Roman won my hat prize at Festival 2025 and asked for a typical Polish horseman’s hat, with fur brim and feathers. He sent me some initial pictures of reenactors wearing such hats – short brimmed, with a split fur brim, decorated with feathers and a jewel at the front.

My early research suggested that most of the historical versions were taller and since Roman was happy to go for a more authentic look, I dug deeper….

Research

It is clear there is some confusion about the right name for this hat. In her 2013 work on Men’s Russian headdress, Natalia Viktorovna Zhilina notes many examples of 16th century illustrations of the Kolpak with simple, soft, fabric versions. The brim had many variations, incluing a slanted open revers. Such hats might have a full fur lining, or just the brim turnback (see John Beebe’s translation).

The ‘kalpak’ (qalpaq, calpack) is also a Turkic high-crowned cap usually made of felt or sheepskin worn throughout Central Asia and the Caucasus, while in modern usage ‘kalpok’ means the onion-domed hat worn by Byzantine Catholic clergy. (Wikipedia)

Vercellio’s 1590 description of the headwear of the Hungarian, Croatians and Poles includes several references to these hat, in two forms: First a short version: “…they wear a small hat of fine wool, but thick like felt, coloured or black, with a feather above their forehead and a turned-up brim slashed at each side.” (Rosenthal & Jones, 2008). I found several examples of this style with a brim of wool, but not fur.

However, Roman wanted a version with a fur brim as well as feathers.

Vercellio also noted this variant: “Their hats are of fine red wool, lined with fur, with the brim turned back in a dashing way“. I did find contemporary illustrations, but they were all taller with either a stiff or soft crown, as shown in the van Bruyn engraings below. Although most examples show soldiers, the same styke can be seen worn by the nobility, as the Beck painting shows.

Roman prefered the slightly softer look of the first image, so I’ll go with that, but use pheasant feathers, which were also common in these images. Most of the 16th century artworks show this style of hat in red, with some in black – we went with red.

Looking at the examples, the soft version could be made by several methods, all in use in the 16th century: knitted and fulled; felt moulded over a hatblock; or sewn from wool fabric. I think the felt would be too stiff (although it would work for some other examples) and I don’t knit, so I’ll be sewing this hat from red woollen cloth.

Construction

I started the patterning process by padding up my headform to the right size. I took some measurements and made a quick version in paper to get the proportions of crown and brim – not bad, although the brim needs to slope to the back.

Then I made a more developed paper version, cut all in one piece, with the brim as a simple entension of the main hat, which worked well. This makes practical sense and is a style seen in other Polish hats.

Then I made a version in felt, which sits so differently to paper. Roman liked the green felt draft and I was happy with the pattern and proportions, so it’s on to the wool…

I was concerned my red wool fabric might not be stiff enough to give the right look. I could double it, but then the tip would be too stiff to squash nicely, and the brim might be clumsy (2 layers of wool, plus the lining and fur).

I ended up cutting a pair of overlapping pieces, with only the crown doubled – one brim and crown (underneath, with front seam), one crown and tip (on top, with CB seam). I basted around the brim line, so I could match them up. Not ideal and more work, but the best compromise for the materials I had.

Hats need to be built from the inside out to make sure they stay the right size. I sewed the base layer and basted the hems all around, then checked it on the form. It fit well, so I catch-stitched the hem around the brim and prick-stitched the seam to ensure it stays flat.

To check the sizing of the top layer, I basted a single hem along the base – this will give a neat finish, but will also add to the thickness of the top layer around the crown. With the top layer pinned over the base, I checked the seam at the back – I need to add 6mm each side at the base (I’d allowed extra).

I sewed the seams, matching the top point, then pressed them open, clipped and prick-stitched from the inside to ensure they stay flat. Then I pressed again on my tailor’s ham to set the curved seams. This makes a huge difference – minimising the seams and producing a smooth crown.

I basted the two layers together at the brim line and then slip-stitched in place. Then I turned the hat inside out and basted and catch-stitched along the top of the crown, being careful to sew into the back of the wool so the stitches are not visible outside. Back on the form to check – looks good.

The brim will be covered in fur so I could have simply lined the crown, but a full lining will add a little more body. I used my original pattern to cut a one piece lining in raw linen, adding some extra to the brim hem – this will be turned outward, so it might use a little more fabric.

I sewed it up, clipped and pressed. I put the lining into the crown, securing at the top with a few stitches to ensure it stays in place. Then I flipped up the brim and basted around to keep the lining in place. I trimmed the excess, then basted and slip-stitched the lining in place. The basic hat is done!

Now for the fur brim.

I made a copy of the brim pattern on translucent patterning fabric and tested it on the hat. As expected, the front needs to be adjusted to match the final form.

Now to decide fur direction. My reference images look like the fur is going ‘up’ on the brim, so that’s what I’ll be doing. On my reference image, the fur runs parallel to the front split on both sides. Since the ends flare out, I’ll need to piece the fur to achieve this.. I marked my fur directions on both ends of the pattern as a reminder.

Many images show a dark brown fur, and I have several suitable pieces. My first choice was a recycled fur coat with a long, coarse, dark brown fur. I have no idea what it is, but the skin was in good condition, although very solid. However, folding a test piece showed it was just too stiff to work on such a small piece as a brim. Plan B – a softer, finer brown fur.

First step is to lay my pattern on the front of the fur, looking for the best pieces, with the right fur direction and avoiding any problems (common on recycled fur).

Then I marked the corners with pins, turned the piece over and checked – all good, so I laid the pattern in place (flipped!) and marked with a chinagraph/glassochrome pencil. Then I added hem allowance to the top and base, and some extra on the front ends – the fur may need extra to wrap around. No seam alowance on the piecing at the back, since this is a butt joint.

This skin is a bit dry, which makes it more likely to tear, so I treated my marked sections with Fat Liquor to rehydrate the skins. Better to do this before cutting the pieces out, to avoid getting it on the fur. I covered the pieces and rested overnight to absorb it the dressing.

I’m using a single-sided razorblade to cut – just the leather, not the fur – pulling gently apart (also a good idea when cutting fake fur!). I dry-fit the CB seam to check – looks good, so I added some cross-marks to help line up the edges.

Pins are a bad idea for fur, so I tacked the pieces together with single stitches to keep them aligned. Then I sewed the seam using waxed silk, with a whip stitch – a fine sharp needle works well for this soft fur. (You can use a sewing machine on zig-zag, but I prefer the control of handsewing.)

Next, the long facings, which can be done by machine.

I laid woven black tape along the top and bottom edges on the fur side and basted in place (essential to keep back the fur tide), then zig-zag over the edges. Then I turned the edges in along the marked line and tacked the facing down to the back of the skin with long stitches in silk thread. The stitches will be hidden by the fur.

With the long edges finished, I pinned the fur to the brim through the tape facings, then checked the fronts and marked them. Then I took the fur off, turned and finished these edges the same way.

I pinned the brim back on, then basted the brim in place along the top and fronts. Then I sewed the cotton tape to the red wool along these edges.

Finally, I sewed the base of the brim to the lining – the brim is done!

FInally, the cockade.

These hats are usually dressed with 1-3 feathers at the front (often ostrich or pheasant), held in place with a cornet or jewel of some sort. Roman has requested a ‘jewel’ and had found a lovely pair of ring-necked pheasant feathers.

I found a piece of costume jewellery with the right feel, even if not as elaborate as the one in the inspiration images. It was silver, but since all the examples I’ve seen were gold/brass, I changed the colour with gold wax (Rub’n’buff).

I inserted the feathers into a decorative aglet, which I squashed flat and glued to the back. I considered using fine wire through holes, but it would have detracted too much. Finally, I sewed the cockade to the hat with waxed silk thread – done!

I’m glad Roman opted for the taller, softer style rather than the typical short reenactor version of this hat – I really like how it looks!

Afterthoughts

If I was making this again, I would look for a heavier wool, so I could make it in one piece, with a centre front seam – more historic and much less work!

If the hat was being used in a colder climate, it would also be easier just to line the whole thing in fur and then flip up the brim. In this case, I’d start with the fur lining and once this was finished (and fitted), make the wool outer layer (allowing for the extra bulk of the fur).

I’ve been working on my German peasant wardrobe over the last year, making a set of practical clothing that will work well for camping. I had most of the essential items, but needed a warmer Rock for colder days – my pink wool was just too upmarket. With Rowany Festival (a week-long camping event) on the horizon, I had a week to get it made, working a few hours a day.

Research & Design

This Rock is based on several images of peasant women wearing the typical Langärmeliger Rock (long-armed gown), often in yellow. ‘Sulfur-yellow’ was the cheapest colour to dye at the time (Barich & McNeally 2015) and yellow can be seen in many images of peasants, such as these examples below.

The guard pattern on the bodice is based on the Monatesbild Juni window panel of which shows the guards set back a little from the edge, and the shorter practical hem has no guarding. The pleating is reduced, with no pleats at the side, as is usual for peasant dress and is clearly shown in the carving of the Martyrdom of St Ursula,

Yellow is not a colour I usually wear (although it is lovely to look at) but it is typical of the time, and the black woollen guards should help and I can wear it with a white Leinengoller.

Construction

The pattern is a combination of two of my previous patterns – the skirt and basic bodice from my lower class worsted gown, but with the rounded neckline and long sleeves of my pink woollen one. I’ve made many versions of this Rock, so I didn’t bother making a new pattern – just overlaid the two versions and used them in combination, widening the lower sleeve a little and adding a bit to the bodice for a looser fit.

Net step was to dyeing the cloth. I needed two skirt lengths of the 150cm wide wool mix fabric, plus another short length for bodice and sleeves – just under 3m in all. I started with a buff coloured wool and dyed it yellow with food colour, which gave a good vibrant mustard colour.

I cut the canvas, wool and linen lining, then started assembly, following my usual process.

The strap is cut separately on the straight grain – more efficient cutting and stronger too. I sewed the strap to the front bodice canvas with an overlap seam to reduce bulk. Then I shaped a piece of twill tape and sewed it down the front bodice, to provide a smooth line and support for the hooks and eyes.

I basted the canvas fronts and back to the wool (leaving the top of the straps free), sewed the side seams then pick-stitched these to flatten the seam and add a little stiffness.

I sewed the canvas strap to the back with an overlap seam, then hand-sewed the wool seam to close the bodice.

Next I folded the wool over the canvas on the edges (except the armscye), basted this and then catch-stitched it to the canvas. I sewed the sleeve and lining, basted these together at the top and sewed them into the well-clipped armscye, then felled the seam allowance to the bodice canvas.

I put the bodice on my dress form and made up a toile for the guards, 4cm wide. After looking at it on the form, I decided 4.5cm would look better.

To save fabric I cut the guards out of well-fulled black wool in 4 pieces – 2 neck pieces with a CB seam, and 2 fronts. I sewed the CB seam, then used my sewing machine (on longest stitch) to sew a smooth line at foot width from the edge – much faster and more accurate than chalk to mark the edge!

Then I clipped well, turned on the line and basted down. I tested it against the bodice on the form – all good, so I did the same with the second side: used my machine to sew a parrallel line, then clipped, turned and basted. I did the same to the front pieces and then pressed the lot. With the edges set, I removed the machine stitching lines but left the basting in place.

I laid the guards on the bodice again (on the form to allow for curvature) and used a few pins to secure before removing and basting in place. Then I felled around the edges using waxed black silk (the only silk stitching on this garment) and removed all the basting.

I tried on the bodice and the sleeves needed to be shorter, so I trimmed 2cm from the length.

Then I changed my mind about the cuffs. I’d planned to add a matching black guard, but then realised that many peasant sleeves don’t show a guard – just a fold back with the same colour showing. So – no guard and I need to line the cuffs with the same wool.

I pulled out my pattern and cut a pair of cuff linings from scrap yellow wool, sewed, clipped and pressed. Then I turned the hems on both the sleeves and cuff linings, basted, clipped and pressed. I put the cuff lining in and basted the edges together, and also basted the free edge at the wrist.

Then I turned the sleeves inside out and put the bodice on the dress form to see how much of the linen lining I needed to trim back – heaps! I cut this, then clipped and folded the hem and basted in place, then slip-stitched it to the wool.

The cuff edge was quite thick (4 layers of wool) so I decided to prick-stitck the edge to compress it. The end result is quite plain, but appropriate. And if the cuff linings get too stained in use, I can easily replace them.

Now I can line the body. I added this in sections – back first, then fronts, then shoulder straps, trimming and clipping as needed, then basting each layer. This approach ensures the lining fits perfectly and everything will line up. I slip-stitched the lining down on the side seams, around the edge and then the armscyes. Bodice construction is done!

I’m cutting the skirt from 2 drops of 150cm wide wool, piecing to give me a hem length of 3.8m. By cutting this way, I waste very little fabric – the top triangles become the bottom piecings.. I usually allow 3x for my waist for pleats, but with the sides unpleated, I only need about 2.3 (up to 2.5, depending on how much blank side I want).

I sewed on the piecings and felled them. With a good selvedge I could have sewn and felled without turning the edges, but these are modern selvedges. I opted for a run-and-fell seam to save time felling, but I think the extra bulk over the joins is not ideal – my usual flat-felling would have been better.

Then the main seams – flat fell for the front (which makes the front slit easier) and run and fell for the back (faster). I’m machine sewing, machine basting and then hand-felling – a compromise of speed and end result.

I smoothed the top curve, then cut and pieced a facing for the top edge in linen. I sewed this on, turned, basted and then felled it down, careful to sew into the back of the wool.

Now I can sew on the skirt. I marked the pleat size (3cm) on the front and back bodice, leaving a gap at the sides. I don’t measure or mark the skirt at all – I just work it by eye.

I pinned the skirt to the bodice at the sides, and pinned a pleat at CF and CB. Starting at the front, I whipped the skirt to the bodice, pinching up a pleat (approx 3cm deep, measured by thumb) at every mark, working from CF and CB out to the both sides (the pleat either side of the flat bit adjusted as needed). Then I whipped the flat side sections in place.

To finish the pleats, I squash them flat and then whip them to the previous layer.

To fasten the front, I sewed hooks and eyes down the bodice and one on the skirt where the facing ends. To stop the front slit stitches failing in use, I worked a small buttonhole band across the end.

Then I tried it on over my Unterrock and checked the hooks and eyes were set to avoid gaping and checked the hem length – it needs to cover the Unterrock but still be well clear of the ground. I trimmed the hem, turned, basted and felled it all around.

The new Rock is comfortable and practical, and I’m sure will get a lot of use!

The Rock can be combined with other lower class garments to make different looks.

The housewife is wearing a Gürtel (belt) and Gürteltasche (purse) and carries a basket. The farmer is wearing a Leinengoller (linen partlet), Doppelschürze (double apron) and a Schaubhut (straw hat). The servant is wearing a Goller (partlet), Halbschürze (apron skirt) and simple Schürze (apron).

My husband needed a new pair of breeches, which gave me the chance to try recreating the extant pair we saw in 2023 in the Schatzkammer of the Bavarian Army Museum in Ingolstadt, Germany.

I was thrilled to see these extraordinary breeches in person. Not only is extant clothing rare, these belonged to a common man rather than a noble, and they are both hard worn and repaired. The construction was a colonial hybrid: made in Peru to a European pattern, using a mix of European and local materials.

The original breeches were made from kersey (a fulled 2/2 wool twill), probably imported from England. I’ll be making my version using a heavy 2/2 worsted twill, which should be hardwearing.

Research & Design

The calçon (breeches) and ropilla (frock) were excavated in Peru in 1932, in association with some Peruvian textiles and are in surprisingly good condition. The breeches are dated to c1560-1580, and were worn by a Spanish soldier during the conquest of Peru (1532-1572).

These finds are detailed in a paper by Johannes Pietsch (2022) which includes a pattern based on close examination of the garment (this paper is available as a PDF download from the BAM). The cut is really interesting and very efficient.

The basic shape is similar to the Venetian style, with a full top gathered into a waistband, tapering to a simple hem below the knee. The basic shape is seen in images from the time, and from several extant breeches, including a late 16th century linen pair in the London Museum (Acc. No. 53.101/1b) and the silk calzoni of Cardinal Orsini in San Dominico Maggiore in Naples (c1581). A similar cut (albeit fuller) in silk brocade, worn by Cardinal Orsini c1581 (Landini 2011) and a velvet pair in the Germanisches Naationalmuseum (c1615-20), detailed in Patterns of Fashion 3 (Arnold, 2023).

The Venetian style cut can be seen in the Spanish pattern books, such as Diego de Freyle’s Geometria y traça (1588). Freyle’s pattern is cut with the side seam on the straight grain, and the CF, CB and leg seams on the bias. Extant examples in Germany, Italy and England follow a similar pattern, often with a pocket let into the side seam.

However, there are some fascinating differences in the pattern of these extant breeches….

The major one is the use of the fabric. These breeches are cut as quarter circles with the grain rotated 45 degrees! The CF and CB corners are pieced due to a narrow fabric width (I estimate it at 78cm). The front/leg and back/leg seams are cut on the straight grain, and there are no side seams. There is a separate diamond gusset to provide crotch shaping (also seen in the London example). A single pocket is let into the bias grain on the right side, slightly forward of the midline.

I played around the pattern to see how it would have been cut, based on the selvedges (shown here marked with highlighter). It is economical (only 1.6m) but the waistband needs to be cut from another length, since it is also on the selvedge.

Pattern

I marked up a copy of Pietsch’s pattern, starting by adding a 10cm grid over the top so I could see the details of scale. It looks like a simple quarter circle, but when I drew a true circle arc I could see it is shorter at the sides (which matches my usual pattern) and has extra added to the back seam (the base of this diagram).

The pocket is not at the true side point but slightly forward, which should make it easier to use.

For my first mockup (in recycled fabric) I increased the waistband and leg length to match my husband’s pattern, but made no other changes – a mistake, as it turned out. I should have checked the rise (crotch depth front and back) and the cuff size too! It is clear that the original was worn by a slim young man with narrow calves – and worn on the hips rather than the waist.

I took it apart and made changes – cut the cuffs higher (to make them larger), added fabric to the top to offset this and add an 7cm additional rise, lowered the gusset by 3cm. Tried it on again – almost right. The cuffs were now to loose, so I lowered them and offset this change by adding to the top to maintain the leg length.

My final pattern is based on the original, but adjusted to suit my husband’s proportions – and to be worn on the waist, pointed up to a doublet, rather than on the hips.

Construction

Pattern finalised, I laid it on my wool twill to check yardage – on the 150cm wool I only need 120cm! I could reduce this a little with piecing, but not enough for the extra effort. I cut the length of wool plus a little extra and set it to soak in a mordant bath overnight.

The next day I dyed the wool using food colour. First I did some samples to see what colours I could get over the brown – Nico preferred the green. The dried and ironed wool is a much nicer colour! I cut out the breeches, placing the back seam on the selvedge, as per the original.

In his article on these breeches, Pietsch describes the sewing sequence – right breeches leg, then adding the gusset, then sewing up the centre, the left leg and gusset. He notes that each seam was sewn (in backstitch) and then felled to one side, but does not say in which direction, or whether the raw edges were felled, or turned under.

Given the speed that twill wool frays, I assume that the edges were were turned under before felling, with the lower seam allowance trimmed to reduce bulk (the usual run and fell seam).

Pietsch does not say which direction the seams were felled, and my own pictures are ambiguous. But the London Museum breeches show that all seams are felled away from the gusset. This is also how shirts are made, so that’s the approach I took.

Becuase I was sewing by machine and then hand-felling, I sewed all the seams first and then felled them. I’ve done a neat job of it, but if I was going it by hand I would fell each seam as I went. The wool was very springy and hard to control, even with basting.

Because the seams are felled to one side, the base of the fly presents a problem – you need to cut the seam allowance to manage the change in direction so both edges of the fly can be hemmed. This is clearly a weak point – and one which is constantly stressed.

One approach would be to add a small reinforcing patch, as seen at the side splits on men’s shirts. Looking closely at the Spanish and English examples, I can’t see any indication of stitches in this area. So I worked a heavy buttonhole bar across the area, which is not visible from the outside. If this fails in use, I can always add a patch.

Unlike my usual pattern (which has the pocket at a gap in the side seam) the Spanish example has a rounded slit in the right front side, with a pocket bag behind, made of a different wool. Pocket bags were often made of a different material, such as chamois leather or fustian. I have some scrap heavy linen which will work for the job.

The article on the breeches has no information on the shape or size of the pocket bag. I did write and ask the museum, but they wrote back saying they had no further info. So I’m using my usual pocket bag – a simple rectangle based on the breeches from the GNM, but changing the insertion process to match the extant example.

The description of how the pocket was inserted in the Spanish breeches was ambiguous, but clearly involved running stitches around the edge, whipping and back-stitch. I made samples to try two approaches:

1. Cut the slit, turn the edges back and running stitch (the ends are tricky and have small fraying seam allowance). Cut a matching slit in the pocket fabric, turn back and whip around the pocket slit.
2. Sew the pocket to the wool around the slit, then cut, snip and turn through the slit, then running stitch around the edge to secure and whip the ends for extra strength.

The second option was neater and stronger, so I went with that. I sewed the open pocket bag to the breeches by machine, around a future slit line.

I cut the slit open and snipped the ends to reduce puckering. I turned the pocket fabric through the slit to the back, then sewed around the edge, whipping the ends for extra strength.

Once the pocket slit was finished, I sewed the vertical seam (machine run in lieu of backstitch, hand fell) and then sewed the base – backstitch with doubled waxed linen for extra strength. I’ve used the selvedge, so there is no need to fell this seam.

The end result is neat on the outside with plenty of room in the pocket, so it should work well.

Next I gathered the top of the breeches, folding the pocket bag out of the way. The pleats are irregular on the original (gathered using a large backstitch), so I didn’t try and make them perfect. I ran a single gather thread through at roughly 2cm spacing to give me some idea of pleat size. I matched up the 1/4 and 1/8 marks on the waistband and then basted the pleats to the band, working by eye. Then I machine-sewed them to the band.

I pleated the pocket bag in to 6cm (like the V&A example), then basted and sewed it into place just above the stitching line. Then I turned the band and whipped it to the seam at the back and along the open edges, catching the pocket bag in too. And gave the waistband a good press.

To close the breeches, the Spanish original has some large eyes at the front, with a tie still in place. The London example has a large flat ivory button and two buttonholes on the band, presumably for size adjustment. Neither the Spanish nor the London examples have fastenings at the fly – there is simply a small overlap.

Nico preferred a more secure closure, so these breeches are closed with a button at the waistband. I’ve worked a 16th century style buttonhole, outlining first in with a single thread in running stitch, cutting the slit then whipping the edges (twill frays so much) before working it. I used an appropriate pewter button from my stash (the UK Small Finds database has examples of the same size and similar design).

I’d planned to add another button or two on the fly, but the fabric is only a single layer, which is not really strong enough. Instead I sewed on a large hook and eye which should keep the fly closed and not be obvious from the outside.

Since these breeches will be pointed to a doublet or future imbusto (sleeveless doublet), I worked pairs of eyelets around the waistband using the same waxed linen thread. FInally, I turned a narrow hem on the cuffs and whipped these down, as per the original.

These breeches should wear very well and be a useful addition to my husband’s wardrobe.

This peasant straw hat has been on my list for ages, ever since I found a roll of ‘straw braid’ for sale (actually it turned out to be seagrass). The straw hat I’ve been wearing for years is not the right shape – great for Netherlandish, but not southern Germany!

I’d done some research into the correct shape, and had noted that my roll of ‘straw’ braiding was a good match for the straw braided hats in the images, and to the rare extant example from 16th century Germany. But the project remained low priority until I was going camping for a few days (modern style) and suddenly needed a project I could work on outdoors, at short notice.

I had the research, I had the materials, I could put together what else I needed in a couple of hours…. perfect!

This same technique could be used to make straw hats of many other sizes and shapes too.

Research & Design

Early 16th century German Baueren (farmers) wear practical headwear to go with their practical clothing. Zander-Seidel (1991) notes that these these wide-brimmed straw hats, called Schaubhut (‘show hat’) or Scheibhut (‘disk hat’) were worn primarily as sun protection during fieldwork.

There are many examples of artwork showing men and women in the farm or field wearing these simple straw hats. The women often wear theirs over a Haube (linen coif) – perfect to hide my short hair.

These hats show a flat brim, moderate crown and flat top, made with a very broad straw braid. Some examples show a hanging cord, to secure the hat.

One such straw hat has survived and is held in the Kempten Allgäu-Museum. In 2014, Marion McNeally shared some excellent photos, which show the same features. She estimated the braids to be about 1″ wide. I love the simple ornamentation made by plaiting in dyed straw, just for the first row around the brim – an easy addition if you are weaving your own braid.

Straw hat, 15-16th century, Kempten Allgäu-Museum. Photos: Marion McNeally, used with permission.

These pictures also confirm the construction process – the hat is worked from the brim inwards, ending at the top of the crown. The layers are sewn together with a small overlap, working small stitches over the edge of the braid, with long stitches underneath (Marion noted that these appear to be original, not conservation).

When I dug out my roll of braided straw, I realised it was not straw but seagrass – much softer and a green/brown colour, although that will change to golden over time. Straw would be more historically accurate and stiffer too, but the widest straw braid I could find online was 15mm. At 25mm, my roll was spot on…

So I decided to go ahead with this for the fun of making it, and hope it will be stiff enough once constructed.

Construction

To ensure the right size and shape, I tried my standard headsize ovals over my Haube, with all its padding. Wrong shape, so I tried a simple circle – yes! Then I made a heavy paper mock-up to check the crown height and angle – some adjustment and I had something that looked close enough.

Next step was to make a crown block, using a few layers of XPS foam (the same method I use for blocked felt hats). I’ll use this to ensure the braids follow the right shape.

I finished off the crown block before we left, sanding it to a smooth shape (no need to be perfect – this is straw, not felt).

Since the brim was flat, I used a scrap piece of thick acoustic felt in lieu of a brim block, and drew both the brim and crown circles onto this. Guidelines make it easy to line the brim block on the base.

Then off we went, to drive to the coast and set up for a few days of modern camping.

The next day I soaked the first few meters of braid in water until thoroughly wet, about 30 mins (wheat straw would only need 5 minutes). I blotted off the excess water and laid the braid out onto the felt, shaping as I went to match the marked circle.

The seagrass is much softer than straw, so I made a double rim to reinforce the edge, then started spiralling in. I stopped when I got to the crown circle and let it dry overnight.

While it was drying, I did a sewing sample, using a bit cut from the far end of the roll, using 50/2 waxed linen thread worked double. Copying the extant example, I worked small whip stiches over the edge every 2 wraps, with long stitches underneath. Should work well.

The next day, I removed the dry brim from the felt base and basted around the double edge, plus another 2 rows.

I sewed the braid together using waxed linen thread. For the brim row, I sewed back from the edge to make the stitches less visible, then switched to the whipping for the overlapping braid. After the first rows, I could sew the braid in my hand without basting first, making sure to keep the brim flat.

To avoid weakening the straw, Dreher (1981) advises against backstitching to start and finish, and recommends leaving a thread tail and knotting this to the next thread. I did this, then ran the tails under the weaving to finish off.

Before working the crown, I attached the block to the felt base using T pins from underneath. I estimated the length needed to finish the hat and soaked the braid. I put the brim back on the felt, securing with a few pins, then started to fit the braid around the base and up the crown block, keeping the overlap constant. I needed to stretch the lower edge and compress the upper edge to form the shape.

At this point I realised I should have brought the wool strips I use for leather casework and felt blocking – they have a slight stretch, hold well and breathe so the material can dry. Ah well, I used lot of pins instead!

To finish the crown centre, I coiled the braid until the hole was smaller than the braid width, then cut and folded the end under, shaping it to a rounded end. And set it all to dry again…

Back home, I removed all the pins and considered how to keep the shape while off the block and being sewn. It’s easier to sew the braids with the top open to put my hand it, but I didn’t want to lose the alignment, since this would change the shape.

Tailor’s chalk did not work at al! In the end, I tried 2 approaches – thick basting threads down the crown to act as tailor’s tacks, and lines of fine masking tape both cut at every row.

Then I sewed my way up the layers of the crown, matching the marks as I went. The masking tape worked better, but the thread approach would also work if sewn into the centre of each row (with a curved needle) rather than the edge as I had done.

When I was done, I trimmed the excess ends and checked I’d tied off all my threads. I’d slightly stretched the crown while sewing it, so I damped the top of the crown and put it back on the block with a weight on top to dry flat.

Off the block for the last time, it looks just like a real straw hat 🙂 In the end, it took 7.3m of the 3cm wide braid, including the double ring at the brim.

The finished hat is a good shape and size and fits well over my Haube. Compared with the extant example from the Kempten Allgäu-Museum, it ended up with the same number of rows of braid and the underside shows the same rows of stitches. So it’s very like 🙂

It should be a very practical addition to my lower class wardrobe – and a much better look than my Netherlandish straw. I look forward to trying it out!

Afterthoughts

The technique of wet moulding over the block, drying and then sewing worked really well. You could work directly with the wet straw, but it would be easy to stretch out of shape.

Although it is the right dimensions and it was great to *finally* make use of the roll of braid, seagrass is not the right material – it is just not stiff enough to support the hat through many years of use.

I recommend using commercial straw braid (from millinery suppliers), or finding an inexpensive straw hat with wide braids, which you can take apart and re-work.

I enjoy making 15th century headwear with all it’s crazy variations, so I was well pleased when Magdalena requested this style for their hat prize. I’d made an earlier version of the stuffed roll, but had done some more thinking about likely construction and was keen to try a different approach, using the same techniques I used for the horned escoffion.

Magdalena wanted an mid century version of the style with a more open roll, before the exaggeration of the later fashion. Since Magdalena has long hair with shaved sides, the deep sides of the style work well to hide any modernity. Their long hair can be plaited up into a pair of buns, which will fit into the wings.

After some discussion about colours and fabrics, we settled on gold silk and black velvet, with black and gold decorations. This is a common combination in artwork from the time, and will go well with many outfits.

Research & Design

The Bourrelet is a version of the Escoffion which features a padded roll around the top and is often called a heart-shaped headdress. The French term bourrelet or bourlet originally referred to the wreath-like round cloth pad or twisted cloth worn around a helmet or turban (Picken, 1999) and was then used by extension to refer to the headdress.

The padded roll first appeared at the turn of the 15th century and became more elaborate over time.

An early version of the shaped roll over dressed hair can be seen in the Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry. Later examples in the Histoire de Charles Martel or the Duke of Bedford Hours show an high support structure, with crown-like ornamentation. Magdalena prefers the simple, formal shape from the mid century, as seen in Boccaccio’s Decameron.

Rather than reproducing a specific artwork, I am drawing on a range of examples to make a Bourrelet in mid century style.

Construction

First, making the pattern. Magdalena has quite a large head and lots of hair, so I padded up my headform to the right dimensions and marked the centreline and lower edge with string. To get some idea of volume, I tried modelling it with wire and foam lagging, but it didn’t really work!

Back to my usual approach of modelling in paper. I cut thin strips of light card and pinned them on with supports to shape the main arcs. Then I used strips of ordinary paper to cover the shape, taping them to each other and trimming as needed. I used this to make a flat paper pattern, then taped it the resulting shapes to see how it looked. A few adjustments and I had a good draft version.

I was travelling to New Zealand for an event and was able to try this on Magdalena in person. It needed to be a little deeper to cover their ears, and curve in at the lower margin for a nicer line. Easy changes!

Back home, I made a new version of the pattern and tried it on the headform – looks good.

I cut the shapes in 3mm furnishing felt, which works very well for flat-pattern hats. I sewed the shaped darts on the sides using the sewing machine with a broad zig-zag to give a strong flat seam. I sewed the centre seam the same way, curving the felt carefully, then sewed the sides on by hand using strong waxed linen thread.

I used my patterns to cut the pieces in gold silk, with seam allowances and extra on the lower margin (the felt has bulk, so you need more silk). I cut the sides on the bias to curve nicely over the shape, and the centre pieces likewise. But once I’d sewn the centres together I could see how differently the light reflected from the two sides. So I recut them on the straight grain – much better!

Since the top seam would be covered by the roll, I applied the silk in two stages. First, the sides, stretching carefully over the curved shape and basting the edges. Then the centre, turning under the seam and basting in place.

Now for the fretted decoration.

I drew some sample versions on the side pattern pieces to look at spacing – 3.5cm looked about right. I drew it onto plastic sheet so I could check for the best orientation, then pinned this out in string on the base to see how the sides would work with the centre section, making a continuous line where possible.

Once I was happy with the layout, I replaced the string with 5mm black rayon braid (in lieu of silk), pinning in place and then sewing through the felt. Where the braid was not continuous over the side seams, I tucked the ends under the silk. Once all the braid was on, I sewed the silk seam closed.

To finish the lower edge, I sewed on a 1cm velvet ribbon all around, covering the ends of the braid. To add richness, I sewed a gold quatrefoil mount on every junction – 75 in all. Time consuming, but it really adds to the look.

On to the roll.

After mocking this up to check the diameter, I made up a roll from layers of wool rovings (cleaned, carded wool). I cut a bias cover in heavy linen (piecing to save fabric) and basted this over the roll – much simpler and smoother than trying to stuff a sewn roll!

I checked the roll against the base and adjusted the length, then sewed it together at centre back. It also needed to be a bit tighter – I cut 3cm from the seam and basted again.

I had planned to fill in the centre front with a small curved section, covered in gold silk and edged in velvet ribbon. But once the roll was pinned on, it became obvious that I didn’t need the little front piece – the roll dipped down and covered the centre front by itself.

I measured the finished roll and cut a cover in bias-cut silk half-velvet (pieced to save fabric). I basted before sewed the piecing seam – essential when working with velvet. I pinned this over the roll, marked the seam, cut to size, then basted and sewed the final seam to make a loop.

Then I sewed a gathering stitch along each long edge, to help shape the velvet over the roll.

I pinned the velvet on the outside, then pulled up the gathering threads inside. I basted the (future) lower edge around the inside of the roll, then whipped the folded edge over to complete the cover.

I pinned the roll onto the base to check everything before sewing – looks good!

To attach the roll, I used a long needle and waxed black silk buttonhole thread for extra strength. I started in the centre front and sewed the roll seam along the crown seam for about 15cm, working from the top. I repeated this on the other side. Then I switched to working from the side, alternating towards the back.

On to the lining. Magdalena preferred a linen lining to silk, so I used my original pattern to cut a lining in black linen. I machine-sewed the sections together, then slip-stitched the lining along the edge.

To prevent the lining pulling out when taking off the hat, I sewed a couple of strong tacks through all layers, hiding them under the roll.

Time for some final embellishments. The bourrelet has many styles of ornamentation including spangled all over, rows of gold mounts around the roll or single ornament at the front.

Magdalena preferred a single front ornament with pearls. I made one up from jewelry findings and frehswater pearls, in 15th century style (although not as fancy as the extant example below). This can be replaced with a more elaborate jewel in future.

The finished bourrelet looks rich and ornate and should compliment Magdalena’s 15th century court clothing really well. And the springy felt means it should be comfortable to wear!

Magdalena sent some lovely pictures of her wearing the bourrelet – they look wonderful!

12 years ago I made a middle class Frauenrock in a lovely teal colour. I was pleased with this and it got a lot of wear for many years. But the skirt suffered damage at an event where we had a serious norovirus incident, and (along with many other people) I helped scrub the toilet blocks with bleach. The hem and parts of the skirt were damaged by the bleach, so it has sat in my wardrobe ever since, not able to be worn or given away.

Earlier this year I unpicked everything and decided there was enough fabric to make a lower class Unterrock. In addition to the bleach issue, the outside had faded, but the inside is still a lovely colour and the bleach spots are smaller.

After several months pause, I picked up the project again.

Research and Design

Low class versions are the same basic cut, but with wider shoulders, a shorter hem, and no pleats at the side – requiring less fabric than the middle class versions.

In addition to being worn under the Rock (gown) the Unterrock was also worn by the Bauer (farmers) and servants as an outer garment, although always with the neckline covered with a Goller (partlet), and the skirt with a Schürze (apron) – a Doppelschürze, Halbschürze and/or simple Schürze.

I’m using the pattern I developed for my black worsted Unterrock, adjusting to the lower class design and to make the best use of the recycled fabric.

Construction

As usual, I’m making this with a combination of machine and hand sewing.

First, I cut the canvas for the bodice pieces, then used these as a pattern for the teal fabric. Since the neckline of the Unterrock is cut lower that the Frauenrock and has sewn-on shoulder straps, I can get the back out of the old teal Rock back.

The fronts are the wrong shape, so I cut those from the skirt panel with the worst bleach spots – luckily near the seam edge. This will reduce the skirt size, but I’ll leave the sides unpleated, as seen in artwork from the time.

I steam-shaped twill tape then sewed that along the front edge as reinforcment for the eyelets. Then I sewed the shoulder straps on – overlapped to reduce bulk.

I sewed the straps on the main fabric, then basted the bodice sections to the canvas – I’ll be binding the armscyes, neckline and front opening, so these are cut flush.

The side seams are sewn and pressed, then pickstitched to keep them flat and add extra stiffening to the seam. Then I closed the back shoulder seams – canvas on the machine, outer fabric by hand.

Next, I basted the bodice hem to the canvas, then catch-stitched it in place.

Then I bound and faced the front edges, using a 3cm strip of off-grain fabric, cut from the damaged skirt panel. Basted, sewn and turned, then basted and catch-stitched to the canvas.

Next is binding the neck and armscyes with a 2.5cm strip of the same fabric. I’d usually cut this on the straight from the full fabric width – one piece for the neckline and one for the two armscyes. But I’m working with scraps so the bindings need to be pieced.

I sewed the strips on, then trimmed and bound the open edges – first the front, then the neckline and armscyes), catch-stitching to the canvas all around.

The Unterrock is closed with eyelets down the front, worked through 2 layers of fabric, one of canvas and twill tape, so they are very strong. The bound edge also adds strength and helps reduce puckering – these eyelets will be working hard!

I marked the eyelets – a pair at top and base, then offset for spiral lacing 2.5cm apart.

I use an awl to pierce and open the hole by spreading the threads – much stronger than cutting a hole, since that also cuts and weakens the fabric. I do a quick round of 6-8 stitches to keep the hole open, then fill in between – using the awl frequently to keep the hole open and a nice shape.

To complete the bodice, I basted in the linen lining, starting with the back section and then the fronts. I set the neckline first, then the armscye, trimming and clipping as needed. Then I basted the front just short of the eyelets, then the hem, trimming to fit. Then I slip-stitched everything in place and removed the basting.

Doing it this way (rather than sewing it together first) means you can always line up all the critical areas – armscyes, neckline and hem.

On with the skirt!

We know from both artwork and tailor’s manuals that skirts in 16th century Germany (and many other countries) were cut as circular arcs, not as rectangular panels. And that they were pieced to save fabric.

Because I’m recycling the fabric for this Unterrock, I’m just using the existing panels, trimming the bleach splashes on the hem – and using parts of a panel for the bodice fronts. I won’t have enough fabric for a fully pleated skirt, but the lower class skirts had unpleated sections at the sides, so there will be enough.

I machine sewed, machine basted and then hand-felled the side seams. On the outside, there is no visible machine stitching.

I’m not lining the skirt, so I need to face the top edge before I whip it to the bodice. I cut a facing in raw linen, sewed it along the top, then turned and basted it in place. Then I felled it, trying to pick up just a thread or two so it doesn’t show on the outside.

The creases from the previous iteration are still visible, despite washing and pressing (including with a Rajah cloth). I’m hoping they’ll vanish with wear, but if not, this is a) low class and b) and Unterrock!

I wasn’t sure if the skirt would be long enough and I do have some extra I can add if needed. Easier done while the skirt is separate. So before sewing the skirt on, I thought I’d try on the bodice and hold the skirt against it to check the rough height.

At which point I discovered that I’d made the shoulder straps too short…!

I went back and looked at my pattern and realised I had thought both bodice and straps had seam allowances, but no. So I’m 4cm short. Nothing for it – I must unpick both shoulders, and put in larger straps. I usually test everything with a toile, but this is a pattern I’ve made a few times, so I didn’t. But it’s been a few years…. I’ve marked them very clearly for next time. Sigh.

I unpicked the lining, canvas and outer fabric on both sides and the bindings about halfway around the armscyes and neckline. I hate unpicking something I’ve made so strongly, but needs must…

After a little break (I made a Hemd), I cut new straps and new bindings and then reassembled everything…

On to pleating on the skirt, in 2 passes. The first pass whips the skirt to the bodice and sets the pleat spacing, then the 2nd row squashes the pleats and holds them in place.

With the skirt on, I could check the length. The peasant version is short, but I needed a bit more length to look right. I ended up piecing an extra hem from the scraps (only just enough good fabric left), then sewed this on.

It gave me the extra length, but the horizontal join was too visible, so I added a row of narrow black braid around it to hides the join. I would have preferred it without, but needs must… Then I faced the back of the hem with scraps from my old teal Rock. A bit stiff, but good enough!

Finally, I sewed a hook and eye at the top of the bodice to keep the top corners lined up, then made a lace with aglet for lacing the front.

The finished lower class Unterrock is comfortable, supportive, and short enough for practical tasks. I think this is going to see a lot of use…

As noted in the Research section, this can be worn as a supportive garment under the Rock, but it was also worn by farmers and servants as a main garment – always with a Goller and Schürze.

A year ago, I was headed to a camping event with the forecast set for rain. I decided I had time to cram in a quick project – a period-appropriate rain cloak. I did the research, drafted the pattern and tested the toile. I didn’t have the ideal fabric (a dense coat wool in something other than black), so I thought I’d try some oilcloth a friend had given me…

Big mistake! It was horrible to work with and when I tried on the result to check the hem, it left grease marks on my shirt. No way I was going to wear it with my medieval clothes!

So I shelved the idea until I had the right wool, and since used the oilskin version as a firewood cover 🙂

A year on, the wet weather forecast for the same event reminded me of the project. I had some suitable wool, so I dug out my research and pattern…

Research & Design

There are several images of this short full-circle cloak in contemporary artwork, typically worn by lower class or peasant women and by the Tross (camp followers). It has no hood, and is always shown worn with a Schleier (veil), usually wrapped under the chin.

Other examples give an idea of the colour range: the Cranach painting below shows a version in red, with other paintings showing these cloaks in green, blue and black.

My pattern is based on the Frauen Müzl pattern in the Tailor Book Leonfeldner (f.19r), depicted in Drei Schnittbücher: Three Austrian Master Tailor Books of the 16th Century (Barich & McNealy, 2015). The pattern is a semi-circle, with a shaped neck-hole and curved collar. The cloak in the Seebald Beeham sketch also shows a small collar.

Based on the size of the Austrian ell noted in Drei Schnittbücher (31″/78.5cm), I scaled up the pattern from the Leonfeldner drawing – the circle is 140cm diameter.

I did a mock-up of the neck opening, to to ensure it was the right size. I also tested the collar to ensure it was the right size to fit my neck. Then I did a full size mockup in cheap fabric to check the hem, and moved the neckhole slightly forward, to give more length at the back.

After the false start with the oilcloth I packed it all away…

A year later, I dug out the pattern, and realised I’d packed it away in haste – no markings. Had I included seam allowances? Which way up did the collar go? I went hunting for the oilcloth version (now in the garden), checked the size and marked the pattern. Sigh.

The Leonfeldner pattern calls for rich fabrics for rich women, but Textiler Hausrat (Zander-Seidler, 1990) notes that these short ‘market cloaks’ were made of wool for common use, often with a wool lining.

This was to be an unlined cloak. The wool was too heavy to line with more wool and the Cranach image shows the same colour inside and out – so no lining. I know from experience that a linen lining in a woollen cloak wicks the moisture inside, makes it feel cold and takes longer to dry. But since the wool is a bit rough, I will line the collar in linen.

I scribed a circle on the fabric using a stringline as a compass, then used my pattern to cut the neck out of it. I began construction, sewing the back seam and basting and pressing the seam allowances, ready for felling.

I also cut and assembled the collar and sewed it on before realising that a) it was upside down, and b) I had forgotten to interline it with canvas. Rats! (or words to that effect). Time to unpick the collar, then stop for the day…

Since this is a working class garment, I am sewing it using raw linen thread, well waxed. We know from archeological finds that woollen garments were often sewn in linen, although silk thread was sometimes used on the same garments for buttonholes and eyelets (Crowfoot, Pritchard & Staniland 1991).

I felled the back seam, sewing into the back of the wool, so the stitches are not visible on the front.

Then back to the collar – I cut the wool, canvas and linen, basted the canvas to the wool, then sewed and pickstitched the back seam. This keeps the heavy wool and canvas seam open, and also stiffens the centre back collar.

I basted the wool around the top and front edges, catch-stitched it in place and pressed well. I sewed the collar into the clipped neckhole, then graded the seam and basted it all into the collar.

Initially I whipped the layers up to the collar canvas, but did not like the way it sat, so I unpicked that and instead, pick-stitched the base of the collar through the thick seam allowances. Much better. Love how much control this technique gives, even at the centre back with 8 layers of heavy wool!

Then I basted the raw linen lining in and slip-stitched it all around to finish the collar, which now sits beautifully.

The hem… If the wool was really well fulled, I would have left the cut edge, but I’ve used this wool before and knew it would fray. So I turned a single hem (to minimise bulk), then basted, pressed and hemmed the 4.3m circumference – again making sure to stitch into the back of the wool so it would not show.

I’d originally thought I might use a large hook and eye to fasten the cloak, but both the Cranach painting and the Beeham woodcut show a tied front. This also provides the most flexibility for bulky clothing underneath.

I had a solid lace about the right size with one aglet on it (I’d used it to show someone how to make aglets) so it was an easy matter to add one to the other end.

Now I knew what size holes I needed, I worked a pair of eyelets just under the collar on each side in waxed red silk, using my awl frequently to keep the holes open and a nice shape.

I threaded the lace through and tried it on – excellent, although I might shorten the lace in future.

I’m pleased with how it looks, although it is giving me WWI nurse vibes on the dressforms, so perhaps red was not the best choice…

I wore it a couple of days later at the event, where it did indeed rain. With a fine wool Schleier (veil), it worked really well, keeping me warm and dry – and it looks just right. And the red looks great in the context of everything else I’m wearing, so I’m well pleased with it.

I love my Steuchlein look (and the Schlappe of course!) but sometimes I want to wear something simpler. Contemporary artwork shows this white linen Haube is one of the most common types of headwear worn by Bauer women (farmers), Burgher women (townsfolk) and Tross (soldier’s wives) in the early 16th century Germanic countries.

This style of Haube come in several variations. The simplest examples appear to be simply gathered at the back of the neck, with no obvious detail as to how this is achieved:

Other examples have the same basic shape, with a distinct rectangular ‘cuff’ at the base which holds the pleats, or even a cuff with pleats beneath, as seen in these examples.

Given the variations, there are probably several different ways these were constructed. I have seen a number of versions made by other people, but none of them looked exactly like the images, and several had sewn pleats (which I know from my own early experiments are difficult to launder).

I did some playing around with ideas last year, but didn’t get very far before other priorities took over. This was clearly something that was going to take a lot of fiddling and thinking…

When Um 1504 posted their version earlier this year, it reminded me I had some early trials which I should get back to! The Um 1504 version looks good and is not sewn together, but it’s an earlier style, with back gathered high with a small flat flap. This is appropriate for c1500, but not the 1520-30 time I focus on.

So I dug out my trials and had another go!

Since this is practical, everyday headwear worn by farmers and working women as well as the middle class, I wanted to find an solution that was:

• Simple and low effort to make
• Easy to put on by myself, including at camping events without a mirror
• Easy to launder, using 16th century tools and techinques – without permanently sewn pleats.

Patterning

Basic Haube

When faced with a design challenge, I find that it’s worth trying several approaches, rather than just my first idea. For this project, I tried many different approaches using scrap fabric, to see what gave the right effect, and to play around with scale and shape.

• Verision 1 – Semicircle gathered with eyelets, as suggested by Um 1504. I used string and a large needle to thread through the cloth in lieu of eyelets. I did a lot of playing with size and spacing. Even 22 eyelets gives very large soft pleats and a narrow ‘tail’, which does not match the look I am after. 40 eyelets was better, but that’s a LOT of eyelets to work. No.

• Version 2 – Hood shape – sewn down the CB, with the remaining volume pleated. My theory was this would reduce the bulk in the centre back, which it did, but it doesn’t look right and I see no evidence of a centre seam in the artwork. No.

• Version 3 – Semicircle gathered with casing. Needed a couple of rounds to adjust sizing. Surprisingly effective, with even pleats and a neat back. Yes!

The self-casing approach looks good for the basic Haube, so I played around with getting exactly the right shape to cover the Wulst neatly, without gaps or excess. I made many versions, none quite right…

In frustration, I reverted to an easier patterning method – putting on all the underlayers and then draping lightweight fabric over my head. I gathered the pleats behind with a rubber band, ensuring they were all taut, then took the whole lot off and cut it at the band!

So easy – this approach will work regardless of your hair and Wulst sizes 🙂

From here, it was a simple job to smooth the curve and make a symmetric pattern. The distinct bulge at the base enables it to fit nicely over the base of my Wulst.

The size will depend on your hair and Wulst size – my version is 66cm wide (at the bulge) by 41cm tall, including seam allowances – 1cm along the front and 2cm around the curve.

Haube with cuff

Basic Haube pattern sorted, so the next trials were on the ‘cuff’ versions, both plain and with pleats hanging below. My early versions had cuffs which were too small, round rather than flat, and the cuff naturally formed an angle.

So how can I get the pleats going into a stiff cuff, which will stay in place during wear?

While looking for a reference image for another project, I suddenly looked again at the pile of clothes in the background of this painting by Altdorfer.

There is a whole Bündlein (‘bulge’ headdress) on top of the coat, which looks just like mine, when I take off everything at once. This confirms my idea of a row of gathers squashed flat, then wrapped around with a strip of linen.

I played with the basic pattern, adding extra to the length and sides, and was able to achieve gathers that could be flattened. But wrapping the base with a strip of fabric ended up with slanted sides – it was insecure and did match the pictures. I could sew on the cuff, perhaps temporarily, but it doesn’t feel right.

Then a friend pointed me at The Sermon of St. Peter in the Uffitzi (thanks Salaberge/Toni!). The ‘cuff’ section of the Haube has a series of dents across the top, which look very like those made by pins. Pins are also seen in other types of linen headwear, such as this earlier Portrait of a Woman from the Hofer family.

So – I tried gathering the back and pinning the middle of the cuff strip before putting the Haube on, then pinning the ends underneath. Yes – this fits my criteria of easy to wear, easy to launder!

The pattern shape is similar to the basic Haube, slightly taller and flatter at the sides to enable the flat bar at the back. My version is 63cm wide (at the bulge) by 43cm tall, plus seam allowances as above. My cuff is 11 x 25cm including seams, but the length will depend how heavy the Huabe linen is and how densely the pleats pack – test with a mockup after you have made the Haube.

Cuff with pleats below

Finally, the cuff with tail of pleats – longer in the middle, and looks like a single layer. To get the effect, I replaced the simple turned hem casing to an applied one and extended the middle of the fabric below the casing to create the longer pleats. Once gathered, the cuff is pinned on in the same way.

This mockup looks like it works – but it’s not a style I’m likely to wear often. So for now, I’ll just make the plain and cuffed versions.

Construction

Simple version

After all the work to get a pattern, the construction is very simple!

I started by cutting out my Haube in a fine, dense linen, allowing 1cm for a narrow hem on the straight edge and 2cm for the casing around the curved edge. Since these are everyday items, I’m using fine linen thread rather than silk, waxing the thread to make sewing easier.

I turned a 5mm hem along the front edge, then folded again, basted and hemmed using a single thread. For the casing, I turned and pressed a 5mm edge, then turned a 1.5cm casing and basted this in place, easing around the curves to minimise pleats. Then I felled the edge down with a double thread, securing the ends very well, since they will take the strain of the drawstring.

I threaded 3mm tape through the casing, and finshed the ends to avoid fraying. To stop the ends vanishing into the casing, I sewed the tape in place at the centre back.

If I had nice long hair, I’d braid this into 2 plaits, tie them over my head and then tie on a soft padded Wulst (padded roll). I’d wear an Umbindelein (headband) to avoide a wispy fringe, then put on the Haube. But since I have very short hair, I start with the same base layers as my Steuchlein – tie on the Umbinderlein, add my stiff Wulst and tie it on with my Unterhaube (undercap).

To prepare the Haube, I gather most of the fabric along the tape into the centre back. I put the Haube on over my Wulst and pull the rest of the gathers in tight at the back, then tie a bow and stuff all the ends inside.

The simple Haube is neat and easy to wear – perfect for simpler outfits when you don’t want an elaborate Steuchlein!

This simple Haube can also be decorated, and/or worn with a Schleier (veil) over the top, such as seen in Traut’s Portrait of a Woman.

Cuffed version

The basic construction is the same as the simple Haube, with a fine front hem, a hem-casing around the curved edge, and a fine tape run through the casing.

For the cuffed version, I leave a little gap in the casing at centre back and pull through a loop of tape, then sew it in place. This allows me to thread the drawstrings back through the loop, to keep the pleats squashed flat.

For the ‘cuff’, I made up a strip of the same linen (11 x25cm). I sewed a heavier linen lining to one edge to keep it in place when washing, then turned and pressed the edges. I folded up the back lining and sewed it all around.

To wear it, I gather the Haube to the centre along the tape, thread the ends through the loop, then pin or baste 3/4 of cuff onto the pleats at the back and side, leaving the ends free.

Pinning makes it easy to undo the gathers to wash the Haube, but can be tricky to set and wear without pricking yourself, and the pins can loosen in wear. Basting takes a little longer to do and unpick for washing, but is easier to put on and off and wear. The Haube can usually be worn several times in between washes.

With the underlayers (Umbinderlein, Wulst, Unterhaube) in place, I gather most of the fabric along the tape into the centre back. I put the Haube on over my Wulst and pull the rest of the gathers in tight, then tie a bow and stuff the ends inside.

Then I fold the ends of the cuff behind the pleated section and pin together to complete the cuff. This version is worn as is, without a Schleier (veil).

This cuffed version looks the same as the basic version from the front, but the back shows the distinctive tail seen in so many contemporary images of lower and middle class German women.

I’m really happy with the effect!

I know there are other ways to make these simple Hauben, but this seems like a practical, supportable approach – and fulfills all my aims: simple to make, wear and launder.

I wore bot my new Hauben at my next event was was really pleased how well they worked in a camping context. They were indeed easy to put on, even without a mirror (although it’s hard to tell if the cuff is straight). And after the event, they were easy to launder!

In 2023, Armour and Castings offered a new set of elaborate belt fittings based on this belt as a limited pre-order, with an estimated development time of 6 months.

I had taken many pictures of this belt on our visit to the Cluny in 2006 – such a wonderful piece! And although it was much more ornate than my usual style, it would be a fantastic addition to my Green Velvet Cranach gown, so I joined the initial funding order, knowing it would be some time before delivery.

There were many delays in production over the next two years, but I kept in touch and received news of the various stages along the way – design, wax mould, rough cast… And at last the pieces arrived – stunning!

Research & Design

The original belt is on display at the Musée de Cluny, where I took photos of several details on our trip to France. It was made in the Rhineland and dated to 1520.

The belt is described in detail by Ilse Fingerlin (1971) in her catalogue of German belts: it is 145cm long, 2.2cm wide and covered in red velvet. The ornate buckle-plate and chape are made of silver-gilt (gold-plated silver), as are the 58 cast mounts, which are attached with protruding silver rivets.

Ornate belts were well known amongst the noble German women at the time, worn with their rich garments. The examples I have seen are not worn tight, but loose on the waist with the chape end hanging down at either the front or back of the gown.

Zander-Siedel (1990) describes the fashion for fancy Gürtel covered in velvet, silk or embroidery, with black and red the most common colours. The fittings ranged from expensive silver-gilt down to cheaper brass. Undecorated belts are rare, with most belts supporting 5 to 33 mounts in many forms, especially stars, roses and medallions.

The Cluny Gürtel is clearly at the top of the range – red velvet, with fittings of silver-gilt and precious stones, and 58 silver-gilt mounts!

The reproduction set comprised the buckle (with buckle-plate) and chape, but did not include the mounts. Armour & Castings did have mounts of the right shape, but they much too large. I spent some time online trying to find something that would work, and ended up ordering gold-plated sun charms from Ali Express. They will need some work to adapt, but should give a good effect and were not expensive.

Neither the museum or Fingerlin’s catalogue detail what the belt base is made of, but leather or linen canvas supports were both in use. Based on the thickness of the belt, I suspect that leather would provide a better support for the 58 mounts, which are quite thick. There are other extant examples of textile belts over a leather core, such as the sword girdle in the V&A (T.35&A-1938).

My photos show that the belt has a gold textile backing, sewn onto the red velvet. From the degradation on the side, I think this is gilt thread over a silk core, either woven as fabric or band woven. None of my gold silks looked right, but I did find some bold grosgrain ribbon, which gives a band woven effect.

My belt will be made from leather, covered in red silk velvet, with a back lining of gold ribbon. I will match the original belt size (145cm x 22mm), but will have fewer mounts, since mine are larger.

Construction

First, a series of trials to test all the element – strap size (to allow for velvet), finishing the back with ribbon, the best way to site the mounts, and making an eyelet mount.

The leather base needs to be strong but flexible, so not too heavy – something in the 1.5-2mm range, but my suitable hides are not large enough. Medieval people had this problem too, and there are several extant belts where 2 pieces are joined with glueing, stitching and or through-mounts to make a longer belt.

I cut 2 x 20mm straps and skived (shaved) the flesh side off both pieces to give a 3cm overlap, then glued this with leather paste. It won’t need stitching – the velvet cover and mounts will provide extra support.

Next, I cut the belt to length, then reducing the ends to fit into the buckle plate and chape, allowing for the thickness of a velvet cover all around (this is visible through the piercings). I worked the belt well in my hands to ensure it was supple.

Then measuring the mount spacing – mine look good at 2.5cm. I marked the belt, then punched small holes to take the brass pins (no need to punch the velvet). I’ll need larger holes for the eyelet mounts, but I’ll do these after the belt is covered and backed.

Next, adapting the purchased charms into mounts. I needed 50 standard mounts and 3 eyelet mounts, but made some extra just in case.

I set up a jig to hold the mount in place while I drilled small centre holes. The ring on one leg stops the mount rotating – most convenient! Once the jig was adjusted, it was a fast process to place, drill and remove the mounts.

Then I cut off the loop with pliers and rough ground two pairs of points flat on the linishing belt. The next stage was shaping each of the four trimmed points on the linisher – over 230 of them, so a bit tedious. Well, a lot tedious.

To seal the exposed steel and further smooth the ends, I painted the 4 cut ends on each mount with gold modelling paint. Mounts finally done!

The next step is covering the belt.

My original plan was to use the scraps of the red velvet I’d kept from my very first Cranach gown, made decades ago. A luscious red half silk and full of sentimental associations! I wasted a lot of time trying to piece the length I needed, ensuring all seams were under a mount and avoid the worst crush marks. In the end I realised this was not going to give me the result I was after. Ah well.

Plan B – a slightly less deep red half-silk velvet, which only needed 1 join. Not special, but so much easier!

In In 17th-Century Men’s Dress Patterns 1600-1630 (2016), Jenny Tiramani suggests that an early 17thc silk covered sword girdle in the V&A collection was constructed by first glueing the fabric to the leather, then sewing on the backing and edge bindings. This approach worked very well in my testing, so I applied leather paste to the belt, then positioned this on the back of the velvet.

Once dry, I sewed the edges together – they meet over the narrow ends (which fit into the buckle-plate and chape) and leave a gap on the main belt, so the rivet holes are left clear.

Next, the ordinary mounts, leaving spaces for the eyelet mounts later.

The originals have tall rivet heads, so I’m adding a jewelry spacer under the head of the brass escutcheon pin to add height. I thread these through the mount and velvet, into the holes I punched earlier.

On the back, I thread on another spacer to act as a washer, use side-cutters to clip the pin, make sure the mount has not rotated, and then peen the end to set it. Then I cover the back with the gold ribbon, felling each side

Now for the eyelet mounts. I drilled larger holes on 3 mounts to take the brass eyelets, then trimmed and finished as for the plain mounts.

I punched larger holes in the covered belt and trimmed the ribbon cleanly on the back. Then I threaded the brass eyelet onto the drilled mount and through the belt. At the back I added the washer, checked the mount position and then set the eyelet mounts.

Finally, attaching the buckle and chape. The rivet holes are tiny (<1mm), so I tossed up between using brass sewing pins as rivets or sewing them on.

Either way, I need to mark the positions to make holes in the belt, rather than try and force through the leather. Marking velvet is tricky, but gouache works well – this is how I mark out velvet for embroidery. And once dry, any excess is easy to remove from the metal.

My practice run with the brass pins was not encouraging, so I decided to sew on the fittings (I can always replace them with rivets later).

And the belt is done!

I think the rich red velvet really sets off the fittings, and it is as faithful realisation of the original as I could manage (given the lack of the perfect mounts). I love the way the red velvet is visible in the piercework of the buckle-plate and chape, adding another layer of richness.

And it works really well against the dark green velvet of my Cranach gown.

It is easy to find images of these purses – they were commonly worn by lower class women during much of the 16th century: Bauer (farmer), Burgher (town folk) servants, and occassionally by the Tross (Landschneckt women). It was such a stndard accessory, it was used as a signifier or artistic shorthand for servant or lower class women.

I’ve made a noble class purse, and a middle class one – now I wanted a lower class purse to go with my working class clothing.

I have long pondered the likely materials and contruction of this style. The recreations I have seen tend to look stiff, rather than the obviously soft purse with fine gathers seen in the artwork. And many are of dark or coloured leather, rather than the buff colour common in the artwork.

I hoped to make something that looked more realistic, based on the archaeology, artwork and related extant examples.

Research

Goubitz (2007) identifies this purse as both a ‘Pouch purse’ (p41) and a ‘Girdle pouch’ (p71) and states it was worn by both men and women. I have found examples of a similar purse without pouchlets worn by Netherlandish men in the 15th century, and there is a clear example from 1460 of a German man wearing this style – pouchlets and all (thanks Marcus Irgens). By the 16th century, it seems firmly fixed as a common woman’s purse.

Textiler Hausrat (1990) has limited information on purse types and names, but does cite a 1554 inventory reference to a low-quality leather bag as ‘altegliche [alltägliche] Beutel’ (everyday purse). This is a description rather than a contemporary name, so I’m calling this a Gürteltasche (thanks for the discussion, Sven Wolf!).

There are countless examples of this style in woodcuts, showing this gathered purse hung from the belt, closed at the top with a button through a cap over the gathers, and small pouchlets at the base.

Most of the examples are worn by lower class women – Bauer (farmer), Burgher (town folk) servants, and occassionally by the Tross (Landschneckt women). It was sometimes worn in association with keys and/or a knife, as can be seen in these images.

Paintings show that the great majority of these purses were buff coloured, as can be seen below. There are some rare coloured examples, but these are usually highly decorated with beads and tassels and I think are probably textile rather than leather.

The buff colour makes me think the purses were not made of oak tanned leather. This leather inevitably goes dark brown in use, or is stained black with iron and would depicted as black or dark brown.

Extant early 16th century drawstring money purses in this light buff colour are made of oil-tanned goat and deer leather (Trömmer, 2011). Other examples of contemporary buff purses can be seen in several collections, including several identified as women’s purses, although the actual forms of the purses differ. These purses are made from oil-tanned skins which are buff coloured (such as the example below), so chamois seems the most likely material.

The archeological record is interesting – there are no completed purses, but several examples of a teardrop back, with a row of stitching holes all around and usually a pair of slots near the top. The example below has extra holes, perhaps for attaching a strap.

Tannin preserves leather better than oil in an archeaological context. So, I believe the back was made of oak tanned leather, in contrast to the chamois front. This would keep the purse shape stiff, but would not be visible. Purse makers (such as the one below) worked in both leathers.

The front of the main purse has one or more gathered pouchlets at the base – often three. The top of the main purse is gathered and then closed with a small round lid, with a button to fasten it. The purse is suspended from a short strap over belt, usually plain but sometimes buckled. The strap often has raised edges, but the lid usually does not.

Based on this, I decided to try making the purse with the following features:

• Teardrop-shaped back in vegetable tanned leather
• Front purse with three pouchlets at the base
• Front, pouchlets and laces in light oil-tanned leather (sheep chamois, since I can’t get deer)
• Strap with raised edges, ending in a circular lid with a central buttonhole
• Closing knob in the same chamois, sewn to the front of the purse
• Pouchlet buttons in the same leather, or low status material.

There are many theories to test here!

Construction

My first step was to mock up a paper version to get the proportions and scale. Once I was happy with the paper version, I made mockups in felt to develop the actual pattern – stiff furnishing felt for the back and regular felt for the front and pouchlets. Two versions and some adjustments later, I was happy with the look.

Once the mockup looked right, I made a final pattern of the main pieces. The back section is 21cm tall, in keeping with the archeological examples. I’ll mark the lacing and binding strips directly on the leather.

Meanwhile, I prepared the chamois – damping it down, gently stretching and pinning it onto my felt board to remove any wrinkles, then letting dry overnight. I don’t have access to deer chamois, so I’ve used sheep – bought from a car parts shop, used for washing cars (and inexpensive compared with most leather). I’d used the rest of this hide for something else, but there is just enough left…

The next day I cut out the pieces, working around the flaws in the leather. The easiest way to do this is to place the patterns on the front, pin at key points, then turn over and mark the points. Then place the patterns upside down on the wrong side, mark and cut.

I cut the back in stiff 2mm vegetable tanned leather. The leather was curved (rolled up for storage), so I wet it and set it on my board to dry flat. Then I wet and smoothed off the edges, since these will be exposed.

The first stage is to sew the pouchlets to the front of the purse. There are several different ways to do this, depicted in art and visible in extant purses.

My previous purse had the strings coming out above the pouchlet, since this was consistent with the archeological example I was using (and as seen here in the V&A example). But the art depicting this low class purse consitently shows a knob at the front of the purselet, with the strings coming out at a single point behind this.

I tried three different ways to thread the pouchlets (I have found other methods as well) and decided on the middle version. This means an uneven number of holes in the pouchlets, so I measured and marked these. Then I tested the slot size needed for my 5mm lace and cut the slots on the three pouchlets.

Next, I tested various was of sewing on the pouchlets. Some extant examples are simply whipped on, while more up-market purses often have quite elaborate braidstitches. The extant examples all seem to use silk for this stitching, even if the main contruction stitching is linen.

Some examples also have decorative silk stitching around the open edges of the main purse and/or pouchlets – buttonhole stitch is common. But these are higher class purses, often with other ornate decorations, so I decided to leave mine plain.

When I made my Bügeltasche, I just eyeballed the stitch spacing on the pouchlets – the fine silk matched the leather and the stitches were not obvious. Here I’m using a heavy contrast silk, so I wanted to ensure even spacing. I tried 4 different prickwheels to get the right spacing (I didn’t realise I had so many!) then marked along the edge of the leather with graphite paper.

I marked the positions on the back of the leather, then pinned the key points and marked the front. I tacked the centre pouchlet in place at several points, then sewed it on using brown Ver a Soi perle silk, waxed and burnished to reduce tangles, in a simple whip stitch.

Having sewn on the first pouchlet, I decided I didn’t like the effect of the brown silk stitching – it stood out too much, and was too decorative for my low class purse. So I un-picked it and sewed again with matching cream silk. Much happier with this, so I sewed on the other two pouchlets.

With the pouchlets on, I punched a pair of slots in the main purse at the top of each pouchlet. Then I threaded the laces through the slots, starting and finishing at the front. Then both ends go through a brass button to keep each pouchlet closed.

With the front constructed, it’s time to sew the front to the back.

The Goubitz (2007) drawing of a related extant purse shows the edge of the front purse swelling past the back all around, and a clear line of stitches around the circumference, set about 3mm from the edge (when at scale). The stitches obviously go through the back and front pieces, to secure them.

I experimented with this and found a lapped seam gave exactly the look in the Goubitz drawing. It was also consistent with the artwork images, and with the stitch holes in other tear-shaped back panels.

My trial runs in felt showed I needed to gather the edge a little to give the purse the right fullness at the base, and provide the smooth edge as seen in the extant example in Goubitz, so I gathered the base on the sewing machine to give the right ease (the pic here shows the laces stuffed into the pouchlets to keep them out of the way). I’ll remove this stitching once the purse is assembled.

I cut larger slots along the top to take a pair of slightly wider laces, to secure the main purse.

On the the main construction!

Goubtitz’ drawing shows a simple row of 1/4″ stitches. I decided to use this spacing, but use double stitching (saddle stitch) for extra strength. I planned to sew the purse inside out, then wet and turn it like a turnsole shoe.

Using my pair of compasses, I marked a 5mm groove the inside of the back to give a consistent seam, then glued the base of the front along this line using starch paste – this will hold things while I sew, then dissolve when I turn it.

I started stitching in the middle of the base, working up both sides. I’m using a fine awl to make each stitch, then heavy linen thread treated with coad (beeswax & rosin) and mounted on a pair of boar bristles.

After the first stitch, I realised that sewing from the inside was going to make for an uneven line of stitches on the outside, so I changed tack. I marked the outside and worked from there – much easier!

The dual leathers are a pain to sew. The vegetable tanned leather works well with an awl and bristle. The chamois is easy to sew with a needle, but not with a bristle – the hole closes up as soon as you take the awl out. Slow going – I can see why the maker of the Goubitz purse only used running stitch!

I worked the base in both directions (with two sets of threads), then started up the sides, glueing a little at a time, alternating sides. At about the halfway mark I needed to wet the back piece to make it flex enough to manipulate the stitches.

I blew out 2 bristles (the chamois dragged off my less-than-perfect wrappings) but got there in the end. I removed the gathering stitches from the chamois. Then I burnished the stitches on the back with my bone folder to set them and sink them into the leather.

To finish the back, I cut a pair of slots, wet the leather well and formed a raised channel, then set this to dry. This channel will allow the laces to travel through the back of the purse more easily.

On to the strap and lid…

I tested a couple of different ways to get the raised edge on the strap: sew, turn and then topstitch; or bind in strips. In both cases, the strap is doubled for extra strength.

I liked the bound edge best, so I glued the two laters together, then sewed the edge strips using fine linen thread (by machine to save time). Then I turned the edges to the back and whipped them down.

To make the lid, I sewed the two layers together, then turned it out through a gap. I glued the two layers together for strength, glued the open edges down, then glued the strap into the opening to hold while sewing. Finally, I sewed the lid to the strap on both sides, with waxed linen thread.

Before I work the centre buttonhole, I need to make the button, so I know how large it is.

Contemporary artworks show the buttons in the same colour as the lid, and many extant examples show knotted knobs made of the same leather, or a contrasting one (higher class). I tried a few knot types – including monkey fist and turkshead variations, but the soft fuzzy chamois was not working.

In the end I went for a 4 way knot, using Gina B’s single piece technique (Barrett, 2013). I trimmed two tails and sewed them at the back of the button, then sewed the other two together to form a shank.

I trimmed the loose ends and sewed it inside the centre front of the purse, overlapping to spread the load.

Now I had the button size, I tested the buttonhole on a scrap of leather, then cut the slot with a chisel and worked it in buttonhole stitch in waxed linen.

Now to attached the strap.

I pasted it to hold in place while I sewed – folded over, so the strap encloses the top of the stiff purse back. Then I sewed it from the front with heavy linen thread, treated with coad – it needs to be strong.

To finish the purse, I threaded two laces through the purse and back slots, starting and finishing at both sides. A pair of long tweezers makes it easier to keep the laces flat! I finished the ends with simple overhand knots, and the pouchlets to match.

To close the purse, I pull both sets of purse strings and button through the lid. To open, unbutton and then pull the purse open with both hands.

This has been a fun project – I tested a lot of ideas and theories on how these purses might have been made, and I think the end result is both a justifiable interpretation and looks just right!

It’s buttery soft, and large enough to hold all the useful things – phone, handkerchief, money purse…