From Guafengzhai’s ancient forest to a small stone press in Mengla
I first walked into Guafengzhai in late March 2024, a few weeks before the first flush. The village sits on a ridge of Yiwu Mountain, surrounded by old-growth forest where camphor trees tower over tea bushes that have been left to root in rocky, mineral-rich soil for generations. Unlike the open-terraced plantations lower down, these gardens are semi-wild: the farmers clear only what’s necessary and let the canopy shade the tea trees.
The spring harvest was unusually dry, concentrating the leaf’s aromatic compounds. I worked with a single household — the same family I’ve bought from for four years — who pick only the bud-and-two-leaf sets from trees between 80 and 120 years old. Their technique is unhurried; withering on bamboo trays takes an extra day, allowing a gentle oxidation that softens the green edge. The pan-firing is done in a wide wok over chestnut wood coals, the rolling done by hand, and the sun-drying stretched over three cloudless February afternoons.
Pressing happened in mid-May at a small workshop in Mengla, using a traditional stone mould. We settled on the classic 357g format, heavy enough to develop character with age but light enough to break and brew easily. The label carries a single stamp: the family’s seal and the village name in Hanzi. Only 180 cakes were made — each one represents a season and a place that will never repeat exactly.