English Coats Have Smell of Success

If you’re going to fork over more than $200 for a car coat, you don’t expect it to . . . ahem! . . . smell. Right?

You do if you’re in the north of England and the coat in question is a Barbour. Those garments, made from Egyptian cotton that has been boiled in oil, have a pungent odor and a pedigree. Three royal warrants--kind of an upscale Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, from Queen Elizabeth, the Duke of York and the Prince of Wales--declare Barbours the socially correct thing to wear in the mist on the moors.

The olive-drab or navy oiled cloth field coats, weighed down with close to half a pound of solid brass zippers and snaps, are usually worn with wide wale corduroy pants, thick knit sweaters and flat top tweed caps. That unisex uniform is as much a part of the British country scene as restored castles, hikes through the heather, and tea and calorie overload at 4 p.m.

I’d seen Barbours everywhere on my weekend in the country in the north of England. The manor house hotel rooms were done in shades of peach, mauve or gray; the soap in the bathroom was scented with goat milk or herbs; coffee was served somewhere other than where you’d had dinner; kippers and limp bacon were offered at breakfast, and managers dashed about in their Barbours.

If you happened to be staying at Kirby Fleetham Hall, near Northallerton, where the dining room decor was of classic elegance and the menu inspired, you could watch swans lording it over the ducks in the garden beyond the French doors. At least the swans stayed outside. The ducks marched in on crumb patrol the instant the dining room doors were opened.

The duck invasion brought out the manor’s co-owner--the essence of sophisticated yuppieness in turtleneck, cords and battered Barbour. After driving the uninvited guests back into the morning mist, he joined us at the breakfast table for coffee. That’s when the former urbanite enlightened us about dressing for success, country gentry-style.

Barbours, he explained, are absolutely necessary for life on the limestone-wall-and-heather circuit, and it’s essential to the status of the wearer that his coat never look new. “As soon as you get a Barbour, you lay it down on a muddy road and run over it a couple times with your Land Rover,” he instructed. “Then you drag it around the barnyard to pick up some character before letting the dogs sleep on it a while. You never--no, never--have it cleaned. That would be tacky.”

It sounded a lot like the way American high school kids felt about Spaulding saddle oxfords in the 1950s.

But of course, I was hooked. If you’re into souvenirs, what better purchase than something the locals actually wear? Especially if it’s snooty natives with peculiar taste.

My traveling companion and I marched into a Barbour outlet in Harrogate. The acrid smell of oiled and waxed cotton hit us as soon as we opened the door.

The silver-haired salesman smiled when he noticed our wrinkled noses. The smell of success isn’t always sweet, he implied, but a Barbour is a Barbour for all that. Another customer, obviously Establishment and amused by our doubtful looks, assured us the pricey field coats were good value. “I’ve had two--one when I was a boy, another when I outgrew it. I’ll have this one the rest of my life.” An afterthought: “You get used to the smell after wearing the coat a while.”

The clerk said there were 14 styles of Barbours to cover any outdoor activity. I tried on the Border Coat, the one deemed suitable for walking dogs, bird-watching at dawn or visiting the horses at the stable. The fabric was stiff, but the corduroy lining at the neck prevented scratching. The weight of all that heavy brass trim caused the coat to settle around my shoulders like the arm of a comforting friend.

Pockets of varying size and location were good for everything from stowing an extra pair of glasses when you forgot the case to carrying a puppy with possible leakage. Strategically placed doeskin warmers for cold hands took care of the problem of losing your gloves.

The coat surface was obviously wind- and rain-proof, but that tartan plaid cotton flannel lining wouldn’t stand up to a Rocky Mountain winter. No problem, the salesman assured me. There was a zip-in pile lining and an airtight hood--at additional cost, of course.

We were talking close to $275 for a smelly coat, and as it turned out, he didn’t even give me the proper VAT forms so I could get the tax back.

But I bought the Border Coat, and packed it separately as the man suggested. “It might cause an odor in your suitcase,” he warned. It took me a couple of months of wearing my expensive souvenir before I learned to love its shapeless, malodorous comfort. I ignored my neighbors’ raised eyebrow glances that inferred I’d been shopping at Goodwill.

Then, Connoisseur magazine “discovered” Barbours in a fashion blurb about what’s “in” in Britain. The slick catalogue for discriminating tastes noted that not only the royals like the smelly coats--so do Mick Jagger and Madonna.

Make that Mick and Madonna and my dachshund. The hound hides out in the inside deep pockets after giving the outside of my Barbour that “country gentry” look.

GUIDEBOOK: Where to Buy Barbour Coats

Barbours are sold in the United States at a few upscale sporting goods stores, as well as at At-Ease, 579 Newport Center Drive in Newport Beach (Fashion Island shopping center), in London at Harrods or through the New Hampshire distributor--(800) 338-3474.