Linen, Lived In

Ah yes, the first proper warm weekend. The long-overdue return of light through the curtains. A lazy breeze carrying the scent of something vaguely nostalgic, and with it, the ceremonial unearthing of linen—creased, sun-bleached, charmingly crumpled linen—from the back of the wardrobe. Forgotten, but not unloved.

There’s a kind of understated romance to wearing linen again. It signals not just a change in weather, but a shift in mood. A loosening. The first drink outside. A book read half-asleep on a sun-warmed bench. Linen, more than any other cloth, understands ease. It doesn’t care for structure or stiffness. It wants to live. To breathe. To be rumpled, tugged at, sweat into, thrown over a chair and picked up again without fuss.

The joy, really, is in the imperfection. A well-worn linen shirt—ideally a little on the loose side, in white or better navy—is the sartorial equivalent of Radio 6 on a Sunday morning. You don’t need to try too hard. The cloth does the work. Pair it with casual trousers and a plaited belt and you’re halfway to the Riviera, even if you’re just nipping to the shops for olives and sardines.

Linen also ages well, like your favourite loafers or a bottle of something from 2016 you forgot was in the cupboard. It softens, mellows, becomes more yours with every wear. That’s the joy. It’s not about looking sharp—it’s about feeling like yourself. Comfortable. Sun-drenched. Light on your feet.

So here’s to linen. To summer. To not ironing. To that first evening where you don’t need a jacket. Where the shirt clings just slightly to your back, and you don’t mind one bit.