So, what makes their brollies so special? It’s everything. The frames are made from solid metal, not cheap plastic. The fabric is thick cotton or nylon, tightly stretched over a skeleton that could probably survive a minor hurricane. And the best part? They repair them. If your 1987 umbrella gets a broken spoke, you can bring it back. They’ll fix it, no judgment.
This is a business run by real craftspeople. They have a workshop upstairs where they cut, stitch, and assemble each umbrella by hand. It’s like an umbrella hospital, but with fewer white coats and more varnish.
And you know what’s even funnier? The shop is so narrow and packed with brollies that customers have to shimmy sideways just to browse. It’s like a puzzle—how many umbrellas can you fit in a space the size of a broom closet? The answer: all of them.
Who Goes There? (And Why?)
The clientele is a mix. You’ve got tourists who come for the Instagram shot, standing outside the green-and-gold sign with a brolly tucked under their arm. Then you’ve got locals—Londoners who need a sturdy companion for the city’s “four seasons in one hour” weather. And a few movie producers, because nothing says “period drama” like a James Smith umbrella.
James Smith & Sons: Inside the quirky 164-year-old London umbrella shop
I once saw a guy in a tweed suit buy three umbrellas at once: one for him, one for his wife, and one for his dog. (I’m only 10% kidding about the dog.) The staff don’t bat an eye. They’re used to umbrella obsession.
They even sell solid walking sticks disguised as umbrellas. These are for people who want to look distinguished while also being prepared for a random shower. It’s like a Swiss Army knife for your dignity.
