A visit to Droyt’s factory in Chorley will leave not only
your hands supple and softened, but also the soles of your shoes: nearly one
hundred years of manufacturing glycerine soap has left the stone flagged floors
with an exceedingly slippery surface, despite managing director Chris
Effendowicz stating that they are scrubbed down weekly.
Chris took over the business from his great uncle. You might
notice that the company was founded in Minsk (in 1893), and it is Chris’s
ancestors who set it up there, leaving when the Russian revolution happened.
After a stop in Berlin, the coming of the Nazis meant a second relocation to
Chorley, in Lancashire. Appropriately enough, to Progress street. Upstairs at
the factory that he set up, it was Chris’s great uncle who constructed the
makeshift wall that encloses the lab, made of boxes used to ship fat over from
Argentina, at that time an ingredient in soap production (no longer): the boxes
have written on their sides, “stow away from engines & boilers”.
Droyt is now the last company in the UK manufacturing
traditional glycerine soap. You know Pears soap? That’s glycerine soap, though
Pears soap has been through some rather major manufacturing changes since 2009,
after being taken over by another company. Droyt still manufacture their soap
using traditional ingredients and in a traditional way, which Chris describes
as being “massively labour intensive”.
Despite this, Droyt’s commitment to producing very fine soap
has led to them supplying some big names, such as Waitrose and Muji. Droyt were
in fact the first non-Japanese supplier to Muji, and the plainly wrapped soaps
with katakana script that are boxed up ready for export will be heading to
Japan. Droyt supplies customers all around the world, as glycerine soap manufacturing
has become rather a dying art, with Progress Street in Chorley probably being
its worldwide epicentre.
A quick rundown of the process, starting from the big vats
of ingredients stored in the warehouse. This little residential street sees
some unusual traffic, such as the big tanker that arrived to deliver pure
alcohol, pumped into a storage tank, and deliveries of oils that are “bags in boxes”:
solidified oils that were pumped into a plastic bag in a box.
It is David in charge of production this day, and David is
so experienced that he can fill a vat with an ingredient and know to within
less than a kilo how full it is just by sight. Oh, and castor oil is utterly
silent and still when being poured: it is quite uncanny to watch.
These ingredients are added into a large cauldron which can
heat and mix. The final mixture is poured into large casting containers which
can hold up to a ton of soap. The mixture cools for a couple of days and the
sides are unbolted and removed, revealing a bar of soap fit for a giant. The
really labour intensive work starts now: dividing this giant block up into
little pieces that fit onto your soap dish.
The first part of this is to slice the huge blocks into
slightly more manageable chunks. All cutting is done by wire pulled through, as
any attempt to cut such a thing with a knife will never result in a straight
cut. From giant blocks to smaller blocks, eventually the block is cut down to a
size recognisable as a bar of soap, and even in this form it is really quite a
beautiful sight: oblong and with a rough looking texture, though smooth and
slippery to the touch, and translucent but with an ability to catch the light,
like a stained glass window.
After cutting down to size, the soap bars are dried in what
Chris described as the “alcoholic sauna”, a heated room where the scent from
the soaps would probably make people pass out if they were locked in there for
more than a few minutes.
Then, most soaps are stamped with a logo (except Muji’s,
which are of course “no logo”). This is done with a foot operated machine, and
a die which is created by expert metal craftsmen. This is where you can really
see the labour intensive nature of the work: three people surrounding the
stamping bench, one lining up the soaps, one at the stamping machine, and one
lining them up on the outgoing tray. You can hear the “thunking” noise of the
machine swinging back and forth from outside the building.
Nearly all of Droyt’s machinery is of 1920s German vintage.
Heavy, cast iron equipment that looks like it means business even when standing
still, and the speed of the operators is impressive, pushing soap through at a
blur.
After stamping, the soaps are polished and washed with damp
cloths, smoothing up the surface and rounding off the sharp edges. They are
then packaged and boxed up for shipping out to wherever in the world they are
going, from this tiny Lancashire factory.
Fortunately, Droyt’s business is thriving, based on a simple
recipe of producing a superior product. Chris says that his great uncle refused
to admit anybody to the factory, worried that somebody might steal the formula
for his soap. Now, Chris says that somebody would probably be a bit crazy to
try and start their own glycerine soap business, so if you want the formula,
you’re probably welcome to ask. However, Chris points out that nobody is making
a fortune at Droyt, though they are making a living: the staff are not paid
high wages, but they clearly enjoy working together as a team.
In fact, a special note has to be said about the staff at
Droyt: the place seemed very much like a family business. And like a family
they will no doubt have their ups and downs, but they were extremely welcoming
and friendly people who were keen to show what they do (and then have a quick
tea and chocolate break and swap some more gossip). Most live locally enough
that they can walk to work, as evidenced by the nearly empty car park, and most
have worked there for a long time. Building a group of workers who work hard
and have pride in what they are producing is surely a very positive reflection
on this little Lancastrian business.
Chris obviously also realises how special this is, and wants
to preserve it. At a trade show, he was approached by a vendor saying that they
could produce a similar product in Asia for 30% less than his current costs.
Unsurprisingly, Chris did not take them up on their offer, preferring to keep a
traditional business open.
Potential minor storm clouds are looming however: a post on
the company’s blog states in a humorously ironical way that Brexit is in fact
going to increase production costs, so people are damn well going to have to
pay a bit more for their glycerine soap. What is most ironic is that Brexit
will put a squeeze on this last bastion of plucky British manufacturing. The
law of unintended consequences, no doubt?
In the meantime, Chris and his crew will continue to produce
beautifully fragrant soaps that will leave your hands feeling disturbingly
soft. So head to your nearest Waitrose or Muji and pick up a bar.
