The Making of Burberry

London, 1856. Thomas Burberry, a young draper with a stubborn dislike for soggy clothes, opened a small shop and set out to solve Britain’s oldest problem: the weather. A small beginning that would eventually anchor the entire Burberry history timeline. No fanfare, no grand manifesto, just a belief that outerwear could work harder and look better. His answer was gabardine: a quiet revolution in fabric form, built to defy rain, wind, and the general moodiness of the British sky.

The effect was immediate. Explorers wore it to the ends of the earth, officers marched in it, civilians adopted it because it simply refused to let them down. Before the fame, before the Burberry check, before fashion week cameras ever flickered; the Burberry trench coat had already become a symbol, functional, iconic, unmistakably British.

Burberry didn’t set out to be a luxury house. It became one by redefining what practical could look like. A brand shaped by weather, elevated by culture, and always ready for its next reinvention.

And then came the moment no one saw coming: the Burberry check stepping out from behind the curtain. In 1967, a Paris store employee wrapped some luggage (and later an umbrella) in the familiar lining, and just like that, the check went from “inner detail” to “main character.” The brand leaned in, weaving the pattern into early ads, accessories, and the first Burberry scarf drops, gentle steps toward the global icon it would soon become.

By the ‘70s , Burberry wasn’t just British fashion. It was British culture. A coat that came from trenches, conquered Hollywood, flirted through the ‘60s, and still looked perfect in a downpour.

Film icons like Sean Connery and Michael Caine dressed in Burberry on and off screen, embedding the trench further into global pop culture. Paparazzi shots, award-season dressing, Burberry became the unofficial uniform of the British elite. Accessories joined the fun. The Burberry scarf became winter’s unofficial starter pack; check-trim bags turned into instant identifiers; early Burberry ‘vintage’ bags earned “future collector” status before the term even existed.

But fame has a habit of testing boundaries. As the ‘90s rolled in, the check hit peak visibility. Adored, copied, misused, mythologised. Too popular? Too recognisable? Too everywhere? Yes. And that’s exactly why this chapter matters. Burberry had reached cultural saturation, which meant it was primed for transformation.

And this era set the stage for Burberry’s supermodel moment; Kate Moss, Naomi Campbell, and later Cara Delevingne would push the brand fully into fashion‑celebrity mythology.

The clothes floated; they were softened and modernised. Trenches relaxed. Tailoring became poetic. The check returned: edited, elegant, and alive. Accessories blossomed into icons: oversized scarves, sculptural trenches, bags that felt both familiar and completely new. And then came the weather shows, Bailey’s party trick. Digital storms, wind machines, and rain that fell on cue. He turned the runway into its own micro-climate, proving Burberry didn’t just make outerwear; it could make the British weather feel cinematic.

 And then there was the moment that defined Burberry rebirth: Autumn/Winter 2014, when models glided down the runway in personalised ponchos. Luxury made intimate; modernity made romantic. Bailey’s Burberry wasn’t chasing celebrity; it attracted artists, actors, and musicians because the clothes felt like theirs.

Then came the pandemic, when runways reinvented themselves. Tisci staged shows in forests, on water, under open sky. It felt like a high-fashion nature documentary with a London soundtrack. Experimental, atmospheric, impossible to ignore. Burberry wasn’t performing for a room of editors anymore; it was performing for the world.

This era generated some of the most widely shared Burberry campaigns in modern memory: the viral Festive 2020 street‑dance routine; the gravity‑defying Open Spaces 2021 film; and Night Creatures 2022, with dancers confronting a surreal multi‑limbed beast on London streets. Tisci’s Burberry also drew in a new wave of global ambassadors including Bella Hadid and Kendall Jenner.

 By the end of his tenure, the house was leaner, sharper, more cosmopolitan. The logo was new, the monogram was everywhere, and the brand had stepped confidently into digital-first luxury, from livestreamed runways to entire collections built for a generation raised on street-lux codes.

The brilliance? Every vignette is a mini short film, cinematic, absurdly relatable, and unapologetically British. The campaign struts out a parade of talent: Barry Keoghan, Aimee Lou Wood, Lucky Blue Smith, each bringing their own dollop of charisma and cheek. Lee’s Burberry isn’t just showing clothes; it’s serving character, humour, and that unmistakable British swagger we can’t get enough of.

This campaign pushed Burberry into a new era: cinematic, inclusive, and confident enough to laugh at itself. This isn’t Burberry revived. It’s Burberry recharged.

Across 150 years, Burberry has pulled off a magic trick most brands can only dream of: staying unmistakably Burberry while constantly changing its mind. Every era left its fingerprint. The explorers who pushed gabardine to its limits. The post-war civilians who treated the trench like everyday armour. The Britpop kids who turned the Burberry bag and Burberry scarf into cultural shorthand. The digital revolution that let Burberry broadcast its shows to every corner of the internet. The return of the Equestrian Knight, the electric-blue reboot, the outerwear that morphed from the classic trench to the modern Burberry spring women’s coat. Even the accessories built their own lore, from street-leaning Burberry man’s bag styles to the brand’s first lifestyle leap with Burberry perfume.

And the through-line? Not a logo. Not a check. A mindset. Burberry moves forward (always) with a kind of effortless British shrug that says, “Yes, it’s raining. No, we’re not stopping.”

A house shaped by weather.
A symbol of British style.
A legacy that refuses to sit still.