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EURO BOOK TREK – 1st Leg

A literary and climate-themed journey through Europe, one bookshop at a time.

First Leg of the Journey: CAMBRIDGE & ELY – Lowlands, Legacy & Literary Soil

The Euro Book Trek began not with a bang, but with the soft, persistent lapping of water under a fenland sky — and a punt ride down the river past ancient libraries. As I stood beneath the tower of Ely Cathedral, it struck me: if Salt & Seeds is a story of regeneration and resistance, then this land, once an island in marsh and sea, was the perfect place to start. Cambridgeshire and Ely exist on borrowed time, much like my home in East Yorkshire — and the world Vega inherits in my novel.

Climate & Resilience Insight

Both Ely and Cambridge sit just above sea level — their pasts reclaimed from water, their futures once again threatened by it. The Fens, long drained by pumps and protected by levees, now face rising tides and an uncertain infrastructure. Yet there’s hope: locals are planting flood-tolerant trees and exploring peatland restoration. Here, as in Salt & Seeds, the waterways are not only risks — they are also lifelines that the people here know how to use.

Literary Encounters

Peacocks Tearoom, Ely: A gentle pause, where bookmarks now wait for readers sipping lapsang and enjoying lemon drizzle cake. Their tea selection was the best I’ve ever seen — the violet tea paired beautifully with my peanut butter and banana sandwiches. George, the owner, is a wonderful host. Over tea, he told me he’s friends with the owner of Toppings Books and kindly offered to speak with them about stocking Salt & Seeds in their shops.

Topping & Co., Ely: Books stacked high, pride in local authors, and warm, welcoming staff. Bookmarks now among the shelves.

Thrive, Cambridge: A conscious, plant-powered book café where solarpunk flyers sit next to flapjacks. I had a fabulous breakfast, leafed through a rich collection of books, and left bookmarks nestled throughout.

The Haunted Bookshop, Cambridge: Narrow aisles, whispering books — the perfect haunt for a quiet offering.

Waterstones & Heffers, Cambridge: Yes, chains — but both staffed by passionate readers who received Salt & Seeds with genuine interest.

Great St Mary’s Church Book Swap: One signed copy now sits beneath the bells, waiting for a wandering soul.

People & Moments

A woman in the Haunted Bookshop asked me what my book was about. “Hope,” I said. “And community resilience.” She smiled like she already knew. At Thrive, a kind woman behind the counter with fabulous tattoos read the back cover and said, “I look forward to reading this myself.” These moments stay with me — the spark of recognition, of shared purpose.

Book Drops

Bookmarks at:

• Heffers, Cambridge
  
• Peacock Tea Room, Ely
  
• Toppings Bookshop, Ely
  
• Thrive, Cambridge
  
• The Haunted Bookshop, Cambridge
  
• Waterstones, Cambridge
  

Book left at:

• Great St Mary’s Church book swap, Cambridge
  

Closing Thought

This beginning was all about planting seeds and reconnecting with literary roots — in the marshy soil, in conversations over tea, in ancient stone and ink-stained hands. These are the stories we carry and leave behind.

Next stop: Le Shuttle, under the Channel from Folkestone to Calais, and on to Boulogne-sur-Mer — the windswept coast of Normandy where memory is etched in sand and stone.

EURO BOOK TREK – 2nd Leg

NORMANDY TO TOULOUSE – Memory, Resistance & Storytelling by Sea and Stone

After crossing beneath the Channel via Le Shuttle — a slightly unnerving experience for a claustrophobe — I emerged into France and rolled south along the coast to Boulogne-sur-Mer. A windswept town with echoes of ancient tides and wartime crossings, it was here that the second chapter of the Euro Book Trek truly opened.

Places Visited

Boulogne-sur-Mer: France’s oldest fishing port and once the Roman capital of Gaul. Beneath its ramparts, I found a quiet book swap nestled in a side street, and placed a signed copy of Salt & Seeds there for a stranger to find. A town shaped by tides and trade, like so many of the communities my book speaks to.

Juno Beach, Courseulles-sur-Mer: This visit was deeply personal. My son’s great-grandfather came ashore here in 1944 with the Canadian army, part of the D-Day landings. To walk that same beach is an extraordinary thing — sobering, humbling, connective. Still framed in remnants of war.

War Cemetery, near Onahama Beach: The resting place of those who never made it past that first terrible day. White crosses in perfect lines. I couldn’t help thinking of the generational echoes — what they preserved, and what we must protect, as war and fascism rise again in Europe.

Book Swap in a red English Phone Box, Bernières-sur-Mer (near Juno Beach): Painted bright red and filled with paperbacks. I placed a signed copy of Salt & Seeds inside, for the many English readers around these parts.

Caen: A city scarred by WWII, but now thoughtfully rebuilt. The Caen Memorial Museum is a powerful archive of 20th-century conflict — but also peace-building. This stop gave me a chance to reflect on memory as civic duty, and the role of narrative in resisting authoritarian forgetting. Caen have real concerns about climate change and are taking preparations seriously.

Tours: A beautiful riverside city and a way-marker south, where history feels deeply woven into the streets. Known for its Renaissance architecture and commitment to heritage preservation. I didn’t stop long — but long enough to admire how this place balances old and new, tradition and transition.

Oradour-sur-Glane: A ghost village, preserved in silence. In 1944, German SS troops massacred 643 inhabitants — mostly women and children — and left the ruins as they were. Visiting here is not like walking through history. It is walking through trauma. Burned prams. Rusting cars. Church walls blackened by fire and pitted with bullet holes where people prayed for sanctuary before the end. I left no book here — only silence and a promise to remember.

Limoges: A small city, near Oradour’s shadow. Here, I found Le Bibliovore, a warm, independent bookshop where I left bookmarks and had a thoughtful chat with the bookseller about climate fiction, art, and resilience. He seemed to understand exactly what I was doing.

Climate & Resilience Insight

Normandy’s coastlines are under increasing threat from erosion and rising sea levels. The same beaches that bore guns and sacrifice now face subtler, slower battles. Local initiatives are emerging: dune restoration, floodplain buffering, and heritage-sensitive urban planning. This is the slow fight — not against invasion, but inundation. Historic bunkers and precious land are being lost to increasing storm-driven tides. Building plans have recently been shelved due to worries of faster sea level rise than anticipated.

As I moved inland, the danger shifted — not from water, but from heat and fire. The Nouvelle-Aquitaine region, including Limoges, is seeing hotter, drier summers and renewed investment in forest fire management. Community allotments, sustainable transport initiatives, and climate adaptation plans are all growing — just like the themes at the heart of Salt & Seeds.

Literary Encounters

• Boulogne-sur-Mer Book Swap: A handwritten sign inviting readers to take what they needed and leave what they’d loved.
  
• Red Phone Box Book Swap, Bernières-sur-Mer: A British icon rewilded into a book refuge. I imagined a traveller finding Salt & Seeds and feeling compelled to take it with them.
  
• Le Bibliovore, Limoges: Small, welcoming, and rich in atmosphere. I left bookmarks and talked with the bookseller about ecological literature.

People & Moments

In Normandy, I met a young man who had recently left the French army. He told me, quietly, that he felt dreadfully lonely and unsure of his next step. His friends had all stayed on or moved elsewhere. I told him he might find solace in writing — in creating characters, telling stories, giving voice to what aches. I hope he will be okay.

In Limoges, a woman asked if Salt & Seeds was a sad book. I said, “It’s honest. But it ends with growth.” She nodded. “Then it is a hopeful one.”

Book Drops

Books placed at:

• Boulogne-sur-Mer book swap
  
• English phone box book swap, Bernières-sur-Mer near Juno Beach
  

Bookmarks placed at:

• Le Bibliovore, Limoges
  

Closing Thought

This leg of the journey was a descent — from the cliffs of Normandy into the shadowed ruins of Oradour, and on to the flowering south. Each place reminded me that resistance isn’t only about defiance — it’s also about remembrance. It’s about how we carry pain, and how we plant something in its place.

Next stop: Toulouse — where aerospace dreams meet speculative fiction, and my old friend Chris is waiting to meet me with stories of her own.

EURO BOOK TREK – 3rd Leg

TOULOUSE TO LOURDES & BIELSA – Stars, Sacred Sites & a Road Between Worlds

Jun 23, 2025

Some chapters unfold like stories. Others feel like visions. This leg of the Euro Book Trek was a bit of both.

From the vibrant streets of Toulouse to the mountain shadows of Bielsa, this stretch was soaked in the surreal, the sacred, and the speculative. Along with my wife Sara and my son Harrison, I went to stay with my old friend Chris Rosings, former editor of OVNIS — the popular French UFO magazine that once featured my son and I years ago. Chris is one of the most curious, sharp-minded people I know — and she was keen to show us the sights of her home town and surounding area. This journey was, in many ways, an opportunity for Chris and Harry to continue the conversation they started when he was only 14, about the many unexplained mysteries of Europe

📍 Places Visited

Toulouse: A beautiful, warm city of art, fashion, and science — ancient streets humming with creative enterprises. While Chris showed Sara and Harrison around town, I visited Cité de l’Espace, a huge space-themed discovery park. Toulouse is known as the European Capital of Space, home to Airbus — and a very big rocket.

Here, inspiration for sci-fi writing was everywhere. Earth observation, planetary resilience, and space-enabled conservation projects all echoed my character Rowan’s work in Salt & Seeds — mapping the climate-battered terrain of a future Earth from above. The VEGA rocket model was also on display, and I couldn’t help thinking that my character Vega would’ve loved seeing it. I felt proud to still be working in the space sector on Earth preservation initiatives, and treated myself to a new ESA patch.

This city makes you think forward. After so many reflections on memory and war in Normandy, Toulouse felt like standing on a launchpad — not just for rockets, but for imagination.

Later that day, I joined Chris and my family in the city centre for excellent food and a tour of the wonderful bookshops and galleries. A great example is The Bookshop — with a well-curated stock of English language books, and now a signed copy of Salt & Seeds on its shelf.

Lourdes: A place of devotion, healing, and deep mystery. We stopped here with Chris on our way to the mountains. We drank from the holy spring, visited the grotto, and watched monks, nuns, and other pilgrims move like quiet currents through the sanctuaries.

Lourdes is not just about miracles — it’s also about resilience through ritual. The town has a complex relationship with flooding, having faced several devastating deluges in recent years. And yet, it rebuilds again and again, with faith and sandbags. There’s valuable experience here.

The Pyrenees & the Bielsa Pass: We crossed into Spain through the Tunnel de Bielsa, emerging into sweeping Pyrenean wilderness. The magnificent snow-capped peaks contrasted with the warm sunlit ground in the beautiful clearing where we stopped to stretch our legs. Local cows, big-belled and friendly, grazed calmly nearby with their calves — curious, not protective.

That night we had a delicious meal in Bielsa, where I left bookmarks, then drove back through winding mountain roads. A beautiful deer ran beside our car for several long moments, as if guiding us back to the border.

The road was winding and long. It felt like moving through a dream. Like the forest itself was aware of us.

Climate & Resilience Insight

Toulouse isn’t just a city of aerospace — it’s a city thinking about survival. Its research centres study not only satellites and rocketry, but also urban sustainability, water systems, and climate resilience. ESA’s Earth observation programs are already being used to monitor deforestation, ocean temperatures, and agricultural shifts — the very technologies I work with in GalacticESG, and the inspiration for what my character Rowan uses in Salt & Seeds to interpret planetary signals from orbit.

In contrast, Lourdes faces rising climate pressure with very human tools — cooperation, community, ritual. The 2013 and 2018 floods shut down pilgrimage sites and displaced residents. Now, improved flood defences and real-time monitoring protect the sacred grotto. It’s a blend of ancient belief and modern adaptation — in the face of warming air and heavier storms.

In the Pyrenees, climate change brings a different pressure: earlier snowmelt, shifting ecosystems, and wildlife migrating higher. Sacred or not, the mountains are changing too.

Literary Sparks

Toulouse turned out to be more than a stop — it became a creative ignition point. Chris offered to translate Salt & Seeds into Spanish, and introduced me to a friend interested in creating a graphic novel adaptation. The story is growing — not just in space, but in form.

We also spent time exploring local bookshops and galleries. Salt & Seeds found kindred company in Toulouse — stories about possible futures, wild hope, and strange new worlds were welcomed with warmth and enthusiasm.

Book Drops

• Book in The Bookshop, Toulouse
• Book to my dear friend Chris to pass on once she’s read it
• Bookmarks in Bédéciné Bookshop, Toulouse
• Bookmarks in Ombres Blanches Bookshop, Toulouse
• Bookmarks in Bielsa and Lourdes information areas

Closing Thought

This leg reminded me that speculative fiction doesn’t always begin in the mind — sometimes it begins in the body, in landscape, in stories whispered in chapels or tracked in satellite orbits. It was a journey through outer space and inner signal, through pilgrimage and possibility.

Next stop: Provence to Nice — ochre cliffs, lavender dreams, resistance villages, and the ancient beauty of churches on hilltops.

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EURO BOOK TREK 4th Leg

Provence to Nice. Rural Beauty, Tear Gas & Emergency Injections by the Sea.

Jun 25, 2025

This stretch of the journey began like a painting — ochre villages, quiet roads, the scent of lavender and pine — and ended like a scene from a novel I hadn’t planned to write. After the sacred quiet of Lourdes and the wilderness of Bielsa, we entered Provence, followed the sun east, and arrived in Nice — where unexpected moments shaped the memory of everything that came before.

Places Visited

Gordes: A luminous hilltop village of limestone, shadows, and slow afternoons. I left bookmarks in a book swap, tucked away in a wine-bar backroom, with a cliffside view to die for.

Roussillon: A village cut from fire and dust. Everything here is red — the cliffs, the buildings, the ground. I found a book swap in a lovely purpose built wooden cabinet, and I left a signed copy of Salt & Seeds beside novels in four languages. There was no one around. The air felt still, as if the books were waiting for me to leave, so they could welcome their new member..

Nice: A city poised between elegance and intensity. On our first night we wandered the Promenade des Anglais, where we came across a beach art peace demonstration — messages of hope and anti-war slogans traced in sand, shells, and cardboard on the sands. People spoke quietly, it was a moment of collective breath, made with hands and care.

The next night, everything shifted.

Celebration Turns to Chaos

My son Harrison wanted to watch the PSG match, so we found a bar showing it. PSG won, and the local supporters poured into the streets, cheering, waving flags, and lighting flares. It was wild, but not violent — a jubilant, chaotic celebration. Car drivers honked in rhythm, people sang. For a while, it was joyful.

Then the police arrived.

Without warning, they began pepper-spraying the crowd and launching tear gas into the promenade. The celebration turned instantly into a stampede. We saw people knocked from bicycles, families with young children in pushchairs caught in clouds of gas, and peaceful bystanders assaulted by officers.

The police were not containing a threat — they were creating one.

That night, the city didn’t just feel fragile. It felt wounded.

A Crisis Close to Home

The next morning, my son Harrison — who has Addison’s Disease — went into an adrenal crisis. Whether from the stress of the night before or the general physical strain of travel, his body began to shut down. I had to administer an emergency injection and call an ambulance. We were six hours in the hospital.

It was a hard day — physically, emotionally, cosmically. It reminded me just how thin the line is between celebration and riot, health and emergency, normal and not.

And yet, we were met with kindness. The hospital staff were excellent, and the care was calm and thorough.

Harrison recovered, and we continued — slower now, and a day late, but still forward.

Climate & Resilience Insight

Provence is already adapting to climate realities — water scarcity, heat stress, shifting seasons. Rainwater harvesting, community gardening, and drought-tolerant landscapes are not just trends here — they’re necessities.

Nice, despite its glamour, faces mounting pressure from coastal storms, rising sea levels, and heatwaves. It’s also grappling with social resilience — how cities protect their people, especially when systems falter. The contrast between the peace protest and the riot, between the sunlit promenade and the tear gas cloud, revealed just how thin our protections can be.

And in that hospital, climate resilience wasn’t theoretical — it was personal. It was a functioning ambulance system, a trained team, a moment of stability when it was needed most. All factors that will be stretched to their limits if we don’t turn this climate crisis around.

Encounters & Moments

On day one in Nice, we met a family from our home town of Hull, walking along the marina wearing Hull City Football Shirts. What are the chances of that?

In Nice, I met a woman outside the locked bookshop I had hoped to visit, I’d hopped on and off numerous trams to get there after my son escaped the hospital, but arrived too late, just as the doors had closed. I started talking with another latecomer. She was interested in climate science, and as we spoke, I realised she was exactly the kind of reader Salt & Seeds was meant for. So I gave her the signed copy I’d intended for the store. It was the right ending to the wrong kind of day.

Literary Sparks

Provence was a space for ideas — slow ones, deep ones, the kind you don’t even notice forming until they surface weeks later. The ochre cliffs, the warm herbal air, the way light catches on old olive trees — it felt like walking through an oil painting.

Nice reminded me of another kind of story — instability, tension, and the pressure points in a system that’s trying to pretend everything is fine. It echoed many of the fractures Salt & Seeds explores: systems under stress, moments of rupture, and the human instinct to reach out, still.

Book Drops

• Bookmarks in book swap, Gordes, Provence
• Book in book swap, Roussillon, Provence
• Book in Nice — given to a fellow climate thinker outside a closed bookshop

Closing Thought

This leg of the journey was a reminder: beauty and danger often travel together. One moment you’re reading messages of peace in beach sand — the next, running through clouds of tear gas.

But still, there are books. There are people. There is care in conversations with strangers on the street, in emergency rooms, in small gestures that say, we’re not giving up on each other yet.

Next stop: Monaco to Lake Garda — border crossings, alpine stillness, and new pages on the edge of old empires.

EURO BOOK TREK 5th Leg.

Monaco to Lake Garda. Border Crossings, Alpine Stillness & New Pages on the Edge of Old Empires.

This stretch was about contrasts. Monaco’s gold-gleam fantasy. A midnight apartment so spooky it should come with a health warning. And the coastal switchbacks of the James Bond road to carry us between. Then finally — Lake Garda. Still water, stone harbours, and the kind of afternoon that makes you forget the sting of mosquitoes and bureaucracy.

Places Visited

Monaco:
The drive in was a pure spectacle; hairpin bends, cliff views, private yachts like cruise liners. We pulled over at the memorial viewpoint on Boulevard Princesse Grace de Monaco, where the whole coastline glittered in Mediterranean light. A moment of cinematic stillness.

The bookshop I’d been aiming for in Monaco had vanished — still listed as open on Google, but shuttered, gone. I’d walked a mile uphill in 30-degree heat to find it. Luckily, I’d already dropped bookmarks at Alphabet Monaco earlier that day. If I’d known, I would’ve left the book there, too.

After the book business, we wandered through Monaco’s dreamscape: giant sculptures for sale outside the casino, a place called Buddha Bar that seemed more Kardashian than Zen, lettered designer stores and supercars with more shine than legroom.

I tried to enter the main casino — just to look around— but was turned away in the lobby. Apparently, now that the UK’s out of the EU, my driver’s licence isn’t valid ID anymore. The staff were openly smug about rejecting me. A small but telling moment. I don’t think my grey-bearded face matched the house style.

But we did find Amore Mio, a little cafe doing excellent frappes with oat milk and tomato bread at prices far more generous than the casino’s bouncers. Then we just took in the sights as we returned to the car, and I captured a few more shots to share with you.

Italian Border to San Lorenzo al Mare:
We passed through San Remo and realised we wouldn’t reach Lake Garda before nightfall. So we grabbed a last-minute Booking.com apartment near San Lorenzo al Mare.

It sounded fine online. But when we arrived, tired and in the dark, things got… weird.

First, we couldn’t find it, so the owner messaged with better directions. They also said no one had been available to clean it since the last guests left, and offered a discount if we did it ourselves. Sounded okay to us, we’re used to backpacker’s hostels and dealing with our own laundry when travelling. Harrison went door-to-door with a torch looking for the right entrance. We finally got in near midnight. Then the reality of the apartment’s condition hit me when we opened the door. Dirty laundry on the beds, piles of dirty, wet towels on the floor, and a very musty aroma.

The “fresh bedding” was supposedly in the basement. The key was “in a drawer.” We found the drawer. Found several keys. Found the basement. None of the keys worked.

That basement was like a scene from a slasher movie. Crawling with spiders at the bottom, naturally balanced by a mosquito rave at the top. In the apartment, hairy house-centipedes were surfing the damp bathroom tiles. The wiring looked ancient and ready to burn any moment, string-wrapped 1950s cable. The decor was amusingly eccentric, like a time capsule filled by a killer clown.

I fetched my emergency bugout bag from the car. Harry got my sleeping bag. Sarah made do with a beach towel. We slept. Kind of.

Lake Garda:
In the morning, we headed northeast — through scenery that grew gentler, greener, cooler.

Somewhere along the way we stopped at a roadside fruit stand, and reminded ourselves what freshness looks like. The tomatoes were massive!

Desenzano del Garda was our destination. We walked the marina, and I found Giunti al Punto Librerie, where I left a copy of Salt & Seeds with Martina, the bookseller. She was welcoming, curious, kind, and exactly the kind of person I write for. I took her photo holding the book.

Next door, I found Vivaldi Bar Gelato and had the best lemon sorbet I’ve ever tasted — light, vegan-friendly, perfectly zesty.

That night, we got lucky. Another last-minute apartment — but this one was sleek, modern, cool, and clean. A blessed reversal.

The next morning in Lazise, we found a quiet cafe for brunch. Sarah had an early Aperol Spritz. Harrison and I tried local pastries. We stepped into the cool shadow of a beautiful church next door, then began our journey to Venice.

Book Drops

• Bookmarks at Alphabet Monaco
• Signed copy of Salt & Seeds at Giunti Al Punto Librerie, Desenzano del Garda (thank you, Martina!)

Climate & Resilience Insight

Monaco gleams with money but not warmth. Its resilience is aesthetic, not social. Every detail is designed, but brittle. The rejection at the casino said more about Brexit than border policy. Monaco has just lost its only real bookshop; according to the baker next door, it wasn’t something people wanted there anymore. Alphabet was more stationery and greeting cards than books, but they did have a small selection of well-curated titles. The best place I found in Monaco was the children’s library, which seemed to cater well to the reading needs of the very young, at least. Monaco reminded me: what some see as wealth is often just a shallow façade, a designer label on a bargain-bin garment, a gilded frame with little to offer inside.

In contrast, the Riviera towns of Italy — with their mosquito mobs and eccentric apartments — may lack polish, but they offered something real. A different kind of resilience: people making do, finding solutions, still offering kindness.

Garda felt like equilibrium. Still water, strong light, lots of trees. Signs of a place learning to balance tourism, tradition, and the climate curve ahead, with a welcoming smile.

Encounters & Moments

• Harrison, torch in hand, exploring stairwells like a ghost-hunter, though no white sheets in sight.
• Martina in the bookshop — one of those rare, genuine conversations that cut through tiredness and doubt. Another stranger with a kindred spirit and a shared love of books.

Literary Sparks

This leg gave me thoughts about edges — of empires, maps, identities. We moved from French order to Italian improvisation. From brittle control and gold-clad handbags to gentle chaos and warmth.

The high views of Monaco felt like a glossy cover. But Lake Garda? That felt like a rich story well read.

Closing Thought

Travel isn’t just distance covered, it’s contrast absorbed. From designer cities that push you away, to bookshops that welcome you in. From gold statues and locked doors… to torchlit basements and lemon sorbet under a tree.

Borders are more than lines. They’re thresholds, and some of them are a little strange but memorable.

Next stop: Venice — flooded bookshops, book swaps in narrow alleyways, and a cash counter cat encounter. All in the next episode.

Euro Book Trek 6th Leg:

Venice – Books, Dogs and High Water.

Venice has always been a place that seems both real and dreamt, an ancient city of salt-stained stone, stillness, and slow unravellings. After days of travelling through Europe, we arrived and checked into Hotel Have Venice, tucked away in Mestre. It’s cheap, a little rough on the outside, but fine inside, a base with secure parking, walking distance to the station, and one short train ride from the historic centre of Venice.

We arrived under an overcast sky, but it was still hot. Our two days were spent mostly wandering, not chasing sights but letting them happen. Venice rewards you for doing nothing in particular. Blink and you’ve entered a passageway like a dream sequence. One wrong turn and suddenly there’s a man in a stripy shirt smiling beside a gondola, or cross a little bridge to find a square filled with tanned thirty-somethings in designer linens, nursing Aperol spritzes, or someone hanging their pants out on a washing line.

The Book-Swapping Alley

One alley led us to a little wall-mounted house-shaped box that read: La Casa Del Libro – Prendi o Lascia un Libro (The Book House – Take or Leave a Book).

I left a signed copy of Salt & Seeds tucked inside, as another donation on this long Book Trek around Europe. These moments felt like offerings more than drops; little ways of saying: I was here, and had something to give, so come and find it.

The Bookshop That Floats (and Floods)

Our literary pilgrimage took us next to the Libreria Acqua Alta, a name that translates to “High Water Bookshop.” It’s famous for good reason, inside are teetering stacks of books stored in bathtubs, gondolas, and rowing boats to protect them from Venice’s seasonal floods. They even have another gondola outside the back door that opens onto a canal, it’s the official fire escape, they say, with a sign to prove it.

Founded by Luigi Frizzo in the early 2000s, Acqua Alta has become one of the most photographed and beloved bookstores in the world. What began as a quirky idea to safeguard books from the acqua alta — Venice’s increasingly frequent flooding — has grown into a symbol of creative resistance. The shop doesn’t just store books; it absorbs the water, the tourists, the cats, and the slow crumble of the city, with humour and defiance.

Every part of Acqua Alta tells a story of resilience. The stairway made of water-damaged encyclopaedias in the courtyard; the books climbing walls on shelves made from old kayaks; the gondola at the centre filled with books instead of passengers — all are visual poems about adapting rather than retreating. It’s no museum. It’s lived-in, chaotic, and stubborn in the best of ways.

The cat with the watchful eyes kept the till area warm. I left a signed, waterproofed copy of Salt & Seeds with the staff. They seemed pleased to meet me, and we chatted briefly before the many customers demanded their attention. They’ve seen many books come and go, but the subject matter of Salt & Seeds earned my book the extra attention. Maybe it’ll float for a while and find a reader who understands what it’s like to cling to something hopeful in rising tides.

I must admit that having a book in Acqua Alta has been a dream since I wrote Salt & Seeds, and one of the main destinations for this book trek.

Spritz, Gelato, and Masks

I tasted the vegan gelato; it was cool, smooth, and very welcome in the heat, but lacked the sweetness of traditional gelato. The seller must think that if you don’t want cream, you won’t like sugar either. I hope they continue to expand the vegan options beyond one flavour and find a demand for it among tourists.

I took a few shots of whatever caught my eye: a discarded Aperol Spritz cap on the edge of a canal, like a still life in orange and stone. Souvenir shops displayed a carnival of grotesque and beautiful masks, some theatrical, some mechanical. There were bobbleheads of Rocky, The Rock, and Ronaldo. All of it surreal and silly and exactly what it should be.

Dogs of Venice

Perhaps my favourite images, though, were of the dogs. Patient, proud, unhurried. One peed up a shopfront without apology, just as I went to photograph it. Another stood in the middle of a busy square, more composed than any of the tourists, and didn’t appear to have anyone to hold the lead. Boys kicked balls around, but this fluffy local just locked eyes with me across the square and stayed very still for a portrait.

Echoes of the Story

In Salt & Seeds, I wrote about a world slowly learning to float rather than fight the rising sea. Venice felt like a real-world cousin to that imagined world, beautiful and cracked, resilient and ridiculous. It’s not pretending it won’t flood. It adapts. It weaves boats into its architecture. It stores words in watertight barrels. It survives with absurdity and grace. I didn’t visit Venice for the big icons.

I came to walk, notice, and leave books behind. Mission accomplished.

Next Stop:

 Over the Dolomites and into Austria, where alpine air gives way to thunder and sanctuary. Leg 7 is coming soon. In the meantime you could get a copy of Salt & Seeds for yourself here.

Euro Book-Trek 7th Leg:

Austria – The Hills Are Alive!

Driving from Italy into Austria felt like turning a page into another chapter of snow-capped altitude and forest stillness. The road ducked through tunnels and wound through alpine passes that grew quieter and greener with every mile. The heat and passion of the Mediterranean world fading behind us. As we climbed, the temperature dropped, and the villages seemed to grow more inward-looking, their ornate red-wood shuttered chalets, clutching the slopes like secrets.

We eventually reached our next base at the Pass Lueg Hotel, perched high against the mountain greenery, with the main road diving into a tunnel beneath it. The view from our pine-clad room was stunning, a full sweep of mountain, forest, and sky, framed by the deep overhanging eaves of classic Austrian chalet design. The building itself could tell some tales. Paintings of generations lined the walls, and a monument to fallen soldiers stood quietly at the gate, as a testament to the region’s turbulent past.

After a short rest following the long drive, we headed into the closest settlement: Golling an der Salzach, a tidy town that felt like it had one foot in a postcard and one in a working life. We ate among the locals, choosing the cheaper of two pizza restaurants that strangely sat opposite each other in the centre. We picked the one that was most populated, as the locals may know something we didn’t. We soon discovered that this one had something the other definitely lacked for local appeal — a dartboard. A darts match was soon underway right next to our table, but fortunately, everyone had a good aim. It was the kind of place where your presence is acknowledged but never fussed over. Just how we like it. And the local draft beer was good.

The next morning, we were up early and in the car, heading into Salzburg for the day. An attractive city famed as the birthplace of Mozart and the set for The Sound of Music. Pictures of Julie Andrews adorned gift shop windows and bus tour stops. A huge makers’ market lined the riverbank, with crafters of every kind. Locals in lederhosen and traditional dresses served in shops filled with cuckoo clocks and music boxes.

I made a beeline for the Buchhandlung Hollrigl bookshop, historic stalwart of Austrian literary history, and the oldest in the country, empowering readers since 1594. It’s a large shop, one of the biggest we visited on the entire trip, with an inspired selection of English-language novels. What an honour to add to that collection of legendary stories with a signed copy of my own book, Salt & Seeds.

Across the square from the shop stood two telephone boxes. Remembering the book-filled phone box I’d found earlier in the journey, I had to peek inside. Sadly, no books here. I may or may not have fixed that. You’ll have to go and see for yourself.

Salzburg offered many museums — dedicated to Mozart, Austrian history, and even Christmas, with a particular emphasis on Krampus. The cathedral was stark compared to the golden trappings of Venice’s Christian shrines and the mosaic ceilings of Lourdes, but it had everything it needed: an ornate altar and a contrastingly functional confessional, marked by hand-drawn signs.

The litter bins on Salzburg’s streets had solar-charging lids, and the telegraph poles were wrapped in thick green foliage, signs of a city striving for a greener future.

The famous Mirabell Gardens were impressive, framed by the castle backdrop and full of familiar scenes from the musical that brought them to global attention.

Yet not all was idyllic. There was an undertone of right-wing propaganda, and thankfully, some stickers from the opposition, to keep things in balance. A large group of Ultras marched intimidatingly through the tourists on the bridge, who were admiring the exhibition of Jewish WWII survivors. The Ultras set off flares and pasted their colours on the lamp posts. A reminder that echoes of history’s most shadowy episodes are often glimpsed in the actions of today’s generation.

Thankfully, Salzburg also had a fine selection of friendly four-legged residents to photograph. Here are some of my favourites:

That night, back in the mountains, thunder rolled in. We lay in bed with the windows wide open beneath those wide wooden eaves, and not a drop of rain touched us. Just the cool breath of the storm, the scent of the trees, and the soothing patter of rain between deep, rumbling claps of nature’s power. There was something ancient and grounding about listening to mountain thunder echo through the gorge, a lullaby played by water on stone.

In the morning, we followed the Gollinger Wasserfall gorge trail, which conveniently began just metres from our front door. The path tracked the rushing stream between cliff walls, draped in moss and ferns. Water roared through deep holes in stone, carved over centuries. Never underestimate the power of water to change a landscape. It carves and sculpts, even granite caves before it.

The whole region felt like a resting heartbeat between the busier stretches of this marathon book-trek. A moment to breathe in the Alps. A pause between pages.

But the forest beauty of this mountainous land masks a terrible chapter in Europe’s history. Just a few miles through the pass lies the Dokumentationszentrum Obersalzberg, a museum built on the site that once housed Adolf Hitler and his closest strategists, a place from which mass murder was planned, and miles of tunnels dug by forced labour, to protect the riches of the guilty.

We walked its halls and subterranean passages, confronting the depths of cruelty that humans can inflict on one another, when ideology is weaponised by charisma and power. There would be more to uncover about that harrowing legacy when we reached Berlin. But for now, we turned eastward once more, crossing into the Czech Republic.

Next stop: Prague. Leg-8

Euro Book Trek, 8th Leg. Prague:

A Birthday, a Beaver, and a Golem in the Shadows.

We arrived in Prague in the early hours of June 8th after one of the most harrowing drives of the entire trip. Having been delayed by Harrison’s earlier medical issues, we pushed through to the Czech Republic at night and on to Prague. It proved to be a long, tense journey through poorly lit motorways. We were overtaken constantly by lorries and vans doing terrifying speeds, many with only one headlight, and none at all on the back. One particularly ominous, battered old van had just one flickering front light, and it was tailgating us no matter how fast I went, like Jeepers Creepers. I guess they were using my lights as their guide, in the absence of their own.

By the time we reached Prague’s city streets, lit mercifully by amber street lamps, I felt the tension drain from my body. We parked up and checked into Hotel Otakar, with a friendly, tall, blonde guy at reception. He spoke English better than me and had noticeably large hands. We carried the bags up an endless staircase and collapsed into the apartment, letting the distant hum of traffic and the scent of spalling stone walls lull us to sleep.

A Birthday Among Saints and Statues

The next morning was Harrison’s 21st birthday. I woke early and hung a sparkly Happy Birthday banner between the radiators. Sara had been hiding it along with his birthday presents, since we left England. The city looked and felt completely different by daylight, framed through the skylight windows, Gothic, ornate, storied, alive. After a session of watching Harrison rip the wrapping off his gifts, we headed into town. The tram stop was right outside, and the trams were excellent — regular, cheap, and reliable. Prague’s transport system, even with its quirks (more on that later), puts many larger cities to shame, including my own.

I was approached by a cheerful older man on the tram, wearing jeans he had sliced open from thigh to ankle for ventilation in the heat. He spoke very little English, and I spoke virtually no Czech, but we understood each other. He liked my beard, and I respected his too. He was fascinated that I was an Englishman with an old Russian camera, and he told me he was very fond of King Charles. He was under the impression that our monarch is extraordinarily tall, which isn’t strictly accurate, but I told him I’d have to take his word for it, as I’ve never met the King in person. Before getting off, he asked me to take a quick photo of him. I was happy to oblige. He left with a wave and the same wide grin he’d arrived with.

When we reached the centre, we began with a directionless wander, stopping to marvel at the buildings that seemed stitched together from centuries of stories. We found the iconic Charles Bridge, lined with life-sized statues of saints, each burnished by wind, rain, and reverence. Below us, the Vltava River moved slowly, the colour of old pewter. It was good to see a working water wheel; it’s a technology we should revisit.

We walked up through winding streets to the castle grounds, where the castle itself was sadly closed, but the view over the gothic cityscape was worth every step. Up there, nestled behind ivy-covered walls, we found a beer garden, and we lingered, examining the spires and steep rooftops of the old city, rolled out before us like a carved wooden toy village.

Eventually, hunger got the better of us, and we made our way back down. Back in the centre, we passed a photo exhibition by Tomki Nemec displayed in the windows of a concrete office-style building, black-and-white images of protests, banners reading NE NÁSILÍ (“No to Violence”), mixed with CND signs. A silent echo of the resistance movements that once filled these streets.

Finally, we made our way to Kmotra Kavárna, Prague’s oldest pizzeria, tucked beneath a bar in a vaulted cellar, adorned with an eclectic array of vintage lampshades. It felt like something from a Cold War thriller, a place where spies might have shared secrets over salami. Harrison, true to form, ordered a massive pepperoni pizza. We raised a quiet toast to his resilience and good humour through years of illness. He’d made it to 21, and that alone was reason enough to celebrate.

Books, Writers, and a Gothic Pulse

This leg of the Book Trek was rich with literary encounters. I visited The Globe Bookshop and met its American owner, Michael. We had exchanged emails in advance, so he was keen to receive two signed copies of Salt & Seeds — one for himself and one for the shelves. We spoke for an hour about publishing, sustainability, geopolitics, and the literary scene in Central Europe. Michael invited me to the Globe’s own Writers’ Group that evening, and I was honoured to join.

The event was warm, welcoming, and stimulating. The small, mezzanine meeting space, above the cafe, was cosily packed with booklovers. Two books were up for discussion: The Remains of the Body by Saikat Majumdar and A Demonology of Desires by Joe Grimm Feinberg. Both authors were present, generous in spirit, and compelling to hear. The conversation flowed as easily as the homemade iced tea. I told them about the wonderful, weekly writers group I attend at home called Writers@, and the monthly Grokkist Writing Salon that I facilitate online. I left bookmarks for future readers in the café and shop, and took away fresh ideas, inspiration, and community.

In the morning, I also visited Shakespeare & Synové, a quieter but equally atmospheric bookshop hidden down a cobbled lane. It looked small from outside, but magically opened out like a Tardis inside. I left a signed copy of Salt & Seeds there as well, in the hope that it might find its way into the hands of a curious local or thoughtful traveller.

Kafka, Protest, and the Golem’s Clay Heart

One of the stranger moments of the trip came at the Franz Kafka Museum, where we were greeted in the courtyard by a copper-toned automaton of two men urinating into a shallow pool — absurd, irreverent, and entirely on-brand for the city’s most famous literary son. The museum itself is a deep dive into paranoia, bureaucracy, and existential dread, fitting for a city once at the heart of multiple collapsing empires. There are echoes of Kafka all over Prague, T-shirts, souvenirs and very large statues.

Later, we wandered through the old Jewish Quarter, where I finally found something I’d long wanted: a small clay golem. I’m not Jewish, but the Golem legend has fascinated me for decades. The compelling tale of a rabbi who created a powerful protector to defend his people, only to lose control of the beast through neglect. A cautionary tale wrapped in mysticism, clay, and moral ambiguity. Holding the golem in my hand, I thought of Prague’s own story: protective, dangerous, layered with complexity. It also reminded me of Uncle Ben’s warning to Peter Parker — “With great power comes great responsibility.” Something world leaders would do well to remember as they play with modern golems made of steel and code.

Time, Skeletons, and Surplus Jackets

We made a point of visiting the famous astronomical clock, a mechanical marvel that has chimed since the 15th century. On the hour, a tiny skeletal figure rings a bell while the apostles parade by. It was every bit as eerie and delightful as I’d hoped, like watching a miniature ghost play peekaboo with time. The square and surrounding buildings were spectacular, a perfect place for gothic fantasy writers and vampire movie makers to find inspiration.

We carried on wandering through the surrounding streets, hoping to see something for Harrison to spend his birthday money on, and then there it was, Harrison’s perfect gift, a set of Russian dolls, painted as our local English football team Hull City. Then just before leaving, we stumbled on a military surplus store down a quiet side street. Inside, we found treasures: a 1990s German combat jacket, a British helmet, and a Czech camo jacket. Harrison was thrilled. The lot cost me less than his birthday pizza.

And Then, a Beaver

And then, because Prague has a way of surprising you, we met a wild beaver under Charles Bridge. He swam up alongside the ducks who were begging for food, mimicking their behaviour, even waddling onto the bank to investigate us properly. He was offered a few leaves, which he took delicately, as if royalty. A wild beaver, face to face, in the shadow of Gothic towers and statues. I never saw that coming.

The Exit: Between Two Trams

Leaving Prague for Berlin was almost as stressful as arriving. Following the Sat Nav out of the city, we were directed onto streets shared with trams. At one point, we were boxed in — tram ahead, tram behind — crawling through the city like impostors on a rail line. It felt surreal and embarrassing, as though we were moving in slow motion through a system designed for someone else. Eventually, we broke free, found the open road, and began the long drive north.

I’ll be back. We all will. Prague, with its gothic spires, riverside ghosts, warm-hearted bookshops, and surreal little miracles, left a mark I don’t want to erase. Here’s a few extra shots I snapped along the way.

Next stop: Berlin.

Euro Book Trek 9th Leg:

Berlin – Arts, Rats, and Disarming Attackers.

Berlin was a city I had been looking forward to for a very long time. In my mind, it was the kind of place that would mix history, art, grit, and energy in a way few cities could. As it happened, it would give me all of that—and more than I bargained for.

I have just picked up the final developed rolls of 35 mm and 120 film from the trek. This episode will have more photographs than usual. Berlin, in all its contrasts, seems to demand it.

We drove directly from Prague, still carrying the echoes of that city’s Gothic charm, and checked into the Industrial Platz Hostel. Down by the reception was a bookcase saying ‘Book Exchange’, I left a signed copy of Salt & Seeds and a handful of bookmarks. That’s my small way of letting the book find its next home with a fellow traveller.

That first evening, we headed out to explore the streets around the hostel. They were lined with late-night kebab cafes and späti convenience stores, the air thick with the smell of sizzling meat. Vegan options were easy to find, which was a relief, but so, it turned out, were the rats and mice. They darted about under the table as we ate. Once you got used to them, they were almost cute in a Berlin sort of way.

The next morning, I was up early with my camera and cassette recorder, capturing the sight and sound of the city waking. Then I walked to the East Side Gallery. I sat on a bench, reading Salt & Seeds until the walkway was empty, then signed the copy and left a note on it:

“Please take care of this book. You found it, so it’s yours. You’re welcome. Alan Raw”

I walked away and stopped to admire the artwork on the Wall. When I came back along the same stretch, a woman was sitting in my spot, already deep into the pages. I didn’t interrupt, just walked on, contented.

I met up with my wife Sara, and son Harrison, for some straightforward sightseeing. We toured the Topography of Terror museum, stood under the Brandenburg Gate, paused for a pint of Guinness in a Berlin Irish bar, admired the boxy charm of Trabants, tried on old military hats, and passed through Checkpoint Charlie.

Our last stop was the Reichstag, we were there to see a special projection celebrating the 30th anniversary of Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s Wrapped Reichstag. Back in 1995, the artists had encased the entire building in shimmering silver fabric; now, an animation projected onto the façade made it look as though the wrapping was being peeled away. We arrived 40 minutes early, waited an extra half hour past the scheduled start, and when it finally began, the daylight still lingering in the sky dulled its impact. Beautiful in concept, but fleeting in reality.

The following morning, we struck out on foot to my favourite part of Berlin: the creative hub of Friedrichshain-Kreuzberg, and especially the RAW-Gelände and Urban Spree Gallery. Here, the city feels alive in colour; the walls and even traffic lights are layered in street art. Workshops are buzzing, and electronic music is leaking from doorways. I shot rolls of Lomo 800, a few frames of 120, and square pics on my little old toy camera to catch the layered textures.

Just across from the gallery was an intriguing machine; its sign said “Secret Packs!” It was ten euros to buy a sealed, undelivered, mail-order package. We had to give it a try, and it proved to be hilarious. After great deliberation, Harrison chose a package, I paid the machine, and the package dropped down. With great interest, we watched Harrison rip it open to reveal two pink Hello Kitty figures. They are going straight on eBay.

From there, I wanted to make my way to the bookshop, but didn’t want Sara and Harrison to have to follow me. So they headed back into the city centre.

Shakespeare and Sons bookshop instantly felt like home. Inside was a bagel café, a co-working space with the nostalgic glow of an internet café, and bookshelves so well curated that the sci-fi section immediately presented me with Stranger in a Strange Land. That’s the novel that inspired the name of the Grokkist Network, and my own publisher, Grokkist Press. Anita, who was selecting books that day, welcomed Salt & Seeds into their collection with real enthusiasm.

Then my phone buzzed. It was Sara. Her words stopped me cold:

“Harrison’s been attacked.”

While waiting for Sara outside the toilets at Alexanderplatz station, a man had run in and smashed a bottle over Harrison’s head. As the crowd scattered, thinking it was a terror attack, Harrison was thrown against a wall, then forced to the floor. The man tried to stab him in the throat with the remains of the broken glass bottle. Dazed and bleeding, Harrison somehow stayed conscious and disarmed his attacker. The man fled.

I rushed back to the hostel for our passports, to send images of them to Sara for the police. While I rushed across town to Alexanderplatz, paramedics were tending to Harrison. Cuts marked his hands, shoulder, head, and neck; his elbows were grazed and swelling. There was still glass in his head, but the bleeding had been cleaned away. Some big, muscular guys came over to apologise for not helping him, they admitted they had hidden in fear. Others had called the police from behind the safety of glass doors. This, I thought grimly, is the world we live in now?

We were shaken and grateful beyond measure that Harrison had survived. If he had been knocked out by the first blow, the attacker would have been free to stab him, and he would be dead now.

As it was, the attacker got an unwelcome surprise, and I hope he’s reading this now. Because you ran in, shouting, looking for a victim. You saw Harrison, head down, looking at his phone, minding his own business, waiting for his mother. So you judged him and imposed your violence upon him while bigger men ran in fear. But it didn’t go your way, did it?

What you didn’t know was what’s inside, what the young man had been through before you decided his fate. Harrison survived a horrific accident, falling from a fairground ride when he was very young. He suffered a head trauma that damaged his frontal lobe. He underwent difficult surgery and was blind for a time afterwards. When he eventually returned to school, it was like beginning again; the other boys saw him as vulnerable and he was bullied mercilessly, mainly because he refused to stay down. We were eventually advised to take him out and move him, while the bullies were allowed to stay.

He has had years of therapy and medication for physical complications, PTSD, and intrusive thought OCD, which gives him horrors in his mind. He also has Addison’s Disease, all of which he has had to learn to live with.

So when you smashed the bottle over his head and strangled him on the ground you thought you’d won, but when you tried to finish him off with that bottle to the throat, you finally saw it, he stared you in the eyes, took the bottle from your hand and luckily for you he chose not to retaliate, and he let you run away. You gave him your worst, but Harrison’s seen worse horrors in his own head, and he took pity on you for your own mental health and poor judgment. Next time, don’t judge a book by its cover. As my boy has given you another chance.

In the quiet hours that followed, we made a decision: we would not visit the other German cities on our list, nor any more large cities at all. From here, we would stick to small towns and villages. We wanted quieter places where the pace was slower and the edges softer. Our next stop would be down the country to Quedlinburg and the Witch’s Dancefloor.

Berlin had given us all the extremes: beauty and brutality, creativity and cruelty. It was a city I’ll never forget, for reasons both wonderful and traumatic. But thankfully, the adventure continues.

I’ll leave you with a few more pics, including, as always, lovely local dogs.

Euro Book Trek 10th Leg:

Quedlinburg & Thale Germany

After the challenge of Berlin, we needed the calm of the countryside. The trees, hills, and the slower-paced safety of smaller settlements. So, Cologne was scratched from the route, but the road still pulled us south into the land of Grimm’s fairytales. I have long been bewitched by those stories as a child, and now as an author, they call to me in a different way. I knew Harrison also needed something to take his mind off things, so it seemed right to head for mystery and magic.

We stopped overnight in Göttingen, lucky to find a hotel on the outskirts with a 24-hour reception. They had a small family room going cheap, and even better, a pool where we could swim our stress away. It was the short pause we all needed.

Quedlinburg: Spires, Symbols & Spells

The next morning, we pressed on to Quedlinburg. Sara found us a lovely apartment, but before checking in, we wandered the ancient town. The medieval centre is one of the best preserved in Germany, with cobbled lanes, timbered houses leaning together like conspirators, and a market square that still hums with life. There was, of course, plenty of lovely dogs for me to photograph.

That evening, we ate outdoors at a small Thai place on the square. Around us, the town began to animate with its guides: one dressed as a jester, another as a monk with a pike-like staff, and a woman in medieval robes started arriving in the square. Tourists clustered around, ready for ghost stories and history walks.

Everywhere I looked were carvings and symbols, pentagrams carved above doors, protective marks etched into beams and eaves. Shops brimmed with models of witches, stickers, and figurines. I’d always thought the witch lore belonged to nearby Thale, but soon found out that Quedlinburg has its own rich and spooky heritage. Even Mister Punch had a strangely different look in his eye as I passed him in a secondhand shop.

The darker side of that heritage is real enough. Quedlinburg was one of many towns on the Harz Witch Trail (the Harzer-Hexen-Stieg), a region haunted by witch trials between the 15th and 17th centuries. Women, and sometimes men, were accused of witchcraft and imprisoned, tortured, and burned, their “crime” often nothing more than knowledge of herbs, midwifery, or simply being outsiders. It’s important to remember them not as villains, but as healers and wise souls, caught in the machinery of fear and control.

Unlike me, Harrison has already grown out of Grimm’s tales and many of the things on offer in the shops here. But he was captivated when I showed him an article about vampire graves unearthed here; he lit up, as I knew he would. This was exactly the kind of eerie history that pulls him in. He likes it almost as much as I like dogs.

Quedlinburg was perfect: Sara found it beautiful, Harrison found it fascinating, and I felt its stories seeping into me. It’s author candy.

Thale: The Witches’ Dance Floor

The following day we drove to Thale. This is the meeting place for Europe’s witches, celebrated each year on Walpurgis Night (30 April), when folklore says witches from across the continent flew to the Brocken, the highest peak of the Harz Mountains. Goethe cemented the legend in Faust (1808), where his hero witnesses the Walpurgis revels on the mountaintop.

Thale’s Hexentanzplatz (the Witches’ Dance Floor) sits on a plateau above the valley. We drove up to the summit (the family weren’t keen on the cable car), and walked through to the wide stone expanse. The view was striking, the atmosphere heavy with history. The site has long been a place of myth: once a pagan centre, later a place where Christianity and folklore clashed, and now a blend of kitsch theme park and sacred remembrance.

There were statues of demons and witches, souvenir stalls, and tourists snapping photos, but behind the spectacle lies the memory of real persecution. To some, the site is playful. To others, it is a place of honouring, a recognition of how women with knowledge of the natural world were once vilified. Standing there, I felt the pull of both: the childlike thrill of spooky tales, and the adult awareness that stories can both reveal and distort the truth.

Literary Shadows & Personal Echoes

This land is heavy with stories. The Brothers Grimm collected many of their fairytales in the Harz region, weaving local folklore into tales that endure worldwide. Goethe found his witches’ stage here, while Romantic poets and gothic authors found inspiration in this landscape.

I have always appreciated works of gothic fiction, from Poe’s haunted mind to Stoker’s vampire in Whitby, from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein to Tim Burton’s magnificent visual creations. They all share a kinship, a love of folklore, the possibilities that lurk in ghostly shadows, and battles with morality, the Hyde inside, exposed through dark imagination.

As a boy, I grew up on ghost stories and the Irish folklore tales my mother told me. Standing in Thale, I saw how these threads can join: fairytale, gothic, myth, and history, all under one haunted sky. But the plastic trinkets and theme park rides still felt like a step too far for me to enjoy. Maybe I’m thinking too much and should lighten up a bit.

Books Left Behind

I left a signed copy of Salt & Seeds at the Tourist Information Centre in Quedlinburg, and another tucked beside the telescope on the edge of the Witches’ Dance Floor in Thale. Small offerings to two towns that weave history and folklore into something unforgettable.

Shadows & Sustainability

The Harz Mountains are beautiful, but they’re also fragile. Centuries of mining stripped the land, and now climate change is adding fresh wounds. Long droughts and hotter summers have left swathes of spruce forest damaged or dying, bark beetle infestations spreading where weakened trees cannot fight back. From Thale, we saw grey, skeletal trunks, forest ghosts standing stark against the green.

Walking through this landscape, you feel both the grandeur of myth and the urgency of reality. The Harz, like so many places, must adapt, replanting with more resilient species, finding a balance between tourism and conservation, and protecting its cultural heritage while facing the planetary story of change. I know the visitors to Walpurgis Night will appreciate the value of the natural life that abounds in the forest, and they can be a positive influence to nurture its future.

Next Stop

From the land of Grimm’s tales, we turn west toward Belgium, carrying a reminder that historically, stories have aided our survival. Whether whispered around a fire or written into novels, they can serve as a warning, teach good practice, and spark the resilience we need to face what lies ahead.

Euro Book-trek 11th Leg:

Belgium – Bastogne, Ypres, Beselare, Zonnebeke & Passchendaele 1917.

Crossing from Germany into Belgium, the first vehicle I saw was an armoured police car. It was a jarring sight. Nothing compared to the tanks I was about to meet. Belgium’s soil carries deep scars of conflict. Every turn of the road here seemed to reveal another list of names remembered on stone. I was impressed by the number of renewable energy installations along both sides of the road.

Bastogne: Stars and Steel

Our first stop was Bastogne, a town forever tied to the Battle of the Bulge, and filled with American visitors and hired motorcycles. On its edge stands the Mardasson Memorial, an enormous American star in stone, commemorating those who fought here. Walking its circle, you can feel the weight of tragic history, not just in the endless engravings of names but in the silence.

We visited the museum, then the forest foxholes on the same ticket. We walked through the trees and stood in the many foxholes dug by the Allied soldiers of Easy Company 101st Airborne, to hold off the determined advance on the town. They were made famous by the film Band of Brothers.

In the town square sits a Sherman tank, its armour scarred by shells, but holding its ground as if still guarding the place. After paying our respects, we did something more ordinary: pizza and a Belgian beer in a little restaurant off the square. That balance of the everyday beside the monumental is one of the strangest rhythms of this European journey.

We stayed in a gîte on a working farm, surrounded by cows. The lowing at dusk and the earthy smell of the barn reminded me that life continues, even in places where history has tried its hardest to stop it.

I visited a big family-run bookshop on Bastogne’s main street. They were only too pleased to receive their copy of Salt & Seeds. It now sits among the English-language titles at Croisy Bookshop in Bastogne.

Ypres: Gates and Graves

From Bastogne, we drove north-west to Ypres, a beautiful town full of life, bars and eateries. But shadowed by the First World War. The Menin Gate is almost overwhelming in its scale; the Last Post is sounded there every evening at 8 pm. This tradition has been kept since 1928, apart from during the German occupation in WW2. The Gate’s white walls are carved with the names of the missing. Among them, I found “J Raw”, who is undoubtedly a relative. As my family originate from the Yorkshire coast village of Raw and the soldier was in a Yorkshire regiment. The initial J is also a theme through many decades of John and James Raws. Seeing my family name etched in stone among the lost made the war’s reach feel even closer. I really should look into my family tree more when I get time.

I saw the same name again at the Tyne Cot Cemetery, the largest World War 1 Commonwealth cemetery in the world. The final resting place of over 11,900 Commonwealth servicemen, primarily from the battles around Ypres, and also features Tyne Cot Memorial to the Missing, commemorating over 35,000 soldiers with no known grave. Some headstones lie above former German bunkers, which remain as part of the cemetery design. It is a very moving and grounding place surrounded by fields and poppies.

We stayed the night at a wonderful B&B near Ypres, run by Hilde. Her warmth, the generous breakfast, and the well-stocked fridge were a comfort after days of heavy remembrance. From our window, I could watch horses grazing opposite, while her lovely dog added a homely new friend to play with. These small kindnesses softened the edges of all the monuments.

Beselare: The Witches

Not far from Ypres lies Beselare, known as the “witches’ village.” We visited an exhibition dedicated to the local folklore of witchcraft. Unlike the dark fear that drove the wretched witch trials in Quedlinburg, the displays here carried a sense of cultural memory. Stories kept alive and rightly valued, rather than condemned by ignorance. It was well done and involved all generations of the community. The “Witch Parade” is held every seven years, and the next will be in 2027. A time for folklore to be celebrated, as it should be.

Passchendaele: Shadows

We decided to spend half a day at the Memorial Museum of Passchendaele 1917, dedicated to one of the war’s bloodiest battles (half a million casualties in 100 days). Outside, the grounds were peaceful. A collie dog with only two working legs was bounding about happily, in a small, specially designed wheelchair. A man was fishing in the park’s main feature, a well-designed lake scattered with waterlilies, with turtles (or terrapins) basking among them, and an abundance of blue dragonflies. But inside the museum, the mood shifted. Racks of rifles, artillery shells, and improvised close-quarters weapons set the scene. Entering reconstructed trenches, damp and claustrophobic, drove home just how brutal life was here.

In a darkened room stood an art installation: “Falls the Shadow”, by Koen Vanmechelen. Arms rising out of the ground, reaching, grasping, pleading. It was haunting, a physical echo of all the men swallowed by mud and fire.

Zonnebeke: One Last Book

Before leaving Belgium, I donated a copy of Salt & Seeds to the Public Library of Zonnebeke, with thanks to the kind librarian Bert Acket.

We then packed the bags, had one last look around Ypres, and drove back into France, and onto the ferry at Dunkirk, headed for Dover. It was a thankfully smooth crossing.

The next leg will be London. Then up north to Whitby, Scotland and west to Ireland.

Euro Book Trek 12th Leg:

England – Leeds, Whitby, Robin Hood’s Bay & London

After crossing the Channel from Dunkirk to the white cliffs of Dover, we made our way north through familiar roads. My Euro Book-Trek was now doubling back towards Scotland and Ireland, but not quite yet. There were still stories to tell and books to place here in England, along with a chance to restock and see family.

We stopped first in Hull for a short breather. Grokkist Press had ordered more copies of Salt & Seeds to be delivered to me, and Sara’s brother Paul (my brother-in-law) was preparing to emigrate to the States, so a family visit felt important. My first call in the Hull area was at Hessle Bookshop, where Lucy, the bookseller, kindly took three copies. There’s a particular satisfaction in seeing your own book find a home on the shelves near your hometown.

In Hull itself, Salt & Seeds is available in the city libraries, where it has been long-listed for the James Reckitt Children’s Book Awards. It was nominated by Hull Central Library for young people in Key Stage 3 education. It’s also in youth centres, as Hull Children’s Services purchased copies for all of their reading spaces.

I also dropped in at Writers@, in Manor Farm pub near Willerby. It’s my favourite place to be on a Monday morning. This small and inspiring writing group has become a vital part of my creative support network. I first met them when I was invited by family friend and author Judy Westoby, to interview them for BBC Radio. Since retiring from the BBC, I have become a regular member myself. It’s run by Carol Ann Kerry-Green, an accomplished fantasy author who has guided and encouraged many writers to develop and share their work. If you’re in the area and write a bit, just drop in at 10am on a Monday morning; we are in the back room, reading to each other, and getting feedback.

Soon after returning, I finally had the chance to meet Danu from Grokkist Press, my New Zealand–based publisher, who was visiting England and staying with members of the Grokkist Network in Leeds. I had to take the opportunity to meet him in person, and was warmly hosted overnight by friends Simon and Avalon, where we played board games, shared a delicious home-cooked meal, and visited the Yorkshire Sculpture Park, a place where landscape and art meet perfectly. There was a room with a table filled with children’s books about climate change. I particularly liked Flooded by Mariajo Ilustrajo. Like me, Simon and Avalon are sustainability practitioners and musicians, so we have very similar interests and values. Their own bookcase was packed with fabulous titles. It felt like time with kindred spirits.

Danu then agreed to let me take him for a drive, so a couple of days later, I picked him up from Leeds and headed to the home of the Salt & Seeds story: Whitby, on the North Yorkshire coast. The ruined Abbey, which is sketched in the front of my book, loomed above the town as timeless as ever. We explored the museum, church, and clifftop before descending the long steps into the old streets, where we found the smell of chips with salt & vinegar, and doughnuts. The shops are filled with sugary treats, handcrafted gifts and local jet-stone jewellery. The history is seeps from every alleyway, with fine old pubs, monuments to Captain Cook, and the famous Whalebone Arch.

At Halmans Books, Whitby’s oldest bookshop and former library, we had arranged to meet Angela, the bookseller, who welcomed us both, author and publisher, with genuine warmth. She placed Salt & Seeds in the front window and added more copies to the shelves inside, beside Bram Stoker’s Dracula and The House in the Woods by my old friend Yvette Fielding. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me. Whitby has always been a place where the gothic and the visionary intermingle, and Stoker has long been one of my favourite writers. Childhood trips to Whitby with my family band often included visits to the Abbey and the bookshops that fed my imagination. I intend to visit the Stoker family grave and his old haunts at St Michan’s, Dublin, later in this Book-Trek.

Before leaving, we stopped at a Whitby Folk Week event in the Spa, where my family and I have performed many times since the 1970s. I still have my old performer’s pass from 1984. My mother was an author but best known as a singer-songwriter, a reminder that storytelling takes many forms.

Before the light completely faded, I took Danu to Robin Hood’s Bay, another Salt & Seeds location. We bought old-fashioned sweets, walked the beach as the tide crept in over the rock pools, and we talked until dark. Then I drove him back to Leeds and returned to Hull. It was a long round trip in a single day, but the conversation made it fly by.

The next destination was London, where I had been invited to speak and facilitate at RSA House (The Royal Society of the Arts) for their Open House Day. My session explored how space technology can enable sustainability on Earth, and I answered questions about speculative fiction and Salt & Seeds. Afterwards, I met Anna, the RSA Librarian, who graciously welcomed Salt & Seeds into their new fiction collection, a genuine honour.

Before leaving the city, I visited The London Book Barge – Word on the Water, the famous floating bookshop on a 1920s Dutch barge moored at King’s Cross. With a stage for live music on deck, it felt like stepping straight into a scene from my novel. Salt & Seeds itself is a solarpunk odyssey set aboard a Dutch climate research boat, complete with converted barges and musicians playing traditional sessions on deck. A big thank you to Paddy, who purchased a copy and gave my book a home on board.

With that, England rejoined the map of my Euro Book-Trek, the place where the story had begun and where new chapters were already forming. Next, I would head north again to collect Sara and Harrison, and continue our journey to Wigtown, Scotland’s book town, ahead of the final legs in Ireland.

Euro Book Trek 13th Leg:

Scotland & the North of Ireland

After the bustle of London and the familiar roads of England, my Euro Book Trek turned north again, back towards wilder country. I stopped briefly in Hull to collect Sara, Harrison, and a fresh supply of Salt & Seeds novels, before steering the car northwest through the rolling farmland of Cumbria and across the border into Scotland. Ahead, there was family, bookshops, deep forests, and a coastline that looks like the edge of the world.

My uncle, Vince Raw, has a cottage tucked away in the Galloway Forest, on the edge of the dark sky zone of Kirroughtree Forest Park. Vince is a successful countryside author and one of those rare souls who seems to live entirely in rhythm with the land. Vince and Aunt Jennie always welcome us with open arms, a lovely meal, and a dram of Scotch or two or four. The card games and stories stretch into the night, with lots to catch up on and an inexhaustible supply of cuddles from their lovely honey coloured, short-legged Labrador Sonny. He’s a real character.

The next morning, I was up for an early forest walk with Sonny and Jennie. Then I earned my keep by helping thin out the bullrushes in the large ponds at the edge of Vince’s woodland. It’s an annual necessity to clear space for other plants and wildlife to thrive.

When we arrived back, a robin was waiting on the gate for Vince, it likes to perch on his hand to collect its snacks. It’s a small ritual that seems to capture the gentle spirit of this place.

Vince is a skilled woodturner, and I enjoy watching him create bowls, lampstands, and all manner of wooden ornaments, but his workshop had been temporarily commandeered by a clutch of tiny chicks. Vince was giving their mothers a well-earned break, pecking happily in the grass of the huge chicken run, while the chicks kept safe and warm inside his heated woodshed.

I helped Vince feed the chickens, topping up their water and collecting freshly laid eggs in my hat.

Jennie’s garden has a daily parade of foxes, badgers, birds, and red squirrels coming for dinner, and the forest rangers have built a new hide where the garden meets the woods. It’s for Forest Park visitors to catch a glimpse of a pine marten. At Vince and Jennie’s, nature’s rich variety is all around, and I would stay there permanently if I could.

From the cottage, we walked with Sonny up through the forest to Bruntis Loch, where the mirror-still water reflected the pines and sky. Later, we drove to New Galloway, stopping on the way to feed the deer, and followed Ranger’s Road, where the forest floor was alive with a dazzling variety of fungi.

With their cottage as a base, I visited nearby Newton Stewart for supplies, then Wigtown, Scotland’s National Book Town. Wigtown was buzzing in anticipation of its annual literature festival, when thousands of readers descend on its many wonderful bookshops. The timing couldn’t have been better. My first stop was a Sci-Fi and Fantasy specialist bookshop called At the Sign of the Dragon. Resident Bookseller Richard was a welcoming and enthusiastic man with close connections to Wales and the Netherlands. He noticed the Dutch connections in my book and was happy to feature Salt & Seeds in the festival. I also dropped off a pile of bookmarks at the Wigtown Library for festival-goers.

Among Wigtown’s many treasures is The Bookshop, said to be the largest second-hand bookshop in Scotland, with shelves that seem to go on forever and the comforting scent of old paper and leather. The town also remembers the Wigtown Martyrs. Margaret Maclauchlan and Margaret Wilson, were Scottish Covenanters who were executed by Scottish Episcopalians on 11 May, 1685 in Wigtown, for refusing to swear the Supremacy Oath, to declare James VII as head of the church. Their story connects deeply with the themes of cultural beliefs, religion, tradition, brutality, and defiance that I’d encountered earlier in this trek, especially in Quedlinburg and Thale.

From there, the next leg of the Euro Book Trek took us west across the sea. It was just a short drive to Cairnryan and a surprisingly smooth ferry crossing to Larne. I’d never been to the north of Ireland before; I am an Irish citizen but my family live in the south and south west.

As the ferry neared the Antrim coast, the landscape took my breath away: cliffs, castles, and a picturesque coast road that felt almost mythic, dotted with the filming locations from Game of Thrones, each one more dramatic than the last. We stopped several times on our way north, first at Cushendun Beach and its caves.

Then Torr Head, a place steeped in myth and history. The old coastguard station there stands on the remains of Dún Bharraigh, once home to the Gaelic warrior Barrach, who, legend tells, conspired with the King of Ulster, Conchur Mac Neasa, in the murder of the warrior brothers Clann Uisnigh. Their tragic story, Deirdre of the Sorrows, is one of the great tales of Irish literature.

At Bonamargy Friary, we stopped to find the grave of the Nun, Julia McQuillan, a seventeenth-century recluse and prophetess whose spirit is still said to wander the ruins.

Further along the road, we explored the haunting ruins of Dunluce Castle, clinging to its cliff-top, the sea booming in its vaults below.

When we reached the top, we stayed at Finn MacCool’s Backpackers Hostel, right beside the legendary Giant’s Causeway. At dawn, I placed a free copy of Salt & Seeds and bookmarks in the Hostel Bookswap, then made the steep walk down to the stones.

Standing among those hexagonal pillars, shaped by fire and sea, I understood why myth and geology can be mistaken for one another. There was a constant stream of coaches filled with mainly American tourists, paying for tours of the site, which is actually free to walk around.

Later, I drove us to nearby Bushmills to find Causeway Books, a small independent bookshop run by the kind and generous James, who placed Salt & Seeds proudly in the centre of the new releases shelf. It is the first one you see when you walk through the door. That kind gesture meant a lot. Thank you, James.

Bushmills itself is full of charm and good food, but Harrison fancied pizza. So we went into the takeaway, but they had just had a large phone order and said it would be a twenty-minute wait. However, it was the only pizza place around and Harry was keen, so we paid and wandered across the road to the Bush House Bar for a swift half of Guinness while we waited. I drink very little alcohol, but I do enjoy an occasional small glass of Guinness or a whiskey among my fellow Celts. My great-grandfather worked at the Guinness factory in Dublin and at the Powers Whiskey distillery, so it would be rude not to taste the fruits of his labour. The pub was full and bursting with music and laughter. Within moments, a cheerful local gent named Willy insisted on buying us another round and wouldn’t take no for an answer. When he heard we were waiting for pizzas, he spoke to the bar staff who immediately had a table laid in the back room with cutlery and condiments, declaring that we must bring the pizzas in, as no one eats standing when they can eat sitting. We talked for over an hour, laughed a lot, and parted as good friends. Before we left, I slipped to the bar to buy Willy a double Bushmills whiskey, a small thank-you gift for a big-hearted man. A true practitioner of Irish hospitality..

Later, while heading south toward Belfast, we hit our only real snag of the leg, a last-minute accommodation cancellation; they called to say they had double-booked and the other customer had already arrived. Every nearby place was full. After a weary hour of searching, Sara found a loft apartment much further south, on the border in Crossmaglen, called Urkers Guest Accommodation. I decided to skip Belfast and press on to there.

Crossmaglen sits in South Armagh, a place once marked deeply by the Troubles. During those decades, the village became a symbol of resistance and tension, with a British Army lookout post dominating the skyline. Today, that tower is gone, and peace is finally real. The people of Crossmaglen speak about never wanting to return to those years of division, though political debate continues in a healthier environment. The square at the centre of the village, Cardinal Ó Fiach Square, honours the local man whose legacy is one of faith and reconciliation.

We arrived at Urkers late, parked right outside, and let ourselves in via the key safe. The apartment was beautiful, warm, peaceful, and lovingly kept. I was so glad to put my feet up and read until I fell asleep. The next morning, we met the owner, who invited us to wander her small farm and meet the animals before we set off once more.

The road ahead led across the border for the final leg of the journey. We were heading to more bookshops, music, and magical history in Slane, Tara, Dublin, The Burren Art Gallery, Ennis, and my sister’s cottage in Spancil Hill. It felt right to end my 12-country Book Trek in the land my family have long celebrated through my mother’s stories and songwriting, and our family ceilidh band. So that’s the next leg.
PS..As always, I met a lot of lovely dogs along this leg, and I’m always happy to share their portraits with you:

Leg 14 down to Dublin and across Ireland is coming soon.

Euro Book Trek 14th & Final Leg:

Ireland

Returning to the land of stories, music, and my mother’s voice

Crossing the border from the north felt like arriving home, although I was still a long way from where I started. After thousands of miles and countless bookshops, I was finally returning to the place at the heart of so many of my family’s stories. My late mother, Chrissie Raw née Cullen, brought us up as Irish no matter where we were on our travels. She wove Ireland into my childhood with her songs and tales, and we performed together as the Chrissie Cullen Ceilidh Band every weekend. My mother was also a writer, and coming back this time, with my own book in hand, felt like carrying her tradition forward.

Slane and Tara: the beginning of the end

Before Dublin or Ennis, before bookshops or music, we travelled first to Slane and the Hill of Tara. Tara has always held a special place for me. My mother spoke often of these places, but I’d never had time to visit them. I had always gone straight to visit family in Limerick, Ennis, and Wexford. This time I wanted to make time for more. Tara Hill, with its Stone of Destiny and Mound of the Hostages, has been a feature of so many of the legends and Irish hero stories I grew up on, and it felt right to begin this leg by walking in the places my mother described.

Near the gates to the hill is The Old Bookshop, a stone building full of charm and history. There I met Michael Slavin, the bookseller and author. He offered a copy of his book, The Tara Walk, in exchange for Salt & Seeds, and we stood together signing our copies before swapping them. My book stayed on his counter for sale; his came with me as I visited the hill.

The mound is gated now, to preserve it, but I reached inside with my camera and took a lucky shot around the corner. It revealed spiral carvings caught in the low light. Ireland’s myths felt very close that day, as though breathing just under the grass.

Dublin: books, coffins, and a dram before bed

We stayed in Dublin for two nights at 1 Harcourt Terrace, Ireland’s only remaining Regency terrace. It was full of period furnishings and character, with a bottle of Bushmills waiting for us next to the chessboard. Harry and I played a game and shared a quiet dram before turning in. Cakes appeared in the hallway each morning, the old typewriter on the sideboard felt like an invitation, and artwork filled available wall space. I would happily recommend it and will hopefully stay again.

We visited Books Upstairs, Dublin’s oldest independent bookshop, and they placed Salt & Seeds in their Young Adult Fiction section. A small moment, but a meaningful one for me. My book in a bookshop in Dublin, now that’s an event I wish my mother had been alive to see. My family have a long relationship with Dublin, as my great-grandfather worked at Dublin’s Guinness factory and at Powers Whiskey. My grandfather was left in a Dublin orphanage until he was old enough to join the army.

I also went somewhere I’d somehow never visited: the church where Bram Stoker’s family is buried, Saint Michan’s. Down in the crypt, among coffins and scattered bones, the air is dry and mineral-rich. Some of the remains have naturally mummified. The death mask of Wolfe Tone sits there too. The guide spoke about the place with reverence. When he said he’d always wanted to visit Whitby, I smiled and told him to definitely go. Every storyteller should see Whitby at least once.

West to the Burren: more art, big stones, and a small crisis

Leaving Dublin, we crossed west towards the Burren. We stopped on the way at the Kilmacduagh round tower, a 7th-century monastic site near Gort, County Galway. The tower leans worryingly, over half a meter from vertical. It’s a very impressive structure. The only thing missing was Rapunzel.

As we got closer to the Burren, the landscape changed from rolling hills of green to limestone. We stayed in the Burren Art Gallery, a beautiful old church restored by Andrew, an artist originally from Whitby. His paintings covered the walls. The space shifts easily between gallery, accommodation, and music venue.

Five miles before reaching the gallery, my car coughed, spluttered, and nearly gave up entirely. I limped it through the final country lanes, rolling into the drive with more luck than engineering. Andrew was kind and supportive throughout our stay. My sister Julie, who lives nearby in Spancil Hill, sent a friend to look at it. We discovered an oil leak, nothing fatal. Andrew kindly sold me enough oil from his own garage to get us moving again.

Ennis and Spancil Hill: family, Irish music, and the last bookshop

My sister Julie spent the next few days with us. We played music and chatted, in English with a smattering of Gaeilge, though my Irish is nothing like as fluent as hers. Tá cúpla focal agam (I have a few words).

She showed me the best places for vegan food, the pubs where the real music sessions happen, and the corners of Ennis that only locals know.

We visited her old stone cottage, where she and her husband, David, live with their lovely dogs, Mollie and Lulu. Their stove warmed the whole room. Julie and David have renovated the place over many years. Their garden provides most of their food, and the solar panels keep the house going. It’s the sort of self-sufficient place I want to retire to one day. Both are exceptional Irish musicians. Julie and I played in our family ceilidh band growing up, and her playing still moves me. David plays all kinds of music, including performing with Latin Fellas & Co., a lively group well-known across Clare. They are brilliant musicians and even better company; they never fail to get everyone dancing.

The last bookshop of the entire Euro Book Trek was The Ennis Bookshop, Julie’s local independent. She is in the acknowledgements of Salt & Seeds for her excellent proofreading, so ending here felt right. The staff placed the book in their Young Adult Fiction section. The bookshop also has copies of Eddie Lenihan’s wonderful books. Eddie is a family friend from the same place as my mother, but now lives near Julie. He is a legendary storyteller and brought his magic into our Yorkshire home whenever he stayed at ours for UK festivals. He has been a big influence on my writing over the years, so it’s a real honour to have my book in the same place as his.

Time to Say Goodbye

We eventually had to say our goodbyes to family and friends and head off. First, we went deeper into the Burren to visit Poulnabrone dolmen, a single-chamber portal tomb. It dates to the early Neolithic period, with estimates from 3800 and 3200 BC. It’s one of over 170 dolmens in Ireland. We then did a quick salute to the West Coast and headed back to the East and Dublin Ferry port. We had another smooth crossing back to Wales, and I drove on home to East Yorkshire. From the west coast of Ireland to the east coast of England in one day’s drive. It’s a drive that I’ve done a few times before and will no doubt be doing again soon.

Final Thoughts

Eleven countries, over 5000 miles, and six weeks on the road. From Spanish mountains to Venetian canals, from French hospital staff to Berlin police, from a Monaco casino to the quiet of an old stone Burren church. Dozens of bookshops, libraries, book swaps, festivals, ferries, forests and border crossings. I met kind people everywhere. I left books in places I never imagined I’d reach. I passed through landscapes that changed how I think about scale, communities that have learned resilience, and I felt what it means to make something of my own and offer it to the world by hand rather than from a distance.

What struck me, again and again, was how often the same qualities appeared wherever I travelled: curiosity, generosity, and a willingness to welcome a stranger. It happened in bookshops, in pubs, on trams, in boats, in kitchens and at counters, and in places where we had no shared history at all. Those small encounters shaped the journey as much as the miles themselves.

Finishing in Ireland brought its own perspective. I was raised between two lands, one foot in Yorkshire’s grit and humour, the other in Ireland’s stories, songs and old ways of seeing. Returning with a book of my own made me realise how much of my writing has always lived in that space between. The practical and the mythical, the grounded and the magical, the community hall in Hull and the Hill of Tara. This Trek let me stand in both worlds at once and finally see the shape of it.

The journey also helped me understand my writing a little better. Stories don’t travel alone. They move through hands, conversations and shared spaces. They need communities that allow them to grow. Carrying Salt & Seeds across Europe made that real in a way I hadn’t expected.

None of this would have been possible without the support of my publisher, Grokkist Press, who championed the idea from the beginning. For that, I’m deeply grateful.

So the driving is finished for now. It’s time to write the next book, fix my poor car, run workshops and return to my own community for a while. But the next trip is already forming somewhere on the horizon, and the conversations about resilience, creativity and place are continuing online with readers everywhere.

And although the Euro Book Trek has reached its last stop, this Substack hasn’t. I’ll keep posting here about writing, storytelling, the next book, the creative process, and whatever grows from all of this. So it only remains to say thank you for travelling with me.

Oh, and as always, I’ll finish by sharing a few nonhuman friends I met along this final leg: