What we inherit from our fathers, whether it’s a wobbly golf game, a fulsome beard or a vintage timepiece, is often priceless. Dad’s pearls of wisdom, delivered over a Sunday roast or on the way home from football practice, can help to craft us into the (mostly) functional adults we are today. And part of being a functional adult is dressing the part, so it stands to reason that our fathers have had a hand in our sense of style.

OK, sure, dads have been known to make some bad style decisions in retrospect, but let’s be fair: wildly enormous flares and a mop of feathered hair or a perfectly coiffed afro were, at one time, the height of cool. And who are we to cast stones at knobbly sweaters with off-putting patterns? Perhaps dads (of today and of yesteryear) know a bit more about fashion than we give them credit for.

Since the MR PORTER team seems to have come through childhood with a good dash of style savvy, we are paying tribute to our old men in honour of Father’s Day on Sunday. Below, the style lessons we have learned from our fathers over the years – may they help you on your sartorial journey as they have helped us.

The handsome young man in the flight jacket seen smouldering above on the bonny banks of Loch Lomond is my father, a gentle Scottish man who has lived through many eras of fashion. Having been an art school student he’s always been quick to adapt and embrace the current trends – from platform shoes to Stan Smiths – and still remains well-versed and well-dressed for any occasion.

Don’t get me wrong, though, all this style comes with a few questionable moments like a brief relationship with cowboy boots or his detective Poirot moustache and fedora phase that maybe lasted a little longer than it should have. Despite these missteps, he has always managed to retain his cool, an air of maturity and an amazing collection of jewellery. The latter is due to a successful career as a jeweller, so his collection includes both items he has either created himself and those he collected along the way.

Being blessed with such a talented father has allowed for my own acquisition of a few beautiful pieces over the years as well as the edict that there is a very fine line between too much and not enough.

When I was young, my dad would tell us wild stories of lavish parties thrown by his parents when his own father was a high-level Turkish diplomat. (I, very sadly, never met my paternal grandparents, but they sounded like a fancy hoot.) His memories were of the beautiful uniforms worn by his father (also an air force general) and chic frocks donned by his mother. Many of his stories, in fact, include detailed accounts of the fashions of the day – praising his parents for their appreciation of fine fabrics and well-made garments.

To this day, he talks wistfully of handmade suits from the 1950s, or English tweeds he picked up as a boarding schoolboy on the Isle of Wight. Though his style has now shifted to accommodate his own retirement (think fishing vests, not used for fishing, and wide-wale aubergine corduroy slacks), he maintains a certain old-world elegance. And, I think, that’s the lesson I’ve learnt from him. That elegance is a quality for which to strive, and that craftsmanship is paramount. Though I may not always follow the specific style advice (solicited or not) he gives to me, I look forward to telling my own children stories of him in his heyday. 

My dad has taught me lots of vital lessons over the past 31 years. Finish what’s on your plate. Enjoy bordeaux. Drink Bass. Never follow grape with grain. Go for a walk. Say please and thank you. Always steal something from your hotel room. Pay with cash. Question authority (unless, of course, it is his own). Never check in luggage. Keep your keys in a flat cap. And always, always make friends with good dogs.

He has also imparted a couple of style tips along the way, too: the importance of a decent suit, perhaps, and why I ought to polish my shoes. And he does look great here in his garden in 1987, clearly in the midst of a Mr JP Donleavy phase (life lesson no. 13: read The Ginger Man!) But no one should be impressed by your clothes if you don’t try to live well.

I am the third generation of Davies to work in menswear. Mr Dan Davies, my grandfather and the man I was named after, was a menswear buyer at Harrods for close to 40 years. The youngest of eight children brought up in a tiny worker’s cottage in Wales, he headed to London, developed a taste for the finer things in life and was never less than immaculately dressed. I never met my grandfather, who died before I was born, but I have explored and written about his life and his relationship with my father, and I still have a small selection of his beautiful clothes hanging in my own wardrobe at home.

My grandfather (taid in Welsh) wanted to make his son in his own image, but my father, Mr Clive Davies (pictured above), was his own man. He too wore beautiful suits from Jermyn Street and Savile Row, particularly during the years he worked part-time in Harrods, and then owned a firm making silk dressing gowns and cashmere scarves. But he was always more comfortable in a rugby kit, caked in mud and sweat with men after his own heart. What he instilled in me was the importance of in finding and following my own path, whether that be in what I wear (though he still has palpitations at the memory of me sitting down for dinner sporting an earring) or what I do. 

Dad was from Tehran, Iran, and in the 1970s, it was a very different place than it is today. People used to dress to impress. He was very well-groomed and had a love of Italian suits and shoes. His style was classic with a subtle touch of pizazz. 

When we were younger, he was always away on business trips, but made sure he came home with the gifts – standouts include gorgeous silk kimonos from Japan and beautiful leather shoes from his frequent trips to Italy.

I’ll never forget a story my sister tells about my dad, which I think encapsulates him so well. When she was around 12 (I was just a baby), she was buying a pair of school shoes in Clarks. At the time, she was wearing a pair of navy soft-leather shoes from his last trip to Milan. Someone commented on them and enquired where they were from – she proudly replied “Italy!” Turns out it was a bit too proudly, though – after we left the shop, my dad told her off for coming across as an over privileged snob. Lesson learnt? Take pride in your appearance without showing off.

My father was stylish and he knew it. Before he’d leave the house for an outing, he’d parade in front of my mum, my sisters and me to ask us, “Do I look good?” When we’d respond with the obligatory eyerolls, he’d check himself out in the mirror and conclude that, yes, indeed, he looked good.

He had his signature accessories he wouldn’t leave home without – a watch on his right wrist, a signet ring on his wedding finger (he lost his wedding ring in a Birmingham laundromat and never replaced it) and a gold chain way before Connell from Normal People.

I didn’t quite inherit the vanity gene (my twin sister on the other hand…), but I learnt to always look put together when leaving the house and not need anyone’s validation. Here he is pictured on his wedding day in August 1981 in all-white everything (very on-trend now, by the way). Bet he didn’t need anyone to tell him he looked good. He just knew it.