You know you\u2019re in small town Britain when the names of the little locations and monuments go from \u201cThe Whitehall Cenotaph\u201d to something along the lines of \u201cThe Grasswhoop\u201d. Idiosyncratic, small and probably designed to confuse the outsiders. A lot like the Scottish village of Prestwick itself.<\/p>\n
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Like a lot of tiny settlements north of the border, Prestwick\u2019s claim to fame is playing host to the first golf Open Championship back in 1860 and continuing to periodically turn up in golf magazines\u2019s back pages. The village was certainly picturesque enough for a magazine to put on their glossy pages \u2014 all stone and wood houses and charming little shops and blue lochs a mossy stone\u2019s the away.<\/p>\n
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Little\u2019s changed since that first, and only, Open Championship; some of the people certainly. Not Jeffrey Atkins and Keith Walker <\/strong>though. They\u2019re as modern as Prestwich residents can get without being chased out of town with a burning stake. That is, playing golf at the local golf course\u00a0 followed by a pine of ale at the local, for being \u2018allowed\u2019 to live together openly. Even if you don\u2019t like the sport, it\u2019s the way to the town\u2019s heart. A lot will be tolerated if you can hit a clean drive onto the green from 200 yards.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Golfing prowess aside, there\u2019s a lot to be respected about Jeff and Keith. Young, hardworking and willing to live in this town rather than going off to Glasgow to make better use of their talents. It takes a certain type of person to stay in the town they\u2019re born in, while having the ability to live wherever they desire.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n What\u2019s really impressive is to not just live in the town passively, but giving back to the economy by running a tartan and tweed mill together. Rather dated stereotypes aside, the couple knew how to make a fabric look sublime. And if there\u2019s any place that\u2019ll appreciate good tartan, it\u2019s this part of the world.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n They appreciate it even more because it\u2019s run by two of their local lads, who live right by the town centre and dress up as the horse at the annual school pantomime. It was all rather peaceful in this quaint Scottish town, with its ancient stone church and village cricket field and houses straight out of Lord of the Rings movie, until the pandemic happened.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Tiny villages aren\u2019t used to change. Whatever change is allowed to happen does so slowly and at a pace that\u2019s agreeable to the loudest residents. But sometimes change doesn\u2019t seek permission before pervading the world, and the small world Jeff lived in wasn\u2019t prepared.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The pandemic changed a lot about how the good people of Prestwick went about their lives \u2014 starting with shutting down the local pubs and, worse still, the golf courses. This wouldn\u2019t have been a problem in and upon itself \u2014 Jeff much preferred a night in, reading a book rather than getting leathered at the local \u2014 but the pandemic meant the mill had to be shut down. Jeff and Keith hadn\u2019t thought of them both working in the mill as putting all their eggs in one basket, but that\u2019s how it was turning out to be.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n They jointly owned the mill and the mortgage wasn\u2019t ridiculously high \u2014 perks of living in the middle of nowhere \u2014 so at least they weren\u2019t in immediate hot water. But something had to be done until the mill reopened and the economy recovered; people won\u2019t buy artisanal tartans and tweeds until they have enough money in their pockets to justify it to themselves (and their spouses).<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The lads needed a way temporarily maintain their income until the mills opened their iron doors again, while also supporting the little town they live in. The locals didn\u2019t love Jeff and Keith just because they hit a mean putt, the mill they ran employed a lot of the town\u2019s people and gave them an opportunity to connect with something genuinely Scottish. A rare thing in the age of supermarket kilts and readymade haggis.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n On one of Keith\u2019s lockdown drives down to the loch (he needed a bit of space from his partner sometimes, even if he can be charmingly persistent), he stopped on the way at a little caf\u00e9 for a socially distanced espresso. Well caf\u00e9 would be overselling it \u2014 a cottage with a garden out back would be more appropriate. Nothing like the normal sort of establishment Keith frequented, that would usually include cutlery and paintings of disproportioned ducks. But that\u2019s what lockdowns are for, aren\u2019t they? Discovering something that you\u2019d never spare a second glance at in normal times. Something here was worth more than a second glance though.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The word cottage has some pretty particular connotations, only some of them right. One of them probably is \u2018residential space\u2019, and in this case it\u2019d be right. The cottage caf\u00e9, as Keith had christened it in his head, was run by a fiery haired older woman with an accent that even he struggled to understand.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n After writing down on his order on what looked like a slab of brown wrapping paper, the woman stormed off upstairs to presumably make his espresso and cheese and onion sandwich. Keith had precious little to do with no phone service and Jeff being busy gardening. So he did what all bored people do \u2014 look around aimlessly until their eyes settle on something worth looking at. This one happened to be a weathered marble bench with a red-and-black tartan stretched on top of it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It was an ugly little thing, the colours didn\u2019t match and the marble was cut by what seemed like a chainsaw. But Keith\u2019s eyes were immediately drawn to the tartan \u2014 the vibrant, beautiful piece of tartan. After taking a photo with a mental note to show it to Jeff as soon as he gets home, he knew he had a clever little idea to keep them chugging along during lockdown. Tartan upholstery, for people outside Scotland.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Loch forgotten, and key found, Keith drove back to Prestwick with a speed rather unbecoming of these country roads. He didn\u2019t have time to admire the windswept landscape, weary in its moss-filled glory. He was weary too but in an oxymoronically optimistic way \u2014 tired of the pandemic affecting everything, but hopeful of doing something. Anything, that\u2019ll help their situation.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n A surprised and muddy Jeff was surprised to see his gardening time interrupted, Keith is never back until the sun is down and The Oval crowd dies down to a murmur. But never in the bright sunlight of the afternoon \u2014 Keith wasn\u2019t a people person, interaction is unavoidable when you live in a town this size, but it can always be minimised. But this time he was looking for interaction.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The idea was solid. In the absence of their mill, they use suppliers to sell tartan covered furniture to people outside of small town Scotland. It doesn\u2019t need to be terribly accurate \u2014 they were never one for tradition. Just accurate enough, and aesthetically pleasing for the swarms of people who don\u2019t understand the significance of the cloth and simply love them for the way they look.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n It wasn\u2019t a bad thing, even if the townsfolk might see if that way. People don\u2019t need to know everything about a product to appreciate it, they don\u2019t need to be quintessentially Scottish to have a tweed armchair in their living room. To expand their market was the most important step. Commercialising tartan and tweed using their own credentials, while giving appropriate homage to the history they hold, was the path towards it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n At first Jeff was insistent on Scottish furniture manufacturers, but there were precious few that fit within their target market of affordable, yet rich furniture. Perhaps British furniture manufacturers then, but no, the same issue reared it\u2019s head. Jeff could understand why small independent business owners, like what he and Keith aspired to be, preferred to source furniture abroad. But he still hadn\u2019t quite come across the idea \u2014 sourcing something so quintessentially Scottish from abroad didn\u2019t sit right with a part of him.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n But sometimes you don\u2019t have a choice; life comes at your first that way. The only way they could have goods that target their clientele without causing huge changes in the model, was by using a foreign manufacture. Ideally a dropshipper. Jeff thought he\u2019d found the perfect one.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Well not perfect by any means, the goods would be made in the Indian town of Jaipur, India. But surprisingly enough, the company happened to have a proper brick-and-mortar office in the middle of London \u2014 something neither of them had expected when they\u2019d read the words \u2018Jaipur manufacturing unit\u2019 on the website.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The compromise was palatable. A British company with a foreign manufacturing base. Jeff could live with that and Keith could barely mask his joy at his partner\u2019s reluctant approval. He\u2019d have to try and not rub it in. Perhaps a private glass of wine and a good chicken tikka masala for dinner would be in order. The irony was not lost on him.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n There was an even sweeter deal in mind if Jeff could convince their contact \u2014 a young Indian man with slicked back hair, always wearing a tie even at their 2 am business calls. Keith\u2019s idea was that when their mill reopens, they could supply the company with the most authentic tartans and tweeds that (reasonable) money could buy.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Perhaps the company would even sell them products with their own fabrics on them. Bespoke, that\u2019s what the man called it in an accent much easier to understand than that of the woman at the cottage. Not that Keith was going to talk to anyone about it, that was Jeff\u2019s role \u2014 one he did more than happily. A zoom call and plenty of smooth talk later, he had what he wanted. Only now, it was what the company wanted as well.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n A fresh(ish) start. Just what the doctor ordered after months of being stuck indoors with little to do but grow little tomatoes and read Russian literature that has little to say but much to unravel. But dropship manuals and the varied bits of info across the internet had much to say if you found the right type to spend a night reading. The attraction was simple \u2014 the lads didn\u2019t need to physically store the products, it went straight from manufacturer to customer. They could focus their collective energies on something far more suited to them.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Marketing. Living in the middle of nowhere has its benefits, one of them being you need to get quite good at putting yourself out there to have a shot at, well, anything. Who\u2019s gonna know about a little mill from Prestwick, Scotland if they don\u2019t heavily advertise across all the channels available to them? Same story for this new dropship venture \u2014 only this time, they have a much bigger clientele they can target, and more ammo to do so.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Word of mouth spreads fast when you\u2019re in the furniture world, even more so when it\u2019s something novel like a couple run mill moving into dropship using their tartan expertise to know what will sell particularly well. So Jeff (and to a lesser degree, Keith) talked to his golfing mates and see what they could go. Old guns, they were, innocuous until you talk to them about something they\u2019re passionate about. Over rounds of strategically poor golf, he made sure everyone important in Prestwick knew about the venture. The knowledge that the new orders of tartan that are likely to come in when the mill reopens may have helped sway them, just a little. Not that they needed much encouragement, the old guard were never one to shy away from a chance to put Prestwick on the map.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Keith for his part, handled all the internet marketing. Making a website, social media accounts, everything that could help. The move, in his opinion, was to emphasise their small-town Scotland roots, while emphasising that they\u2019ll soon be selling products with their very own fabrics. It was taxing, slow work. But he didn\u2019t mind \u2014 it gave him an excuse to stay indoors while Keith was off gallivanting at the golf course.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n With their efforts, the products they marketed were slowly getting pushed to the businesses ends of e-commerce websites and little blogs that looked for hidden gems. Prestwick was nothing but a hidden gem, a red Beryl if you may. Not something most people would even know of, but something that\u2019d be in their hearts and minds forever once they do learn of its existence.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" You know you\u2019re in small town Britain when the names of the little locations and monuments go from \u201cThe Whitehall Cenotaph\u201d to something along the lines of \u201cThe Grasswhoop\u201d. Idiosyncratic, small and probably designed to confuse the outsiders. A lot like the Scottish village of Prestwick itself. 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