That raw material came from what had been the lifeblood of human sustenance in the region – the yak. These shaggy, high-altitude cousins of the cow are known as nor, which is also the word for “wealth”, a legacy of a cashless society in which livestock were a measure of worth and to which Norlha owes its name, “god of wealth”.

“The fabric made from the thick outercoat of the yak had long been used for tents, but it wasn’t suitable for clothing because it’s quite heavy and coarse,” says Yeshi. “We found other types of yak fibre hadn’t really been explored to their full potential.” She and her mother turned their attention to the khullu, the ultra-fine, downy hair from the underbelly of baby yaks, which they shed naturally on the grassy plains in spring.

This cloud-soft fibre cocoons the animals from the glacial winters on the plateau when temperatures drop as low as -50°C. As you’d expect, it’s an exceptional insulator, but, despite its plush handle, it’s also hardy. “It’s just as soft as cashmere, but it has a more masculine feel to it, more of a heft,” says Yeshi. “You can be a little rougher with it and go outdoors in different weathers and you know it’s going to hold.”

This rough-and-tumble alternative to cashmere shares similar properties to the king of yarns, but it has a distinct advantage. While the insatiable appetite for cashmere has led to the over-zealous breeding of animals and the decimation of grasslands on the Mongolian steppe where the goats feed in hoards, this industrial, battery production isn’t part of the yak’s story.

“We only gather what the animal gives up naturally to the plains as it sheds its yarn as the seasons change,” says Yeshi. “We don’t breed or own yaks. These are free-ranging animals.”

Finding a raw material was just the first hurdle. “Being a nomadic society, there wasn’t a deep-rooted craft in weaving,” says Yeshi. “There were no looms.”

To rectify this, the team travelled to Nepal and India, where they came across vintage looms that were built to the same specifications as the looms shipped out by the British during the Raj. “These old British-style looms worked much more smoothly with the yak wool than newer ones, so we imported them and adapted them,” she says.

Two trainers were also brought from Nepal to teach the local nomads how to work the looms. “With these older looms, we need to make sure that the team of 10 work in perfect harmony, with feet, hands and shuttle in perfect rhythm,” says Ms Wandi Kyi, who has been a Norlha weaver since 2007. “I trained for six months, after which I could weave a scarf, but it was only after 10 years that I felt qualified as a weaver.”

The brand also uses felting, a local technique distinct from weaving, which involves rolling the yak fibres back and forth in the hands to form a textile. It’s this method that’s used to make most of MR PORTER’s range. The skill of this technique lies in the ability to feel the consistency of the fabric with your fingers as it is rolled out.

“Although I had felted sheep wool as a young woman, there was a big difference in the attention to detail with the Norlha designs,” says Ms Dolma Tso via an interpreter, a nomadic felter at Norlha since 2010. “I trained for four months. The more I felt the cloth with my hands, the more I learnt to fine-tune my sensitivity to the quality of the felt.”

The end result is a beautifully soft, refined yet rustic-looking cloth, which makes heirloom-worthy blankets ideal for draping over your sofa or shoulders on cool evenings. In an uncertain modern world that’s as challenging as the seasons on the plateau, we could all do with the comforting embrace of a cosy blanket.

Curious to know what it takes to turn yak hair into a sophisticated throw for your home? Follow the production line to see how a Norlha Felt Trails blanket makes it from field to sofa.

In late spring, baby yaks, known as yeko, begin shedding their downy underlayer of khullu. Before the herd heads out for a day’s grazing, they’re gently combed to minimise loss of the fibre to the herby grasslands. Additional hand-gathering is done on the plains as the animals moult during feeding. The raw khullu fibre is then sent to a specialist eco-friendly laundry in Xining in western China to be washed thoroughly in purified water to dislodge dirt particles before dyeing.

The raw khullu is returned to the workshop in Ritoma where it is carded. This is a mechanical process where the fibre is fed onto large rollers set with thousands of wire pins to align the hairs and make it into a consistent “web” of fibres that can be worked into a cloth. “Obtaining a carding machine to deal with khullu was difficult,” says Yeshi, “so we found a small family-run Italian firm that had been making them for generations and commissioned one specially.”

In the workshop felting room, which is lit by natural light, three women begin arranging the multicoloured khullu fibres in a stripe formation in accordance with the Felt Trails design on a large, flat table to a 160cm x 200cm specification, to allow for shrinkage during production. “The most challenging part of the process is working on felt pieces with several colour variations,” says Tso. “It requires a lot of precise calculation.” The fibre is then dampened with water and soap, which acts as a binding agent, matting the fibres together as the blanket is made.