What do you actually carry on a Saturday that deserves real leather? I ask myself that every weekend, and the honest answer keeps shrinking – which is exactly the case this little pack was designed for. The question has a second half, of course – what deserves to be carried in it – and for me the answer is very little, very loved.
Eighteen centimetres across the base, twenty-eight tall, eight deep: the proportions keep a firm hold on everything inside. My standard kit is sunglasses in a soft case, a tan wallet, lip balm and keys, with the phone dropped in last so it is the first thing out when I stop for coffee.
Natural tones and Togo are a good marriage. The pebbled hide takes on honeyed depth where my hands and coat rub it, so the bag gradually looks lived-in rather than worn out, and the silver fittings stay cool and slightly industrial – a nice counterpoint to all that warmth. Held against linen in summer it looks sun-warmed; against grey wool in winter it reads like a memory of the coast.
The caveat of a colour this light is that it keeps a record: an ink mark or a splash of coffee becomes a permanent part of the story. I keep a cloth in the car, treat the leather twice a season, and even so it has earned a faint map of small marks. That map is genuinely why I like it.











































