Every strap starts with a section of full-grain leather. I source from four tanneries — Walpier in Tuscany, Haas in Alsace, Horween in Chicago, Badalassi outside Pisa. The hide is inspected against the light: only flanks free of brand scars and tick marks make it onto the bench.
The strap is cut with a single, continuous pull of a Japanese round knife — never a rotary blade. A clean cut keeps the edge fibers tight, which matters later when the edge is burnished. The blank is then thinned with a French paring knife to taper from 3.5 mm at the lug down to 2.0 mm at the tip.
A pricking iron walks down the length, pressing eight stitches per inch into the leather. The holes are then opened — one at a time — with a diamond-tipped awl. This is the slow part. Forty-eight holes on a standard 20 mm strap. Each must lean at exactly 30 degrees off the seam line.
Two needles, one waxed linen thread, two hands passing in opposite directions. The saddle stitch is the strongest seam in leatherwork — if a thread is cut, the rest will not unravel. Machines cannot do this stitch; only hands can. I tension every cross by feel, and tie every knot inside the leather where it cannot be seen.
The raw edge is shaved at 45 degrees with a beveler, sanded through three grits, then rubbed with beeswax and water. A walnut slicker — heated by friction — polishes the edge until it shines like glass. Most workshops paint the edges. I burnish them. The difference is visible at six inches and obvious at three.
The buckle is fitted — solid 316L steel, brushed or polished as you choose. Spring-bar holes are punched to your watch's lug width to the tenth of a millimetre. A keeper loop is slipped on and secured. The strap is now a strap.
A coat of pure neatsfoot oil, then a coat of carnauba wax, then twenty-four hours of rest on a wooden form so the strap takes its first curve. It's stamped with its serial number, photographed once for the archive, and packed in a linen pouch. The next morning, it's in the post.
I keep a list, in order, in a leather notebook. Your strap is started on the date your name is next. Rushing a saddle stitch produces a saddle stitch that fails — and a strap is supposed to outlast its watch, not the other way around.
Commission a Strap