Pullingers

Pullinger’s is the last bastion of the old guard surviving in the North Laines. With the air of a knight in a death-​or-​glory charge or a crusty old major confronted by a feminist, it stubbornly refuses to compromise to its trendy surroundings, its widest range being of shoes that I’m certain my mother was forced to wear to school back in the 1970s. Admittedly it has made the reluctant concession that Dr. Martens are never going away, and has sheepishly included a small but well-​chosen range of them in the window, but that’s just enticing the hippies in with bait more reliable than a pint of hempen ale and a guitar with four strings on it. If one of them ever gets past the doorway, I get the feeling that that major will be hauled out of the cellar to give them some terse words, a short back-​and-​sides and a few well-​placed strokes to the seat of the trousers with his trusty shooting-​stick.
I wish I could say that Pullinger’s is a traditional, craftsman-​run cobblers with beautifully made shoes of a forgotten era and that we should all go there to be meekly shod in brogues that will last us for life. Unfortunately, it isn’t. It’s not old enough to have come round again, and the shoes sold here aren’t craftsmen-​stitched masterpieces, just unfashionable and unflattering. In fact the only thing that doesn’t seem to have made any effort to resist progress is the price range, which has raised commensurate with inflation without the faintest murmur of protest. The DMs are well chosen, the staff are friendly, the sign is beautifully painted with an aesthetically pleasing font, the window display is impressive for the sheer number of things they’ve managed to cram into it. None of these things, however, can truly compensate for the fact that there’s nothing in here I want to buy, and it’s all too expensive. I love the frontage of Pullinger’s for being a relic of a past era. However, they’ve carefully erased any need or interest I once had in going in.

In need of some urgent and vital shoe repair, I took to the streets to get my old but still usable shoes fixed.
Stopping off at Pullingers I was ushered in and sat down in a very tight corner with two elderly women. At first it seemed like they didn’t want my business at all but I persisted with a few questions about the possibilities of salavaging my shoes. They didn’t seem hopeful.
As lovely as they were, they didn’t really offer any advice or instructions on extending the longevity of said shoes. In fact, they told me to bin them. My heart sank and I left.
I had a nice chat though.

I’ve been inside Pullingers shoe store a couple times now — they never seem to have my size. I try on a shoe that’s too big (or boot, today) and the sales clerk heads down to the basement to check the stock and returns unsuccessfully.
Both times, though, the service has been very nice. The first woman offered to order a pair in my size, and the clerk today pointed me to a shoe store down the block where they might carry smaller sizes.
Even with the small selection, the store feels a bit cramped — especially if you’re trying to find a stool to try something on. Even two customers in the shop at once puts everyone in very close quarters.
I’d recommend checking this shop out when it’s not a busy time — and if you need repairs, they have another location for that — on George Street.

If I spend more than a few minutes in Pullingers, I usually have flash-​backs of my childhood.
I’m not talking memories of swimming in the ocean or jumping on trampolines either. I’m talking bad memories of being dragged around Clarke’s and shoe shops like Pullingers by my mum. Whilst other girls in my class were encouraged to wear patent or fancy shoes to school, I was subjected to the most dull and sensible shoes on the planet to encourage my feet to grow properly.
Pullingers have a small line of biker boots and Doc Martens in the window but the rest of this tiny, independent store is packed head to toe with shoes my mother would love. I might go back to get my cowboy boots fixed — since they offer a reasonable shoe repair service — but I’ll just close my eyes.