theharbourreader | Recent Entries

Hello, and welcome. I’m so glad you’ve found your way here.

This little corner of the internet is a kind of tidepool for me — a place to gather small, glinting moments and let them catch the light. I imagine it like the windowsill in my kitchen: sun-warmed, a bit cluttered, always changing with the seasons. Sea glass. Lavender. A well-thumbed paperback left spine-up beside a cooling mug of mint tea.

I’m Blythe. I live in a salt-faded cottage just off the harbourfront in St Ives, Cornwall. I’m a ceramic artist, a sea swimmer, a quiet romantic. My days are shaped by tide tables and teacups, studio playlists and secondhand books stacked like cairns beside the bed. I believe in the beauty of things that are slightly imperfect — mugs with thumbprints, dog-eared pages, letters smudged with rain.

This blog is a way of gathering what I love — a kind of journal, really. Expect glimpses from the studio, bookish ramblings, coastal wanderings, and the sort of seasonal rituals that make ordinary days feel a little more alive. There will be reading lists and shelf musings, favourite lines underlined in pencil, and maybe even the occasional fictional character I’m quietly in love with. (Aren’t we all?) I’ll write about what I’m making, what I’m reading, what I’m noticing — the golden hour light, the first elderflowers, a phrase I can’t stop turning over in my mind.

So whether you’re here by chance or curiosity, I hope this space feels like a quiet tidepool you can dip into now and then. Like walking into a bookshop on a rainy afternoon, with no plans except to linger.

The kettle’s on. There’s a spot by the window. I’m so glad you’re here.

With warmth,
Blythe

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
— Mary Oliver

“You have to name things in order to make them real.”

This was beautiful in a quiet, steadfast kind of way.

Where The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet sprawled outward - a road trip across the stars with a crew full of personalities - A Closed and Common Orbit folds inward. It’s more intimate, more reflective. A story about becoming, belonging, and building yourself from the ground up when no one gave you a map.

We follow two stories in parallel: Lovelace, a newly embodied AI trying to find her place in a body that doesn’t feel like hers; and Pepper, whose harrowing childhood and improbable rescue form the emotional heart of the novel. Both storylines are tender, slow-building, and full of grace. They gently ask: who gets to be a person? Who decides what makes someone worthy? And what does healing look like when you’ve been made to feel unworthy of care?

It’s science fiction, yes but in Becky Chambers’ hands, it feels more like a cup of tea passed across the table while someone tells you the truth. Kindness is the fuel here. Kindness and care and the small, unshowy acts that form chosen families.

The writing isn’t flashy. It doesn’t need to be. It carries so much quiet emotional weight, particularly in Pepper’s timeline, which gutted me more than once and still somehow left me feeling hopeful. And Sidra (Lovelace) is one of the most endearing depictions of self-discovery I’ve read in ages. Her confusion, fear, and curiosity feel painfully, beautifully human.

Favourite quote:
"I am not sad. I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am not angry. I am not unnatural. I am not broken. I am not wrong."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐✨ (4.5 stars)
Soft, slow, and profoundly human. This is a book I’ll return to when I need reminding that growth doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful.

Current Mood: human

July is beginning to exhale. The light feels different now - softer at the edges, like the hush just before a change in weather. The weeks have slipped by in sun-drenched quiet, but something is shifting, slow as a turning tide.

This week has been all about gentle realignments. I’ve reshuffled my reading stack (again), swapped a few titles I wasn’t reaching for, and given myself full permission to linger where I want to linger. There’s a quiet kind of power in saying, not now, and trusting a book will call again when the time is right.

📚 Reading Highlights

A Closed and Common Orbit continues to surprise me. It's quieter than the first Wayfarers book, but full of warmth and heart. I’m especially loving the focus on identity and chosen family.
I’ve also returned to I Capture the Castle, a many-times re-read and one of my forever favourites. It never loses its magic - the dreamy descriptions, the strange little heartbreaks, the way Cassandra watches the world.
Finished The Comfort Book by Matt Haig - a lovely, reassuring balm of a read. Not everything hit home, but some parts felt like being offered a hand on a foggy day.

🌀 What I’m Craving

A story that makes me ache - something lush and lyrical
More time offline, especially in the evenings
A new notebook (even though I have seven half-filled ones 🙈)
Stormy skies and cinnamon toast
Books that feel like walking through rain and coming home warm

🛶 Reshuffling the Stack
I’ve moved a few books back to the “maybe later” pile - not because I won’t read them, but because right now I’m craving softness and atmosphere more than urgency. I’ve kept a couple of quiet favourites close for re-reading, just in case.

🕯️ On My Radar (for August)

How to Catch a Mole - seems full of introspective nature writing
The Starless Sea - thinking it might finally be time to dive in
A little poetry? Maybe something from the coast or the moors
A reread of Anne of the Island
Possibly a mini themed week - “Books with Blue Covers” or “Seaside Settings”?

Here’s to the end of July, gently
not rushing the moment, but letting it drift out to sea.

💭 What’s been on your mind this week? What are you craving as the month turns?

“Nothing is stronger than a small hope that doesn’t give up.”

This isn’t a book you read in one sitting - or if you do, it won’t be in the way you read a novel. The Comfort Book is a companion. A patchwork of thoughts, quotes, affirmations, and little reminders that it’s okay to feel lost, okay to need gentleness, okay to begin again.

I reached for this on a quiet afternoon, when everything felt just a little bit too much and I’m glad I did. It doesn’t try to be profound or polished. It’s not hiding behind big ideas. Instead, it offers a steady voice in the dark. A hand on your shoulder. A reminder that being human is messy and hard, and that we’re allowed to sit with that truth without fixing it all at once.

Some entries resonated deeply. Others drifted by more softly, like clouds - not untrue, just not meant for me in that moment. But I think that’s part of the beauty: The Comfort Book meets you where you are, and will likely meet you differently next time.

It’s the kind of book I’ll keep by my bedside, or in my bag for train journeys, or next to the kettle on quiet mornings. A collection of comforts — imperfect, but offered with care.

Favourite quote:
"You don’t have to be positive. You just have to be you. And that is enough."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ (4 stars)
Simple, sincere, and best read slowly. A book to return to when your inner voice needs a softer one beside it.

Current Mood: calm

We’re tiptoeing toward the edge of the month, and as always, time feels more like a tide than a ticking clock. I had big reading dreams for July - some I’ve followed faithfully, others have quietly drifted to the side like seafoam. This is a soft, no-pressure check-in. A moment to ask: what still feels alive on the stack? What’s quietly calling my name? And what can I lovingly let go of, or save for another day?

🐚 Still Calling to Me

A Closed and Common Orbit - I started this recently and I’m already swept up in its warmth and wonder. I’d love to finish it before August, if only to spend more time with these quietly brave characters.
I Capture the Castle - I’ve been reading this slowly, letting it unfurl like a summer evening. I don’t want to rush it, but I do want to keep it close.

🌧 Books I’m Saving for Rainy Days

Sometimes I gather books like seashells, only to realise some are meant for a different tide. These are the ones I’ve gently tucked back onto the shelf, not forgotten - just waiting for the right moment:

The Secret Garden - This feels like a September story, full of damp earth and golden hush.
How to Catch a Mole - I think I want to read this on a grey morning with a cup of something warm.

💛 Recently Read

The Comfort Book - Finished this week. It’s a soft place to land, like a handwritten note from someone who understands. I found comfort in its quiet wisdom and will keep it nearby for rereading when I need reminding.

💬 Permission to Change Plans

If you’ve wandered from your original TBR, you’re in good company. Reading isn’t a race or a checklist. It’s a conversation, a comfort, a curiosity. Let your mood lead. Let a sentence stop you in your tracks. Let the unfinished books wait - they’ll still be there when you’re ready.

What’s still whispering to you this July?

There are times when a book demands to be devoured - those electric, page-turning hours where the world falls away and you forget to eat, drink, or reply to texts. But lately, I’ve found myself drawn to the opposite: the long exhale of a slow read.

Not in a dutiful way - not the kind of slow reading where a book feels like a slog - but in the way you might nurse a cup of tea in the late afternoon sun, letting it cool between sips. Some books seem to invite that kind of presence. They open gently, with quiet corners and lingering questions. They ask for pauses, for rereads of a single sentence, for margin-notes and daydreams. They don’t mind if it takes a week to read a chapter. They reward the meandering pace.

I think some stories just need time to bloom.

Lately, I’ve been allowing myself the luxury of that kind of reading. I leave a book open on the windowsill or take it with me on quiet walks, tucked under my arm like company. I find myself rereading certain lines aloud - not to grasp them, but to feel them. And I’ve noticed how much longer they stay with me afterward, like songs you carry without realizing you're humming.

This kind of reading doesn’t always fit neatly into a schedule. It means a slower turnover in reviews, a TBR that grows faster than it shrinks, and sometimes having three or four books on the go at once. But it also means depth, and texture, and those strange little moments where life and literature echo each other.

So this is just a small love note to the books we don’t rush. The ones we let steep. The ones that ask us to linger - and reward us for doing so.

If you’ve been feeling behind on your reading goals or overwhelmed by your stacks, maybe this is your reminder too: it’s okay to go slow. It’s okay to savour. Sometimes the richest reading lives are built not on volume, but on resonance.

What books have lingered with you lately?

Current Mood: thoughtful

“Isn’t it true that we live some lives only in memory?”

There’s something quietly complicated about sequels - especially the kind that follow stories which once felt like lightning in your hands. I picked up Find Me with both anticipation and hesitation. I wanted to return. I wasn’t sure I should.

Some stories don’t ask to be continued. Some characters linger best in the spaces they left behind - in the echoes, the unanswered questions, the ache of not knowing. And yet, when the author invites us back, part of you always says yes.

Find Me didn’t undo Call Me By Your Name for me. But it didn’t quite deepen it, either. It felt more like standing at a distance, watching old feelings drift across new landscapes. Not untrue. Just… different. A little thinner at the edges.

And maybe that’s what happens when we revisit anything beloved. We measure the memory against what’s offered now. We notice the places where it no longer fits, or no longer stings, or stings differently.

I’m learning that it’s okay to hold space for both the tenderness and the letdown. To love a story deeply and still wish it had ended where it did. To want more and also not want to know. Maybe sequels don’t need to answer anything. Maybe they’re just another way of saying, this still mattered. It still matters.

For me, Find Me was a soft postscript — not essential, but not unwelcome. A quiet reflection in the mirror of something once dazzling. And maybe that’s enough.

Do you read sequels to emotionally resonant books? Or do you leave them where they ended?
Have you ever loved a sequel more than the original?
What stories do you wish had stayed unfinished?

Current Mood: thoughtful

“Time is not outside us but within us.”

Reading Find Me felt like standing in a familiar landscape after a long absence — the light is the same, the shadows fall in roughly the same places, but something’s shifted. The ache is still there. So is the beauty. But the rhythm has changed.

This sequel to Call Me By Your Name isn’t quite what I expected. Rather than simply picking up Elio and Oliver’s story, it’s divided into four movements, spanning decades and perspectives, beginning with Elio’s father, Samuel. The prose is unmistakably Aciman’s, languid, philosophical, intimate, but the emotional centre feels more diffuse this time.

The first section, “Tempo,” is where I struggled most. Sam’s whirlwind romance didn’t resonate with the same depth or poignancy I found in CMBYN. It’s wistful, yes - full of longing and sudden intensity but it didn’t quite earn my attachment.

And yet, there were moments when the writing shimmered. Elio’s section, especially, brought back that familiar melancholy and introspection. And Oliver, always a little unknowable, returns with his own weight of memory and yearning. There’s something undeniably moving about the quiet gravity of their final section, even if it doesn’t land with the same ache.

Find Me is more abstract than its predecessor. More meditative. It plays with time and memory and the lives we might have lived. It’s about second chances, and also about never quite escaping the pull of a single summer. For me, it didn’t fully recapture the magic of Call Me By Your Name - but it did offer a soft echo of it. And sometimes, an echo is enough.

Favourite quote:
"People never talk about the almost moment. Yet it’s the almost moment that gets you in the end."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐✨ (3.5 stars)
A quiet, longing sequel — imperfect but reflective. Best read with soft music, a slow heart, and the memory of peaches still in reach.

Current Mood: recumbent

Dear reader,

There’s something about this kind of July Sunday — all warm breeze, light rain, and distant gulls — that makes you want to slow right down and take stock. This week has passed in a gentle rhythm of walking and reading, the kind of quiet, rooted days where stories nestle in beside your real-life wanderings.

Favourite Reading Moment

One evening midweek, I took The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet out to the beach with a flask of tea and a blanket. I didn’t mean to stay long, but I ended up reading two chapters with my feet half-buried in warm sand, the sea murmuring nearby and the wind tugging at the corners of the pages. There’s something magic about reading a book full of stars while the sky above you goes lavender-grey.

A Quote I’m Still Thinking About

“Some people... find the space between stars an invitation. Others see the same thing and feel a chill settle in their bones.”
— Becky Chambers

This line has lingered with me — maybe because it speaks to that twin sense of wonder and ache that often travels with solitude. It’s been a week of finding comfort in the in-between spaces.

Kit Said What??

He sent a postcard, because of course he did. Scrawled in wonky ink and slightly damp at the edges, it said:

“Blythe. Found a shop selling speculative fiction and dried starfish. Thought of you. Also: read that book I told you about. It’s weird but it sings.”

No title, of course. Just the mystery of it. I suppose I’ll know it when I see it.

Looking Ahead

Next week, I want to follow what’s calling — even if it means straying from the TBR. More slow mornings. More sky-gazing. I’d love to sink into something transportive, something that feels like it’s opening a window in my head. Maybe another walk with a paperback in my pocket, just in case.

With love,

Blythe
☕🐚📖

Current Mood: content

We’re well into July now — the kind of soft, golden stretch where time feels drowsy around the edges. I’ve read some truly memorable books already this month (you can find my midmonth reflections here), but I wanted to take a quiet moment to look at what’s still waiting on the stack.

Not everything on my original list has made it into my hands yet — and honestly, some books have started singing a little louder than others. Here’s what’s still calling me most clearly, and what I might swap in depending on where the mood takes me.

📚 Still on the Stack
(in no particular order — just as they tug at me)

🌸 I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith
A sun-dappled reread I’ve been saving for exactly this sort of summer. There’s something about the charm and longing of Cassandra’s world that always calls me back — crumbling castles, diary entries, growing pains, and that aching sense of becoming. I can already smell the wildflowers.

🔎 The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman
This one feels like a perfect weekend choice — light but clever, funny but full of heart. I’ve been meaning to finally meet this crew of unlikely detectives, and I think I’m ready for something that blends mystery with warmth.

🎨 Still Life by Sarah Winman
This has been waiting patiently for just the right moment. It’s lush and sprawling, full of art and olive trees, Florence and found family. It's the sort of book to get lost in slowly, so I may save it for the end of the month when I can read without rushing.

🎻 Light from Uncommon Stars by Ryka Aoki
A wild card that keeps calling louder and louder. Queer found family, a violin prodigy, intergalactic deals, and a donut shop — it sounds like nothing I’ve read before, and everything I might love. If I need something both tender and cosmic, this will be it.

✨ Might-Swap-In
Depending on the mood (or the weather), I might find myself reaching for:

The Summer Book by Tove Jansson – for its quiet, briny beauty and gentle rhythm of days
Foster by Claire Keegan – if I want something brief but deep, like a held breath
The Book of Form and Emptiness by Ruth Ozeki – if I’m craving something big, strange, and lyrical

What’s still waiting on your July stack? And what’s calling you most as the month begins its slow slide toward August?

Let me know below — I love hearing what people are reading, and even more, what they’re saving for the right moment.

Current Mood: lazy
Current Music: Mariah the Scientist - July

Some books don’t just tell stories — they walk alongside you.

Inspired by The Salt Path by Raynor Winn, this list gathers books that explore survival in its many forms: emotional, physical, spiritual. These are stories of solitude, transformation, and the quiet strength it takes to begin again — especially when everything has been stripped away.

Whether memoir or fiction, each of these books holds something of the path: the stillness of wild places, the grief of loss, the stubborn act of hope.

📖 Memoirs of Healing in Nature

1. I Found My Tribe by Ruth Fitzmaurice
A luminous memoir of love and wild swimming, written by a woman whose husband is living with motor neurone disease. The sea becomes both sanctuary and metaphor — for resilience, surrender, and joy in the moment.

2. The Outrun by Amy Liptrot
Returning to the remote Orkney Islands after a battle with addiction, Liptrot’s writing captures the raw beauty of nature and the messiness of healing. Atmospheric, electric, and deeply solitary.

3. Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer
A haunting look at Christopher McCandless’s decision to leave society behind. It’s a meditation on freedom, recklessness, and what it means to live authentically — even at great cost.

4. Thirst: A Story of Redemption, Compassion, and a Mission to Bring Clean Water to the World by Scott Harrison
A very different sort of journey — this one from nightclub promoter to humanitarian. A memoir of purpose-finding, faith, and a new kind of pilgrimage.

5. A Woman in the Polar Night by Christiane Ritter
Written in the 1930s, this quiet classic tells of a year spent in near-complete isolation in the Arctic. Stark, spare, and unexpectedly luminous.

🌾 Fiction Rooted in Solitude, Journey, and Rediscovery

1. The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce
A gentle but profound novel about an elderly man who sets off on foot across England to deliver a letter. What begins as a small act of penance becomes a transformative journey.

2. Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens
Part mystery, part ode to the natural world, this novel follows a girl who grows up alone in the marshes of North Carolina. An atmospheric, slow-blooming story of strength and longing.

3. Matrix by Lauren Groff
Set in 12th-century England, this is a fierce and haunting novel about a woman cast out of royal court who creates a sanctuary of female power in an isolated abbey. A story of vision, resistance, and strange, sacred solitude.

4. Euphoria by Lily King
Though set in the humid wilds of Papua New Guinea, this novel carries the ache of intellectual solitude and the vulnerability of deep, transient connections.

5. Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan
A novella that captures quiet courage in the face of silence and complicity. Its brevity only amplifies its emotional weight — a masterclass in understated transformation.

🌬 Themes That Echo the Path

🌿 Healing through Nature
🥾 Walking as Transformation
🫧 Quiet Courage & Solitude
🔦 Rediscovery After Loss
🌀 The Long Process of Becoming

Whether you're drawn to coastlines or inner landscapes, these books offer companionship for your own journey — wherever you may be walking.

Current Mood: peaceful
Current Music: Agnes Obel - Riverside

We’re halfway through July, and the days feel like they’re stretching out just long enough for me to slip into something quiet and thoughtful - books in sun-dappled corners, journals left open with half-finished thoughts, and tea that’s gone cold more than once. It feels like the right time to check in with my reading life.

📚 What I’ve Read So Far

The Salt Path by Raynor Winn — ★★★★★ (re-read)
Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer — ★★★★★ (re-read)
This is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar & Max Gladstone — ★★★¾
The Wild Silence by Raynor Winn — ★★★★ (re-read)
The Lost Apothecary by Sarah Penner — ★★★¾
Landlines by Raynor Winn — ★★★★½ (re-read)
Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman — ★★★★ (re-read)

📚 Currently Reading

The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet by Becky Chambers
Find Me by André Aciman (re-read)
The Comfort Book by Matt Haig (another re-read — I always seem to come back to it when I need soft grounding)

✨ What’s Surprised Me

How much comfort I’ve found in returning to familiar books. July has been full of rereads - and not by accident. I think I needed stories I could trust, voices I already knew would meet me with kindness and depth.
The Lost Apothecary was a gentle surprise - I expected something moodier or more plot-driven, but it gave me a reflective kind of melancholy I didn’t know I’d been craving.
Time War didn’t sweep me up quite the way I hoped it would. I loved the language, but it felt like watching fireworks underwater - gorgeous, but somehow muted.

🌿 Have My Reading Moods Shifted?

Absolutely. I began July thinking I’d lean into pace - fast mysteries, maybe some speculative fiction with teeth - but I’ve found myself craving softness, memory, nature, healing. I think that's why books like The Salt Path, Braiding Sweetgrass, and The Comfort Book have pulled me in again.

There’s a thread that runs through all of them: a kind of deep listening. Whether it's to the land, to grief, or to love, they ask me to slow down and pay attention. And I have.

Now, with The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet, I feel like I’m opening a new door - something hopeful and character-driven, but still rooted in connection. It’s exactly what I need next.

🖊️ A Line That Stayed With Me

“The path, I realised, wasn’t just about walking; it was about learning to trust again — in life, in people, and in ourselves.”
— Landlines, Raynor Winn

This felt like someone placing a hand on my shoulder. Gently. A reminder that healing often comes quietly, and over time.

How’s your reading life this month? Any books surprising you or helping you see something more clearly? I'd love to know what's been staying with you.

Current Mood: thoughtful

“You can’t be broken and lost if you’re walking. If you’re walking you’re on a path, and even if it’s the wrong one, you’re not lost.”
— The Salt Path, Raynor Winn

When I first picked up The Salt Path 5 years ago, I didn’t quite realise the journey I was beginning - not just along the windswept cliffs of the South West Coast Path, but into a quietly radical understanding of endurance, belonging, and trust. Now, after finishing re-reading of The Wild Silence and Landlines, I’ve found myself circling back - not only to the books, but to the questions they raise, and the quiet power they carry.

Nature as Healing, Walking as Metaphor

Across all three memoirs, the natural world is far more than a backdrop - it is balm, mirror, and sometimes crucible. In The Salt Path, Winn and her husband Moth turn to the path because they have nowhere else to go. After losing their home and receiving Moth’s life-altering diagnosis, the walk becomes an act of necessity. But over time, it becomes something more: a rhythm to inhabit, a way of being that allows pain to coexist with beauty.

In The Wild Silence, the return to land feels more unsettling than the path ever did. The silence of the title echoes loudly - disconnection, trauma, and a kind of spiritual vertigo after the liminal clarity of walking. And in Landlines, walking becomes a way to once again find ground - this time through Scotland’s vastness, where their partnership is both tested and quietly reaffirmed.

There is a thread throughout: that to walk is to move toward something, even if what you’re moving toward is unknown. Walking becomes an act of trust.

Trust, Displacement, and Partnership

If The Salt Path is a story of surviving what shouldn’t be survivable, then The Wild Silence and Landlines are stories of what comes after. What does it mean to begin again, not once, but again and again? What does it mean to build trust in a world that has failed you?

Winn never shies from the discomfort of these questions. The memoirs are not neat arcs; they are ragged, soft-edged, deeply human. The bond between Raynor and Moth is the quiet centre. It's steadfast, deeply private, and wholly ordinary in its extraordinariness. Their relationship is not romanticised, but rather walked out in real time, mile after mile, in all weathers.

There is also a broader sense of displacement, of being unseen or uncounted, that runs underneath all three books. Winn has written movingly about being “statistically invisible,” a phrase that continues to echo for me. These memoirs do more than recount a journey; they hold space for the lives that fall through the cracks.

The Question of Truth

Lately, there’s been a flicker of scrutiny over the legitimacy of The Salt Path - whether certain details were embellished or smoothed. And while I think it’s always fair to interrogate nonfiction, I find myself less concerned with factual fidelity than with emotional truth.

Did every detail unfold exactly as described? Perhaps not. But does that diminish the sincerity of the voice, the visceral clarity of the experiences, or the quiet, urgent truths the memoirs convey?

Memoir, like memory, is inherently partial. Winn’s writing invites us to dwell not in certainty, but in reflection - to listen, to witness, and to ask: What does it mean to truly see someone? To walk with them, even briefly, through grief and grit and unexpected joy?

Final Thoughts

Together, The Salt Path, The Wild Silence, and Landlines form a kind of triptych - each book revealing a different facet of endurance, relationship, and the ways in which we are shaped by the land we move through. These are not memoirs of overcoming, exactly. They are memoirs of continuing.

In a world that too often demands productivity, performance, or resolution, there is something deepjly radical in simply walking. In refusing to look away. In saying: we are still here.

And perhaps that is the heart of it, what makes these books linger long after the final page. They are not just about the salt path. They are about finding a way forward, wherever you are.

“We had the stars, you and I. And this is given once only.”

I’ve always believed that the act of re-reading is a kind of quiet magic. Not just revisiting a story but revisiting yourself in it. Who you were when you first read the book. What you needed from it then. What you see now, with different eyes, older hands.

Re-reading Call Me By Your Name was like reopening a memory I didn’t realise I’d tucked away so carefully. The sun-soaked days, the ripe fruit and aching desire. It all came rushing back, but differently. Softer, maybe. More shadowed. More aware of what’s left unsaid.

There’s comfort in this returning. In knowing a line is coming and feeling its weight anyway. In noticing something you missed the first time, or feeling your heart catch where once it didn’t. Re-reads don’t just survive time - they stretch and deepen in it.

And sometimes, we re-read because we want to remember how it felt to be cracked open by a sentence. Or because we’re searching for something we can’t quite name. Or simply because we miss a character, a mood, a place... and want to go back.

Some books become part of our emotional architecture. Call Me By Your Name is one of mine. Yours might be different. But the invitation is the same: come back. See what waits for you now.

🐚 Would love to hear:

Do you re-read often?
What books have changed for you on re-reading?
Are there stories you return to every summer, or when you need to feel held?

“Is it better to speak or die?”

Returning to Call Me By Your Name felt like stepping back into a dream - golden-hued, intimate, and still quietly aching. Set in the sun-washed days of 1980s Italy, this story of first love between Elio and Oliver unfolds slowly, like fruit ripening on a windowsill: lush, uncertain, tender, and intense.

On re-reading, I was struck even more by the introspection - the depth of Elio’s inner world, his obsessional thinking, the constant circling of desire and self-consciousness. It’s not always comfortable, but it is beautifully done. Aciman captures the intensity of a youthful crush turned all-consuming romance with a kind of breathless clarity, the language both intellectual and sensuous.

There were moments I found overwrought, especially in Elio’s emotional spirals but perhaps that’s part of the point. Love at that age is everything, and Aciman never lets you forget it. There’s also an undeniable melancholy threaded through the book: the what-ifs, the missed chances, the inevitability of loss. And yet it lingers - in the citrus trees, the classical music, the quiet afternoons - with such grace.

A rich, sun-drenched story about the ways people imprint on each other. And how some summers, and some people, live on long after the heat fades.

Favourite quote:
"We had the stars, you and I. And this is given once only."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ (4 stars)
A lyrical, intimate novel about first love, memory, and longing — even more powerful the second time.

Current Mood: satisfied

“The map doesn’t show it, but the path is still there. You just have to keep walking.”

In Landlines, Raynor Winn returns once more to the trail — this time with the weight of years, illness, and uncertainty pressing even more deeply into her boots. And yet, from the very first page, there is that same fierce light: the quiet strength of a woman who knows what it means to risk everything for hope.

This third memoir sees Raynor and Moth set out again — not along the familiar coasts of the South West, but from Scotland’s rugged highlands down through wild terrain, ancient paths, and unfamiliar lands. Moth’s health has worsened. Their future is even more fragile. But the act of walking, of placing one foot in front of the other, remains a kind of sacred rhythm — one that roots them to the land and to each other.

Landlines is perhaps Winn’s most mature and expansive work. The writing feels richer, more meditative, with passages that ache with clarity and gratitude. There’s a new layer of reflection here — about aging, the body’s betrayals, the limits of love and endurance. But there’s also a sense of deepening connection: to the land, to the seasons, and to a slower kind of strength.

It’s not just a continuation of The Salt Path and The Wild Silence — it’s a culmination. And in some ways, it felt the most emotionally resonant of the three. There’s something profound about returning to the trail, knowing the risks, and choosing to walk anyway.

If I have a single quibble, it’s that the structure wanders now and then — the pace sometimes slows to a near halt in certain philosophical reflections. But that’s also part of its rhythm. This is a book that breathes, that pauses. That asks you to listen, not rush.

Favourite quote:
"The path was not an escape but a return — to the land, to ourselves, to something ancient and enduring."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐½ (4.5 stars)
Wistful, grounded, and quietly powerful — Landlines is a moving reflection on perseverance, place, and the quiet act of keeping going.

“Secrets have a way of simmering beneath the surface, like herbs steeping in a hidden brew.”

The Lost Apothecary is a compelling historical thriller that weaves together two timelines - the 18th-century story of Nella, a secret apothecary dispensing poisons to women seeking justice, and the present-day narrative of Caroline, a museum curator drawn into unraveling the apothecary’s mysteries.

Sarah Penner crafts a richly atmospheric tale filled with intriguing characters, shadowed alleys, and the scent of herbs and danger. The alternating perspectives provide a layered experience, as past and present entwine around themes of power, revenge, and female agency.

What I especially appreciated was the attention to detail in the historical setting, which brought 18th-century London vividly to life, along with the nuanced exploration of women’s choices in a patriarchal world. The mystery kept me turning pages, and several moments of suspense and revelation felt genuinely satisfying.

That said, there were times when the pacing faltered - particularly in the present-day storyline, which occasionally felt slower and less gripping than Nella’s arc. Some of the secondary characters could have been more fully developed, and a few plot threads felt a bit predictable.

Still, The Lost Apothecary is a solid, engaging read with a unique premise and a compelling emotional core. It’s a story that lingers, much like the scent of an herbal remedy - subtle but persistent.

Favourite quote:
"Even the smallest potion, brewed in secret, can change a life forever."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐¾ (3.75 stars)
A well-crafted blend of historical intrigue and modern mystery - not perfect, but definitely worth the journey.

Current Mood: loved
Current Music: This Mortal Coil - Song to the Siren

There’s something magical about childhood favourites—the books that first captured our imaginations, became dog-eared through re-reading, and quietly laid the foundations for the readers we are today.

These are the stories that taught me to lose myself in another world, to read past bedtime with a torch under the covers, to carry characters with me like old friends.

🌟 A Few of Mine

The Worst Witch by Jill Murphy
The very first series I ever adored. Mildred Hubble was clumsy and chaotic and perfect, and her wonky spells made me believe magic could be found in everyday life.

Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White
I still cry every time. This book was my introduction to tenderness in storytelling, and it made me fall in love with quiet, compassionate books.

The Animals of Farthing Wood by Colin Dann
Both heart-wrenching and hopeful. It gave me my lifelong soft spot for animal stories and bittersweet endings.

Matilda by Roald Dahl
She loved books and libraries. She felt out of place but powerful when she discovered who she was. I read this one so many times the spine split.

The Little House on the Prairie series by Laura Ingalls Wilder
I remember tracing the illustrations with my fingers, imagining butter churns and snow candy and lantern-lit nights in the big woods.

✨ What They Taught Me

Looking back, I realise these books taught me to look for wonder in small things, to value kindness, and to seek stories that are emotionally rich—whether in magic schools or fox dens or prairie cabins.

They also helped shape my taste: I still love books about found family, quiet resilience, girls who read, and the comforts of nature.

What were your childhood favourites? Did any of them plant seeds that still bloom in your reading life today?

Let’s reminisce. 💛

Current Mood: thankful
Current Music: Sigur Rós - Hoppípolla

There’s something quietly special about the rituals we build around reading - the way we prepare the space, the little comforts that help us sink into a story.

For me, it usually starts by settling into the window seat, where I can look out at the sea and let the sound of the breeze or distant gulls keep me company. I’ve claimed the right-hand corner of the sofa too - soft cushions, a light blanket even in summer, and a stack of books within easy reach.

July reading has a rhythm all of its own. The light lingers longer, and I find myself reaching for cooler drinks - elderflower cordial or peach iced tea - and letting the windows stay open late. My reading basket lives just under the coffee table, with my current book, a notebook for quotes, and the slightly-too-nice pen I save for favourite lines.

Sometimes I read cross-legged on the floor with my back to the bookcase, half browsing, half sunk into something already familiar. Other times, it's in bed with a book propped against my knees and the day winding down outside the sash windows.

No matter the time or place, there's always a kind of pause around reading - like the world lets out a breath and lets me in.

Would love to know:
Where do you like to read?
Do you have a favourite drink, chair, or time of day?

Let’s share the small, sacred details of our reading lives. 🌿

Current Mood: relaxed
Current Music: The Cinematic Orchestra - To Build A Home

“We are not separate from nature. We are nature.”

Coming back to Raynor Winn’s voice in The Wild Silence feels like returning to a quiet cove you once walked, barefoot and full of questions. It carries the same raw honesty and reverence for the natural world as The Salt Path, but this time the journey is inward — a slower, softer reckoning with home, healing, and the life that follows after survival.

This book begins not on the coast, but in the quiet aftermath. Raynor and Moth, having completed their epic walk, are still searching — not just for somewhere to live, but for a sense of peace, belonging, and purpose. Much of The Wild Silence is about what it means to try and settle when you’ve been reshaped by loss, by wildness, by walking.

There’s a deep tenderness in the way Raynor writes about Moth — his illness, his fragility, his strength — and how their relationship bends and grows under new pressures. There’s also a lovely thread about reconnecting with her mother, and a remarkable project that sees Raynor and Moth return to the land in a different way — by rewilding a neglected farm. These moments are where the book shines.

The prose remains lyrical and sincere, though at times the structure felt a little meandering. Some sections felt slightly unfocused or repeated certain beats from The Salt Path, and I occasionally wished for a tighter arc or more clarity. But then again, life after trauma is messy and non-linear, and perhaps the book’s form reflects that truth.

It’s not quite as immediately striking as The Salt Path, but it’s a worthy continuation — quieter, but just as brave. If The Salt Path is about losing everything, The Wild Silence is about relearning how to live in the aftermath. About finding meaning not just in wild places, but in stillness, in roots, in tending the land with your own hands.

Favourite quote:
"The wild silence isn't empty. It’s full of memory, of heartbeat, of breath. It listens to you, if you listen back."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐ (4 stars)
A reflective and deeply felt continuation — The Wild Silence is a book about returning, restoring, and remembering what it means to live with the land.

There’s something about the coast that lingers long after you’ve left it—the hush of the tide, salt crusting your skin, stories caught in the wind. Today’s rec list is for books that carry that same feeling: sea-swept and soul-deep, laced with longing, mystery, and memory. These are stories that feel like foghorns and forgotten postcards, like walking barefoot through dune grass or standing by a lighthouse at dusk.

📚 Coastal Vibes Rec List

1. The Salt Path by Raynor Winn
Memoir meets landscape. Raw, resilient, and deeply tied to the Cornish coast. A story of losing everything and finding something truer along the salt-battered South West Coast Path.

2. The Summer Book by Tove Jansson
A quiet gem. Grandmother and granddaughter on a remote Finnish island - it's meditative, tender, and filled with small, windswept moments.

3. Remarkable Creatures by Tracy Chevalier
Fossils, friendship, and the windswept cliffs of Lyme Regis. A historical novel about Mary Anning, the sea, and the women who found meaning in its bones.

4. The Light Between Oceans by M.L. Stedman
A lighthouse, an isolated island, and a devastating decision. Moody and melancholic, like sea spray on a grey day.

5. A Year of Marvellous Ways by Sarah Winman
Set in a Cornish creek post-WWII. Magical realism, healing, and a woman waiting by the water for a purpose to arrive. Feels like drinking chamomile tea while watching the tide turn.

6. The Offing by Benjamin Myers
A lyrical coming-of-age story along the North Yorkshire coast. Gentle and sun-drenched, with the wisdom of a wild older woman and the freedom of a boy discovering himself.

7. The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch
A retired theatre director seeks solitude by the sea - but finds obsession, memory, and madness. Dense, strange, and drenched in coastal isolation.

8. The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry
Foggy marshes, superstition, sea monsters, and a headstrong woman. More estuarial than coastal, but the saltwater mood still lingers throughout.

9. Seahorse by Janice Pariat
Queer, dreamy, and art-soaked. A retelling of Hippolytus through watery cities and philosophical longing. For anyone who feels like water remembers us.

10. Our Wives Under the Sea by Julia Armfield
A haunting story of love, the deep sea, and what returns to us changed. Quietly devastating and beautifully written - like holding hands with grief on the ocean floor.

🎧 Pair it With:

A “Fog and Foam” playlist — ambient, cinematic, sea-salt softened (think Agnes Obel, Ólafur Arnalds, Nick Drake).
A rewatch of The Lighthouse (moody and weird) or Summerland (sun-washed and gentle).
A mug of sea buckthorn tea, or a splash of elderflower cordial over ice with a twist of lemon.

What would you add to a coastal vibes list? Do certain books feel like low tide, sea glass, or storm clouds on the horizon?

Let me know what’s washing up on your TBR 🌊

Current Mood: peaceful
Current Music: Agnes Obel – Riverside

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Blyhe

July 2025

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Page Summary

At The Waters Edge
4.5-Star Review: A Closed and Common Orbit by Becky Chambers
Notes from the Harbour - Tides and Transitions
4-Star Review: The Comfort Book by Matt Haig
TBR Update - What I Might Still Read Before August
Reading Life - On Slow Reading & Letting Books Linger
After the Ending: On Sequels, Echoes, and Unfinished Feelings
3.5-Star Review: Find Me by André Aciman
Notes from the Harbour - A Week of Walking and Wonder
July TBR Update — What’s Still Calling Me This Month
Harbour Walk - Stories of Survival & Solitude
Reading Journal - Midmonth Reflections
Following the Salt Path - Reflecting on Raynor Winn’s Memoirs
On Re-reading, Memory, and the Stories That Change With Us
4-Star Review: Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman
🌲 4.5-Star Review: Landlines by Raynor Winn
3.75-Star Review: The Lost Apothecary by Sarah Penner
Childhood Favourites
Reading Rituals: Quiet Corners & Bookish Comforts
🍃 4-Star Review: The Wild Silence by Raynor Winn
Harbour Walk - Coastal Vibes Rec List

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Sunlight, sea air, and softly dog-eared books

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