On a tiny Irish island, Aran knitwear company Inis Meain is making clothes with global appeal.

By Finlay Renwick

PUBLISHED:09 JANUARY 2020

Shuddering against the impact of the North Atlantic Ocean, the boat rocks wildly from side to side, as if in the clutches of a giant, malevolent toddler at bath time. It’s too much for one passenger, who seeks solace in a sick bag. A pensioner in a leather jacket and scuffed loafers snoozes gently beside him, counting king crab in his sleep. 

“A bit choppy out there,” says the ferry’s captain, appearing unfazed as towering columns of roiling surf erupt from every angle. Eventually, a beacon appears through the October evening gloom. Three dim spotlights and the tiny harbour of Inis Meáin.

Thirty miles off the west coast of Ireland, at the mouth of Galway Bay, Inis Meáin (population: 180) is the middle and least populous of the three Aran Islands, joining Inis Mór and Inis Oírr as lonely, limestone outcrops huddled together against the great stormy caprices of the Atlantic. Sail due west for some 2,000 miles and the next land is the Canadian province of Newfoundland and Labrador.

It is certainly an unlikely spot for a luxury fashion brand. The Inis Meáin Knitting Company, founded in 1976, is based in a handsome, whitewashed building with a corrugated steel roof near the island’s centre, just down the hill from the church and the primary school with its roll of 20 students. A solitary sheep stands in a windswept field opposite the factory, staring impassively off into nothing in between mouthfuls of grass tinged the colour of rust. White and pastel houses pockmark the otherworldly landscape in the distance.

“It might sound like an old-fashioned company,” says Tarlach de Blácam as he shows me around the production floor, a whirl of activity, spools of colourful fabric and cardboard boxes full of orders ready to be shipped off on the Monday morning boat to the mainland. “But we’re actually very modern.” 

He gestures proudly towards a high-tech Japanese knitting machine that is able to weave 12-gauge fabric. “That’s really opened things up for us,” he says. “It means we can create extra fine and soft garments.” A row of six local women are busy hand-finishing jumpers in various shades of navy, burgundy, ecru and sage, silent in their mutual concentration. “It’s a very difficult skill. Some of these ladies have been with the company since we founded it.”

The factory currently employs 21 staff and is by far the island’s biggest employer. Its lookbook is modelled by a Galway fisherman blessed with a set of high cheekbones.

“I thought if we targeted high-end stores in Europe and Japan we might be onto something,” de Blácam says. Today, its jumpers, cardigans and unstructured jackets, which range in price from around €200 to €500, as well as accessories, are stocked by Anderson & Sheppard, Matches Fashion, Macy’s in New York and boutiques and department stores in Italy, Germany, Japan and China.

“Inis Meáin is one of those brands which is an absolute expert in its field,” says Damien Paul, head of menswear at Matches Fashion. “It creates understated, best-in-class knitwear in muted colours and tones that can work for any man. It’s the sort of product you end up having for years and is far removed from seasonal trends. It’s definitely a brand that chimes with the emerging slower approach to fashion our customers appreciate.”

“Nowadays, I have to hold back on sales. It’s been a hard slog to get to this place,” says de Blácam, who remembers the “awful” winter of 2009 when the world economy tanked. Suddenly, artisanal Irish knitwear didn’t factor into most people’s budgets. “Now we’re flavour of the month. I can’t afford to overbook and that’s the danger. It seems like young guys care more about where their clothes come from nowadays and want to get kitted out, which is great for us.” 

Barely three by four miles in diameter, Inis Meáin means, fairly straightforwardly, “Middle Island” in Gaelic, the first language of its residents. In the evenings during my guest-house stay, I sit alone in a room painted Rothko red, eating homemade soup and soda bread while a radio plays traditional music, jolly, fiddle-heavy ditties interspersed with music-less songs, strange and salty calls to prayer recited with a quivering beauty. Across a moonless sky, the weak amber lights of the harbour are the only break in the darkness. The renowned Irish language playwright, poet and folklorist John Millington Synge, who spent summers on the island, studying its rich heritage, wrote in his 1907 book The Aran Islands: “This is the last outpost of ancient Europe: I am privileged to see it before it disappears forever.”

“We came here intending to write,” says de Blácam, who studied Celtic languages at Trinity College in Dublin, “and ended up setting up the knitwear industry. Back then there was nothing on the island whatsoever. No electricity or running water, no proper pier for the ferry. The place was disintegrating. A lot of people were leaving for good. We wanted to do something to create employment. It made sense to focus on a trade that honoured the island’s heritage.” 

De Blácam and Ní Chonghaile felt there could be a wider demand for traditionally-crafted Aran knitwear: the hard-wearing, heavy yarn sweaters that had been knitted by the women of the island for millennia, updated with more luxury-centred fabrics.

Spry, refined and smartly dressed in a navy Donegal sweater, gingham shirt, indigo denim and tortoiseshell frames, de Blácam is a tall, 72-year-old man. A Dubliner by birth, he moved to the island in 1973 with his wife, Áine Ní Chonghaile, a native of Inis Meáin who was teaching in the Irish capital when they first met.

Before the pier was built, de Blácam would have to row out to meet the ferry, moored off the island, in a traditional Irish wood-framed boat called a currach. “That was the only option if I wanted to get my orders shipped.” 

Lunch over, he gathers himself to head back to the factory as America wakes up and comes online, to check for new knitwear orders.

A large kitchen window faces out towards the Atlantic, as do many on Inis Meáin. During the winter, Tarlach and Áine might sit and watch a storm roll in, the salt air rattling against the glass. “We’ve seen it all,” she says as empty plates are cleared. “The storms, the wind and rain. Waves like you wouldn’t believe.” Today, there’ll be no such spectacle. A brief biblical shower has given way to a hazy afternoon, the soft light turning the rusty grass golden, the fury of the Atlantic reduced to a gentle lapping against the island’s ancient shores.

The Aran Islands are home to around 200 bird species, including puffins, herons, ringed plovers, cuckoos, stonechats, skylarks and linnets. I’m trailed by a suspicious crow as I trek first to the remains of a 4,000-year-old Celtic fortress and then on to the far northwestern corner of the island on de Blácam’s recommendation, a place where Synge would often meditate facing out to the horizon. In May, wild flowers erupt here in a sea of colour, owing to the relatively temperate climate and fertile soil. 

“I’m always looking at the colours and shapes of the local fauna and flora for our collections,” de Blácam says.

At this time of year, with the flowers long since decayed, wild thistles poke up from between moss-covered rocks and thickets of blackberries line the roads. Traditional drystone walls snake around the land creating a primordial maze. As you reach the cliff edge, Inis Mór comes into view, obscured through a prism of sea spray. With 800 residents, it is jokingly referred to as “The Metropolis” by locals on the smaller island. 

“A lot of people might find it lonely here,” de Blácam says over a lunch of ham with potato salad and tomatoes grown in his eldest son Rory’s weather-proof polytunnel, “but I wasn’t made for cities.”

He still swims in the sea, even as winter approaches, off the black pebble beach, and has a boat for fishing: cod, plaice, mackerel in summer and the occasional monkfish. “I used to scuba dive, but I’m TFO now… Too Fucking Old!”

“I’ll be sad when some of the old folk go off,” he adds, nursing a cup of tea at the kitchen table of the family home, a book-lined, converted schoolhouse in the same white as the factory with a neatly-painted blue door.

“I admire the independence and the way of life. Because this place was so isolated, they had to be able to adapt. You couldn’t rely on anyone else.”

The first cold snap of the season always arrives with a kind of theatrical flourish, a sudden bite in the air, a shift in the light, a reminder that summer’s laissez‑faire dressing is well and truly over. It’s the moment when men start thinking again about proper clothes: pieces with texture, weight, and a bit of soul. Clothes that make stepping outside feel like a small pleasure rather than a negotiation with the weather.

And so begins the annual ritual of recalibrating the wardrobe for life out and about. Not for the runway, not for the fantasy of a lookbook, but for the real business of moving through the world — commuting, strolling, ducking into cafés, meeting friends, navigating the unpredictable choreography of winter streets. This is where menswear earns its keep. The pieces that matter now are the ones that work hard without looking like they’re working at all.

The backbone of this winter’s kit is a familiar one: soft tailoring, flannel trousers, suede boots, and above all, knitwear with character. Not the flimsy, fashion‑week sort, but the kind that feels reassuring the moment you pull it on. Natural fibres, earthy tones, a bit of heft, the quiet confidence of clothes that don’t need to shout.

Which brings us to the star of this season’s rotation: an Aran knit from Inis Meáin, the small but mighty workshop on the Aran Islands whose pieces carry the unmistakable imprint of place. There’s something about their knitwear, the hand‑finished seams, the subtle irregularity of the stitches, the sense of calm authority, that makes you stand a little straighter. It’s luxury, yes, but the kind that whispers rather than performs.

The piece in question is a shawl‑collar knit, dense but supple, the sort of garment that settles on the shoulders with a reassuring weight. The yarn has that soft halo you only get from natural fibres, and the colour, a muted marl somewhere between lichen and storm‑cloud , feels lifted straight from the island landscape. It’s the kind of knit you reach for instinctively, the one that becomes a second skin before you realise it.

Worn with charcoal flannel trousers, a navy overcoat with a bit of swing, and crepe‑soled boots, the Inis Meáin knit becomes the textural anchor of the whole look. Everything else orbits around it. The trousers soften, the coat relaxes, the boots feel more grounded. It’s a masterclass in understated layering, the sort of outfit that looks considered without ever feeling contrived.

Out on the street, the knit comes into its own. It breathes when you’re warm, insulates when the wind picks up, and moves with you rather than against you. The collar stands just enough to fend off a breeze, and the fabric catches the winter light in a way that makes even a grey morning feel a touch more cinematic. This is clothing designed for motion, not mannequins.

And this, really, is the heart of the matter. The best winter wardrobes aren’t built on spectacle; they’re built on comfort, craftsmanship, and quiet confidence. Clothes that make you feel like yourself, only slightly better armoured against the elements. Inis Meáin understands this instinctively. Their knitwear doesn’t demand attention; it earns it.

So as the season settles in and the days shorten, consider the virtues of dressing with intention. Choose pieces that feel good in the hand and even better on the body. Embrace texture. Trust natural fibres. And when in doubt, reach for the knit that makes stepping out the door feel like an act of quiet optimism.

Because in the end, getting out and about is easier, and infinitely more enjoyable, when you’re wrapped in something made with care.

Walking into Barneys New York always feels a bit like stepping onto a cultural fault line, the place where celebrity, aspiration, and genuine taste collide in a single, polished slab of retail theatre. The store has long traded on that tension: part clubhouse, part museum, part safari. You go not just to shop, but to observe the ecosystem in motion.

POP quiz: who’s more stylish, Usher or Cuba Gooding Jr.?

Only Barneys New York holds the answers to such esoterica.

The line lands because it’s true. Barneys has always been the great leveller of fashion , magnates, actors, tourists, and the quietly obsessive all drifting through the same aisles, touching the same fabrics, pretending not to look at one another.

The ground floor is its usual choreography of fragrance clouds, polished glass, and the faint hum of people trying to look like they belong. But the real action, as ever, is upstairs, where the menswear floors reveal the store’s evolving sense of itself. Barneys has spent years stretching its identity , sometimes too far, sometimes brilliantly , but the core proposition remains intact: a place where a man can find something that feels like it was chosen for him, not for the algorithm.

On the fourth floor, the mood shifts. The lighting softens, the colours deepen, and the racks begin to whisper rather than shout. This is where the store hides its quiet triumphs , the labels that don’t need billboards or celebrity endorsements to make their case.

Newish lines were impressive especially Inis Meain, with its inventive Aran and Donegal knitted sweaters.

The knitwear sits there with a kind of unbothered authority, the textures rich, the colours pulled from weather and stone. You can feel the island in the stitches.

Elsewhere, the usual suspects hold court: the Italian tailoring with its soft shoulders and softer price tags; the street‑leaning pieces that nod toward downtown cool without fully committing; the shoes arranged like a taxonomy of male aspiration. But it’s the quieter brands , the ones that don’t announce themselves , that give the floor its credibility.

Barneys has always excelled at this balance: the theatrical and the understated, the obvious and the esoteric. Even in its more chaotic years, the store managed to maintain a sense of durability, a belief that fashion could be both playful and serious, both democratic and rarefied. That tension is what keeps people coming back, even when the trends shift and the city changes around it.

Walking out, you feel the familiar Barneys effect: a slight lift in posture, a renewed interest in texture, a sense that dressing well is less about performance and more about curiosity. The store still has that power, to make you want to try harder, look closer, choose better.

Barneys may overreach, it may reinvent itself too often, but it remains what it has always been: a place where style is not just sold, but negotiated, discovered, and occasionally, quietly perfected.

The Wall Street Journal : Dec 17, 2019

A family-run restaurant, hotel and knitwear company are luring travelers who seek an understated approach to hospitality to one of Ireland’s Aran Islands

By Tom Downey

We want pilgrims to come here, not tourists,”

... says Tarlach de Blácam, co-owner of the Inis Meáin Knitting Company, a knitwear operation that sends its garments to boutiques and high-end department stores around the world.

The 72-year-old Irishman is among the 160 year-round residents of Inis Meáin (or Inishmaan, as it’s known in English), the middle isle of the three Aran Islands off the west coast of Ireland. Born in Dublin, de Blácam moved here in 1973 with his wife, Áine, who grew up on the island. The couple wanted their children to be fluent in the local Irish, which they consider an especially pure variant of the language.

“Everything we are about is embodied in this language,” says Tarlach. “Two hundred and fifty years ago, 70 to 80 percent of the population in Ireland spoke Irish. We had the richest folk literature in all Europe. We are here to try to keep that language and culture alive.”

De Blácam faces long odds. Although interest in the language has increased and a greater number of schools have an all-Irish curriculum, today roughly 74,000 of Ireland’s 4.8 million inhabitants actively use the language.

Island life and workwear provide the inspiration for a sophisticated range of knitwear

Sports coats for men are dead and jackets are making a huge comeback, so says Tarlach de Blacam of Inis Meáin knitwear, the Irish island company described by designer retailer Mr Porter as the “world’s most remote fashion label”.

“As men’s dress gets more casual, but elegantly casual, it’s all about knitted jackets,” adds de Blacam, a view echoed by leading Italian menswear designer Maurizio Baldassari.

An image from the mid-70s by Per Nilsson – the man in the sterm was wearing one of the first sweaters made by Inis Meáin

Cniotáil, Inis Meáin’s latest winter collection, features eight knitted jackets – a storm jacket, a relax jacket, a high V jacket in two qualities, a carpenter’s jacket, a reverse carpenter’s jacket, a farmer’s jacket and a shirt jacket in two qualities “with lots more styles, colours and colourways in varied stitches and qualities”, he says.

Selling in the most sophisticated menswear shops all over the world – the US, UK, Germany, Austria, Sweden, Switzerland, Japan, Canada, France, Italy, Australia and most recently in Shanghai, Inis Meáin knitwear’s wide appeal can be attributed to a new generation of young men in major metropolitan capitals who are starting to spend money on quality, rather than fast fashion, and appreciate its modern design, its provenance and luxury yarns.

“The Chinese are now looking at small, quality artisan European producers rather than brands,” de Blacam notes.

Island life and workwear continue to provide the inspiration for this sophisticated knitwear, clothes originally made to withstand the rigours of its everyday life reimagined for stylish modern cosmopolitan wear.

“We have been mining workwear for the past 20 years, looking at it in new and different ways , looking at old photographs, talking to knitters and looking at weaving , weaving was strong here and there was a weaver and a tailor on every island,” says de Blacam.

A new take this season on its popular carpenter jacket, which was drawn from an original found on the island, is the reverse carpenter jacket. Made in a mix of cashmere and merino and a comfortable alternative to a classic workwear staple, the chore jacket, it features the intricate interior details on the outside – after de Blacam was asked by Maxwells, a well-known menswear store in Falmouth, Massachusetts, to do it in reverse “so they could have it both ways”. Both are now in again for winter 2021 and already best sellers.

This handsome knitwear pushes design and modern machinery to their limits – “the skills of finishing a garment are enormous” de Blacam explains, the craftsmanship recently impressing US actor Patrick Dempsey, star of Grey’s Anatomy, who visited the island this year after falling in love with the sweaters he bought in Dublin from Louis Copeland.

Fishermen’s sweaters that embody the fearlessness associated with the dangers of such a hazardous occupation seem to explain their rugged appeal to a modern generation of city dwellers. “What interests me most about workwear”, says de Blacam, “is the restrained use of pattern. Sunday Best is what we call the white Aran sweater traditionally worn by angelic children for their first communion , everything else that was knitted [by the island women for their menfolk] was restrained.”

The patterns have their own names like beairtiní, meaning little bundles, which features on the yoke of one popular sweater. One of the most significant is called corran meaning crooked sickle, a zigzag pattern from old fishermen’s sweaters.

“We have used this extensively in one sweater and bordered it with 8x6 ribbing, so it is more like a tunic. The patterns emulate those of stone walls, correctly described by Liam O’Flaherty as fences. Sean Scully described those stone fences, the inspiration for all his work, as high art.”

Despite Covid, this has been a significant year for sales. “What is really driving growth is that we made a conscious decision to go way up into high-value cashmere from an Italian mill called Filati Biagoli in Montale which produces magnificent yarns and that is a huge part of this collection. It does mean that our products have become quite expensive, but if you just invest in one piece, you have it for life.”

Its online business is also thriving, boosted by Covid, though it is capable of offering only 15-20 pieces on its own site – that varies in others. “We have doubled online sales, but we are sold in some really beautiful online stores like Mr Porter and Matches as well as huge stores like Bergdorf Goodman and Todd Snyder in Madison Square in New York and the Hamptons. We are producing big orders and turning down others all the time.”

Everything is designed and made on the island, but the luxury yarns, including silk and supergeelong wool (wool taken from the first clip of the Australian sheep) are imported, though de Blacam would welcome using Irish wool – “we would be delighted to use it” and is already in talks with Chris Weineger of Donegal Yarns about a development project.

Inis Meáin has also been working with the knitwear design students at the University of Ulster who have three interns on the island this year. “These kids are the only people who give me some hope [for the industry]. One wrote to me recently saying that being here was the most magnificent experience of her career,” he says.

Forceful and determined, de Blacam has proved how a combination of sophisticated design, heritage and craftsmanship forged on the outermost fringes of Europe has driven its hard-won international success. “I hate fashion. I love elegance. What we are offering is something special, different and elegant which is not fashion. These are jackets for a lifetime.”

The company’s address on the island is Carrowlisheen which means the small fairy fort. That’s where the magic happens.

In Dublin, a good selection from this 50-piece winter '21 collection can be found in Louis Copeland and later in the year in Brown Thomas. In Belfast, find it in Andrew Watson. Find some pieces online from inismeain.ie and other luxury online shops. Cleo's in Kildare Street also sell some Inis Meáin knitwear.