In an industry that has thrived for the last decade on everything that Cabourn’s collection is not – fast, disposable, catwalk-inspired fashion of the kind espoused internationally by European brands such as Zara, Mango and H&M – his would seem a recipe for trouble. But, while the European menswear market has shown sluggish growth of just 2% since 2003, to around €68bn a year before the recession hit (Europe accounts for 41% of the global menswear market by value), his business is thriving. Relaunched in 2003 – and with the first collection taking two years to sell in – the brand has just nudged €1.1m a year turnover, with €2.2m expected within a year or so. Cabourn has also opened his first shop in Tokyo, and now has 100 accounts worldwide, compared with just 40 in 2008.

Vindication for what might seem madness, however, is now on the cards too, as Cabourn’s super-specialist model is being emulated. Outdoor clothing competitor companies, such as Rohan and Barbour – which have both, along with Berghaus and Nautica, hired Cabourn as design/brand consultant – have, in recent years, launched more elitist lines, with the likes of US giants Woolrich, Timberland, Red Wing and Carhartt doing the same. Each has used Cabourn’s technique of raiding the archives, or has hired an outside agency to give their traditionalism a contemporary overhaul.

It is, he argues, a lesson for any brand purveying upmarket goods: brash is over; small is beautiful; super-specialist is in demand. Pushed hard enough as an ethos, he argues that this might even prove a foundation for the future of the factories he works with, many of which face an uncertain future thanks to many of their bigger, more profit-motivated clothing clients taking production to the Far East.

“There is just so much crap around and we’re bored of it,” says Cabourn. “It’s true of many product areas, but fashion especially has come to be dominated by the hyping of brand image in order to sell what is, on closer inspection, simply not very good at all. It was perhaps inevitable there would be some kind of backlash. There are not many, but there are enough customers to create a market for products that are genuinely useful and genuinely good. Consumers are looking for anything unique, anything grounded in substance, for a point of view.”

At a time when consumers are seeking greater exclusivity, Cabourn’s is an especially timely offering. Almost by definition his clothes are limited edition, but they also fit the recessionary trend for best-in-class speciality, with their high investment value and insider quotient making them a riposte for consumers wise to ubiquitous designer labels or their short-lived, high-street versions.

It has taken Cabourn some time to develop this business practice. His fashion career began in retail with the founding of the seminal British store Cricket, before he launched his first, more mass-market men’s line, one inspired by the pop music of the time, making big hits of loon pants and ‘Budgie’ jackets in the process. “But chasing volume was increasingly a struggle,” he says. His Damascus moment came when one-time employee Paul Smith – yes, the man behind the now global fashion label – gave him a vintage jacket. Cabourn bought more and his knowledge of what was then considered an alternative field began to flourish, and with it the idea for a more purist product.

“Nobody was working from vintage clothing then but that early work triggered something in me: an appreciation for real clothing, which I think is what the market calls for now,” he says. “I have no interest in fashion at all anymore. I’ve reached an age when I just want to do what I believe in. And, although this kind of business will never be huge like Paul’s, I think there are enough other people who believe in it to make it work at his scale. It might not sound like good business practice on paper, but I’d honestly let profit suffer in order to get out exactly the garments I want to get out.”

That designer Nigel Cabourn spends upwards of £30,000 yearly on clothes may simply suggest that he has an exceptionally large wardrobe. That those clothes rarely fit him and are often tattered rather suggests he is certifiable. But old clothes – ‘vintage’ in more recent fashion parlance – specifically, military and workwear pieces of archival, museum standard, are the bedrock of Cabourn’s business; the inspiration for his modern functional menswear.

It is, he concedes, a peculiar, counterintuitive business model: not only is there the research expenditure but the resulting biannual collections are small (perhaps as few as 12 pieces) and made in limited numbers (maybe only 50 of each design); each garment is extremely work-intensive, often requiring the development of fixtures and fabrics, and at considerable expense; there is the constant liaison with more than 15 specialist factories, as well as monthly trips to Japan where his biggest fan base is found; and, to top it all, few retailers are willing to risk paying perhaps €500 wholesale in the hope of being able to sell a coat for more than €1,500 retail.

“That’s why I have to sell globally – there just aren’t enough fanatics around. There aren’t many men who get what the fuss is about with these clothes and I have to reach them all to make it work,” says the 60-year-old, Newcastle, UK-based designer. “There may be only 80 men in the world who would spend that kind of money to have that particular coat.” And it would be a very particular coat, appealing to the most obsessive of sartorial nerds, as concerned with the nature of its provenance as the number of stitches.

As Cabourn says, the designs “don’t come out of my head, but out of heritage; much of my work is research” – which explains a trip to New Zealand just to spend a few hours studying the very parka that Edmund Hillary wore to conquer Everest. The same attention to detail has been paid to his promotional material – artificially aged, beautifully finished books – which, though expensive to produce, has won him several design awards.