Seven years in Fuding: a shòu méi journey
In the autumn of 2018, I walked through a small garden on the lower slopes of Taimu Mountain in Fuding, where the leaves for this brick were still finishing their wither on bamboo trays. The day was clear, with just enough breeze to carry away moisture without rushing. The material — mostly open leaves with a few buds — looked unassuming, but the sweetness in the air told me this would age well.
We processed it the old way: a full sun-wither, then careful, low-temperature drying, and finally compressing the loose leaf into a 250 g brick. I chose compression because a brick protects the tea’s heart while still allowing the slow, oxidative conversation that makes aged white tea so special. The brick was then stored in Fuding’s mild, humid climate, wrapped in cotton paper, stacked on wooden shelves in a storeroom that breathes with the seasons.
Now, seven years later, the brick has darkened to a deep, almost autumnal brown, and the thread of honey that was always there has deepened into something richer — dried dates, longan, and a whisper of camphor. I release this tea now because it has reached that first beautiful plateau of aged white: still fresh enough to surprise, but deep enough to comfort. Drink it in a quiet morning or share it with friends who want to understand what time can do to a tea that is left to grow at its own pace.