You don’t bring me flowers...
THE cuckoo’s call has long since faded, skylarks swoop and rise in their vertical dance and the first hay has been neatly rolled. In the woods, lanky foxgloves have shed their purple outerwear and, throughout the land, gardeners are attempting to quench an ever-increasing thirst. However, within the flower press, time stands still. Unscrewing the tightly wound wing nuts with the trepidation of a ceramicist opening a kiln, I gently lift the layers of card and paper. The past season rests here: daisies, dandelions, wood anemone, primroses and bluebells sleep on the pages.
Flower pressing is an ancient craft that involves flattening blooms and(1980), Joyce Fenton—past doyenne of flower pressing and founder of the Pressed Flower Guild—outlines how to use a telephone directory as a press, recommending allowing at least 12 pages per pressing.
