmeal color that works with everything else in my wardrobe – it has that country texture and durability but doesn't announce itself as costume-y. Added a flat cap because I genuinely like how it looks and keeps my head warm, but I wear it with contemporary clothes instead of trying to complete some vintage outfit.
The quality aspect is what keeps drawing me back to these pieces despite the styling challenges. Country clothing was built to last because it had to be. People weren't replacing their waxed jackets every few years – they'd wear them for decades, repair them, pass them down. From a minimalist wardrobe perspective, that longevity is exactly what you want. Better to buy one excellent piece that lasts twenty years than five cheaper alternatives that fall apart.
I've started looking at vintage pieces too, partly for cost but mostly because they come pre-broken-in. Found this incredible 1980s Barbour jacket on eBay for a third of what a new one costs, and it has this perfect patina that would take years to develop naturally. Fits better too – the older cuts are often more relaxed and easier to layer over other clothes.
The whole experience taught me something important about building a minimalist wardrobe with personality. You can't just copy someone else's aesthetic wholesale, especially if it comes from a completely different context than your actual life. But you can absolutely borrow elements that work functionally and stylistically, as long as you're thoughtful about integration. Take the best ideas – quality construction, weather-appropriate materials, timeless design – and leave behind the cultural baggage and complete costume approach.
My wardrobe now includes maybe three or four pieces that could be considered country-inspired, but they're integrated with everything else I own instead of forming their own separate category. They've all proven themselves over time through actual wear and weather, which feels more authentic than trying to nail some predetermined look. And nobody asks if I'm going hunting anymore, which is probably the real measure of success.
Ruth lives in San Francisco and swears by “fewer, better things.” His posts explore minimalist wardrobes, quality basics, and dressing intentionally without turning fashion into clutter. Practical, efficient, and quietly stylish—just like his closet.
