People talk about IKEA and the clear intention to have you lost in the store until you relent and buy things. It works from the viewpoint of scent, visual appeal, disorientation and lack of awareness of time passing (no windows or clocks you’ll notice).
Similarly bookshops are not safe places. They have soft carpets which deadens the sounds, beautiful arrangements and sections of subject matter beaming themselves into my heart and soul.
I go in with the best of intentions, just a little look, see what’s new and emerging, maybe pick up one book if it really stands out. But so many stand out and it seems really mean to leave them there.
I have come to understand that buying books, hoarding books and reading books are three entirely separate hobbies. Related, certainly, but not interchangeable. Buying is optimism, hoarding is intention, and reading depends on mood, time and whether I have simultaneously started three other books as well.
At this moment I have The Historian ongoing with Seaglass: Essays, Moments and Reflections and all the research for my current co-writing project.

As a child I would occasionally receive a book voucher for WH Smiths or similar and this led to the most glorious experiences. In those days (lets not say how long ago) I could, if I was discerning, just squeeze five paperbacks out of my £10 voucher. I would maximise the potential, balancing the level of desire for the novel, against the price and the decision of four intensely wanted books against 5 slightly less intensely desired books. A few years ago an American friend sent a £50 Waterstones voucher as a gift to thank me for aiding and abetting her in touring some English literary and television filming sites and helping her rescue her dropped phone from The Devil’s Arse. Long story. That rush of delight of having that same experience of being able to just go and indulge. To allow that lengthy period of persual, the absolute knowledge that I could entirely indulge myself as there was nothing more demanding as there would be on my cash. But now it was the £7.99 versus £8.99 novels and how many I could squeeze into my £50. Reader – it wasn’t enough. But the absolute glee of that time stays with me. And I may have gone over budget, happily.
Recently I won a writing competition which also came with the glorious wonder of a £50 book voucher. I spent some time pouring over my options. This time I could also support an independent bookstore. So I split the voucher in two. Spending half at Spencer Thorn in Bude because I would be devasted to find it was gone one day on my travels. And the other half went to The Padstow Bookseller, because again it would be a tragic loss. When I was last in there I enjoyed a conversation about the series I was buying with the gentleman serving us and could have spent half the day chewing the cud over books. I hope he reads this and sees that his delightful customer service retained him later sales.

It’s not always about the cost, I love a second hand book too. English Heritage and The National Trust often have a little book shop in their historical properties, which, for me, just makes a castle or stately home visit all the more compelling. I love to browse. Charity shops and second hand bookshops all over the place.
There’s even one which is almost a best kept secret. On a winding coastal road in North Cornwall, not far off the Atlantic Highway, there is a cliff top bungalow with a hidden bookshop. Sometimes the owner puts a table outside, allowing the sun and wind to beat the books into submission and luring passing tourists into his garage. The rest of the time you wouldn’t know. Yet everytime we pull into the driveway the door is open and the honesty box awaits. My children and I will sometimes buy too many, squeezing books into strange places in the car to ensure they can make the trip home with us. They’ve gone beneath seats in the past, under elbows, stacked up like armrests in the back seat and I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until they’re resting on the sunvisors, pressed against the roof. Just one more!

There is something about a bookshop which holds the promise of magic. Inside those doors could be my next adventure. Shelves full of stories I haven’t read yet, covers doing their tempting work, the sense that somewhere in here is the book I didn’t know I was looking for. And then there are the ones I always look for.
The Penguin Clothbound Classics are a weakness. They are so absurdly beautiful, fabric covers, embossed designs, that fabric feel rather than a paper cover. My collection is building slowly, which is probably for the best, I enjoy the slow burn.
The Folio editions are, frankly, devastating. Beautiful paper, illustrations, slipcases, the kind of books you need a library for, to display them. I have one, because I reviewed it. A stunning copy of Jane Eyre.

And then, for reasons I tragically understand; people keep releasing new covers of Dracula by Bram Stoker and they are all appealing in slightly different ways and they’re impossible to ignore. Like this gilded one. Or a replica of the first edition. Or a vintage collectors copy. A deluxe edition. A leatherbound edition. An elegant 2025 release. And the Penguin Clothbound of course. I could cheerfully collect Dracula alone at times. I sometimes have to make rules to only pick them up second hand, so I’m not obliged to remortgage the house.
There are anniversary editions too. The recent anniversary Twilight releases are objectively lovely, which is unhelpful because I already have them, or had them, I was early to that party and ordered them from the US before it became a thing here in the UK. Apparently it wasn’t enough and I treated myself to the anniversary edition too.
A certain someone has taken to sending books as gifts, sometimes one, sometimes a small stack, arriving like a bound paper bouquet through the post, which is both thoughtful and deeply enabling. I love it.

There are also the people who release books in different sizes, which causes me a disproportionate amount of irritation. There is nothing quite like placing a new book on a shelf and realising it is just slightly too tall, or slightly too narrow, or otherwise refusing to sit properly with the rest of the set. It creates a low level disturbance that does not go away. I have, on occasion, rearranged an entire shelf to accommodate one book that would not behave. Who made Storm Glass by Maria V Snyder shorter than the rest of her books? Or Deerskin and Rose Daughter by Robin McKinley both shorter but Sunshine is taller than them all? Times Convert by Deborah Harkness? Such a great series and then someone made it far taller than the rest of the set. This one should match. Do yourself a favour and buy the full matching setin the All Souls series for your own sanity, its an outstanding series. There are more but I shan’t go on.

Then there are the losses. I once lent a book to a friend who, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, disposed of it. She did replace it, which was the correct thing to do, but it wasn’t the right copy. It doesn’t match the rest of the set, which means that somewhere out there is the correct version and I am in the very long process of searching for it every time I pass a second hand bookshop. Ideally as new, correct cover, first edition if possible, replacing my original. It will turn up. I’m fairly certain of it. It justifies more browsing.

I have done this before. Years ago I lent a copy of Beauty by Sheri S. Tepper to someone I was dating. The relationship did not last, which was sad, but the book disappeared into the general drift of his life. He and I remained friendly and I didn’t mind the loss too much because he was a dedicated English student who introduced me to some great books in return, but I mourned it a little because it’s one of my favourites. For years I kept an eye out for it, same cover specifically. After about twenty years I gave up and bought a different version. Then a second hand copy appeared with the original cover so I bought that too. Then, out of nowhere, the ex appeared on Facebook and said he had found the original in his attic and did I still want it back. Yes. Obviously.
It felt like welcoming one of my beloveds back home. The other copies have been passed on to my daughters and the original is back where it belongs, which is, I think, the point of all of this.
Bookshops are dangerous because they’re irresistable, that soft cushioning, the audio buffer from the outside world. The promise of good things to come.

Please be aware there are affiliate links here because I talk about the things I love and Amazon seem to have a lot of those things. And most of my money. Maybe this way I can have a little back.