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.

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.

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