A small offering of slow-grown tea — gathered by hand, dried gently, cured in glass.
Each flower in this tea is gathered in the early hours, before the sun has drawn out the oils. The harvest is laid to rest in shade and turned by hand, drying over the course of days until the leaves keep their colour and the petals hold their scent.
The plants are then sealed in glass and left to cure — a quiet finishing where the flavours settle into one another. What arrives at your table is what the field gave us, and only what we judged worthy of the name.
One for the hour when the day is allowed to rest. One for the days when the body asks for a little help. Seven plants across the two — each chosen for what it does, and nothing else.
Small white flowers with a soft apple sweetness. Picked one by one in the morning while the dew is still on them, then laid out on linen until they hold their colour like a memory.
It carries apigenin, a quiet compound that softens the edges of a long day and helps sleep find its way to you.
Pale violet petals with darker veins, gathered before the heat opens them too far. The flowers turn the brewed water a soft blue that shifts when you stir in honey.
Rich in mucilage — the silken substance that coats and calms whatever feels rough, in the throat or in the day.
Cut from the field in the brief window when the buds have coloured but not yet opened. Tied into small bundles and hung in a quiet room until the scent fills the rafters.
The linalool in its oils slows the breath, eases the shoulders, and makes the room feel a little smaller in the kindest way.
The leaves carry a soft citrus that brushes off on your fingers when you brush past. Picked before flowering, when the green is still pale and the scent at its brightest.
Its rosmarinic acid quiets a busy mind — a small lift, like a window opened on a warm afternoon.
Lifted from the earth in autumn, when the plant has drawn its strength back down into the root. Washed, sliced thin, and dried slowly until it keeps its scent under the lid of a jar.
Its valerenic acid is the deep note in the cup — the one that turns the lights down and lets sleep settle in without a fuss.
Picked from woody stems when the leaves are full and the morning is still cool. Silvery-green, slightly velvet to the touch, with a warm and resinous scent that fills the room when the tea steeps.
Its rosmarinic acid soothes inflamed throats and calms the kind of irritation that comes with the start of a cold — a herb that has been trusted for this for a very long time.
Gathered young in spring with gloves, before the plant hardens and the sting sets in. Dried, it loses its bite entirely and gives off a clean, green, slightly mineral scent.
Dense with minerals and quercetin, it supports the body quietly from within — a nourishing presence, like a good meal in a cup when you are not feeling yourself.
This year's plants have just begun to grow again. Good things take a season — and then they return. Leave your address below and we will write to you, simply and only once, when the new harvest is ready.
Something went wrong. Please try again in a moment.
No newsletter. One quiet message when the jars are full again.
Thank you. We will be in touch when the harvest is ready.