A Settled Spell

Tour season begins, and Shetland greets us with an almost magical stretch of sunshine and calm—one of those rare spells where the islands feel transformed.

It’s early—7:23am on a quiet Saturday—and I’ve been sitting on our front step with a coffee, leafing through a beautiful book on creative practice that one of the wonderful guests from the tour recommended to me. Sunlight is spilling across this little sun trap, and for the past hour or so, it’s just been me, the book, and this moment. I could have stayed in bed, but these quiet mornings feel like the best part of the day. Like the world is holding its breath and you get to have it all to yourself—a secret, sacred moment of calm and quiet before the day begins to unfold.

Lately, something has shifted. Whether it’s just coincidence, or because I started believing things would shift, I’m not sure. But the sense of turbulence—that one-thing-after-another feeling—has started to ease. Somewhere (probably in a horoscope I don’t take all that seriously), I read that the early part of the year would feel unsettled, full of hard work and uncertainty, but that things would change in May. And strangely enough, they have. At least in my head.

The tours are now underway again, and it’s reminded me of what I truly love. Through Shetland—through the conversations, the walking, the noticing—I feel like I’m rediscovering parts of myself I’d left behind somewhere along the way. It’s been five years since starting 60 North Publishing: five years of journals, publishing projects, moments of excitement, but also long stretches of uncertainty and the need to constantly find new solutions. I hadn’t quite realised how much of that time was spent in forward motion without ever feeling fully grounded. Always onto the next thing. Always wondering if it would hold.

But now, something’s settling. I’m finding that I don’t need to have it all figured out. I don’t need to chase the next idea before I’ve lived in the current one. I can just be here. This moment, this morning, this coffee. My own time. I can say yes to what’s already present—and that feels like its own kind of magic.

In other news—and quite wonderfully—we’ve been gifted one of those rare Shetland spells: nearly a full fortnight of continuous sunshine, with more still promised to come. This kind of weather is truly exceptional here. It’s as if someone flipped a switch overnight—winter quietly stepped back, and suddenly everything feels like summer. The air is soft, the light golden, and the sea smells fresh. Evenings stretch on and on, while the sun returns early, casting its pink glow long before the day truly begins. The sense of possibility is everywhere. These stretches are precious—the kind of days that remind you just how lucky you are to live here, when Shetland feels not only like the edge of the world, but the very heart of it. For this moment in time, there’s nowhere else in the world you’d rather be.

Last week, the second tour group of the year explored the South Mainland—beautiful beaches, wide skies, and time for birdwatching and wandering. One of the real highlights was a cookery session focused on wild plants and foraging, led by Jenny—who absolutely deserves a special mention.

Jenny is a local food enthusiast, forager, experimenter, and gastronomy graduate, and she’s deeply passionate about Shetland-grown food. With her as our guide, we were taken on a culinary journey through the isles, learning not just about the cultivated produce grown here, but also the wild ingredients hiding in plain sight—from sea truffle and sandwort along the shore, to herbs and berries foraged from the hills.

We began with tea, coffee, and homemade tabnabs—a warm welcome into Jenny’s exciting culinary world—before learning about the seasonal ingredients Shetland had to offer. Jenny shared her story of working to revive Shetland’s original varieties, like Shetland oats, reconnecting with the islands’ agricultural heritage. The session ended with us preparing and enjoying a meal together, made largely from what Shetland provides—both cultivated and wild. It was thoughtful, deeply nourishing, and full of inspiration. My head is still buzzing with ideas I can’t wait to try. I’ll be writing more about this fantastically inspiring and enlighting session soon.

And then there’s the rhubarb—blushing and full, at its best just now. I’ve been too busy to do anything with it yet, but today might be the day. The sky is still clear, the forecast kind, and I’m planning to spend a few quiet hours in the garden—harvesting herbs, drying a few, and finally working with that rhubarb. These are the small, slow joys. The ones that fill you up and quietly bring you back to yourself.

Thanks for reading—wherever you are, I hope you're finding your own little spell of light.

P.S. The book I mentioned earlier—the one I’ve been sitting with this morning—is The Book of Alchemy by Suleika Jaouad. A beautiful reflection on journaling, creative practice, and the quiet power of inner work. Highly recommended.
And I have another of hers on the go as well—Between Two Kingdoms—an incredibly honest and raw memoir of her fight with leukaemia. Both are deeply human and full of courage and inspiration.

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