The glassmaker outside Manchester.

The studio is on the second floor of a converted mill, and the furnace has been running, almost without interruption, since 1971. It belongs to David Aldridge and his daughter Mira, who took over four years ago.

We arrive at 8am. The mill is cold; the furnace is not. Mira is already on the bench. She gathers a pontil of molten glass, rolls it on the marver, then puffs it into a wooden mould in a single motion that looks both casual and absolute. The vessel that emerges is a Vesper.

Every one of them is slightly different. That's the point.

The wall behind the furnace is hung with templates — wooden moulds carved by David's father in the 70s. The Vesper mould is older than either of us. The Marais mould was carved last year, by Mira, on a Sunday.

We had assumed mouth-blown glass would mean small-batch production. It does. The studio makes 60 to 80 of our vessels a week. They go into a slow oven for 14 hours, then come down to us by van every other Friday.

We asked Mira what makes a good vessel. She said: Nothing about it should announce itself. The candle is what you're meant to notice. The glass is what holds it.

We agreed.