Our story — Meet KIYOSHI
Before Merton Goods, I spent 15 years as a mechanical engineer in northern Sydney, working on systems where small mistakes could cause big problems. I always liked making things outside work too, but it wasn’t until a camping trip to Cradle Mountain in 2018 that I noticed just how much everyday gear isn’t built to last. A tote I’d bought only a year earlier ripped at the seams, leaving half the groceries in the carpark. It seemed like no one was thinking about how these simple items could be made better.
Back then, my weekends were spent tinkering in my garage in Lane Cove, building furniture and tools to solve problems around the house. I often used jigs and measurements borrowed from my engineering days, but I realised what I enjoyed most wasn’t following specs — it was figuring out smarter ways to make something work. After that camping trip, I started sketching ideas for a tote bag that wouldn’t fail like that first one.
By 2019, I was spending more time in my garage than anywhere else, and it was getting serious. I sourced organic cotton from a supplier in Victoria and went through 12 prototypes before I got the seams right. In June that year, I made the first 20 Merton Eco Canvas Totes by hand, sewing late at night. I listed them online, just to see what would happen. They sold out in three days. That’s when I decided to turn my side project into a full-time thing. By the end of 2020, we’d outgrown the garage and moved the workshop to Launceston.
These days, Merton Goods makes everyday items that are built to last, using materials that make sense. I still oversee all the production details — tolerances, weights, and finishes matter in every product we make. It’s not glamorous work, but it’s the kind of work I enjoy. I’m glad others seem to find it useful too.
— Keep it simple, and make it strong. — KIYOSHI, KIYOSHI MATSUMOTO
Journal
Why We Only Use 100% Australian Wool
Australian wool isn't just local — it's resilient, breathable, and perfect for throws that actually get used year-round.
When I started making our wool throw blankets, I thought all wool was roughly the same. How wrong I was. After trialing imported wool blends that turned out scratchy or sagged after a few washes, I took a closer look at the wool industry here in Australia. Turns out, there’s a reason our wool is prized worldwide. The Merino sheep, specifically, produce fibres that are finer and softer than most. It’s also naturally breathable, which is great in Tassie’s unpredictable weather — cool mornings, warm afternoons.
Our wool comes from a farm south of Campbell Town. They run about 4,500 Merinos, focusing on fibre quality over sheer quantity. I visited in early spring when the shearers were working. The process is meticulous, and the owner, Rob, explained that they sort the fibres into three grades on-site. Only the top grade leaves the property for processing.
Once the wool is delivered, it’s washed and spun into yarn at the mill in Geelong. This was another important step for me — I didn’t want it bouncing back and forth across the globe. Keeping it all within Australia reduces transport miles and, honestly, just feels like the proper way to do it. The mill even told me they handle about 120 tonnes of wool annually, which sounds enormous until you see these machines humming away.
When we’re cutting and hemming the throws, the tolerances matter. Wool has a bit of give, so you can’t treat it the same as, say, canvas. I built a jig to guide the straight cuts and then developed a hemming pattern using triple stitching. It’s slower, but it means the edges won’t unravel after a few washes. Every blanket is basically tested as it’s made — if it doesn’t lie flat or feels uneven, it’s back to square one.
What I’ve loved most is seeing these throws in other people’s homes. I’ve had friends tell me they’re perfect for everything from snugging up on the couch to keeping warm at soccer matches in July. Wool, if you treat it well, is one of those materials that stays with you for years. Maybe decades.
The Jig That Changed How We Make Boards
The bamboo charcuterie boards used to take twice as long to make before I built a simple jig last summer.
Every maker has a nemesis, and mine was the bamboo charcuterie boards. I love working with bamboo — it’s strong, lightweight, and grows ridiculously fast, making it a solid choice environmentally. But the grain and density make it frustrating to work with. I used to cut every groove by hand to fit the cheese knives snugly, and a single misstep meant the whole board was wasted. After about the 10th ruined board in 2022, I decided to solve the problem properly.
The jig I built is embarrassingly simple. It’s essentially a track with adjustable clamps that hold the bamboo in place. A router, mounted on a sliding arm, cuts the precise groove depth every time. It took me three days to build, since the track tolerances had to be within 0.5mm. Anything wider and the router could wobble.
With the jig, what used to take 20 minutes per board now takes about seven. It also means less scrap material, which is important because bamboo sheets aren't cheap — I pay $85 for a 2m x 1m sheet. I can now cut about 18 boards from one sheet, with minimal waste. Before the jig, it was more like 12 or 13 because of errors.
Another benefit I didn’t expect was consistency in feedback. I sent a batch of boards to a friend who hosts workshops in Hobart, and she told me how satisfying it was that every knife slot fit perfectly, no wobble. It’s these little details that people might not consciously notice but impact how they feel about the product.
I know most people don’t think about how their boards are made, but for me, this kind of problem-solving is the whole point. Every time I use the jig, I know it saved me hours of frustration and improved the end result.
How to Keep Your Eco Canvas Tote Looking Sharp
Eco canvas is tough stuff, but a few tweaks to your routine can keep it clean without compromising durability.
Canvas bags are supposed to be tough, right? They are, but eco canvas needs a slightly different approach if you want to keep it looking sharp. Eco canvas is made from recycled polyester fibres blended with cotton, which means it’s a little softer than traditional canvas and more prone to staining if you’re not careful. I’ve been testing different cleaning methods on my own tote for months, so here’s what works (and what doesn’t).
First, forget the washing machine. It’s tempting, but it can rough up the material and weaken the seams. Instead, spot clean with a damp sponge and mild soap — even dish soap works. I found that letting stains sit for more than 48 hours makes them twice as hard to remove, so a quick clean-up is worth the effort. For oil stains, cornstarch works surprisingly well; just brush off the powder after it absorbs the grease.
If the bag gets wet — say you’re out in Launceston and get caught in one of our famous sideways rains — let it air dry naturally. Don’t throw it in the dryer. High heat can shrink the cotton fibres and distort the shape. I learned this the hard way when a test batch of bags came out looking like squashed pillowcases.
For stubborn dirt or grime (especially if you’re lugging veggies from the farmer’s market), a vinegar and water solution works wonders. Mix it one-to-one in a spray bottle, spritz, and wipe clean. It’s what I use on my workshop apron, too, which sees far more abuse than the average tote. That said, avoid bleach at all costs — it’ll eat through the material and leave it brittle.
One of the testers told me her bag survived her toddler spilling an entire smoothie into it, so I’d say eco canvas holds up pretty well. Still, a little care goes a long way, and it’s always satisfying to know your favorite bag can last years if treated right.
Autumn in Launceston: What Inspires Me
Autumn in Launceston feels like a reset — crisp mornings, warm afternoons, and colours that remind me why I still love Tassie.
It’s funny how seasons sneak up on you. One day you’re in a T-shirt, and the next you’re digging a wool throw out of the cupboard for the first time in months. Autumn in Launceston is a bit like that. The mornings are properly crisp now — around 5 degrees some days — but by lunchtime, the sun warms everything up again. It’s the kind of weather that makes you appreciate layers and, honestly, slows everything down a bit.
I find autumn colours creeping into my work this time of year. The leaves around Princes Square turn all these unbelievable shades of orange and red, and I’ve caught myself trying to match those tones in some new wood stains I’m testing for a project. I’m not sure they’ll make the final cut, but it’s been fun to experiment.
The farmers’ markets are still packed with summer holdovers — tomatoes, zucchini, stone fruit — but you can tell people are shifting into heartier fare. I’ve been using our bamboo charcuterie board more often than I thought I would, loading it up with apples, cheddar, and some smoked trout from the Tamar Valley. It’s one of those perfect snacks that works whether you have guests or it’s just you and a quiet evening.
I took a drive out to Evandale last weekend, mostly for the air. The light is softer at this time of year, and it hits the hills differently. I stopped at a roadside stand and grabbed a bag of walnuts, which I’ve convinced myself I’ll use for a cake. More likely, I’ll just snack on them while working on new designs in the shed.
I don’t have a big seasonal message here. I think I just wanted to write down how much I love this time of year. Every season has its challenges, but autumn makes me want to slow down and take stock — of my work, my plans, and what’s next.
Where Our Recycled Glass Comes From
Our recycled glass vases start their journey in Melbourne, where old bottles are crushed, melted, and given new life.
Recycled glass seems straightforward at first: take something old, melt it down, and make something new. But like most things, the process has layers. Our recycled glass vases start their journey in Melbourne, at a facility that processes about 250 tonnes of glass each week. It’s not just bottles, either — everything from window panes to lab glass gets sorted, cleaned, and crushed into what they call cullet.
The cullet is heated to over 1,400 degrees Celsius in a furnace. It’s mesmerizing to watch, this glowing, liquid glass being poured and shaped. The workshop I work with specializes in small-batch production, which is rare in glassblowing. The owner, Ellie, says they typically do runs of 30 to 50 pieces at a time. Compare that to industrial glass factories that churn out thousands of identical pieces daily.
The fun (and challenge) with recycled glass is its unpredictability. Every batch is slightly different, depending on the source materials. A higher percentage of green bottles, for instance, can tint the final product slightly green. We embrace that variation — it’s part of what makes each vase unique. One recent batch had tiny bubbles throughout, which Ellie said was due to the air trapped in the cullet during transport. I loved the effect, though. It gave the glass a texture that softened the light beautifully.
Once the glass is shaped, it takes about 24 hours to cool in a process called annealing. This step prevents stress fractures, which can form if the temperature drops too quickly. After cooling, the edges are polished by hand, and the final inspection is done. Out of 50 pieces, we might reject 5 or 6 for minor flaws — a chip here, a crack forming there. It’s part of the trade-off for doing things by hand.
I’ve always been drawn to materials that have a bit of history to them, and recycled glass fits into that easily. Every vase carries the ghost of the objects it used to be, whether that’s a wine bottle or part of someone’s window. It’s a good reminder that nothing really disappears — it just changes form.
A Saturday in Winter: Working in the Shed
Working in a cold workshop isn’t glamorous, but winter weekends in Tassie are perfect for getting things done.
It was 3 degrees when I walked out to the shed this morning. The kind of cold that makes you see your breath and wish you’d put the kettle on before leaving the house. Winters in Launceston are like that. Cold, damp, and unrelenting, but it forces you to focus — fewer distractions, fewer excuses.
My goal today was prototypes for a new batch of tote bags. Eco canvas has some quirks when cut in different shapes, and I wanted to test a new base reinforcement method. I spent about two hours tinkering with a strip of marine-grade canvas I thought might do the trick. Spoiler: it didn’t. The edges puckered, and I couldn’t get a clean seam no matter how many times I adjusted the tension on the sewing machine.
By lunchtime, I shifted gears and worked on a template for a new vase design. Recycled glass has limits when blown into certain shapes — too narrow of a neck, and you risk cracks as it cools. I sketched about 15 variations, trying to solve the balance between form and practicality. It’s a puzzle I never get tired of.
The best part about winter workdays is how quiet everything is. The shed is insulated but not heated, so I’m usually bundled up in two jumpers. There’s a rhythm to these days. Cut, sew, sketch, test. Occasionally walk back to the house for a hot drink. Around 4pm, the light starts to fade, and I call it a day. Sometimes I don’t feel like I accomplished much, but when I see a finished product down the line, I remember these hours and all the fiddly problems they solved.
Winter doesn’t disguise its challenges, but I think that’s why I like it. Everything feels sharper, more deliberate. By the end of these Saturdays, my hands are sore, my notebook is full, and the shed feels a little warmer than when I started. That’s enough for me.