My interior would world be enriched, the winnings smoothing out the normal bumps and grazes of working for a living. I would be the kind of person who pronounces the l in almond and lives in the east wing of a Baroque mansion. Because my house had wings. And a high-ceilinged library with a little ladder, a small but manageable garden maze, one of those notable koi ponds I’d downplay. I would throw little shindigs, little banquets, little summer hog roasts in my grade-listed barn. I’d arrive late to a dinner, more than a little drunk, and still be charm itself. I’d be like one of those society women who uses discreetly scented hand “crème” before bed and keeps her valuables in a safe. A woman with an aura of being in-waiting. Rumours her distant ancestors were Tudors or Stewarts. Not quite a countess, but a woman who can feel a pea under a hundred mattresses. I would rise late, taking in a large sweet breakfast and then nothing but coffee for the rest of the day. Among my many luxurious peccadillos, I would wear cashmere.

When there’s a romantic chill in the air before the grounds are covered thickly in snow, there’s something gently scintillating about the caress of cashmere. When facing the wild, the bracken, the salted air, warmth itself is sourced in onion layers of golden fleece, Tibetan insulation combed and spun around your body. Johnstons of Elgin tailors timely and timeless cashmere in harmonious hues. Cashmere in Neapolitan colours. Cashmere in primary tones. In choc-ice and pistachio and an enveloping taupe. Loud cashmere, quiet cashmere. The piercing red of a holly berry, the thoughtful whisper of a communion wafer. A midnight v neck. A Donegal crewneck in fortune cookie. Cashmere woven from heritage and high spirits.

Alongside the cashmere are contagious coats in varying shades of recalled memory. Lambswool to swaddle you in detailed attention and knowing history. A buttery-soft pea coat. The Weaver’s Jacket in ale brown. Designs that plug the cavities in your wardrobe like fillings in your molars. All bangers, no mash, unparalleled prestige, fortifying you against nature’s harsher months.

These garments don’t self-manifest. Beyond the glamor of the final product is the deep legacy of the Scottish factory’s industrial process. And there’s no trouble’t’mill where your winter staples are Rumpelstiltskin-ed into being. An army of local and skilled workers reverberating centuries of painstaking craftsmanship every single day. A deep legacy of shearing, combing, spinning, and weaving, inherited through the generations. All this leads to only one place—a product with historic quality stitched tightly into its seams. Cashmere comes in many forms, but with Johnstons of Elgin you can live like a lottery winner, and jingle all the way into winter.