Why St Andrews Will Never Be City Chic
I was trying on a pair of Manolo Blahnik heeled boots when it became clear they would never survive St Andrews. You may be thinking, is this another deluded, obnoxious monologue?
This, in itself, is a reflection on St Andrews and its strange interaction with high fashion and, aside from the glossy name drops, this is more of a personal essay on a case of location-induced style crisis.
Going back to the boots, they were exquisite, too exquisite, really, to be asked to tolerate the wilderness that is North Street’s cobblestones. A slim stiletto heel, elegant to the point of delusion, designed for smooth pavements, waiting cars, and grand entrances rather than rushing between tutorials with a coffee in one hand and misplaced optimism in the other. In the mirror, they made perfect sense. They lengthened the leg, sharpened the silhouette, promised a life conducted largely indoors and transported neatly between places rather than hurrying to lectures.
My beautiful mirage was interrupted by a rather dispiriting thought: the streets of St Andrews. The cobblestones, mismatched and unapologetic, are laid out with historic indifference to balance, beauty, or anyone wearing ambition on their feet. Without the right footwear, the path between lectures, libraries, and coffee stops can be quite vicious. The wind treats umbrellas as a suggestion rather than a solution, and of course, there is the absolute certainty of being on foot.
I imagined the heel slipping between stones somewhere along Market Street, followed by the lingering embarrassment of a very public wobble. I felt a sudden, very specific horror. I took them off, understanding it was simply not meant to be.
At what point, exactly, did the it shoe quietly swap itself for something weatherproof? When did footwear glory move from stiletto to survival, from Manolo to mud-ready, from Jimmy Choo to “can I run between the science buildings to my English lecture,” from Christian Louboutin to pure logistics?
That, I realised, is the subtle way of St Andrews. It does not reject fashion; it simply asks it to behave. Style here must undergo recalibration, a journey that can either result in readjustment or leave you feeling as though you are trying to be someone entirely untrue to yourself. What looks decisive in a city suddenly feels a touch theatrical when you remember the weather has opinions and the streets are actively working against you. High fashion is welcome, but only if it is prepared to walk.
When you imagine painfully balancing on those cobblestones, you may find yourself repulsed at the thought of Gianvito Rossi boots, perfect perhaps for a car-to-restaurant-to-shop outing in a fashion capital, but entirely misplaced here. High fashion, after all, thrives on certain unspoken conditions. Smooth pavements. Short journeys. Controlled interiors. St Andrews politely declines all of the above.
Clothes are worn across the day rather than for a moment. A beautifully cut coat loses some of its authority when battling a crosswind on South Street. A perfect shoe becomes less charming when you are mentally mapping cobblestone density. As chic as the town can be, it is remarkably difficult to appreciate the beauty of a shoe while being gently humiliated by a downpour that meets your face head-on, umbrella notwithstanding.
Even the most exquisite styling loses its composure when negotiating rain, wind, and geography simultaneously. This is not a rejection of fashion so much as a gentle humbling of it. The question shifts, almost without you noticing. Not, does this look good? but, will this still make sense in three hours? Not, is this fabulous? but, can I walk the length of Market Street without regretting every decision I have ever made? Glamour here is not forbidden; it is simply asked to earn its place.
My first real lesson in St Andrews style, when I arrived with my impractical wardrobe as a fresher, was that fashion does exist here, but it answers to different laws.
Prior to my great move to St Andrews, as one might say, a Barbour jacket was nowhere near my idea of a daily coat. It belonged firmly to the countryside, reserved for walks involving mud or a vague commitment to fresh air following a New Year’s resolution to touch grass and embrace wellness. It was worn perhaps a handful of times a year, brought out for weekends and returned to the wardrobe once urban life resumed.
I remember going for drinks and dinner with friends at a new brasserie in my hometown and our collective surprise when a girl walked in at night wearing a Barbour, wellies, and a tweed blazer. Whether or not we were in any position to be puzzled is up for debate, but this was certainly not the Cotswolds, and it felt uncalibrated to the rhythm of the city. That initial shock was followed by a much slower aftershock upon my arrival in St Andrews.
In St Andrews, it became something else entirely. Not a statement. Not a nod to tradition. A necessity. It was worn daily, in all weather, without irony or explanation. Slowly, it stopped feeling borrowed and began to feel correct, in a slightly sick and twisted way, as I abandoned my finest for the local look.
The real adjustment, however, was not aesthetic but atmospheric. Style in St Andrews requires recalibration, a quiet realignment to the town’s own cosmos of dress. One week into my first year, I found myself layering jumpers with distinctly Sloane-y pie collars, a combination that would have felt anachronistic anywhere else. It was a far cry from what was en vogue, or quite literally, in Vogue. And yet, here, it somehow made sense.
This is why city chic fails so reliably in the town. Heels are not impractical in theory, but they betray a misunderstanding of the environment. Certain coats designed for short walks between cars quickly feel performative when exposed to wind and distance. Outfits built around arrival unravel when confronted with the reality of walking everywhere and being seen continuously. In a way, it is about gaining fluency in the town’s fashion language.
St Andrews style does not seek reinvention and is, in many ways, shaped by intimacy. Everyone knows where you are going because there are, quite literally, three main streets. Everyone knows how long it takes to get there. Clothes are worn in full view of daily life, not edited into moments. This produces a style language that values endurance over effect.
This does not mean St Andrews is anti-fashion. On the contrary, it is deeply attentive to clothes. But its attentiveness is practical, almost ethical. Garments are chosen to last, to repeat, to accumulate meaning over time. There is little patience for spectacle that cannot survive routine.
The boots were returned to their box, admired but ultimately irrelevant. The jacket stayed by the door. St Andrews will never be city chic, and that is precisely its point. It does not dress for entrances. It dresses for the long walk home. If you look closely enough, it is possible to strike a balance between the St Andrean look and the excitement of high fashion.
To resolve my fashion crisis, I made a small but telling adjustment. I swapped my most basic version of the Barbour for one that felt distinctly mine, lined in pink and finished with an exaggerated pink collar and cuffs. It serves the same purpose, shields me from the elements, and yet refuses anonymity. Practical, but not anonymous. A way of dressing for St Andrews without looking like an extra in The Crown (I am sorry, I just had to go there).
The solution is not abandoning fashion but recalibrating it, choosing pieces that hold personality without collapsing under geography. A flash of pink where tradition expects neutrality. A quiet refusal to disappear into practicality entirely. Proof that taste can adapt without apologising.
St Andrews will never be city chic, and that is precisely its power. It filters fashion down to something more revealing. Not who you are when you arrive somewhere, but who you remain when the walk is long and the North Sea breeze has opinions. To some, this clashes with à la mode. To others, it is en vogue, quietly recalibrated.