Meet the hobbyists behind Damson Madder’s ​“Appreciation Society”

It’s official: being glued to your phone is out. Embracing your hobbies and spending time together? In! As we tire of the digital slop that fills our feeds like a bad smell, the desire for authentic, human connection grows stronger. Young people are yearning for gratifying experiences away from the glare of their smartphones, hoping to build relationships through shared interests, not shared content. Mahjong, trainspotting, geocaching, you name it… Small groups of hobbyists are thriving.

Damson Madder – the beloved British brand decking out It girls far and wide with peppy striped tees, slacks and cinched overcoats – has embraced this shift for its SS26 campaign, ​“Appreciation Society”. Basing the shoot around the beauty of togetherness, the brand has teamed up with Devon-based photographer Siân Davey to tell the story. It’s an apt choice: Davey’s leafy, sun-dappled work has often captured moments of connection both among or just outside the noise. Think: portraits of teenagers clustered around benches littered with beer bottles, families breaking bread across the dinner table and women plunging in fresh water.

This new season, her photographs hone in on three hobbies: mudlarking, birdwatching and roller skating. Together, they document the women who have coalesced around these niche pursuits, showcasing proud members within their chosen habitats. The mudlarkers shuffle through the beach, combing through junk and gems; Flock Together’s ​“birders” recline on winding branches, binoculars at the ready; and skaters twirl gracefully on eight wheels. Their get-ups are a mosaic of multi-scale checks, off-kilter pleating, zingy stripes and skewed ruffles, neatly tapping into the curiosity-led dressing that Damson Madder is known for. These are pieces that invite self-fashioning and reinvention, equipped for shapeshifting functions – layered or left alone, worn tight or loose, buttoned up or undone.

To celebrate the campaign’s arrival, THE FACE caught up with some of the featured groups’ key members. Meet professional rollerskater Ishariah Johnson, birdwatcher Chantelle Lindsay and mudlarker Sassafras Thomas to hear how roller skating is, actually, a metaphor for life, how birders are embracing diversity, and the oddities you find on the sandbanks of London.

Hey Ishariah, how did you get into roller skating?

When I was a kid, my dad used to run a youth club, and he used to do roller hockey and that kind of stuff. He and his brother both ran different youth clubs in the south [London] area, and they used to get their youth clubs to face [off against] each other in hockey. That’s how I started. Then I got back into it as an adolescent, when I was about 11, and again when I was 18 or 19. It’s been my life ever since.

What’s it like to skate in a group?

When you’re in a room full of skaters, it feels like we’re on a certain frequency – a sync. Not all the time, because you can still be an individual in that space, doing individual moves, but one thing we’re all doing is moving and connecting with the floor and music. A lot of times, we’re inside, so most of us are hearing the same music. When we’re outside, it’s more of an individual experience, but we’re still moving together. It depends on what your focus is. Some people do choreo, some do routines. You’ve got backwards skating, where people are in sync. It’s like a conversation happening. It depends on who you’re with and how the conversation on the floor happens. In the photoshoot [for Damson Madder’s campaign], I’ve known a lot of those skaters, and I’m a bit older than many of them, so I have an understanding of how to connect us together. Some of the younger skaters are learning that.

What makes a good session?

One of the key components is music. When the DJ connects with the crowd and understands what we want, it allows certain movements to happen. You have to be open to new things, new experiences and to push yourself. Yesterday I fell, and falling is part of roller skating. You have to learn how to fall because it’s a dangerous activity – and to progress.

What keeps you coming back every week?

Roller skating is like life. The whole falling and getting back up part. Every time I put my skates on, even if I don’t have a fulfilling session, I know I’ve learned something and put myself out there. I was a shy person growing up, and roller skating has helped my confidence. I tell people that roller skating is like a genie – whatever you wish you could do, you can find it through skating.

Does it give you something you don’t get elsewhere in life?

Yes, it’s the definition of freedom – like you’re floating, but on wheels. I tell people this when I’m teaching them. You’re not on your feet; you’re moving with momentum. The goal is to feel that freedom. In London, we don’t have many rinks, just one purpose-built roller disco. Most of the time we’re in sports halls, banquet halls or outside on the street. That’s why we enjoy it so much – we get to see [London] from a different perspective, [like] a tourist in our own city. It’s also a mental health benefit in this hectic, capitalist state. During the recession, when I was younger, it was hard to find jobs. Roller skating [offered me] a social space. You could go anywhere without needing money; you just needed skates. That’s a beautiful thing.

Are there any surprising aspects of the culture people might not expect?

With roller skating – and any subculture – people meet, couples form, children are born, divorces happen. It’s like a very interesting soap opera. I’ve seen so many people have their dreams come true. They become different people. Just because they invested in roller skating, some people [might] become DJs, photographers, videographers. It’s an entire ecosystem. It’s an artform that we’re trying to push. It’s made me like the superhero I imagined as a kid. I’m still a cynical person, but less so when I skate.

What’s your story, Chantelle?

I’m a wildlife conservationist, a presenter and a nature-connectedness facilitator, which basically means reconnecting people to nature in different ways, whether that’s walks, talks or bringing people out into nature. I’ve been birding for well over 10 years now, starting off as an amateur. Not that I’m an expert now, but that was literally looking out of my kitchen window with cheap binoculars from eBay.

What’s birding?

Birding is basically looking out for birds – any type of bird. It can be on a walk or from your window. Some people do it for casual fun, and others identify the bird or use the information to inform citizen science surveys. You could also do bird listening. You might be called a birder, or something a bit stranger, a twitcher.

Tell us about Flock Together. When did you join?

I joined Flock about four years ago, just as they were in their first year of starting up. It was a walk in Box Hill, in Surrey, and it was absolutely incredible. There were about 30 of us. The numbers that Flock has now are out of this world. It was incredible rounding the corner to the train station and seeing all of these Black and brown faces.

What makes Flock unique as a bird watching club?

That it’s for and by people of colour. Traditionally, a lot of bird watchers are older white men. With Flock, we can come together and enjoy nature, but at the same time, there’s a space for building community and creativity as well because founder Ollie [Olanipekun] brings that flair to it. So, you’re bird watching, but you’re in the coolest drip, in the coolest shoes.

Love! How does it feel being out together, as opposed to bird watching alone?

It brings a whole different vibe. You don’t feel like a weirdo walking around with binoculars, like you’re going to peer into people’s windows. It’s lovely seeing faces light up when they see a certain bird. When you’re bird watching, you might be focused on one point, but in a group someone might see a jay or a magpie elsewhere, and you get to bounce off each other. Seeing that connectedness makes my heart glow.

What is the biggest impact bird watching has had on you?

The art of noticing. It’s one of the first steps to connecting with nature. We’re always rushing, but bird watching slows you down. You have to notice the sounds, the flapping of wings, the rustle in the trees or a flash of blue across the skyline. It’s really good for my mental health. When times are hard and you’re in your own bubble, it’s comforting to know the bird world is still carrying on – singing, making nests, breeding.

Has bird watching changed the way you move through the city?

Absolutely. A lot of people think London is nature-depleted, but it’s actually one of the greenest cities in the world. We did a Flock Together walk in a park in the middle of the city, and we still saw herons, pigeons, robins, magpies, crows. These are birds we see every day and take for granted. But if you went on a walk [as] a child, even seeing a fifth crow can still be amazing.

Do you have a favourite bird or a favourite memory in your time as a birder?

One of my favourites is seeing a kingfisher. I’ve seen a few, but the first time it was just a flash of blue disappearing into the distance. Recently, we were filming a segment about kingfishers at Walthamstow Wetlands, and one appeared, diving into the water, hovering, perching on a branch. It was magical. I didn’t want to move.

Was there a moment when you realised you’d found your community?

That very first walk. At the time, we’d heard that the wildlife conservation and environmental sector was the second least diverse sector in the UK after farming, and it was around the time of the George Floyd tragedy. It was a low moment, especially for Black people. To see everyone come together outdoors was amazing. I’ve seen people who didn’t care about birds become interested. Flock Together has made bird watching cool.

Hey. What’s your story, Sassafras?

Hello! I’m an artist and just finished studying art at Goldsmiths. I started mudlarking around two years ago in Deptford. I don’t remember exactly how [I got into it], but I remember I went with my boyfriend the first time. He used to live around there, and we’d go down to the beach sometimes. I think he heard about it from someone local, but it just kind of seemed like a fun thing to do.

How would you describe mudlarking?
It’s a very relaxing, mindful thing, just staring at the ground for a very long time. Slow and quiet. I also love the historical aspect to it. It feels like you’re going through time when you find an old piece of pipe. [In essence], it’s combing through the beach or riverbanks, looking through the pebbles and finding bits of old things. There’s glass, pottery, things like that. There’s sometimes more valuable stuff you can find, but that’s a bit more difficult.

Do you remember the first thing you found?

Definitely a clay pipe. There are a lot of them down there. The best thing I have ever found is quite a big chunk of what is called pirate glass. It’s very thick, dark glass that they would have used in the 1700s and 1800s to transport rum and wine to protect whatever was inside it better. I have the bottom of a bottle that I found, which I think is pretty cool.

Do you usually mudlark alone or with others?

Usually with someone else. It’s less of [an ostensibly] social activity because we don’t talk so much while we’re doing it, but it’s fun to go to the pub afterwards and talk about what you found. I like showing people the things that I have found. There would definitely be an active conversation about it. I think it is kind of social.

Do you think it is something people need a natural inclination towards?

I think most people would get something out of it. Some people might not find it that interesting, but I feel like collecting things and the historical aspect of it can be really fascinating.

What would you consider a good day of mudlarking?

Finding something I have never found before, even if it is nothing valuable. Just finding something that inspires me in a way, something that is a cool shape or colour. The slowness of it does really get you out of that fast-paced city life, especially when you are so central. T

Do you think you learn to know what to look for?

I think so, yeah. The more you do it, the more your eye trains to the shapes you are looking for, and it gets easier. When you are down by the Thames, there’s a lot of modern rubbish as well, so you have to learn how to differentiate what things are made of.

What emotions or words come to mind when you think about mudlarking?

Peaceful[ness] comes to mind. Especially being by the river and hearing the waves come in, and slowly looking around. Being able to find an escape from the hustle and bustle is kind of special. The serenity, as well.