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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
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Following the Salt Path - Reflecting on Raynor Winn’s Memoirs
“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
— 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.
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On Re-reading, Memory, and the Stories That Change With Us
“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?
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4-Star Review: Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman
“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.
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🌲 4.5-Star Review: Landlines by Raynor Winn
“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.
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3.75-Star Review: The Lost Apothecary by Sarah Penner
“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.
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Childhood Favourites
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. 💛
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Reading Rituals: Quiet Corners & Bookish Comforts
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. 🌿
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🍃 4-Star Review: The Wild Silence by Raynor Winn
“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.
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Harbour Walk - Coastal Vibes Rec List
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.
🎧 Pair it With:
📚 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 🌊
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The Romance of Summer
There’s something about summer that slows everything down just enough to feel alive again. Maybe it's the way the light lingers long past dinner, or the way even the sea seems to shimmer with a secret. Summer is a season of memory and mood—of sun-warmed skin and stories waiting to be told.
I’ve always been a little bit in love with this time of year. The kind of love that feels nostalgic and tender and full of soft, golden light. There's the obvious stuff: beaches and bare feet, books read in the garden, the tang of salt in the air. But there’s also the more intimate, almost invisible romance of it all—the scent of coconut sunscreen on someone you like, the lazy clink of ice in a glass, the sudden ache of a song that takes you back.
I get sentimental about:
🌻 Blanket mornings on the sand, when the world is quiet and the waves are still stretching awake. I like to take a notebook and a flask of tea, just to sit and feel small and grateful.
🍓 First strawberries of the season—sweet, messy, best eaten with fingers in the garden, barefoot, bees buzzing nearby.
🧺 Picnics that last all day, with friends or just a good book, watching shadows shift across the grass, no real plans except to stay exactly where you are.
🎞️ The colours of dusk in July—pale pinks and smoky blues, the way the sky feels like it’s holding its breath.
📻 Old songs on the radio in a too-hot car, windows down, hair whipping, everything feeling like a film scene.
Summer always makes me want to write more, not just because of the beauty—but because it makes me feel so much. That dreamy, golden ache of a perfect moment that you know won’t last. I journal more often this time of year, trying to catch little flickers of the light before they vanish. Trying to remember what it feels like to be soft, open, and here.
What’s the romance of summer for you?
I’d love to know what memories come to the surface when you think about this season. What makes your heart race? What do you find yourself treasuring more this time of year?
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July Reading Journal - First Week Reflections
July’s first week has drifted by softly - days filled with familiar pages and fresh discoveries. I’ve been reading in nooks near open windows, with tea (and quiet thoughts) always in reach.
📚 What I’ve Finished
- The Salt Path by Raynor Winn - A re‑read of this beloved memoir, and it still cracks me open. Its simple, raw beauty never fails to linger.
- Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer - Another comfort read that reconnects me with gratitude and wonder.
- This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El‑Mohtar & Max Gladstone - Kit’s recommendation took me by surprise - eerie, lyrical, full of longing. I didn’t fully understand it, but I deeply felt it.
📖 What I’m Reading Now
- The Wild Silence by Raynor Winn - Also a re‑read. Her reflections on nature, grief, healing—they feel like familiar trails in my soul.
- The Lost Apothecary by Sarah Penner - Just embarked on this historical mystery. I’m excited for its dual timelines and atmospheric secrets.
🌊 What Surprised Me
That I’ve circled back to both Salt Path and Wild Silence so early - turns out the comfort of known landscapes is a balm when July feels heavy with the unknown.
Also surprising: how Time War moved me - its haunting, poetic pulses linger long after the last page.
🕵️♀️ On the Raynor Winn Investigation
This week, The Observer published an investigation claiming that key elements of Winn’s memoir may have been embellished or misrepresented - allegations of embezzlement, owning a second home during their “homeless” period, and questions about her husband’s CBD diagnosis. The charity PSPA has distanced itself, and Winn’s team has called the report “highly misleading” while pursuing legal advice
As a reader who has found solace and strength in these stories, it's unsettling to see the foundations questioned. I still cherish the emotional truths the books carry, even if some factual details may now feel ambiguous. It’s a reminder of how deeply memoirs affect us—and how tangled the space between memory, storytelling, and truth can be.
✨ Standout Quotes & Moments
From The Salt Path:
“Just because you’re homeless doesn’t mean you haven’t got a life, a story, a place in the world.”
From Time War:
“Words can wound, or salve. They can kindle love, or spark war. They start revolutions and stop hearts.”
My own notebook:
“Re‑reading feels like returning to a true north - stories that are home, even when the world shifts.”
How is your July unfolding in terms of reading? Have any books surprised or rooted you this week? I’d love to hear your reflections.
Here’s to the stories that carry us through the days. ☀️
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📘 3.75-Star Review: This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar
“Words can wound and words can heal. I love you is the root of all battle.”
Reading This Is How You Lose the Time War feels a little like wandering into a half-remembered dream — vivid and poetic, but with moments where you’re not quite sure where you are or what it all means. And yet, that’s part of what makes it so special.
This novella follows two rival agents, Red and Blue, as they leave secret letters for one another across the strands of time. What begins as taunting and tension becomes something intimate and tender, tangled with longing, wit, and eventual rebellion. Their love grows in stolen words, in coded messages, in the cracks between timelines.
The prose is lush, experimental, sometimes bordering on opaque — but often achingly beautiful. At its best, it reads like a love poem disguised as science fiction. I adored the sharpness of the voices, the elegance of the metaphors, and the sheer feeling it managed to evoke through language alone. There were lines I reread just to feel them again.
That said, it’s a book that asks for a lot of trust. There were moments I felt unmoored, wishing for a little more grounding in the plot or world-building. But perhaps that’s not the point — this isn’t a book about systems or settings; it’s about connection. About language as an act of love. About finding your person even in the unlikeliest timeline.
This isn’t quite a forever favourite, but it is unforgettable. A book I’d recommend to anyone who finds magic in words, who’s ever wanted to fall in love through letters, or who’s drawn to stories that feel like puzzles and poetry all at once.
Favourite quote:
“I want to meet you in every place I ever loved. Listen. Listen: Time is not a river. Time is a tree. We climb it together.”
Rating: ⭐⭐⭐¾ (3.75 stars)
A strange and stunning novella — not always easy, but utterly worthwhile.
July vibes
“Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.”
— Emerson
Hi friends - and welcome! Whether you found me through the addme community or wandered in some other way, I’m really glad you’re here. 🐚🌞
This little corner of the internet is part journal, part book nook, part daydream. I’ll be sharing personal thoughts, reading notes, and soft seasonal things—sunlight on the water, library hauls, the occasional poem. Think cozy coastal mornings and late-80s summer nostalgia. 🌼
June felt like a reset in ways I didn’t expect. I slowed down - on purpose and not. I let go of a few things that weren’t sitting right, gave myself permission to just be without pushing for productivity. It was quiet, internal, and a little uncertain, but I think I needed that pause.
July, though... July feels like it wants to be brighter. Not necessarily louder or busier, but lighter in spirit. More sun on skin. More open windows. More intentional joy.
I’m craving slow mornings with iced coffee and a book, walks that feel like wandering, and maybe starting a little creative project just for me. I want to lean into what feels good without needing to explain it. Quiet delight. Soft momentum.
So this is a soft launch of sorts. A quiet beginning. A new rhythm. A space to fill, slowly.
Feel free to say hi or introduce yourself below - I’d love to hear what this month looks like for you. 💛
(And maybe I’ll add a little July moodboard here soon…)
— Emerson
Hi friends - and welcome! Whether you found me through the addme community or wandered in some other way, I’m really glad you’re here. 🐚🌞
This little corner of the internet is part journal, part book nook, part daydream. I’ll be sharing personal thoughts, reading notes, and soft seasonal things—sunlight on the water, library hauls, the occasional poem. Think cozy coastal mornings and late-80s summer nostalgia. 🌼
June felt like a reset in ways I didn’t expect. I slowed down - on purpose and not. I let go of a few things that weren’t sitting right, gave myself permission to just be without pushing for productivity. It was quiet, internal, and a little uncertain, but I think I needed that pause.
July, though... July feels like it wants to be brighter. Not necessarily louder or busier, but lighter in spirit. More sun on skin. More open windows. More intentional joy.
I’m craving slow mornings with iced coffee and a book, walks that feel like wandering, and maybe starting a little creative project just for me. I want to lean into what feels good without needing to explain it. Quiet delight. Soft momentum.
So this is a soft launch of sorts. A quiet beginning. A new rhythm. A space to fill, slowly.
Feel free to say hi or introduce yourself below - I’d love to hear what this month looks like for you. 💛
(And maybe I’ll add a little July moodboard here soon…)
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🌾 5-Star Review: Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer
“What would it be like to be raised on gratitude, to speak to the earth as if it were a beloved relative?”
There are some books that don’t just share knowledge — they reawaken it in you. Braiding Sweetgrass is one of those rare treasures: a weaving of science, story, and spirit that gently transforms how you see the world and your place in it.
Robin Wall Kimmerer — botanist, professor, and member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation — invites the reader into a slow, reverent conversation about reciprocity, kinship, and the intelligence of the living world. With prose as rich and grounded as the soil she studies, she offers both scientific insight and Indigenous wisdom, never treating them as separate threads, but braiding them together with deep care.
What I loved most was the sense of listening that underpins every page. Kimmerer writes not just to share, but to invite — into gratitude, into relationship, into responsibility. Whether she’s describing the quiet generosity of sweetgrass, the learning curve of raising daughters close to the land, or the intricate exchanges between mosses and water, each chapter feels like a sacred offering.
This book took me days to read — not because it was slow, but because it asked me to slow down. To read with ceremony. To think. To notice. To look at the trees outside my window not as background, but as neighbours.
If you’re yearning for a book that reconnects, recentres, and replenishes — this is it. Not just a favourite of the year, but one I’ll return to again and again, like a familiar forest path that always shows you something new.
Favourite quote:
“In a world that values constant growth, sweetgrass reminds us that the most beautiful things are those that grow in circles, not lines.”
Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
A wise, generous, and deeply healing book — Braiding Sweetgrass is both a love letter and a call to remember.
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🌿 5-Star Review: The Salt Path by Raynor Winn
“Sometimes, the end of a path is just the beginning.”
Every now and then, a book comes along that quietly but irrevocably shifts something in you. The Salt Path is one of those books — gentle and unassuming on the surface, but full of deep, tidal emotion that carries you somewhere unexpected.
Raynor Winn tells the true story of how she and her husband Moth, newly homeless and reeling from his devastating diagnosis, decide to walk the 630-mile South West Coast Path from Somerset to Dorset. With nothing but a tent, meagre funds, and a fierce sense of love and determination, their journey is both a physical trek and an emotional reckoning — with grief, with resilience, with the raw edges of the natural world.
What struck me most was the simplicity and strength of Winn’s writing. There’s no pretension, only honesty — about exhaustion, about shame, about the beauty of a windswept cliff at sunset. Her words are carried by the rhythm of the waves, the call of seabirds, the relentless forward motion of walking. And through it all, her bond with Moth is achingly beautiful — quiet, unwavering, and filled with the kind of tenderness that feels rare and vital.
This book is not just about a walk, or a hardship overcome. It's about choosing life — deliberately, doggedly, even when life seems to have turned its back on you. It’s about rewilding yourself in the face of ruin. And it’s about hope — not the shiny, surface kind, but the real, salt-stung kind that comes from the ground up.
If you’ve ever found solace in nature, questioned what it means to “have enough,” or needed reminding of the small, sturdy things that carry us through — The Salt Path will find its way into your heart and stay there.
Favourite quote:
"To carry on, to make a new home in the light, not the dark. To live. To live the best life we could."
Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Raw, restorative, and deeply human — The Salt Path is a quiet triumph of spirit and landscape alike.
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Falling Into Book Blogging (and StoryGraph)
I hadn’t planned on spending my Sunday this way. But isn’t that always how the best things start?
Kit and I were chatting with someone earlier this week who casually mentioned book blogging - and before I knew it, we were talking about tracking our reads, posting reviews, and swapping WordPress tips. They recommended StoryGraph for cataloguing, and I’d never used it before. Out of curiosity, I signed up this morning… and suddenly I was knee-deep in uploading my entire book collection, trying to remember what I’ve read and when, and getting wildly distracted by all the mood and pacing tags.
I didn’t realize how satisfying it would be to see everything laid out like that - books I loved, books I forgot I owned, books I swear I meant to read in 2021. And even though I started the day just poking around, it ended up giving me a bit of clarity on why I want to start this blog.
I’ve always loved reading. But until now, I didn’t have one place to reflect on it - to gather thoughts, keep track of what I’m reading, and maybe connect with other readers. I’m not setting out to be a professional reviewer or anything. I just want to write about books the way I experience them: personally, emotionally, sometimes out of order.
So this is the start of Tales by the Tide - a little coastal-feeling book nook where I can share TBRs, thoughts, reading journals, and whatever else bubbles up. It’s early days (and I still have some serious tag-wrangling to do on StoryGraph), but I already feel like I’m carving out a space I’ll love coming back to.
Thank you for being here as I figure it out
I’ll be sharing my July TBR on Tuesday, if all goes well. For now, I’m just glad I followed the rabbit hole.
“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one.”
— George R.R. Martin
– Blythe