When I hold the book to my nose, a faint smoky tang mingles with the musty, old paper smell. It was a grammar school prize, presented 'For Collection of Wild Flowers' to my Aunt Dorothy on 12th December 1929. How To Study Wild Flowers by George Henslow boasts "ninety-one plants printed in colours and fifty-seven other illustrations in the text." The cover is a faded blue, with an inset panel of coloured plant illustrations. The Rev. Henslow was Examiner in Botany for the College of Preceptors, which might impress me more if I knew what a preceptor was. It was published in 1920 for the Religious Tract Society, at a time when the collection of wild flowers was not only permissible but also positively encouraged, especially amongst vicars.

When I was young, the house was full of books like this one. My Dad was a bookbinder, and put the titles on leather covers with real gold leaf – a gold embosser. I have always loved books, and have a houseful because I can't bear to throw them away. Aunt Dorothy had given this one to me as a birthday present when I was nine, and I recall being under whelmed because it was old fashioned. Fifty years later, I still have it.

Aunt Dorothy was one of my father's sisters. There were four boys and four girls, with the four boys arriving in the middle flanked by two sisters at each end. Aunt Dorothy was one of the younger sisters, married to Uncle Frank. I was rather frightened of them, partly because we didn't see them very often, and partly because my Mum always got in a bit of a flap when they were coming. Aunt Dorothy's childless house was always neat and tidy, and seemed to be run on rather strict rules, whereas ours was chaotic and untidy.

Aunt Dorothy had rather more social pretensions than we had, and the infrequent meals at their house were something of a nightmare. I recall her once asking me if I'd like the condiments, and my saying no, but I'd have the salt and pepper. My Dad found her pretensions irritating, and it tended to bring out the worst in him. She would offer tea, and then enquire "Indian or China?" which would invariably prompt a retort of "Just a bloody cup of tea!" from Dad. He didn't hold with bits of lemon floating in his tea either, or the little paper saucer serviettes to catch the drips.

She was always good at botany though, and an interest in plants was something we all shared. I wonder how many species she had to collect to win the prize? I imagine the Rev. Henslow would be horrified to learn that eighty-five years on, botany isn't even taught routinely anymore: he says in his preface that "taught con amore and properly, botany has a most important educational value in teaching the young mind in systematic observation and accurate habits." O tempora, o mores.

The plates are attractive in a slightly amateurish way. I presume the Rev. Henslow must have done those too, as no one else is credited with them. To someone used to using photographic flora, the painstaking illustrations are fascinating in their ability to highlight the salient and diagnostic parts of their subjects. I imagine Aunt Dorothy, this book in her rucksack and her pocket lens hung round her neck, scrutinising the finer points of a foaming head of cow parsley. "It's very important to sort out your umbels dear", I recall her remarking on one walk. I never quite have.

Aunt Dorothy died last year, the last survivor of that family of eight. One sister had died young of a brain tumour; two of the boys had perished in World War Two, and the other four, including my Dad, had lived to good ages but gone before her. She had been married three times, and had outlived all her husbands. She was married to Frank for over fifty years: they smile out at me from a photograph of their golden wedding party. Frank eventually succumbed to dementia, and Dorothy met her second husband, Charles, at the local Alzheimer's support group. They were together for about seven years before he became very frail and died. I recall Dorothy telling me that she really couldn't live alone, and to this end she set out, quite systematically, to track down husband number three.