Behind cottages, tidy plots hold weld, woad, dyer’s chamomile, and marigold, flanked by nettles that offer green if coaxed kindly. Elders schedule harvests by moon, dew, and habit more than charts. Bundles dry from rafters; skeins simmer gently; alum and iron decide moods. The resulting palette feels both familiar and startling, like seeing the meadow after rain. Makers keep notebooks smudged with fingerprints, petals, and recipes gifted across generations.
Minerals dissolved from granite alter dye absorption, so some valleys favor brighter yellows while others lean gentle moss. Copper pots warm greens; iron saddens tones into dignified storm colors. Time decides fastness: hurried dips fade, lingering soaks deepen like twilight. Dyers tell novices to stir as if calming a skittish goat—slowly, confidently, attentively. The reward is cloth that ages handsomely, wearing its days the way ridgelines wear shadows.