You don't bring me flowers...

The ancient craft of pressing blooms may not be as popular as in its Edwardian heyday, but the pastime is well worth revisiting, suggests Claire Jackson

- Claire Jackson

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 leaves to remove the moisture. The pressed matter can then be preserved on paper, behind glass, within resin and so on for the purposes of both art and science. One of the best reasons to take up flower pressing is that you don’t need any special kit—although plenty exists, if you get the bug (more on that later). A couple of heavy-duty hardbacks will do the job. In Pressed Flower Craft (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.