The Alchemy of Warmth: Finding the Ultimate Winter Jacket in a World Obsessed with Cold Appearances

For as long as I can remember, the changing of the seasons has brought with it a quiet ceremony. The slow folding away of linens and cottons. The retrieval of wool from cedar-lined drawers. There is something almost sacred about preparing oneself for winter—something primal, even—in the need to shelter the body with both intention and beauty.

And for many years, my winter rituals were presided over by one high priest of elegance: Loro Piana. To wear one of their coats was to walk through the cold with an invisible orchestra playing behind you. The cashmere was soft enough to move you to silence. The tailoring—clean, timeless, exact—never announced itself. It simply was. As perfect as a line of verse or the curve of a cello.

I have been a staunch and loyal devotee of Loro Piana for the better part of a decade. Their coats were more than garments; they were companions—silent, stately partners that stood by me through bitter January mornings, meetings in Zurich, foggy London evenings, and more recently, my own inner seasons of growth and retreat.

But something changed.

The first shift was imperceptible, a flicker of discomfort I couldn’t quite articulate. A sleeve that didn’t sit quite as it used to. A lining that felt less substantial. And then came the numbers. Prices leaping upwards with a kind of unflinching absurdity. I remember holding a beautiful storm system overcoat in navy—simple, classic, a piece I would have once purchased without question—and realising with a jolt that it now cost more than £10,000.

I stood there in the boutique, jacket draped over my arm, and suddenly felt... betrayed. Not because luxury shouldn’t cost. It should. But because true luxury—earned luxury—is not a game of diminishing returns.

I left the store, but the unease stayed with me. And so began a slow-burning quest, a kind of sartorial pilgrimage, though I didn’t yet know it. I started researching, digging deeper, asking questions I hadn’t asked in years: What makes a jacket great? What does value mean when it comes to craft? Where is true quality hiding now that the spotlight has moved elsewhere?

I travelled—figuratively and literally—through the ateliers of Europe. I spoke with designers, tailors, fabric archivists. I examined coats in Milan, Stockholm, Tokyo, and New York. I tried on £800 coats that felt like cardboard and £15,000 coats that whispered nothing but branding. It was a sea of exaggeration—either technical wizardry with no romance, or opulence for its own sake.

And then came Ilaria.

The name entered my world during an unhurried lunch in Mayfair with Ilaria herself. Ilaria Rome,  the name itself held weight. Italian, of course—naturally—but there was something deeply personal in it. She had named the brand after herself, which in Italian fashion culture is not vanity but lineage. It’s a vow. A kind of creative blood oath that says: I will not put anything into the world that does not bear the full weight of my name.

And when I finally slipped on her St. Moritz, I understood.

It’s hard to describe the feeling of encountering the right object at the right moment in your life. The St. Moritz is, ostensibly, a classic car coat. But that’s like saying a Steinway is “just a piano.” It is crafted from pure Loro Piana Storm System cashmere, yes—but the kind Loro Piana used to use before their ambitions became shareholder-driven. It’s as if Ilaria has somehow managed to time-travel back to the golden era of Italian textile production and bring its soul forward into the present.

The first time I wore it, I stepped out into a rain-flecked London morning. Not a downpour—just that silvery mist that makes you question every coat you’ve ever owned. The St. Moritz handled it like a dream. The water beaded and vanished. The air was cold, but I felt nothing. And inside, the removable rabbit fur lining—a whisper of decadence—kept me cocooned in what I can only describe as an atmosphere of grace.

But what truly stunned me was the price.

£1,900.

To the uninitiated, this may still sound like a princely sum—and it is. But not when you understand what’s inside this coat. Not when you’ve held the equivalent from the “big houses” and seen numbers that start with five digits. Not when you realise that you could, without exaggeration, buy every piece from Ilaria Rome’s current collection for the price of a single flagship coat from the giants.

And make no mistake: these are not diluted designs made to tempt you on price alone. They are elevated, intelligent, deeply personal interpretations of classic outerwear silhouettes. Every seam is intentional. Every closure, pocket, and lining considered. She designs with the quiet confidence of someone who has nothing to prove and everything to protect—namely, the integrity of her work.

I soon found myself returning to her collection again and again. The way one returns to poetry when the world becomes too loud. There is a knitted jacket - The Milan -, made from a heavy cable knitted cashmere lined in fur and the Gstaad, a casual hooded piece that has a laid back elegance that other brands can't seem to hit. These are in process and I will report accordingly.

And beyond the design, there is the soul of the brand—rare in its clarity and warmth. Ilaria speaks of clothes the way a composer might speak of a score. She believes garments should accompany a life, not dominate it. That outerwear is our second skin in the most public months of the year, and as such, should reflect not only our taste but our values: craftsmanship, integrity, timelessness.

Since discovering Ilaria Rome, I haven’t worn another brand’s coat. My Loro Piana pieces now reside quietly in the back of the wardrobe—retired not in bitterness, but in gratitude for their past service. They were right for their time. But that time has passed. What I wear now feels like the future—one built not on excess, but on essence.

In a world where the term luxury has been abused beyond recognition—where brand names are shouted louder than quality is felt—Ilaria Rome is a rare kind of miracle: a label that remembers why we ever fell in love with clothes in the first place.

So yes, I have found the finest winter jacket money can buy.

And no, it’s not what you think.

It doesn’t scream. It doesn’t shimmer. It doesn’t need a logo to justify itself.

It simply fits. It warms. It lasts.And in doing so, it reminds me—every single time I put it on—that there is still beauty in the world if you know where to look.

That place, for me, is Ilaria Rome.And I suspect, once you’ve tried it, it will be for you too.

If you are interested in checking out the items please check the Ilaria.rome instagram and if you find yourself available, there will be a pop up at The Jumeriah in london on 5th Oct from midday until 6pm.