Wimbledon, Design and Tradition in Five Sets

Wimbledon Official´s Photography

Design Doesn’t Always Mean New — Wimbledon Knows Why

For two weeks in July, the world turns its eyes to Centre Court. But for those who have ever lived in Wimbledon — truly lived there — the real magic starts long before the first serve.

I had the pleasure of calling Wimbledon home for a few years. Not just passing through for a match or a press pass, but living quietly among its old-world rituals. I walked its commons in the early mornings, watched dew rise like mist from the grass, and learned the unique silence of a neighbourhood that has absolutely nothing to prove.

It’s a place where the aesthetic isn’t curated — it’s inherited. Where the rhythm of life moves at a kind of pastoral tempo. There are horses on the bridle paths, children in school uniforms tumbling out of charming cottages, and locals who gather not for the sake of trend, but for continuity.

The cafés — Maison St Cassien, The Ivy Café, or the perfectly weathered Al Forno — aren't designed to look old. They simply are. Their walls remember.

The Hand in Hand pub, tucked behind the Common like something from a literary postcard, became one of my frequent haunts. Not because of its reputation (though it has one), but because it didn’t try to impress. Ale is poured without irony. Locals chat without urgency. You sit beneath the exposed beams and forget, gloriously, that modernity ever became a race.

This is what Wimbledon does better than anywhere else: it values atmosphere over acceleration. And that’s not just a lifestyle choice — it’s a design principle.

You feel it most, of course, during the tournament. But the tournament is merely an extension of the village. Not the other way around. When you step onto the grounds of the All England Lawn Tennis Club, you’re stepping into a living thesis about restraint and refinement. No billboards. No neon. No brand invasions. Just ivy-covered walls, grass courts cut to millimetres, and the unmistakable calm of something that refuses to rush.

And yet, sponsorships are there — very there. But they’re curated.

Since 2006, Ralph Lauren has served not merely as a sponsor, but as a kind of aesthetic steward of Wimbledon. It was the first time in the tournament’s 129-year history that an external brand was entrusted with dressing the officials. But true to the Wimbledon spirit, Ralph Lauren didn’t arrive with disruption — it arrived with discipline. From the umpires’ navy blazers to the ball boys' and girls’ crisp polos, every piece is designed not to stand out, but to belong. Even the merchandise — sold exclusively on-site — echoes this tone: timeless cuts, heritage fonts, no theatrics. Ralph Lauren’s role at Wimbledon is not about fashion. It’s about ambience. Quietly, intentionally, it has helped shape the visual and emotional atmosphere of the tournament — proving that design is not just what we see, but what we feel when a place is fully itself.

During the years I lived in Wimbledon, one detail that always struck me — quietly, like most things there — was the presence of Land Rovers. Not in a showy procession, but in a carefully orchestrated ritual. Each year, the brand would select the same model, same colour — usually a deep, understated green or navy — to transport top players, officials, and select guests through the village. The vehicles were discreetly marked with small

Wimbledon crests, no more than a few inches wide, and yet they were everywhere. Gliding past cafés, waiting outside iron gates, and parked near the quiet lanes behind the All England Club. It wasn’t about visibility. It was about continuity. Land Rover didn’t just offer transportation — it extended the ambience of the tournament into the village itself. Like the matches, the cars moved with precision, purpose, and just the right amount of ceremony.

Each of them represents a different form of tradition. Ralph Lauren, with its sporting aristocracy and naval precision. Land Rover, with its dignified utility and heritage in the British countryside. And Rolex — the keeper of time, yes, but also the keeper of continuity. Rolex doesn’t advertise trends.

It upholds standards. The Datejust still looks like the Datejust. The Oyster case still clicks with the same gravity. Like Wimbledon, it holds its form — and in doing so, becomes a symbol of design that doesn’t need to evolve to remain superior.

This is not just marketing. This design and philosophy.

And it’s not limited to fashion or cars. This aesthetic philosophy ripples outward — into the residential streets, the restaurants, the worn iron gates and deep green hedges. It’s a total environment, one where design exists as atmosphere. This isn’t "style" — this is syntax. A way of speaking, a way of seeing.

There’s a term in Japanese design: shibui. It refers to a kind of understated beauty, simple but refined, deeply balanced, quietly powerful. Wimbledon is shibui in English. It doesn’t announce its relevance — it earns it. Every year, every match, every perfectly poured Pimms is a small ceremony in how to remain iconic without ever changing too much.

And that’s the paradox: in an era where real estate is measured in ROI, Wimbledon reminds us that true value lies in narrative continuity. In design that is felt, not just seen.

It’s no wonder homes in the area command such respect. They're not competing with the new. They're offering the timeless. The kind of luxury that's not in marble countertops but in how the afternoon light falls through a sash window, or the way a gravel path leads to a blue door you've passed for years and still admire.

As a designer and visual strategist, this has stayed with me. It reshaped how I understand space. It taught me that good design is never just about visual impact. It’s about what a place invites you to believe. About the kind of life it promises, even in silence.

So, whether you’re launching a development, reimagining a brand, or designing a space meant to last — consider Wimbledon. Not for its spectacle, but for its discipline. For the way it proves that beauty, when cultivated over time, becomes something far rarer than newness:

It becomes trust.