The whole field.
Thirty single origins, one Yunnan valley.
A few, to begin.
Caught at its fullest.
Each fragrance is one flower, captured in the single hour it opens widest — then sealed.
Everything begins at altitude.
Two thousand four hundred metres up the Yunnan plateau, thin cold air slows every bloom and concentrates its oil — the reason a single drop carries for hours, not minutes.
Three worlds,
one breath.
Grown, distilled and sealed in one Yunnan valley — three moments of a single fragrance, caught in motion.
A face of Yunnan.
Blended by hand and by memory, in small batches — wild-gathered, hand-tied, sealed with a stamp, the way these valleys have always made their scent.
Bound, dipped, opened.
In these same valleys, cloth is tied off by hand, sunk in vats of fermented indigo, then opened to the air — the Bai people's 扎染. The patience that dyes the cloth is the patience that distils the flower.
Distilled the day it's cut.
Cold-pressed in batches small enough to watch over, the morning it's harvested. Nothing waits; nothing is thinned — only the flower, concentrated.
The nearest place to heaven.
In 1933, James Hilton's Lost Horizon gave this corner of the plateau its name for paradise — Shangri-La.
One terroir, read thirty ways.
