Derbyshire Well
"Every summer, Tissington dresses its wells with flower pictures. Tradition keeper Dorothy shows visiting photographer Tom that some beauties last longer than petals."
Well dressing was an art form that existed almost nowhere else—pictures made from flower petals, pressed into clay, displayed on ancient wells for one week every summer. I'd been leading the Tissington team for twenty-five years, keeping alive a tradition that dated back to the Black Death.
"Ms. Thornton?"
The photographer setting up by my workspace was clearly serious—multiple cameras, respectful distance, the patience of someone who understood that some things couldn't be rushed.
"Dorothy. And you're the one who's been asking about access."
"Tom Whitfield. I'm documenting British folk traditions for a book. Well dressing is—" He paused. "Well dressing is unlike anything I've ever seen."
"That's because nothing like it exists." I continued pressing petals into the clay panel—a intricate image of the village church, flower by tiny flower. "Most traditions survive because they adapt. This one survives because we refuse to."
He photographed for a week. Not just the finished dressings, but the process—the clay boards prepared, the petals sorted, the patterns pricked onto paper and transferred with ancient techniques. He asked questions that showed genuine curiosity.
"Why do you do this?" he asked on day four. "The village has changed. The wells are just decorative now. But you keep going."
"Because the plague survivors dressed these wells in thanksgiving for clean water. Because my grandmother taught my mother taught me. Because—" I pressed another petal. "Because if I stop, who continues?"
"That's a heavy responsibility."
"That's love dressed up as duty." I met his eyes. "When you photograph something, don't you feel responsibility to capture it truly?"
"That's exactly what I feel."
"Then you understand."
The week ended with the blessing of the wells—the whole village gathered, prayers said, tradition honored for another year. Tom photographed everything, but his eyes kept finding me rather than the flowers.
"Will you come back next year?" I asked afterward.
"I was hoping to come back sooner." He set down his camera. "Dorothy. I've documented traditions all over Britain. I've never met anyone who made me understand why they mattered until you."
"It's just flower pictures."
"It's time made visible. Faith made material." He moved closer. "And you're the one who keeps it all together."
We kissed by the well my grandmother had dressed, surrounded by flowers that would die in days. His mouth was patient, reverent—the kiss of someone who understood that beautiful things were fragile.
"My cottage is nearby," I said.
"Show me what it's like to live with tradition."
The cottage was keeper's territory—pressed flowers in frames, pattern books from centuries past, the evidence of a life devoted to preservation. Tom photographed nothing; he just looked.
"This is sacred space."
"This is home."
"Same thing, with traditions this old."
We made love while the dressed wells still stood outside, their temporary beauty contrasting with what we were building. Tom touched me with photographer's attention—finding angles that others missed, appreciating light on skin that wasn't young anymore.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I'm built for pressing petals, not posing."
"You're built for dedication." He kissed down my body. "The most beautiful things require it."
We came together while the flowers faded outside, both of us finding something that would last longer than any petal picture. When I gasped his name, it was with the same voice I used at blessing—grateful, committed, present.
"Stay," I said afterward.
"Until when?"
"Until next year's dressing. Until you understand what the cycle really means." I touched his face. "A week isn't enough. A lifetime barely is."
He stayed. The book became a collaboration—my knowledge, his images, something that captured the tradition better than either could have alone. And every summer, he photographs the dressings while I make them, both of us part of something older than memory.
"We're keepers together now," he said one night.
"Of the tradition?"
"Of each other. Of everything worth preserving." He pulled me closer. "Traditions survive because people choose them. I choose this. I choose you."
The wells still get dressed every summer. The flowers still die every week. And in between, there's a photographer who became a partner, helping me carry a tradition that would have crushed me alone.
That's what well dressing really teaches—not just patience and craft, but the importance of passing things on. The plague survivors thanked their wells because water mattered. We thank ours because connection does.
Tom connected with me. I connected with him. And together, we're proving that some traditions are worth keeping—the flower pictures, yes, but also the love that makes the making possible.