Desperation, Imelda, old shoes and cobblers

I was clearing out stuff the other day and strangely I came to feel for Imelda Marcos. Imelda, as older people will recall, was the First Lady of the Philippines and she won the opprobrium of quite a few of the world’s feminists because she had a fetish for shoes and, according to the meeja, during her lifetime, accumulated as many as 3,000 pairs. Indeed there is a Museum of Shoes in her honour in the Philippines. Though, since she was not the most revered First Lady in the Philippines, it is probably more appropriate to suggest that the museum is more of a monument to avarice, covetousness and extravagance than in honour of her contribution to social progress in her country.

She got away with quite a bit because her husband Ferdinand, a lawyer and politician and, according to some reputable sources, a dictator, was quite well regarded in the so-called Free World. Ferdinand introduced martial law in the Philippines and again he was given a sort of free rein by the West because martial law was declared in order to put a stop to the Communist Hordes over-running the country. And, of course, we could not have that, despite the fact that these particular communists were from among the ordinary, less privileged people of the Philippines.

But, I’m not here to give you a potted history of the Far East, more so to explain why I developed a bit of sympathy for Imelda. You see, when I was clearing out stuff, I got into the bottom of a few presses and came across my own collection of shoes. Now, as you know, I’m not inclined towards fetishism of any kind, much less the whiff of leather or the synthetic material that passes for leather nowadays and, I would strongly argue, I am not a hoarder but nevertheless, to my utter amazement, I counted no less than seventeen pairs of shoes in the house.

That is not to mention my working boots, with steel toecaps (a nod in the direction of safety learned during my Shell days - two pairs), my working shoes (steel toe caps, thanks to LIDL’s cheap pricing, one pair), walking boots, old but still good for climbing the mountains of Ireland, a pair of walking shoes for the Greenway used occasionally (but I’m told not often enough!) and two pairs of runners (cheap and not comfortable, so mostly unused) which are all stored in the garage. Recently, because I’m under orders to do more walking, I purchased a pricey pair of runners, on the advice of a former colleague who had also invested in a good pair and suggested I should spend my money as “I couldn’t take it with me.” Nice advice coming up to Christmas.

Some of the house shoes could be described as antiques or vintage such are the age of the items. There was a time when I favoured leather shoes. Leather soles, leather uppers, leather tongue and leather everything with good quality laces and well-branded shoes such as Barker, Grenson or Loake. These were expensive footwear and it was not that I was flush with money but I was assured it made sense to spend on good quality. And sure enough I would knock ten or twelve years out of a pair. Of course, they would wear out, the heels would be the first to go and then the soles but there was a remedy for the wear and tear. 

We are talking of a time when cobblers were important craftsmen and kept the people of Ireland on their feet. The first cobbler I met was Mick Hughes who plied his trade from his home in Teapot Lane. He sat cross-legged at his last and when he got an audience of whippersnappers such as myself he became as much an entertainer and storyteller (of very tall stories!) as a craftsman. He could dazzle the eyes of his young fanatical spectators with his speed of hammer and tack and deftness of pliers as he deconstructed a shoe and speed of knife as he cut and shaped the leather to the shoe or boot.

And he took particular pleasure in dealing with an old pair of football boots with their eight individual leather cogs and ankle-high uppers. Nailing the half-inch (1.3 centimetres to the modern-day craftspeople) leather cogs, home-made, to the soles required the delicate skills of a surgeon so that the nails did not protrude into the boot to cause discomfort to the wearer. As with today’s surgeons, the cobblers of old did not always succeed and many the footballer finished a game with a torn, bleeding foot.

In the days of which I write, I would have had little use for Mick Hughes’ skills. In the late spring and summer we would have gone barefoot and were only shod, with shoes that had little leather, during the wet wintry days of late autumn and summer. I never had much time for wellingtons. It was a struggle to get them on and an even greater struggle to get them off. They were useful on building sites but were prone to being pierced by nails, often rusty, carelessly discarded by craftsmen who had not the time or inclination to draw the nails.

In later times, when I was a fussy leather shoe-wearing dilettante and Mick Hughes had long gone to his eternal reward, I made the acquaintance of Joe Cameron in Westport. Joe had his cobber’s shop on the Octagon from where he looked after the needs of people like me who wanted shoes repaired, unlike Imelda Marcos, who just wore them and stored them. Joe was a first-class tradesman and looked after my repair work for the best part of 30 years. He always had time to chat but did not have the same bravura talent for entertainment that Mick Hughes had.

Joe too has departed this mortal coil leaving a vacuum that has never been properly filled. His cobbler’s shop is now remembered as The Cobblers Bar, part of the Wyatt Hotel, and I have taken to wearing shoes of any construction so that the need for repairs has evaporated. Two of the pairs of shoes that I came across, as I was clearing stuff, still bear the characteristics of Joe’s handiwork, though I have not worn them for many years. I thought to throw them out and then I thought, no. I might start a shoe museum and it would be fitting to show the work of Joe Cameron, a first-class craftsman in a field of industry that has passed, or soon will, into oblivion.

As I sat at my computer (the good lord be with the Remingtons, Olivetti’s and Underwood typewriters of old) on this the First Day of January 2025, it was in desperation that I cobbled together this column for your delectation. Desperation is a strange motivation, but when a deadline looms, it can be a powerful force, not necessarily very creative, but potent, and productive nevertheless. 

As we embark on 2025 we live in hope. Hope that Gaza, Ukraine, Syria and other war-torn spots may see peace. Hope that Trump may prove his critics wrong. Hope that we will soon have a government committed to equality and care for the environment. Hope that the homeless will be housed, not to mention those who are priced out of the market. Hope that common sense will prevail over pride and unrestrained ambition. Hope that people throughout the world will find peace in their hearts and peace in their time. And a Happy News Year to all with thanks to Imelda Marcos, Mick Hughes and Joe Cameron for inspiration.

Thought for the day

Desperate situations require desperate remedies.