Every so often, MrElaineous and I decide to declutter. We get rid of DVDs that won’t be re-watched and books that won’t be re-read, sort through clothing that has seen better days, and downsize the number of knickknacks and dust-catchers scattered around the house. In general, we try to streamline our belongings to those that spark Kondian joy or which are needed on at least an annual basis.

However, there is one little problem with making regular deposits at the local charity shops. I occasionally feel the need to make a withdrawal. Some random item will catch my eye and I want to take it home.

I’ve gotten a little better at fighting this urge by asking myself two questions before I buy anything on impulse: 1) where is it going to live in the house, and 2) how am I going to get rid of it? If it can go back to a charity shop, great, but I think twice if it’s something that might end up in a landfill.

One such item that caught my eye over the summer was a vintage Singer sewing machine with a beautiful wooden case. I saw it on Friday, spent the weekend figuring out where I would put it if I bought it, and then went down on Monday to seal the deal. Except someone else had already purchased it. Oops.

So when I saw a vintage Howell’s sewing machine during a recent charity shop trawl, I swooped in since I already had a place for it in mind. Withdrawal successful. With MrElaineous’ help I must add. Vintage sewing machines are blooming heavy.

But I have to be upfront with you: I don’t sew. I have no desire to learn to sew. Our local Timpson’s does all the repair and alteration work I need. I just think the classic machines are a beautiful union of form and function: practical engineering covered with lovely designs. This one will become part of our living room decoration (“Victorian study” is a design aesthetic, right?).

Although it won’t be used, I was curious about it. I had never heard of a Howell’s sewing machine before, and neither had Google. If doing a PhD taught me anything, it was how to do research, so I went down a fascinating rabbit hole, learning far more than I expected along the way.

The first thing I discovered was that the machine was manufactured by Jones & Co. Jones sewing machines appear to be the UK equivalent of Singer, and hundreds of thousands of them were manufactured from 1860 to 1968. One of the most common makes of machine was the Jones Family C.S., with the C.S. standing for cylindrical shuttle. I sort of tuned out at this point, but apparently this refers to the tube-shaped bit that holds the bobbin.

Like its Singer brethren, the Jones machines are also given serial numbers. The number on mine placed it between 1901 and 1920. This was the first evidence I had that it was at least a century old.

The different name painted on the arm of the machine is because Jones produced a lot of what are known as labelled machines: it was their standard product but with another company’s name on it. There are many white-labelled goods today that do the same thing, but I was surprised to see this has been going on for well over a hundred years.

So, what was Howell’s? Thanks to an incredibly comprehensive list of labelled machines compiled by Sew Muse, I could see that an organisation with this name made a purchase around 1911. Because it sounded like the name of a department store, I entered Howell’s department store into Google … and jackpot.

Howells—at some point it lost its apostrophe—was a premier shopping venue in Cardiff for over 150 years. It was opened in 1867 by James Howell as a draper’s shop, a place that sold fabric and textiles. The store grew to over 400 staff by the turn of the century and went well beyond just selling cloth. At James Howell’s death in 1909, the business was left to his 11 children. Perhaps this is why the name went from possessive to plural? Either way, it is easy to imagine the store having a collection of sewing machines to offer tailoring and alterations to customers in a bygone age where even off-the-rack fashion could be made bespoke.

The business itself was taken over by House of Fraser in 1972, and the venue became vacant just last year. It’s been purchased by developers who plan to invest £100 million into turning it into a mixed-use space containing retail, office, residential and leisure opportunities. Yes, I have borrowed that language directly from the developer’s website.

But that’s in the future. In the here and now, a humble vintage sewing machine has given me a fascinating glimpse into the past of a Welsh landmark. I wish I knew more about its journey from Cardiff to a charity shopping in Chippenham, but I think that part of its life is likely to remain a mystery.

I’m not going to share exactly how much I paid, but let’s just say far, far less than the prices of some machines you can find online (e.g. here, here, and here). Indeed, for under £50, it is an incredibly cheap way to time travel. Consider my joy well and truly sparked.