In the mornings, when my thoughts have not yet arranged themselves into their familiar malevolent shapes and the day is still unformed, I wake up before dawn and sheath myself in layer upon layer of coarse, heavy clothing, and walk deep into the woods while my eyes adjust to the velvety darkness.

​​I hadn’t heard of this novel or the author until Two Dollar Radio contacted me asking if I wanted a review copy. Any book described as ‘witchy’ and ‘unnerving’ which also discusses nature and isolation is bound to be right up my street, so I jumped at the chance to read this – and I’m so glad I did. I’m mainly surprised that this isn’t being talked about more widely; I thought it was an incredible read. It might be the best fiction I've read this year so far.

At the Edge of the Woods is Kathryn Bromwich’s first novel, and as a debut this really is stunning, oozing with skill and talent. The writing is as vivid and immersive as the forest Laura finds herself living in, and the overall effect is a haunting, visceral novel which I wanted to climb right inside of. I was captivated by Laura’s world and felt like I got dragged out of it just when I was ready to settle in. This is a book to be read slowly, carefully, quietly – each sentence to be savoured.

At the Edge of the Woods tells the story of Laura, living by herself in a run-down cottage at – you guessed it – the edge of the woods. We learn about her life through snippets, seeing snapshots of Laura’s life as she ventures down to the village and attempts conversation with the locals. As the story progresses, we see Laura fall deeper into the clutches of the wild land surrounding her, and as she does so tensions rise between her and the local villagers. Just when things feel like they are coming to a head, a visitor from Laura’s past suddenly appears.

As the life Laura has built for herself unravels, the narrative runs through themes of independence, womanhood, illness, community, and what it means to run away from everything you once knew. Bromwich treads a careful line between reality and the fantastical, never letting you quite know which side of it the story will fall. It’s told so precisely: the world is detailed and rich, but not one word is wasted.

For me, this combined the vivid lyricism of some of my favourite outdoor writers (Robert MacFarlane, Nan Shepherd, Helen Mort) with the uncanniness of some of my favourite fiction writers (Julie Armfield, Lucy Wood, Kirsty Logan).

Also, although I am not generally one to get excited about things like book design, this is beautifully produced which makes reading it feel extra luxurious. It’s a book I will definitely be coming back to, and I’m already excited to see what Kathryn Bromwich writes next.

Massive thanks to Two Dollar Radio for kindly sending me a copy in exchange for an honest review.

​Oh, this was such a beautiful, nourishing, calming read. I read it in a few short sittings, the narrative captivating me in a way nonfiction books don’t often manage to. Enchantment’s blurb describes it as ‘a balm for our times’, and that certainly matches my experience of reading it – as if something buried in these words has started healing something that I didn’t really know needed healing. The language Katherine May uses is soft and lyrical, and I found some of her sentences flowing over me and wrapping around me in much the same way a spell would.

I swim to enter into the midst of something that joins me to everything, everywhere, in all time.

Seeking change and a softening, Katherine May goes in search of enchantment, of wonder, of ‘a better way to walk through this life’. Enchantment, she says, is essential for us to feel connected: to each other and to the earth. She explores the magic of earth, water, fire and sky, letting attention and rituals show her a different way of connecting, of finding enchantment.
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I was so excited to read this. Wintering has been on my radar for ages although I haven’t quite managed to get round to reading it yet. Katherine May was the keynote speaker at the CIEP’s annual conference last September. Her talk was beautiful – soothing, empowering and comforting – so I was looking forward to spending more time with her words.

I was relieved to find that her words were just as beautiful written down. Enchantment is full of rich and careful language; almost every sentence has something of value in it, some nugget of gold to take away and turn over in your mind. And the richness of language feels like the perfect reflection for the beauty in the world that Katherine May is discovering and exploring and sharing.

That is what I am searching for: the chance to  merge into the wild drift of the world, to feel overcome, to enter into its weft so completely that sometimes I can forget myself.

But that is a lofty goal when I can barely shift my mind into motion.

I was captivated by her idea that enchantment is essential: not just a nice feeling to have occasionally, but something we need to regularly experience. She’s right, I think, and it’s easy to see how far modern society has slipped away from these ideas of enchantment and connection. I also particularly appreciated how clear and candid her voice is; reading this felt like being told a very gentle story by an old friend.

It's a book I can see myself returning to again and again when life feels too chaotic or unsteady, and Wintering has certainly been bumped much higher up my TBR list now. I’m really looking forward to seeing what Katherine writes next – what other adventures of the mind and soul she takes us on.

(With thanks to NetGalley and Faber & Faber for a free copy in exchange for an honest review.)

It took maybe five minutes of reading through Jo Moseley’s lovely guide before I was on Google searching for paddleboards on sale. After a stunning evening last summer meandering around our local coast with some friends, I’ve been keen to buy my own board and gear, but in all honesty I’ve felt quite overwhelmed by trying to work out what I needed.

Thank goodness for this book! Before getting to the routes, there’s a really helpful introduction section which covers how to get started, what equipment and kit you might need, how to plan a day out and what aspects to consider to keep yourself and anyone you’re out with safe on the water. There’s a lot to cover in not much space, but the advice is accessible for anyone who’s a complete beginner like myself, and includes some handy tips for those more experienced as well. There’s also a brief history of the sport which I found fascinating; it’s astonishing to see how quickly it has grown in popularity.

Paddleboarding is an unusual sport in that it’s very easy to head out by yourself with little experience, but surprisingly easy to suddenly find yourself in trouble if you time the tides wrong or get caught out by a quick current. There’s a good amount of advice on weather and tides to consider in this guide, and also plenty of links to further resources for anyone who wants to learn more.
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Having seen first-hand how many problems a sudden influx of visitors can bring to a usually quiet area, I always feel slightly wary opening guidebooks now in case another quiet and remote spot is about to suddenly become incredibly popular. Thankfully Jo explains that she has intentionally avoided mentioned anywhere that’s ‘secret’ or where the local community wouldn’t be able to handle an increase in parking.

The rest of the book reads as part-guidebook, part-memoir. Jo takes a few pages recounting her own experience of paddling each route before giving all the information you’ll need to do the route itself: the distance, difficulty level, how to get there, local places for refreshments, and details for local instruction and kit hire. Jo’s warmth, enthusiasm and good humour shines through in every page and makes this such an enjoyable read. I also really appreciated her honesty in re-telling her experiences. She doesn’t shy away from explaining when weather or conditions have led to a change of plan; on a brief trip to Mull, she accepts that it’s not a good day for paddleboarding. Maybe this is really the most helpful information anyone can take from this book: understanding that some days it just isn’t right to head out on the water, and having the confidence to choose the safer option of staying home when it’s necessary.

The routes are divided up by country, and are all accompanied by beautiful photos. They’re nicely spaced out around the UK and cover a variety of distances and difficulty levels. I’m looking forward to taking this guide up to Scotland with me on a holiday in a few months (by which time I will hopefully have sorted myself out and bought a paddleboard!) so that I can explore some lovely places up there without having to spend hours researching them myself. It’s definitely a handy guide for anyone keen to explore new paddleboarding locations around the UK or who just travels a lot.

This is a stunning guide which really demonstrates the potential of paddleboarding for taking you to beautiful, remote places. It’s definitely re-ignited my desire to get out paddleboarding more this summer, and to spend more time in this lovely watery world that Jo shares.

(With thanks to Jo and the lovely folk at Vertebrate Publishing for a free copy in exchange for an honest review.)

I went in search of good cold water to see if it would help me find the parts of myself that went missing at some point in my life.

Sara Barnes’ Instagram account (@bumblebarnes) is full of photos of her getting into the water in all temperatures and weather, and always looking utterly joyous about it. I was looking forward to her book, hoping it would help with my own sea swimming psyche as the temperatures drop, and it certainly hasn’t disappointed. This is a compassionate and engaging account of the beauty and release of cold-water swimming. Sara shares her journey with honesty, authenticity and vulnerability.

The Cold Fix opens with a joyful swim, and then with a recap of Sara’s own story: a difficult recovery from an operation, which ended up leading her into the water. It’s clear that the cold water has become a tool for deep introspection for her. On a quest to understand the mythical draw of cold water, Sara speaks to and swims with people all around the world.

​She interviews a wide range of people, from those descending into ice holes to those climbing into a wheelie bin filled with water every day. It’s fascinating to read about these people’s motivations for getting into cold water, and the value this regular immersion holds for them. It’s clear that although everyone sharing their story has a different reason for getting in, cold water has become an invaluable part of their lives. The dedication and commitment shown to these regular immersions is impressive! And I appreciated that Sara is honest about her own occasional fear and reluctance when swimming; it’s always reassuring to hear about other people’s fears, and the way she inevitably commits to the water anyway is inspiring.

Sara breaks her own identity into five different facets: the Mother, the Warrior, the Child, the Panther and the Thinker. She identifies each of her interviewees as one of these personas. I didn’t really connect with this way of breaking personalities down, but I can see how it could be helpful to identify different parts of your psyche responsible for the different ways you respond to situations.

There’s a brief discussion in the final pages about how cold water immersion has helped all these swimmers with body image which was really fascinating to read. It’s brilliant to read an outdoorsy book that isn’t full of super-fit, super-muscley types, and so refreshing to see people enjoying the outdoors and finding greater acceptance of their own bodies without having to cram loads of training in.

I also wanted to highlight the stunning selection of photos. There’s a particularly beautiful page featuring three photos of Sara looking overwhelmed with joy; if these photos don’t send you off to find your own nearest supply of cold water, nothing will.

(With thanks to the lovely folk at Vertebrate Publishing for a free copy in exchange for an honest review.)

Where There’s a Hill is the story of how Sabrina went from not considering herself ‘a natural athlete’ to becoming the first person to summit all 214 Wainwright peaks in the Lake District in under six days – an incredible achievement.

What I really loved about Where There’s a Hill is how honest and readable it is. It feels more like a relaxed chat with a friend than the autobiography of a record-breaking runner, and it’s easy to forget quite how impressive Sabrina’s accomplishments are.

The narrative starts with a chapter on Sabrina’s childhood and family, then moves quickly on to discuss the career change and house move that gets her up to the Lake District. It’s really fascinating to read about the evolution of her plans for the Wainwrights: what makes her first start considering it, and then how her route and expectations change between each of her attempts. I haven’t spent loads of time in the Lake District so I’m not too familiar with many sections of the route, but there’s a map included and smaller maps of various sections where needed which is really helpful. It’s also got a lovely selection of photos which is great (I am firmly of the opinion that every outdoors narrative book would be improved by a good selection of photos), and helps show how tough the conditions were at times.

I followed Sabrina’s final record-breaking attempt at the time, but I had no idea how much her success on that round was a direct result of building on the failures of previous attempts. Sabrina carefully analyses her route and strategy and mistakes, fine-tuning her plans until everything comes together. When she’s discussing her route, she does have a tendency of flitting from discussing one attempt to a different one quite quickly which I did occasionally find a little confusing, but it didn’t really dilute my enjoyment of the book.

I was really impressed throughout by Sabrina’s loud confidence in herself. It’s so rare to see a woman declaring that she’s good at something, that people want her on their team because of her specific strengths; Sabrina’s self-assurance is so refreshing and inspiring! Her determination and willingness to share her journey without glossing over any of the ugly bits stops her from ever coming across as arrogant. She’s open about the tough bits of running ultras and about times when she feels her behaviour has let her down. She’s very self-critical here, apologizing for snapping at friends when running for literally days without a break.

She holds herself to a high moral standard, even going as far as to refuse painkillers whilst doing the round. I’ve often wondered where the boundary comes for people accepting support to get themselves around long-distance, record-breaking runs, and I found Sabrina’s strict ethics to be refreshing, if not at times surely more strict than anyone would expect; it’s difficult to imagine anyone criticizing her for taking paracetamol.
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It's clear throughout how much Sabrina is driven by the sheer joy of running and of exploring the mountains in this way. She is incredibly driven, always aiming for success, but seems more inspired by the delight of moving quickly through the mountains than by the idea of beating anyone else. I am hoping this sense of playfulness in the hills is going to prove good inspiration for my own running, albeit at a rather less impressive level, as the weather turns autumnal over the next few weeks...

​​(With thanks to the lovely folk at Vertebrate Publishing for a free copy in exchange for an honest review.)

​I was really excited to read this; I listened to Rebecca’s seminar for the Women’s Climbing Symposium during lockdown and found it incredibly useful, so I was looking forward to more of her advice. Climb Smarter hasn’t disappointed at all. Rebecca’s clear breadth of experience and knowledge make this an invaluable resource for anyone who feels they can improve their mental approach to climbing (presumably nearly everyone?!).

This review comes with the slight caveat that I had to read through the book quickly in order to write a review; in an ideal world I would have worked through it at a much slower pace, as suggested, allowing plenty of time to absorb the information and work through the recommended exercises. But even on a speedy read through, I’ve picked up plenty of tips and strategies which have already helped improve my mental approach to climbing. I’ve already found myself trying harder on routes and better able to manage my headgame.
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It's a really approachable guide. Rebecca breaks mental training down into small, specific areas (things like staying calm under pressure, motivation, constructive self-talk, ability to focus, learning from mistakes in a positive way… far too many to list here!) and suggests tackling each one individually, which makes the whole thing feel much more manageable. Some case studies from climbers she’s previously worked with give good examples of how to apply the strategies, and it’s reassuring to read how much other climbers have been able to improve their mindset.

I appreciated the understanding that climbing training isn’t always a constant – sometimes life gets in the way, sometimes motivation fluctuates, sometimes you get ill – which helps this feel like a very human and realistic approach to training. I really felt right from the start that this offered training advice that I’d actually be able to fit in around the other busyness in life. There’s also an interesting discussion of how to balance your personal values with your climbing values, and the potential problems raised if these are in conflict with each other. I hadn’t considered this angle before, and it’s definitely a useful train of thought to wander down.

I really can’t recommend this enough for anyone keen to improve their climbing headgame, particularly if mental training has always felt a bit daunting and you’re not sure where to start with it. I’m looking forward to going back through it at a much slower pace now, working through some of the exercises and coming up with a mental training plan to help me move forward. 

(With thanks to Sequoia Books for a free copy in exchange for an honest review.)

In Born to Climb, Zofia Reych traces the history of climbing from the 1300s right up to today. It’s a comprehensive look at how abilities, techniques and safety have progressed and how much climbing standards have improved, both on rock and in competitions. There are many historical accounts of climbing already out there (although I’m not aware of another one that covers ground right up to, and including, the 2020 Olympics), but what sets Zofia’s apart is its clear intention to be inclusive and representative. With this perspective, they manage to put a fresh spin on historical accounts that have already been covered so many times, and it’s refreshing to see a frank discussion of those who haven’t always been remembered or represented in more traditional climbing accounts. 

Born to Climb has a huge scope, with an incredible amount of research gone into it and if anything possibly tries to cover too much ground. I did find the opening chapters a touch on the slow side, but it picked up pace quickly. I really enjoyed reading an account of climbing history that wasn’t Brit-centric, and although I was already familiar with most of the climbs detailed here, there’s so much discussed that there was still plenty of new information. There’s a brief mention of mountaineering’s historical involvement in the Olympics, but otherwise the narrative is strictly focused on climbing (both indoor and outdoor) – probably a good limitation as there is already so much information to include.

What feels incredibly valuable is Zofia’s commitment to highlighting the effect climbing has had on nearby groups who don’t normally get mentioned in the conversation. I had no idea, for example, about the existence of the Ahwahneechee people living in the Yosemite valley, or of the shocking disruption forced on them by the authorities as tourism to Yosemite increased.

Zofia balances the history of climbing alongside a few of their own experiences. They explains that the aim of this is to contextualise the accomplishments detailed in the historical narrative – in truth, I’m not sure how much someone who doesn’t climb would really be able to grasp the different between, say, a 6b and a 9a. But I found the chapters relating their experiences relatable and compelling; Zofia relays these stories with honesty and wit, and I would have happily read more of these chapters. I’m looking forward to seeing what they write next. 

​​(With thanks to the lovely folk at Vertebrate Publishing for a free copy in exchange for an honest review.)

The aim here is not to tell you what to do. I wanted to provide you with all the research and science in a palatable format so that you, as individuals, can make an informed choice about what is the best nutritional approach for you.
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In More Fuel You, Renee offers a good introduction to different approaches and strategies for nutrition. In all honesty, I was a bit daunted by the prospect of reading and reviewing a nutrition book, imaging it to be quite dense and more like a textbook, but that’s not true of this book at all; it’s really accessible and readable.

This would be a great starter book for anyone interested in nutrition. It doesn’t give you a detailed breakdown of what your food intake should look like, or have any sample menus. Instead, Renee offers her informed and honest perspective on a variety of different approaches, and makes it easier for you to identify which might work best for your body and your energy needs.

The first half discusses general nutritional needs. The second half then considers a range of approaches to nutrition (things like low-carb diets, veggie and vegan athletes, and intermittent fasting), and different requirements (for example for female athletes or older athletes). The result is a very broad overview which might be less useful for working out exactly what you need to eat after a training session, but is incredibly helpful for considering your overall diet. I would have appreciated a short conclusion after the discussion of each approach with Renee’s professional judgement on how effective/appropriate it is, but later found that information in the conclusion instead; the approach seems to be about giving the reader the information and letting them make their own conclusions.

There are stories from athletes throughout, and I appreciated their openness in sharing what had/hadn’t worked for them and how changing strategy had benefitted them. There was, however, one almost unbelievable story from a chap who takes emergency jelly babies on every run but says he now manages his nutrition well enough that he has not once resorted to eating them. Quite frankly, this seems like a massive waste of jelly babies. If I had emergency jelly babies in my bag, I can absolutely guarantee that every single run would involve the sort of emergency (my legs are a bit tired; that hill looks a bit steep; better keep my energy levels high in case it rains) which would justify eating them. Probably the most likely conclusion here is that the chap concerned has much better self-control than I do!

Jelly babies aside, what really came across for me was how sensitive and individualised Renee’s advice is. She acknowledges that different approaches work for different people, and doesn’t try to offer a one-size-fits-all approach. It’s refreshing to read a nutritional book that doesn’t try to sell a specific diet, but instead acknowledges the pros and cons of many different approaches and ultimately highlights the importance of eating a diet that’s in line with your values as well as what works best for your body. The whole discussion felt very nuanced; at one point Renee does touch on the importance of eating ethically, but acknowledges the sheer difficulty of making consistent ethical choices.

I really appreciated the sensitivity which Renee writes with. Food is such a difficult topic and comes with so much baggage for so many people, but Renee offers her advice with compassion and empathy. More Fuel You is an expert discussion of how to make appropriate nutritional choices that will work for you, and explains when it’s time to be flexible and try a new approach to nutrition.​

​(With thanks to the lovely folk at Vertebrate Publishing for a free copy in exchange for an honest review.)

Is March too early to decide on my outdoorsy book of the year for 2022? Quite probably, but with A Line Above the Sky, Helen Mort has set the bar so incredibly high that I’m pretty tempted to make the call already. It’s one of those very rare books that makes me want to write a gushing email to the author thanking them for putting this out into the world.
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A Line Above the Sky is a raw and vulnerable discussion of womanhood and motherhood, and balancing the two with the risk and danger unavoidable in climbing. Helen traces the path of her pregnancy alongside an exploration of Alison Hargreaves’ life and climbing. I’m sometimes less keen on books that follow two narratives because inevitably I find myself drawn to one narrative over the other, but both storylines here are completely engaging.

​I grew up reading every mountaineering book I could get my hands on, and they were all by men, all stories of men climbing. Like Helen, I found myself regularly dwelling on Alison’s story as soon as I read about her. She’s been a constant inspiration to me – but also served as something of a warning of the sheer impossibility of having a family and staying active in the mountains. (Before and after Alison’s death in a storm on K2, she was heavily criticised by the press for continuing to climb whilst having two young children.)  It’s strange to think that until now, I hadn’t read a female perspective on her life. Helen’s wonderings and insights about Alison’s life, mirrored alongside her own experiences of climbing and motherhood, are such a valuable contribution to the ongoing conversation about where and how women belong in these spaces.

A Line Above the Sky is also a beautiful meditation on the beauty, importance and complexity of female friendships. There’s a lovely description of Helen and some local mums rallying together to help each other through the first few months after giving birth, and of her forging new female climbing partnerships. After so many mountaineering/climbing books where woman are rarely mentioned, it’s so refreshing to read a book that focuses so strongly on the importance of surrounding yourself with brilliant, inspiring women.

This book meant so much to me that I’ve really struggled to write anything remotely objective about it. But then – that’s why this book is so important, isn’t it? An awful lot of it felt like reading a book about myself – so many of my own experiences as a climber, as a woman, were mirrored back to me from the page. For me, this was such an essential read because the concept of trying to balance motherhood around a life of climbing and mountaineering sounds so alien, so impossible, and because it captured parts of being a woman in the outdoors that I haven’t ever found represented anywhere else; because it gave words to some of my own thoughts and feelings that I hadn’t really managed to put shape to myself.

(With thanks to Ebury Press for sending me a copy in exchange for an honest review.)

Once you begin to look for imaginary peaks, you start to see them everywhere: each furrow of crag and hill has its own local myths; each square of map conceals forgotten phantom heights. Each human mind contains innumerable ranges,  sparkling like starlight and like snow.
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I was so excited to read this; Katie Ives’ writing is always stunning, and this book had me hooked right from the title. Imaginary Peaks is an intriguing exploration of the fascination held by empty spaces on the map, and of mountains that aren’t represented on maps.

Mountaineering has always felt otherwordly to me, lingering somehow right on the edge between reality and a vivid fantasy. There have been moments in the mountains that I’ve later struggled to explain and I’ve always been frustrated by what feels like a huge inability to re-tell my own experiences, so I felt very comforted (and validated!) by Katie’s discussion of the sheer difficulty of fully capturing our experiences in the mountains, let alone the impossibility of trying to pin down such vivid and complex terrain onto a flat piece of paper.

The first section races through stories about peaks which have been imagined or hallucinated or confused; a mis-history of discoveries and exploration. There’s a long list of intentional and accidental reports of summits later found not to exist. It’s incredible to think about how quickly and relatively recently our knowledge of the world has been put together – it wasn’t really that long ago that explorers were genuinely (if willingly) bewildered by towering peaks which were later established as vivid tricks of light and cloud. There’s a lot of short anecdotes in the first half, quick recaps of expeditions which I would happily have read a whole book about. It covers a huge scope of explorers and expeditions and pulls from an impressive amount of research, although I did occasionally find the pace of the narrative a little confusing.
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The second half focuses more on the life of Harvey Manning and the hoaxes he manages to pull off within the climbing community. Harvey’s reflections on appreciating the small beauties in the landscape, taking the time to stop and observe it all, felt very apt in our post-lockdown world. I also enjoyed Katie’s honest reflections on the reality of trying to identify hoaxes as a magazine editor and the difficulties of ever knowing the full truth about an ascent. The ambiguity seems to be a huge part of the draw of mountaineering literature; the world that top alpinists are operating in is so far removed from our everyday lives that it really does become impossible to ever fully know what happened at 8,000 metres – sometimes even impossible for the climbers themselves to understand events or be sure that they reached the correct summit. Katie writes with sensitivity and awareness throughout, and she’s always quick to acknowledge the rights of indigenous people who are often already living in the lands westerners claim to explore.

The real value of the book, for me, was the delight in finding a moment of genuine exploration when maps turn out to be false, and the discussion around how every hoax shows us something about our own perception and understanding of these mysterious places. I’m so grateful that some aspect of the mountains will always remain a mystery – the magic of the unknown is definitely part of the draw of mountaineering for me.

Imaginary Peaks left me with many wandering questions about the purpose and truth of maps, and about the necessity – or not – of being able to match the land in front of me to what’s on the piece of paper in my hand.

All maps, in the end, will always be imaginary.

(With thanks to Mountaineers Books for a free e-copy in exchange for an honest review.)