One of my favourite walks is a short stretch to a tiny village just along from home on the Wirral. It’s only a handful of houses, but it has always intrigued me.

At its centre sits a red sandstone church, settled in a dip in the landscape that somehow always feels colder than it should — even on bright days. It isn’t grand. It’s not particularly dramatic. Just steady. Surrounded by old church buildings, with a cobbled lane beyond that leads towards the stables.

Each spring, along the grass verge beside the red sandstone wall on the approach, the daffodils arrive.

They don’t line up neatly. They scatter themselves. A sudden sweep of yellow against old stone. They usually bloom a little ahead of the daffodils planted closer to the church itself — the colder air that gathers in the dip seems to hold those back slightly.

If anyone mentions daffodils, it’s these I picture.

Not formal beds. Not parks. These.

When I began making my own crepe paper daffodils,it was that stretch of verge I carried with me. I kept them in their bulbs, as though they’d just been lifted from the grass when no one was looking. Roots intact. Still connected to where they began.

Each handcrafted paper daffodil is shaped individually, designed to capture the clarity of early spring while lasting far beyond the natural season.

Their yellow is clear and uncomplicated. Their green quieter — like the grass before it fully wakes.

These paper daffodils inspired by a quiet village on the Wirral, sit easily on a shelf or in a quiet corner and stay long after the real flowers have faded.

A limited collection is available here at The British Craft House, each one individually made and carrying a small echo of that familiar stretch of road — the moment each year when you realise spring is quietly on its way.

Rebecca