half a century of saving soles, it marked the end of an era. No more would customers be able to pass time perusing (perhaps for the umpteenth time) the gallery of photographs on the faux wood-panelled walls, or have a quiet chuckle at the numerous bon mots hung haphazardly about the place. Nor could they rest their aching feet while instant repairs were underway, or catch up on the latest gossip.

Gone were the familiar sounds of whirring machines and pounding hammers, as "the back room boys'' worked their magic on all manner of footwear, from the sublime to the ridiculous. Silent were the Landis stitcher and the Singer sewing machine, while the brushes and assorted abrasive wheels of the massive finishing machine had spun their last revolutions. The gnarled old work bench -- a proud relic of busier days, with its embedded grime, deep fissures, nail holes, and trails of dried glue -- was deserted, as were the rows and rows of empty shelves. Elsewhere the paraphernalia of repairs -- nails, glue pots, metal lasts, rows of shoe dye -- bore silent witness to the cessation of decades of toil.

Behind the workroom, a 60-year-old refrigerator stood silently beside the dust-covered trappings of modern cookery: the obligatory microwave, and its humbler cousin, the toaster oven. A yellowed sign proclaimed: "A woman is as old as she looks, but a man isn't old until he stops looking.'' Out front, a Coca Cola clock ticked away the hours, while beneath it jars of coloured shoe cream tarried with shoe laces, leather half soles, heel grips and more -- unsung and unsold. Wooden lasts, with their outsized metal turn-screws, no longer took the pinch out of misjudged footwear, and the strings of the bright orange repair tickets hung limply down. The great red diary, with its well-thumbed pages of hand-written entries, was firmly shut.

Half used, not quite forgotten.

For proprietor Patrick Johansen, however, the scene presented no tears and few regrets, for he has been thinking about the possibility of moving on for a year.

"I will miss down here,'' he admits, "but all good things come to an end.

When one door closes, another opens.'' While that is true, for the countless customers who have crossed the two-step doorway for more than half a century, the Johansen touch will definitely be missed.

"The shop was one of a kind,'' says one who wished to remain anonymous. "It was like stepping into another world, if you'll pardon the pun. The staff were so patient and courteous, and their repairs were always sound. I often thought about what smelly work they undertook, and admired them for it. Our family has been customers for generations, and I am truly sad to see them go.'' Indeed, it was through the quality of his work that the late Reid Johansen built up such a successful business, which his son Patrick maintained, which once had as many as 300 customers a week coming through the door.

"My father always tried to buy the best materials to carry out his trade, and he gave his customers first class service. I did the same right up to the end,'' the erstwhile proprietor notes.

But times change, and with them the styles and quality of footwear. Today, Mr.

Johansen says, although the choice is vast, good quality shoes are in the minority, having been replaced on the mass market by those of man-made materials and dubious construction. High-heeled platform shoes, for example -- the current favourites -- are not, as their owners might suppose, solidly built; rather, the smooth outer walls conceal a honeycombed interior.

"Also, a lot of shoes made in Mexico and China fall apart as soon as Bermuda's humidity and dampness get to them,'' Mr. Johansen reveals. "In fact, many of today's shoes cannot be repaired.'' This is just one of several factors which led the soft-spoken artisan to finally get out of the business. Not only had the cost of good quality materials for repairs risen considerably, but also the attitude of the young had completely changed. Whereas previous generations practiced preventive maintenance and took good care of their shoes, today's youngsters simply throw them away.

"They're too well off,'' Mr. Johansen feels. "When I was eight-years-old I had one pair of shoes, one suit, and my school clothes, plus a couple of pairs of pants for play. Today, the kids have $100 sneakers and $50 shirts, and by the time you add in the jewellery, they're walking around in hundreds of dollars worth of merchandise.'' Comparing this affluence to his own childhood, he says that adding blanks to the heels of new shoes, and keeping them polished, has been part of a lifelong routine to make them last. Almost sheepishly, he admits to owning four pairs of shoes today, including a comfortable pair for work, and not surprisingly greets the question of future repairs with a smile and a puzzled look.

Tracing the history of the business, Patrick Johansen relates how, prior to opening his Hamilton shop on October 1, 1940, his late father, a well-known sportsman who loved fishing, had a booming business repairing boots and shoes for the US military here.

"Life was tough for novice businessmen back then,'' he noted. "Wartime left him unable to secure the materials to carry out his trade, but at the base they weren't a problem.'' Later, having secured a loan and a small premises in the old Washington Lane, the young husband and father set about the work that would make him a fixture of the area for more than half a century.

End of an era for shoe repair "In the early years my father put in 60- to 70-hour weeks as his reputation grew and grew. He had so much work that he closed all day Thursdays just to catch up,'' the younger Johansen remembers. "As a teenager he learned to repair shoes by hand. There were no machines when he started out.'' At age 14, like all children growing up in an age where they had daily chores in addition to their school responsibilities, Patrick went to his father's shop and polished all the shoes which had been repaired during the day.

"Not like today, where the kids come home from school and roam the streets,'' he quips.

While his brother Vance worked part-time with his father for a short while, it was Patrick who was ultimately drawn into the business, earning five shillings a week as an apprentice.

"I was happy as long as I got something to eat. I never asked how much I was going to get paid. I was just glad to learn a trade,'' he says of those early days.

Although he admits his heart wasn't always in it, and he even left once, the younger Johansen persevered, and on his father's death took over running the business. In total he worked five years as a part-timer, and 15 years full time.

Now he is ready to move on.

"October 1 will be the beginning of a new chapter and a new life for me, and a new leaf for the business,'' he says. "I am a single man, and it was very hard for me to run the whole operation by myself with my other responsibilities. I wanted a challenge -- to do something else and not be working for myself, although I must say there's nothing better than making your own time and working for yourself.

"However, I feel that at my age it is best to move on to a new career rather than wait until the new millennium brings us a totally new world with new technology. While my brain is still working, I've got to try and get out there and keep up with the Soul Train.'' In fact, Mr. Johansen has secured employment in a completely different field of endeavour, the details of which he prefers not to divulge.

"My colleagues are good people, and I am looking forward to my new life,'' is all he will say of the new career move.

Meanwhile, he hints that a "similar'' business will be occupying his old premises, and he is confident that the new occupant(s) "will take the reins and drive it into the new millennium, and do better.''