This article is taken from the April 2026 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £5.
From the moment man emerged dripping from the primordial soup, he swathed himself in animal skins, ornamented himself with amber and seashells, and he picked up a stick. For whilst the skins and shells served but one purpose, his stick was multifunctional. It provided support crossing uneven terrain, it prodded the ground for dangerous swamps, and it afforded some measure of protection against dangerous beasts and even more dangerous neighbours. Afterall, mugging was not invented by the e-bikers — Raquel Welch wielded one. And for roughly the next three million years the stick became a staple of the (increasingly gentle) man’s wardrobe.
By the time style reached the 17th century, most men had set aside their swords and were carrying sticks as fashionable accessories. Led by Louis XIV, the humble stick evolved into an opulent cane, encrusted with precious metals and stones, surmounted with a golden eagle. The world went wild for Louis’s look. Even Voltaire proved his own epanalepsis that “common sense is not so common” by possessing no fewer than 80 sticks. History does not relate whether the champion of reason considered such a collection unreasonable.
The cane’s popularity achieved its apogee in the Victorian age when all manner of sticks for all manner of needs and occasions were available for every connoisseur’s consideration. The average gentleman might own as many as a dozen for his different purposes. A Whangee stick made of Asian softwood, or a Malacca cane hewn from rattan palms, might be employed for a gentle stroll through Hyde Park or along Rotten Row. In the evenings, a gold-topped ebony “Hansom-hailer” would add that touch of class en route to the opera.
For less salubrious neighbourhoods (Sherlock Holmes seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time prowling around Limehouse), a “Penang Lawyer” of Licuala weighted at one end, or a medlar-made Makhila from the Basque country with its hidden blade, would both be understandable (if not recommendable) precautions.
And for those Buchanesque treks into the mountains, what could be better than a sturdy Ziegenhainer with its hallmark gnarled and knotted grooves to steady the step and aid propulsion?
It is ironic that just about the time the cane hit Hollywood, and Irving Berlin wrote, “Come, let’s mix where Rockefellers / Walk with sticks or umbrellas in their mitts”, this ancient accessory was going out of fashion. Fred Astaire’s cane may have been “puttin’ on the Ritz”, but everyone else was putting theirs in the attic. The post-war stick, it seemed, was stuck.
But hope is at hand and in recent years there has been something of a renaissance for the shillelagh. Johnny Depp has been seen carrying one. Leonardo DiCaprio sported a splendid silver-handled stick in the remake of The Great Gatsby, whilst both the late Queen and the King have made use of Herdwick ram horn staffs in their public engagements.
Even Daniel Radcliffe has been photographed holding one, though the cruel might suppose he could get by with a toothpick. My old friend Simon Hoare, the Member for North Dorset, favours a hazel or applewood rambler knobstick when walking his dogs across the Vale of the Little Dairies. Simon Gordon, recovering from a knee injury, cuts a dash through Totnes supported by an ebonised cane capped in copper and gold.
For those that are thinking of adding a stick to their hallstand, there is plenty of advice on offer, particularly from The British Stickmakers’ Guild website. For the fullest comfort, a stick should measure vertically from the ground to the wrist joint.
Sticks can of course be made to measure, and a quick trip to Swaine London in town or the Stick & Cane Shop online will find a stick, size and style to suit.
And if you fret that it might be passé, take heart from Jay Gatsby himself: “Can’t repeat the past? Why, of course you can!”
