There is no shortage of talk about fabric blends in outdoor clothing. You’ll see promises of “moisture control”, “stretch”, or “performance” printed across labels, yet much of it hides a simple truth: each fabric behaves differently because it was born for a different purpose. To understand why cotton t-shirts remain central to our range, it helps to strip away the marketing and look closely at what these materials actually do in the wild.
Cotton: The Familiar Workhorse
Cotton is one of the oldest fibres we still rely on. It’s natural, plant-based and woven into more of daily life than most realise. It breathes, it softens with use, and it takes on the memory of the person wearing it. Out on a relaxed walk or sat beside a campfire, that familiarity counts for something.
Its strength lies in comfort and regulation rather than speed. Cotton absorbs moisture, which can be a drawback for high-intensity hiking or wet climates, but for slower pursuits it creates a steady, breathable layer that feels like part of your own skin. When the pace drops and the air cools, there’s a quiet satisfaction in wearing something that doesn’t feel technical or synthetic.
Cotton’s environmental footprint depends on how it’s grown. Conventional cotton can be water-intensive, but global initiatives such as Textile Exchange are helping push better standards through organic farming and reduced-impact dyeing. Well-made cotton garments can last years, especially when cared for correctly, so longevity matters more than buzzwords.
Polyester: Engineered Endurance
Polyester was designed in a laboratory to do what cotton could not. It’s a plastic-based fibre, spun from petroleum derivatives and engineered for strength, quick drying and wrinkle resistance. For sportswear and technical base layers, it makes sense: it’s light, tough and holds its shape through repeated use.
In outdoor gear, polyester shines when activity levels are high. It moves moisture away from the skin rather than soaking it up. That’s why trail runners and cyclists reach for it. It dries quickly at camp, resists shrinking, and can take more abrasion than most natural fabrics.
The problem appears when comfort and quiet become the goal. Polyester holds odour, it traps heat, and over time it loses its softness. It also releases microplastics during washing, a growing concern that organisations such as WRAP UK continue to highlight. For anyone chasing stillness rather than speed, that constant synthetic presence can feel misplaced.
Tri-Blends: The Middle Ground
Tri-blend fabric is exactly what the name suggests: a mix of cotton, polyester and usually rayon or viscose. Brands lean on it for drape, colour depth and a soft, worn-in feel straight off the shelf. On paper it sounds like the perfect compromise. In practice, it behaves differently depending on which fibre dominates.
If polyester takes the lead, it will dry fast but feel slick against the skin. If cotton dominates, it breathes but holds water. Rayon adds drape and softness, though at the cost of durability. Tri-blends often look good and feel light, but they can age unpredictably. Once worn thin, they’re difficult to recycle because the fibres are fused together during production. Recycling systems separate materials far less efficiently when a single thread contains multiple polymers.
There is no simple verdict. Tri-blends can be ideal for lifestyle wear where feel matters more than performance, but they aren’t a long-term choice for sustainable or rugged outdoor use.
The Sensory Difference Outdoors
Spend enough time outside and you start to notice the small things: the sound of a shirt brushing through wet grass, or how a damp sleeve clings at the wrist when fog hangs low over the moor. Those details define comfort more than labels do.
Cotton breathes with the landscape. It grows softer with each wash, picking up the faint scent of woodsmoke after a night around the fire. Polyester stays the same from day one to day one hundred, consistent but characterless. Tri-blends sit somewhere in between, offering a smooth handle but not the same lived-in texture.
The difference becomes obvious when you stop moving. After a day walking in mild weather, setting up camp and leaning back against a tree, cotton still feels right. It holds warmth without stifling it, and once dry, it settles like a second skin. That small comfort is what draws many back to natural fibres despite the pull of performance marketing.
Environmental Reality
No fibre is perfect. Cotton needs responsible cultivation, polyester requires fossil fuel feedstock, and tri-blends complicate recycling. What matters is how long each garment lasts and how easily it can return to the earth when its time is done.
A good sustainable materials guide will show that natural fibres degrade more easily than synthetics. A plain cotton shirt can compost over months under the right conditions, whereas polyester takes decades and breaks into microplastics along the way. Tri-blends sit awkwardly in between: too synthetic to break down quickly, too mixed to reclaim cleanly.
Longevity bridges the gap. A heavy cotton top, worn for years and repaired when needed, beats any short-life synthetic on environmental impact. The fewer garments produced, the fewer resources drawn. Simple arithmetic, often ignored.
Why Cotton Still Makes Sense for Us
We build for the slower end of the spectrum. Days that stretch out across fells, evenings with smoke drifting from the fire, quiet moments watching the light fade across a field. The cotton t-shirts we use are chosen because they suit that rhythm. They aren’t meant to wick away every drop of sweat or promise peak efficiency. They’re meant to feel right when the pace drops and the world settles into stillness.
That doesn’t mean polyester or tri-blends have no place. They excel in other environments. But our work sits at the intersection of comfort, simplicity and durability. Cotton still answers that call more honestly than anything else we’ve tested.
It’s not nostalgia that keeps us using it. It’s trust earned through years of small proof: the way it softens, the way it breathes, and the way it feels like part of the landscape rather than something imposed upon it.