But first, let me tell you about this season.

The 2026 Season

This year, we welcomed 36 guests across six tours, running from May to July. Every single group of six brought its own character, its own weather, and its own moments of magic.

There were the familiar rhythms that make each tour feel like coming home: afternoons at Jamieson & Smith listening to Oliver Henry talk about wool with a passion that fifty years in the trade hasn’t dimmed. The hum of the spinning mill. Ella Gordon’s knitwear collection trunk shows. Gill Nadin leading us through the lanes of Lerwick or coastal walks, layering centuries of island stories. The cliffs at Eshaness, the white sands of St Ninian’s Isle or the gently rolling hills of Culswick.

And this year, it was me doing the cooking and hosting the groups myself — something I thoroughly enjoyed, as it allowed for those deeper conversations around the kitchen table. There’s something about sharing food you’ve made that opens people up in a way nothing else quite does.

But what stays with me most from this season isn’t any single visit or view. It’s the moments in between. Hands busy with needles while conversations drift and deepen. Strangers who arrived on a Tuesday becoming friends by the following Wednesday. The particular quiet that settles over a group when everyone is concentrating on a knitting project. The excitement of seeing an otter, or spotting the first puffin. The satisfaction of a day well done, returning to the house to the smell of a home-cooked dinner.

This season felt a little more precious for another reason too: after a busy season, I’m taking a quiet moment to consider what comes next, so there are currently no planned dates for 2027. Thirteen tours last year, six this year, and close to three hundred guests over the decade — each one trusted me with a week of their lives, and I have never stopped feeling the weight and the joy of that. And, most importantly, the gratitude.

Ten Years Ago, a Leap into Deep Water

Which brings me to the 4th of September.

Ten years ago, on that date in 2016, I started Shetland Wool Adventures. I pressed the publish button and made my very basic, homemade website live, and posted the first photo on Instagram announcing Shetland Wool Adventures to the world. It was a leap into deep water — into something unknown. There was no office, no team, no glossy brochure. The entire start-up cost of the business was a laptop. That was it. No loans, no investors, no safety net — just an idea I couldn’t let go of, and a device to build it on.

And it was scary. Because before I could even begin, I had to face my biggest fear — apart from the fear of actually starting the company — and that was talking to my boss.

At the time, I was working full-time at Promote Shetland, work I truly loved. I had to ask for permission to do this on the side of my job, and the answer was pretty much ‘no’. I remember saying that I’d have to leave what was then a job I genuinely loved — but if it came to it, I’d choose Shetland Wool Adventures. In the end, we came to an agreement, and I was allowed to start my little tour operating business.

It’s not that I wasn’t qualified, or didn’t have the experience. But when you start something of your own — when you are the responsible person, the one who has to make all of the decisions, especially the ones that carry significant financial implications — you realise very quickly that it’s serious. But it’s also immensely liberating. Little by little, you learn to operate differently, and you learn to trust yourself. You do things. You no longer have someone you answer to, and the decisions are all yours. And with more experience and more years added, as they pass, you learn to trust yourself and your instinct.

Don’t get me wrong — the anxiety is always there. That never leaves you in the slightest. But that is to be expected. The fact, though, that you can create something of your own is absolutely incredible. The freedom — in terms of creativity, decision making, rewards — is like nothing else.

For the first two years, Shetland Wool Adventures existed in the margins of my life. Evenings, weekends, early mornings before work. Every itinerary was crafted at the kitchen table on that laptop, which I still use. When tour days came around, you would have found me rushing about with bags full of freshly baked cakes, handpicked flowers from the garden, and workshop materials, trying to make everything perfect for a group of guests who had travelled from around the world on the strength of a promise and a brand new website.

What a Decade Holds

Ten years is long enough for a business to live several lives.

There were the early years of building — learning what worked, what didn’t, and what made a week in Shetland truly special. There was 2020, when the world stopped and the tours stopped with it, and I turned to paper instead: the Shetland Wool Adventures Journal was born in those uncertain months, a way of bringing Shetland to people who couldn’t come to Shetland. That unexpected turn led to setting up 60 North Publishing, and a whole new creative chapter I could never have predicted when I opened that laptop for the first time.

And through it all, there were the people. The guests who came once and then came back, and back again. The local makers, guides, cooks, and crofters who shared their skills and their time so generously — this business was never really mine alone; it belonged to a whole community of people who make Shetland what it is.

But I want to be honest here, because I think it matters: it has also been exhausting. Apart from a year or two that seemed relatively settled, this ten-year period has been immensely challenging in terms of what’s been happening in the world — and all of it has had a direct impact on my kind of business, and on all of us in general. Nothing has been constant. Everything has been fluid, a development. In some ways that can be exciting — but it can also be immensely unsettling and exhausting. I think anyone running a small business through this past decade will know exactly what I mean.

Would I Do It Again?

I keep asking myself — would I do this again? And the answer is 100% yes.

Running my own business for ten years — successfully — has given me a huge boost in terms of self-confidence, in being able to make difficult decisions and simply trusting in myself. I no longer have that niggling doubt whispering in my ear, telling me what if this or what if that. I left the office politics and the endless meetings behind, and I don’t miss those at all. Instead, I was able to use my energy fully on building something of my own.

And I’m so very proud of it all. I’ve met so many interesting people and made many new friends over these ten years, faced a lot of challenges, made lots of scary decisions, and had countless moments of feeling so happy with the achievement.

If I could go back and tell that girl at the kitchen table in 2016 what would come of it all, I don’t think she would have believed me. A laptop, an idea, and ten years of love and passion — that’s the whole recipe. It turns out you don’t need much to start something. You just need to start.

Thank You

To everyone who has been part of these ten years — thank you. Truly.

To the guests who trusted us with a week of their lives, who arrived as strangers and so often left as friends — thank you for saying yes to a small tour company in a place many of you had never been, travelling from afar. To the guides, hosts, makers, knitters, and crofters who opened their doors, their workshops, and their knowledge, and who gave this business its heart and its warmth — thank you for being so generous, year after year. To my designer, who helped me create the visual identity of the company and lovingly designed each of the journals and books, to Susan, my photographer, and to the editors and printers who helped bring it all to life — thank you. To the family and friends who steadied me through the early mornings, the late nights, and everything in between — thank you for believing in the idea before there was anything to believe in. And to every reader who has followed along from a distance, cheering this on a screen rather than from a Shetland hillside — thank you for being such great support.

This was never a business I built alone, as I said. It was always ours. Our community of friends.

The tours may be on a pause, but Shetland Wool Adventures isn’t. This next chapter is blank, waiting to be written. There’s still the Journal, the books, these Postcards from Shetland musings, with new projects taking shape over the quieter months ahead. Shetland has so many more stories to tell, and I intend to keep telling them.

Here’s to the last ten years. And here’s to whatever comes next.

Thank you so much.

With love, Misa

In the meantime, if you’re planning your own Shetland journey, these few resources that might prove helpful:

Our Shetland: Your Essential Travel Guide holds practical recommendations for getting here, where to rest your head, and where to find the best cafés, craft shops, and woollen treasures. Plus suggested itineraries to help you chart your own course through the islands.

You might also find companionship in the Shetland Wool Adventures Journal series — deeper stories, interviews, walks, recipes, and knitting patterns that offer insight into island life, landscape, and the makers who sustain both. Lovely for planning a visit, or simply for settling in with a cup of tea and dreaming of northern shores.

As a thank you for reading, please use code SWA50 at checkout for 50% off all journals — print, digital, and bundles alike.

What I feel most of all is gratitude. Gratitude for how the whole summer went, and for all the lovely groups — every single one of them — with such a wonderful last group to finish on. I ended this season — this chapter — on a high, in a celebratory mood, the way it deserved. The way I deserved.

I’ve poured my life and soul into these six groups. I gave the best of me and didn’t cut any corners. I always went the extra mile, even when my body kept telling me, “I can’t do this anymore…” I pushed through, and I’m so proud of how it all went and what I achieved this summer.

The whole Shetland Wool Adventures 2.0 has been incredible. It’s taken four years — with a Shetland guidebook thrown in for good measure — and in all that time, I’ve never stopped thinking about it for a single day. Not on weekends, not on holidays. I’ve found myself working from Lisbon, from Bergen, from the Czech Republic.

But it has all been worth it. I have no regrets, because I know that building something of your own takes enormous energy, time and determination. You give up a lot. At the same time, everything is on your own terms — and that has been so important to me after almost fifteen years of being an employee.

I was always someone who strove for the best, who put every ounce of myself into every project and idea. And eventually you realise that people simply come to expect that of you, because that’s what you do. More and more. And where — and when — does it end?

Then one day you realise you’ve had enough, and you decide to redirect all that energy and effort into your own thing. To work for yourself and fully benefit from your own efforts. To never again ask permission for a holiday you’re owed, or have someone question a couple of days of leave when you have plenty left. When that happened at my last job, it was the final straw. I handed in my notice and never looked back.

Yes, it’s been tough. Earning your own money without the security of a monthly paycheck is hard. But it’s also incredibly empowering and rewarding. You learn to rely on yourself and trust yourself. You know that if you don’t do the work, no one else will — and there simply won’t be enough money.

You go through stages. At first you take on more and more, driven by a scarcity mindset — the worry that you’ll run out, that there won’t be enough. Then, slowly, you arrive somewhere else: the realisation that it isn’t all about more, about endless growth. That the most important things are contentment and enough. Feeling happy. Having the headspace to do what you enjoy. You stop trading your time and energy for more money that, in the end, won’t make you any happier.

I know this comes from a privileged position — the ability to choose — and that many people don’t have that option. But I focus on what’s around me, and I believe deeply in the ripple effect. If you do good, are good, make little changes for the better, those rings slowly grow bigger and bigger and reach more people.

Do good is my driving motto, my happy self. It’s not always easy, and it doesn’t always come naturally. But it’s a process: move forward, leave behind what hurts, and stop keeping it at the forefront of your focus. Instead focus on the positive.

So many people have been asking me: what’s next? And the honest answer is — more of what I love. But first, I’m giving myself something I haven’t truly had since 2016, when I first set up Shetland Wool Adventures: time. It’s been relentless ever since — and now, at last, there’s time to reflect, to recharge, and to come back fresh. Time to travel, to work in the garden, to finally get on with all those house projects that have been on hold for far too long.

And to knit a tank top.

There’s something deeply satisfying about returning to the rhythm of ordinary life.

This morning I’ve been washing woollen blankets, picking raspberries from the polytunnel, cutting rhubarb from the garden ready for jam, and pottering from one small job to the next.

At one point, while shaking out some of our sheepskins, I noticed a large tear in one of them.

For a moment I almost did what I usually do. I could have left it for another day, adding it to the ever-growing mental list of things that need doing. I could have thought, There’s no time for this, or wondered whether I should look up the “proper” way to repair it.

Instead, I looked for a needle and thread.

Five minutes later, it was mended.

Not perfectly. But well enough to give it many more years of life.

It struck me that so much of life is like this.

Somewhere along the way, we have become hesitant. Less confident in our skills. We convince ourselves we need more knowledge, more confidence, more time or the right equipment before we begin.

We forget that most skills are learned by doing, not by waiting.

Jam doesn’t appear because you have found the perfect recipe. It appears because you wash the fruit, put a pan on the stove, add sugar and see what happens.

A tear doesn’t repair itself because you have watched another video. It gets better because you pick up a needle.

Confidence rarely arrives before we start. More often, it quietly follows afterwards.

Today has reminded me how satisfying it is to reduce the distance between noticing something and doing something about it.

The berries were ripe today, so I picked them.

The blankets could dry in the sunshine and gentle breeze, so I washed them.

The sheepskin had a tear, so I mended it.

None of these jobs were remarkable. None will change the world. But together they created that lovely feeling of being present in my own life, rather than always chasing after a mental list of things still waiting to be done.

Perhaps that is what living in the present really looks like.

Not dramatic moments of mindfulness or grand resolutions, but simply paying attention to what is in front of us and responding when we can.

And in the afternoon I took my tea and a toasted second-day croissant with apricot jam outside and let the sun kiss my face. It felt like a tiny celebration of the day. So special.

How often do we postpone these simple pleasures, waiting for the “right” time?

There is a quiet confidence that grows every time we give something a go. Not because we know we will get it right, but because we discover that we are capable of figuring things out.

As I write this, a pan of chopped rhubarb and blackcurrants is waiting to gently bubble on the stove, ready to be transformed into a lovely preserve that we will savour throughout the winter, remembering this particular blissfully joyful Shetland summer day.

It hasn’t been an extraordinary day.

Just an ordinary one, lived with my hands busy and my mind settled.

Perhaps the real magic was not simply in doing things now. Perhaps it was in giving myself this day with nowhere else to be and nothing else to worry about.

A day to live slowly.

A day to mend.

A day to rebalance.

A day to pick berries before they became overripe, wash blankets while the sun was shining, and enjoy the quiet pleasure of being at home surrounded by the things I love.

None of it was expensive. None of it required escaping somewhere beautiful or searching for something more.

It simply required time, peace and the willingness to begin.

And perhaps that is the true magic of doing it now.

It hasn’t been brilliantly sunny. But there have been moments of utter bliss: cool temperatures, the lightest breeze, next to nothing moving, and the sun making its quiet appearance just when you needed it most. And sea swims that I have returned to and have found my love for again.

The garden has been absolutely beautiful. And for once, I found a few days — a few uninterrupted hours, really — where I could fully focus on working in it. Trust me, that’s something I haven’t done in a very long time. I’d almost forgotten how much I love it.

I felt truly present. Not trying to do anything else. Not thinking about work. Just being there — weeding areas that haven’t been touched in years, finally starting to make things look pretty again. Clearing the garlic beds. Tending to the rhubarb. Harvesting the first strawberries of the season. And baking a summer tray bake with them, enjoyed still warm from the oven with a nice cup of coffee.

It’s funny how something as simple as pulling weeds can bring you back to yourself. No deadlines, no itinerary, no next stop. Just soil, sun, and the quiet satisfaction of a bed that finally looks the way you imagined it.

That’s where the gratitude comes from, I think. Not from anything extraordinary — just from being allowed to slow down, and watching the garden grow lush and wild under those big steely Shetland skies, while the first roses and hydrangeas open on the front step, somehow soft and bright against all that green and grey — and remembering what it feels like to have both hands in the soil and nowhere else to be. And everywhere, that first heady scent of honeysuckle…

Here are a few snaps from the past week.

Steely skies and stillness at Bain's Beach. Not a single day passes without me taking a little walk here, or a dip in the sea.

Komorebi moment, courtesy of Perfect Days — the film that got me noticing sunlight through leaves again. Thoroughly recommend it.

The front step turns into a complete sun trap on a sunny morning — the perfect spot for my coffee and a page or two of journalling.

Currently fully absorbed in Fire Weather by John Vaillant — a gripping, unsettling read about wildfire that I've genuinely struggled to put down.

A little posy of my first roses, combined with beautifully scented honeysuckle — such a treat for the kitchen table.

Headed to the oven — summer tray bake with rhubarb and the first raspberries of the season. My granny used to bake this for us during the summer holidays, when she looked after my sister and me, always picking up seasonal fruit on her way at a local market in my hometown.

Freshly weeded garlic bed, next to a field freshly cut for silage — that unmistakable smell of a Shetland summer.

Cold — but never not tempting.

A complete stillness.

We walked to the Hams of Roe, following a familiar path through a beautiful landscape of heather-covered hills and blue skies, towards the rugged coastline. The light and visibility were wonderful, and the warm air carried that wonderful feeling of a perfect midsummer day in Shetland.

This time, we didn’t do the full circular walk. Instead, we followed the path into the Hams and returned the same way. It makes for a lovely walk that is accessible for most abilities, although there are a few steeper sections along the route.

For those looking for more of a challenge, the circular walk reveals even more of Muckle Roe’s spectacular scenery. What I love about this coastline is its wild character: the sea has carved countless inlets into the shore, along with caves, stacks and hidden corners that invite exploration. On a clear day, the views stretch across to Vementry, and it is easy to lose track of time simply stopping to take it all in.

We were lucky to spot a golden plover, a pair of red-throated divers and an otter, along with countless orchids and many other wildflowers.

Sometimes the best days are the simplest ones: a walk, a picnic in the fresh air, good company, beautiful scenery, and nowhere else to be. A Sunday well spent.

I hope you enjoy these photos.

We often head to the Bigton weekend bakery to stock up on delicious crunchy sourdough and a few sweet treats. Today, we decided to take a dip in the sea at St Ninian’s Isle, and the sunshine was absolutely gorgeous. The water was refreshing, and the colours were stunning—turquoise, green, blue, every shade imaginable.

Swimming in the sea felt nothing short of blissful. Knowing that a flask of freshly brewed coffee and a cardamom bun were waiting for us afterwards made it even more delightful.

The afternoon was spent in the garden: cutting the grass, sorting plants in the greenhouse, walking our neighbours’ dog that we look after, and simply enjoying this beautiful day.

More Saturdays like these, please.

The kind of feeling that only seems to arrive when you are fully present in what you are doing, where you are, and with the people around you. It appears in small moments—in conversations, in familiar surroundings, in paying attention rather than rushing ahead to the next thing.

How did I get here?

I’m not entirely sure. But I do know that over the past year I have been making a conscious effort to do less.

That feels like a strange thing to say in a world that constantly tells us to strive for more—more success, more growth, more productivity, more achievement. Yet over the past few years I have realised that this isn’t the path to happiness for me.

Instead, I have been choosing less.

Doing less, but doing it better. Returning to deeper connections that have always mattered to me. Finding joy in small moments I would once have overlooked. Slowing down enough to notice them.

It has been quiet here for a while, but life has certainly not been quiet. Summer tour season has been in full swing, and three Shetland Wool Adventures tours have now been completed successfully. In between, I also managed a quick trip back to the Czech Republic for our 25-year class reunion.

That reunion stayed with me longer than I expected. In fact, it still feels a little like a dream. Like floating on a cloud.

Twenty-five years is a long time. Long enough for youthful plans to be tested by reality, for dreams to change shape, for unexpected joys and disappointments to appear along the way. Sitting with people, some of whom I hadn’t seen for decades, I was struck not by who had achieved the most, but by how differently our lives had unfolded.

When we were young, success often seemed easy to define. More education. More opportunities. More money. More achievement. More certainty.

A quarter of a century later, the picture looked rather different.

The conversations I remember most were not about careers or accomplishments. They were about families, health, friendships, losses, second chances, and the things that matter once enough time has passed. And despite all those experiences, it felt like we had just spoken yesterday, not 25 years ago… It reminded me that there isn’t one correct path through life, and that what we value often changes as we grow older.

Perhaps that is why the decision I am about to describe feels so natural.

The tours themselves have been hard work. At times I felt I reached my limits, especially as I have been cooking most of the meals myself. Yet at the same time, I found exactly what I had been been missing in previous years: deeper connections with people and a return to the reasons I started these tours in the first place.

Over the years, the tours grew and evolved, but somewhere along the way I found myself craving something simpler. Fewer tours. More connection. More time to sit around a table and have a meaningful conversation. More space to enjoy the experience rather than constantly thinking about the next one.

And so I know that this will be the last summer of tours in their current form.

After July, I am taking a break.

People keep asking me what comes next. Nearly everyone I meet asks the same question:

“So what will you do afterwards?”

My answer usually surprises them.

I don’t know.

And that’s exactly the point.

For so much of my adult life, I have always known what the next project was, what the next season would look like, what needed to be organised, promoted, planned, delivered, improved, expanded.

This time, I am choosing not to know.

Not forever. Just for a little while.

I am going to take a few months to recalibrate. To travel. To spend more time with my mum. To tackle projects around the house that have been patiently waiting their turn. To finally learn to knit properly. Perhaps even begin pottery, something I have been talking about for years.

I want to return to photography.

I want to walk more.

I want to work in the garden and grow a few things again.

When I think about all of that, I feel excited.

There are still three tours ahead of me, and by the end of July this particular chapter of my life will come to an end.

So why call this post Choosing Less?

Because the decision to stop the tours, step back from social media, and stop constantly promoting my work inevitably means less income.

Less income—but also less worry.

I recognise that I am fortunate. For years I worked incredibly hard and lived fairly frugally. Because of that, I now know that I can manage with less.

And, perhaps surprisingly, I am looking forward to it.

Not everything is about earning more, expanding further, or driving greater profit.

At this stage of life, my son is turning eighteen and he’s starting a traineeship. That milestone has made me realise how quickly time passes. It feels like a natural point of transition—a moment to pause and ask what I want the next chapter to look like.

I feel extraordinarily lucky to have that choice.

At the same time, I don’t want to waste the opportunity by postponing it. It would be easy to agree to one more year of tours, and then another, and another after that.

But I know that if I don’t take this break now, I probably never will.

Perhaps one day I will return to the tours in some form. I suspect I will. But right now I want to use this precious, hard-earned time differently.

I want to enjoy the beauty around me.

I want to slow down enough to notice the landscape on a walk instead of simply counting the steps. I want to eat better again. I want to spend time in the garden and watch things grow. I want to create things with my hands simply because I enjoy doing so.

In many ways, I am making a very simple trade.

I am exchanging some income for time.

And at this moment in my life, time feels far more valuable.

I know not everyone is in a position to make that choice. We all arrive at different stages of life with different responsibilities and circumstances. But I wanted to explain why I haven’t been as present here or on social media, and why I have been turning down opportunities despite being able to continue successfully with the work I have been doing for the past ten years of Shetland Wool Adventures.

Where does it all lead next?

Honestly, I don’t know.

For now, I still have three tours ahead of me. They will be hard work, and I will do everything I can to make them successful, enjoyable, and memorable for everyone involved.

After that, we’ll see.

What I do know is that a new chapter is beginning.

And I feel deeply grateful—for everything I have achieved so far, for all the wonderful people I have met along the way, for everyone who has joined a tour, returned again, shared kind words, and helped make this journey what it has been.

That means more than I can say.

The future remains uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, that uncertainty feels exciting.

When I slow down enough to notice my life, I find myself feeling something rare: deep contentment.

And perhaps that is the real lesson in choosing less.

Sometimes less isn’t a compromise.

Sometimes less is exactly what makes room for more.

More time.

More presence.

More gratitude.

More joy.

And for now, that feels like more than enough.

When I arrived in Shetland in July 2004, I had very little idea of what kind of cook I was going to become.

My cooking skills at the time were not great. I could get by. But the move — the turbulent upheaval of it, the strangeness of a new place — did something unexpected: it made me appreciate the warmth and calm of my own kitchen, and with it, turn towards my own heritage. And finally, I’d be able to have my own garden where I grow things.

One of the first things I remember from those early weeks of my new life in Shetland was little chilli plants. Donald had grown them from seed that spring, and they needed repotting. It became one of my first proper tasks in the garden here. After I repotted them, they went alarmingly droopy — limp and fragile in a way that made my heart sink. I was convinced I’d killed them. And in my anxious, unsettled state, it felt like a metaphor I couldn’t quite shake. I made myself a quiet promise: if those plants could survive and eventually thrive, maybe I could too, in this new country and new home, starting from the beginning.

They did survive. They gave a beautiful crop that summer. And slowly, I let things develop.

But back to the recipes — because that’s really where this story lives.

Living so far from home meant I started to feel a nudging pull towards the food I’d grown up with. The flavours of my childhood in the Czech Republic. Bábovka — the walnut bundt cake my mum made, which I wrote about in Part 1. Vánoční cukroví — the Christmas cookies that take patience and time. Potato salad the way it’s made for special meals. Hearty soups made with humble ingredients. These weren’t dishes I’d cooked regularly before. Growing up, you take these things for granted. You assume they’ll always just be there.

It’s only when you leave that you realise how much you miss them. That feeling became central to the cookbook.

A Year in My Shetland Garden isn’t a Czech cookbook. Or a gardening book. It’s a book about moving to this place, about making home at 60 degrees north, about the garden we’ve built here and what it produces through the seasons. Rhubarb, which thrives here like nothing else. Elderflowers foraged from abandoned crofts. Wild garlic found in one of Shetland’s rare patches of trees. Fish and lamb, which for me now are as much a part of home as anything from my childhood kitchen.

The challenge — and the joy — was finding the balance between all of these things. My Czech self. My Shetland life. The garden. The seasons. The hospitality that comes naturally when you live somewhere remote and the act of cooking for people feels particularly meaningful. And then cooking and baking for my knitting groups, putting all those years of experience and passion into practice, making people from far away feel at home around a kitchen table.

I didn’t set out with a perfectly structured plan. It was more that one thing grew from another, quite naturally. Years of working for VisitScotland, Promote Shetland and Shetland Amenity Trust had deepened my understanding of this place and its heritage. My love of beautiful books and print — of good design, of paper weight and typography — had always been there. My garden had been growing, literally and metaphorically, for years. When I finally sat down to shape the cookbook, all those ingredients were already waiting.

The hardest part, if I’m honest, wasn’t the cooking or the photography or even the writing.

It was trust. Trusting myself to do it. Trusting that the book would find its people — sharing something so personal always feels vulnerable. And running your own small publishing company means every decision lands with you — there’s no big production team to rely on. It’s both the freedom and the weight of it. But I had a wonderful little group of people who helped me make this happen — my photographer, my editor and my designer.

Through the process of creating this book I’ve come to believe — and I hope it quietly shows — that food doesn’t have to be perfect. It has to be honest. Cooked with care. Rooted in something real. Whether that’s a Czech Christmas tradition brought to a Shetland kitchen, or a smoked haddock risotto lovingly prepared on a cold dark winter evening — if there’s love in it, that’s what comes through.

I keep dreaming, but now I know dreams can be within our reach. And perhaps this is what a reader and my friend noticed too:

“The thing that strikes me most is how you and your personality come through and with that a sense of family life, work, and sense of hospitality and adventures big and small.” — Hayley Anderton

Next in this series: the practicalities — how I planned the recipes, worked with a photographer to shoot the photographs, and worked with a designer to bring the book to life.

If you’d like to get a copy of A Year in My Shetland Garden, I’d like to offer you 50% off the printed or digital version which has just been added to the website.

Use code GARDEN26 for the printed book, or GARDEN26DIGITAL for the digital download.

There are weeks when I can’t seem to hold a thought for long enough to do anything with it.

I sit down to write, or to plan, or to simply make a list of what needs doing, and instead I find myself somewhere else entirely — in September, or in the year after that, or in some version of a future I can’t quite see yet. And by the time I come back to the present, the morning has gone.

I’ve been feeling this lately. The final tour season is coming — preparations, decisions, the particular kind of busyness that builds before something big. But underneath all of it is something harder to name. A kind of in-between-ness. One chapter not yet finished, the next not yet begun.

I know the advice. Small steps. Breathe. Focus on what matters, let go of what doesn't. And I believe it — I do. But there's a gap between knowing something and being able to live it, especially when you're the one who carries all the decisions. You can share the weight with a small circle of people, and that matters. But in the end, the only person who can actually make the decisions is you.

What I keep coming back to, slowly, is this: maybe the scatter isn’t a problem to fix. Maybe it’s just what it feels like to be inside something significant. To be paying attention, even if clumsily.

So I’ve been trying to shrink the horizon. Not the whole season, not the whole future. Just today. And just the one thing that would make tomorrow feel a little more manageable.

Lately, that thing has been cooking.

There’s something about making a nice meal — not a quick one, but one that asks something of you — that quietly organises but also quietens the mind. You can’t think too far ahead when you’re watching a pan. The rhythm takes over. And at the end of it, there’s something real. Something you made, and can eat, and share. Something deeply comforting.

Last week I made smoked haddock risotto. I’ve made it before, many times, but this time it felt like exactly the right thing. The kind of dish that does most of the work itself — you hand it over to the oven, and trust it. It reminded me that not everything needs to be solved. Some things just need tending.

This is one of my own favourite recipes, from my cookbook A Year in My Shetland Garden. I'm always quietly humbled when someone tells me that a recipe from it has become a regular in their kitchen — that it has found a place in someone else's life feels like the best thing a cookbook can do.

Oven-baked smoked haddock risotto

Serves 6–8

In Shetland, we are very lucky to have easy access to delicious fish. Smoked haddock is one of our firm favourites — the smoking semi-preserves the fish and keeps it fresh for longer. This oven-baked risotto is one of our regular summer dishes, quick and easy to make, and extra tasty when eaten outside.

If you can't get hold of smoked haddock, smoked cod work beautifully in its place. For a milder flavour, undyed smoked fish is a good choice. You could also use hot-smoked salmon, though the texture is softer — fold it in gently at the end rather than baking it on top. In a pinch, fresh haddock or cod with a little smoked paprika stirred through will give a hint of that smoky depth.

You will need

25g butter
2 shallots, finely chopped
1 large leek, thinly sliced
300g arborio rice
½ tsp sea salt
100ml white wine
600ml chicken or vegetable stock
400ml full fat milk
3 large smoked haddock fillets (approx 500g)
50g Parmesan, grated, plus shavings to serve
100g baby spinach or perpetual spinach, chopped
150g garden peas
Freshly ground black pepper to taste

Method

Preheat the oven to 200°C (400°F, fan oven 180°C).

Heat the butter in a large ovenproof dish over a medium heat. Add the shallots and leek and cook for 4–5 minutes, stirring regularly, until just tender. Add the rice and stir for a further 2 minutes.

Add the salt and wine and stir for 2 minutes. Then add the stock and milk, bring to the boil and cook gently for 5 minutes before sitting the haddock on top.

Cover with a lid or foil and bake in the oven for 15 minutes, until the rice is tender.

Remove from the oven and fold in the Parmesan, the peas and the spinach. Season with plenty of pepper, then cover the dish again and leave to rest for 2 minutes before serving. Finish with shavings of Parmesan.

Small things, lately

Giving my desk a fresh wipe and moving the computer to one side — making a dedicated space for the sewing machine. Something about that small rearrangement felt significant. A corner of the room claimed for making things. I’ve been sewing cushion covers from a couple of old linen tunics I’d treasured but never quite worn. It turns out fabric you love but won’t wear is much happier as something you use every day. A few items from the mending pile have also finally been seen to. Some of them had been waiting two years or more.

A pot of grape hyacinths I got for Mother's Day. Those small, densely clustered blue-purple flowers, beautifully contrasting with their vividly green stems and leaves are one of the first signs that something is shifting, even when the weather outside says otherwise. I'll let the photo speak for itself too.

And this: making little plans for European travel. Nothing booked yet, nothing fixed. Just a notebook, some city names, cafes I'd like to find, train connections I'd like to take. There's a particular pleasure in the dreaming stage, before anything becomes real.

And soon, a little trip to Aberdeen. If you’re curious about my relationship with that city, there’s an older post that says it better than I could right now.

If you find yourself in one of those weeks — scattered, behind, head somewhere other than where your hands are — I’m not going to tell you to make a list. But I might suggest making this risotto instead.

And if you'd like to get a copy of A Year in My Shetland Garden, I'd like to offer you something special — 50% off the printed or digital version which has just been added to the website.

Use code GARDEN26 for the printed book, or GARDEN26DIGITAL for the digital download.

I’ve just returned from nine days in the Czech Republic, visiting my mum for her birthday. Nine days of almost uninterrupted sunshine, which if you know Shetland in winter, you’ll understand felt nothing short of miraculous. Something about that particular quality of light, the way it sits lower and softer than a summer sun, combined with home food and my mum’s company and the specific comfort of the place you come from — it did quiet wonders for me. I came back with a renewed energy and refreshed outlook. Not just rested, but genuinely refuelled in some deeper way that I hadn’t quite realised I needed.

There’s something about the Czech Republic in early spring that gets under my skin every time. The anticipation of the plane flying over my homeland, the country that I always realise is deep in my heart and feel so grateful to be able to return to whenever I can. It’s only as the plane descends and those meandering rivers and gently rolling hills come into view — this country in the heart of Europe — that you realise how much you’ve been missing it.

I’ve been honest with you over the past months about the mixed feelings that come with closing Shetland Wool Adventures after a decade. There’s grief in it, even when the decision is right. And there’s a particular kind of tired that comes from carrying something big for a long time — even something you love. Sitting at my mum’s table with a cup of coffee, just being a daughter for a few days, reminded me that I’m not just winding something down. I’m also clearing space for something I have been missing over these years.

The tour season is ahead of me. I know that. And I’ll do it well, because that’s the only way I know how to do things. But sitting in the sunshine somewhere far from here, I found myself thinking quite clearly: once this season is done, once the company is properly closed and the last loose ends are tied, most of what’s been weighing on me will simply… lift. There’s still a long way to get there. But the path feels visible now.

What I keep returning to — and what I scribbled in my journal somewhere in the clouds, over the journey home — is this idea of learning to live with the world’s noise by deliberately narrowing your focus. Not ignoring reality, but choosing where your attention goes. Paying attention to the smallest things. The cup of tea. The light on the hill. The sentence that comes out just right. Letting go of the chase for more, or different, or better.

I’m not sure I’ve mastered it. But I’m practising. And learning. Keeping my eyes open. Listening.

It feels like the right thing to be practising in this particular year.

More soon — including some thoughts on what’s coming next, whatever it is, which I’m genuinely excited about.

With love from (a slightly sun-warmed) Shetland,

Misa

There’s a kind of place that lives deep in your heart. Not always where you’re from — but where something in you feels suddenly, instinctively at home.

For me, that place is Shetland.

I grew up in the Czech Republic, but from my first visit here in 1999, I was drawn in. Over twenty years ago, I made the move for good — building a life, a family, and eventually Shetland Wool Adventures, helping others experience these islands not as visitors, but as part of the fabric of the place.

During the pandemic, when travel stopped, I created the Shetland Wool Adventures Journal so we could all stay connected to this extraordinary place. It led to founding 60 North Publishing, and this Substack — different ways of sharing the same love for these islands.

If you’ve been enjoying Postcards from Shetland, I wanted to let you know the Journal is half price this week, including our bundles.

What’s inside each volume:

• 6 Shetland knitting patterns from local designers

• Photography of island life

• Interviews with island makers & knitters

• 6,000 years of history & heritage

• Coastal walks & hidden paths

• Recipes from my kitchen

• Book reviews & island stories

“It feels like you’re amongst friends” — Emily, Journal reader

Whether you’re dreaming of visiting Shetland, planning a trip, or simply wanting to go deeper into island life — this feels like the right moment.

CODE: SWA50

SHOP THE JOURNAL SALE

The sale runs until February 28th.

With love from Shetland,
Misa

P.S. The Shetland Guidebook is also £5 off this week, and you can combine both offers if you’d like the complete collection.

CODE: PLAN26

SHOP ALL

It feels emotional just to write that. Like watching a child reach adolescence—still so close to being a child, with all those memories intact, but learning it’s time to let go of some things and make space for others.

After years of planning and executing these tours, I’m scared of the void that will come when the last group leaves. But I also feel excited. Relieved, even. Relieved of the constant responsibility that spills into my personal space and makes focusing on other things hard for me at times.

I’ve never been good at separating who I am work-wise from who I am in my private life. The two have always been intertwined because of my passion and drive. Will there be enough of me left? Am I defined, as a person, by what I do? Can I really fully let go?

I’m sure everyone who’s been in a similar position will recognise these feelings. But alongside the doubt and worry, I feel pride. Pride for making this difficult decision and carrying it out. And pride for what has been achieved over the past decade. For all the wonderful connections and friendships made. Lasting memories and new things learnt and experienced.

Looking Back at a Decade

When I started thinking about these past ten years of running Shetland Wool Adventures and 60 North Publishing, all these emotions came flooding in—along with something else. A kind of vertigo when I realise how profoundly the world has changed in such a short space of time.

Covid. Geopolitical situation and conflicts. AI. The cost-of-living crisis. Climate change. The world situation shifting beneath our feet, wherever you look. These are just the main few that come to mind without going too deep.

And here I am, sometimes feeling like I’m failing. Failing to continue to grow, stay excited, sell more, expand, keep up with everything, always stay ahead—or even just abreast. But then I look around, see what’s happening in the world, and start seeing things in perspective. I'm reminded that things are never simple or straightforward.

The Weight of Connection

Information and our ever more intertwined online presence feel increasingly inescapable. You need to be part of it or risk being left behind. At least it feels like it. At the same time, we feel more disconnected from nature and from the natural rhythms that were part of human existence for so long.

The fact that everything is so interconnected these days—that we’re dependent on a global supply chain for everything from food to technology—often makes me wonder if this is really the world we want to live in. Yes, progress has always set humans apart from other species, but where is it leading us? Why is everything speeding up so much?

It’s hard not to slip into dystopian thoughts. We’ve seen these warnings in 1984, in Kafka’s work, in Fahrenheit 451. I’m no literary expert, but I try to read as widely as possible, and there’s so much we can glean from books.

Making Space

There is always demand for the tours. And I’m so very grateful for this. Over the years they became sought after as something special, often to mark something significant in their lives. I hate disappointing people, but there comes a moment when we need to act and follow our heart, rather than always taking the sensible path we’re told to follow from a young age.

More and more, I find myself thinking about this life we live—and about trying something different. I’m not sure what yet, but I know something else will come along, and I will gradually put this chapter into the past.

What Comes Next

I know this has turned deeper and more philosophical than a typical business retrospective. Perhaps that’s what happens when you’re standing at the end of something significant, trying to make sense of not just what you did, but why, and what it all means.

But there are stories to tell—practical ones, joyful ones, difficult ones. Ten years of working with Shetland’s wool community, leading tours, publishing books, learning what works and what doesn’t. I want to share those too, and I will, in another post soon. There’s so much I’d like to record, even if only for my own memory.

For now, though, I needed to share these thoughts—the messy, uncertain ones that sit alongside the pride. Thank you for reading and for holding space for that complexity. It means more than you know.

Read more

We’ve had a few days like that this winter, but those were paid for by other days of relentless gales, hail, and rain.

Sometimes I think about how much this weather affects us internally — our psyches and our outlook on the world. If everything is gloomy on the outside, it’s easy to give in and feel gloomy on the inside too.

When Up Helly Aa comes, on the last Tuesday of January, you begin to notice lighter mornings and longer afternoons. We gain a few minutes of light every day. And sometimes this really feels like the perfect comparison to how I feel. Little by little, we move away from winter’s gloominess and the desire to hibernate rather than get outside and enjoy the world. Slowly, we return to something exciting: the return of the light, the energy of a returning spring, the energy of new beginnings — of sowing seeds and seeing tender little seedlings emerge from the soil.

The snowdrops and daffodils are always a wonderful sight, but more than anything it’s a small patch of crocuses in the corner of the garden, under the trees and among old grass and leaves, that appears almost overnight, as if by magic. Those are the special moments I look forward to every year.

But it’s easy to miss these moments too — in the noise of the world, the news, the pressing tasks and busy schedules. Sometimes that is, perhaps, self-inflicted. It might sound harsh, but more and more I think it’s us who are personally responsible for finding what truly matters in our lives, and then following it. Making sure we make time for what matters to us, and saying no to the vast majority of the noise around us. Blocking it out.

There is simply far too much out there, constantly competing for our attention, our wallets, and our inner resources. I’m trying to teach myself that missing out on certain things is not a failure — socially, societally, or personally — but a necessity in order to preserve our inner calm.

So the word for this year, for me, is calm. At least trying to keep it in mind, regularly and consciously making the decisions that lead towards it.

Here’s to the upcoming season — and the quiet, steady return of the light.

I’m learning to seek contentment in small things again, in little moments that, in my not-so-distant past, would have passed me by unnoticed. And I’m ready to let go of complexity — the kind that quietly consumes energy and leaves little room for motivation to do the things that really matter.

For a long time, I thought motivation to get things done was something you either had or didn’t — a force you could summon if you tried hard enough. I assumed it was related to ambition, to purpose, to having a strategy and a clear plan. When I felt tired or resistant, I took it as a sign that something was wrong with me. That I wasn’t trying hard enough. But I’m beginning to realise that motivation isn’t just a trait, desire, or discipline; it’s available mental and emotional energy. And complexity quietly drains that energy.

Lately, I’ve been realising that my problem wasn’t a lack of motivation at all, but a misdirection of energy. When so much of it is tied up managing complexity, there’s simply less left for getting things actually done — not because you don’t care, but because your mind is in overdrive and it’s hard to focus.

Over the past ten years, much of my energy has gone into sustaining complexity: running two businesses, maintaining momentum, constantly trying to get ahead, and keeping multiple systems alive at once. None of this was wasted — it mattered deeply — but it quietly demanded more and more attention. And left less space for joy and spontaneity.

Complexity has a way of building without announcing itself. One extra commitment, one more layer of responsibility, another expectation or task added to the day. Each piece feels manageable on its own. Together, over the time, they create a constant pressure that’s hard to escape.

What I’ve noticed is that when life becomes too complicated, even the things I love begin to feel heavy. Not because I’ve stopped caring, but because everything starts to require maintenance. When joy becomes entangled with output, and rest has to be earned, something essential is lost.

And yet, the things that bring me the deepest sense of fulfilment are also the simplest. Cleaning the the house. Cooking a nice meal. Taking photos or writing without an outcome in mind. Going for a walk without documenting it. Sitting with a book long enough to forget the time. These moments don’t scale. They don’t perform. But they ask for a particular kind of energy — a softer, quieter one. The energy of feeling content with less.

I now understand that simplicity isn’t about rejecting ambition. Perhaps it is about letting go of the things that once made sense, but now demand more from me than they give back.

Giving things up has been easier than I expected. What I once wanted, or what mattered some time ago, has changed. Evolved — as we do. I’m learning the power of acceptance. Letting go can feel like erasing effort, or turning away from a former version of myself. But it’s important to live in the present without constantly harking back to the past. And it’s so liberating…

Contentment, I’m discovering, doesn’t come from doing more — it comes from protecting my energy. In fact, it comes from doing less and allowing enough space in the day for simple things and to breathe again. Some days, the most meaningful moments are the ones that would look insignificant from the outside, but inside feel like a huge personal win.

Perhaps this is what calm really is: enough space. Enough room to live, to notice, and to feel quietly at home in one’s own life — without chasing more or different.

And for this year, that feels like enough.

Over the past fortnight, we’ve experienced a lot of weather, and I’ve loved every walk — here are some views from that time.

I do love winter. But winter in Shetland comes with its own price — darkness and a constant feeling of cold that seems to sink under your clothes and stay there. Even with the heating on, there are days when it feels impossible to fully warm up. The wind is often bitterly cold, the kind that cuts straight through you, and I still remember the sensation of my very first winter here, in January 2004. I had come up for Up Helly Aa before moving here properly that summer, and I remember thinking, quite clearly, I’ve never been this cold in my life.

Over the years, I’ve learned that one of the ways to cope with these short, dim days isn’t to retreat indoors entirely — tempting as that can be — but to keep moving, to get outside even when it’s uncomfortable. Fresh air and whatever daylight we have are essential. A short walk, a few deep breaths of cold, clean air, and suddenly winter feels more manageable, almost exciting and addictive in its own wild way.

And then, of course, you get to come back inside — to blankets, candles, books, warm bowls of something comforting, and that deep pleasure of feeling the heat return slowly to your hands.

This is the moment I cook for. The meal that waits at the end of a cold day, unhurried and deeply warming. Slow-roast Shetland lamb with roast vegetables is exactly that: a dish that rewards patience and fills the kitchen with warmth and delicious homely smell. Shetland lamb, prized for its tender texture and rich flavour from the islands’ native grazing, becomes meltingly soft in the oven, surrounded by seasonal vegetables that soak up all that goodness.

Ingredients (serves 6)

Lamb

• 1.5 kg leg of lamb

• 1 tablespoon olive oil

• Fresh rosemary (optional)

• Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

To serve

• 1 medium-sized neep (turnip)

• 6 carrots

• Fluffy potatoes (enough for 6 people)

• 5 tablespoons olive oil

• Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Instructions

Line a large baking tray with baking parchment and place the lamb on top. Rub with olive oil and season generously with salt and pepper. Rosemary is optional — I often feel that less is more when working with such good ingredients as Shetland lamb — but we have fresh rosemary growing in the polytunnel all year round, and I like to tuck two or three sprigs around the meat.

Cover the lamb with a sheet of parchment paper, then seal tightly with tin foil. Preheat the oven to 140°C and roast for 2 hours. Increase the oven temperature to 200°C, remove the foil and parchment, and roast for a further 30 minutes, until the lamb is crisp and golden.

If you’re unsure whether the meat is cooked, check that the juices run clear or use a meat thermometer — a temperature of 75°C or above means it’s ready. Re-cover the lamb loosely with foil, wrap the tray in a clean tea towel, and allow it to rest for 30 minutes before serving.

For the vegetables, clean and chop into similar-sized chunks. Parboil for 10 minutes, then drain, toss with olive oil, and roast in the same oven as the lamb until golden. Prepare the potatoes in the same way — no need to peel; simply parboil, then coat with olive oil, salt, and pepper before roasting.

Timing Guide (for a relaxed serving)

3 hours before serving

• Preheat the oven to 140°C.

• Prepare and season the lamb, cover with parchment and foil, and place in the oven.

1 hour before serving

• Increase the oven temperature to 200°C.

• Remove the foil and parchment from the lamb and return it to the oven for the final 30 minutes of roasting.

• Prepare the vegetables and potatoes.

• Parboil both for 10 minutes, then drain well and toss with olive oil, salt, and pepper.

30 minutes before serving

• Remove the lamb from the oven once crisp and golden.

• Cover loosely with foil, wrap in a clean tea towel, and allow to rest.

While the lamb is resting

• Roast the vegetables and potatoes at 200°C until golden and tender (about 30 minutes).

To serve

• Carve the lamb and serve with the roasted vegetables and potatoes.

Top tip: Never throw away the bones — they make a delicious stock. Simply simmer them with carrots, onions, a couple of bay leafs, peppercorns, and a few allspice berries for a rich, flavourful broth. Strain, then store in a jar in the fridge, where it will keep for about a week — especially if a layer of fat forms a natural seal on top.

I always enjoy my “morning circle,” especially the moment I walk past Bain’s Beach. The sea never looks the same twice. This morning it was wild and choppy, churning the sand and the wind was tugging at my hat as if trying to carry it off. But that’s part of the magic here.

As I continued along, I knew I was getting closer to my favourite stop — the Peerie Shop Café — where I’d grab my flat white, the one that sets me up for the day. Opening the door of the café feels like stepping into a familiar, cosy, warm hug.

So here it is: a tiny postcard from my morning, shared with you to wish you a gentle day ahead. And if you’re feeling a bit low, try stepping outside for even a few minutes. Make yourself a good cup of coffee or tea. Do something small and kind for yourself or someone close to you. Sometimes that’s all it takes to shift the day.

Today, the weather brought everything to a standstill, at least for a little while. And in that unexpected pause, I found a quiet treasure: the gift of stillness.

There’s something about snow that invites reflection. Perhaps it’s the way it muffles the usual sounds, or the way it simplifies the landscape into an elegant robe, a white canvas. Whatever it is, snow has a magical way of turning us inward. It makes us feel festive and alive, as if the world is holding a little celebration just for us — at least for a while, before the reality of icy roads, cancelled school runs, and delayed flights creeps back in.

But as activities are suspended and plans reshuffled, inconvenience becomes an unlikely ally. It offers a rare quiet in a fast-paced world — a quiet that opens up space for introspection and calm. And, of course, for those extra cups of delicious hot chocolate or warming spicy chai.

Every time this happens, I’m reminded just how much beauty there is in stillness — and how much we need it in our busy lives. When the daily rush quietens, the mind has room to wander, to breathe, to appreciate the small, steady parts of life. Parts that are so easily forgotten in today’s fast-paced world of distractions and attention traps. Watching the snow fall always reminds me of the importance of slowing down — of allowing ourselves moments to simply be in a world that constantly urges us to do.

I’m also always reminded how deeply we need these moments. Our days are often so structured and busy that stillness feels like a luxury, or something we must earn. Yet when it arrives unexpectedly — in the form of snowfall and disrupted plans — we often discover that a part of us has been longing for this softness. A gentle reminder that quiet isn’t a gap in life, but a vital part of it.

Soon, Shetland will begin to stir again, roads clearing and routines returning. But I’m carrying forward a little memory from this snowy spell: to seek out stillness more deliberately. Perhaps it’s a few extra minutes watching the sunrise, a moment outside in the cold air, or simply sitting quietly with a cup of coffee and a good book. Whatever the shape, these pauses are precious. They bring balance. They remind us to breathe, to appreciate, to be grateful.

And that stillness, with all its subtle power, is not an interruption to life — but an essential way of living it fully.

And I’ve always loved watching cookery shows — Nigella Lawson, Nigel Slater, Ina Garten — not just for the food, but for the storytelling, the comfort, the connection. I loved the idea of cooking for family gatherings and friends, rediscovering old techniques like fermentation and preserving, and reconnecting with my roots through Czech and Central European recipes.

My childhood favourites — the old classics — always seemed out of reach. Things like koláče or Christmas cookies that require patience and time. The kind of recipes you see in glossy magazines, leaf through dreamily, never really believing you could make them — let alone master them.

But then something changed. I started to gain confidence. To experiment. To really enjoy the process — slow, patient and deeply rewarding. Nothing made me prouder than recreating some of those Czech dishes and realising they tasted just like home. Understanding the ingredients, respecting the time they take, and appreciating the care in every step.

There’s something incredibly beautiful and satisfying about cutting a slice of my mum’s walnut bábovka (bundt cake) and enjoying it with a freshly brewed cup of coffee. It’s about more than food — it’s about roots, memory, belonging. Family recipes. Treasured, passed on, shared. Cooking became my way of making a deeper connection with where I come from, and sharing it with my new home in Shetland.

Over time, I realised that food doesn’t need to be perfect — if it’s cooked with love and care, that’s what matters, and that’s what shows.

Around ten years ago, an idea — almost an obsession — began to grow: after collecting hundreds of cookbooks over the years, why not create one of my own?

Completely. From scratch. To come up with the concept, write the recipes, do the cooking, styling, and photography. To test and retest each dish, then work with a designer to bring it all to life. From choosing the paper weight to finding the right printer — it would be a labour of love in every sense.

Of course, there were doubts. There always are. Could I sell enough copies? Would anyone care? There are thousands of cookbooks out there — all beautiful and unique. And these days, people read less, buy fewer books... and yet, I couldn’t let go of the idea.

Getting a deal with a publisher is not easy — in fact, I’d say you’d have to be very lucky. Those books are often created by celebrities or famous chefs and backed by entire teams of editors, stylists, publicists, and marketers. But I wanted to choose a different approach. Rather than striving for the conventional way, I wanted to do it my way — independently, with full creative control (and, of course, the full risk). Maybe it was madness, but I poured everything I had into it.

And in late autumn 2022, it finally happened. My cookbook, A Year in My Shetland Garden, came out. The feeling was indescribable — achieving something that once felt impossible. A dream that turned real. It does happen after all.

But now, in retrospect, I realise I never really stopped to celebrate it properly. The years that followed were busy, full of new projects and deadlines. No time to slow down. But now, three years later, things are quite different. I’ve purposefully chosen a slower path, and I’m sitting down with a cup of coffee, holding my own book in my hands, and letting it all sink in.

I still can’t quite believe it happened.

And the best part? All my favourite recipes are finally in one place — I don’t have to keep looking for them anymore. :)

Would you like to hear how I made this happen? I feel the time is right to share this chapter of my life — and hopefully inspire some of you to pursue your own dreams.

✨ Next in this series: how it all started — the first recipes, creative ideas, and the behind-the-scenes reality of bringing a dream cookbook to life.

I’ve given myself the time to enjoy our home. Scrub. Tidy up. Wash. Sort. And just simply enjoy the safety and sanctuary of this place that we’ve worked so hard to create. The place that, for some reason, sometimes doesn’t get appreciated as much when things get too busy in life.

I don’t know about you, but I do sometimes feel guilty about spending time tidying up and cleaning. People say, “Yes, dust will still be there. It’s not going anywhere. Do something else, something meaningful, rather than spending time tidying up.”

But who decided that tending to your home isn’t meaningful? For me, it works differently. I need peace and calm in my mind in order to be able to focus on work. And having times of the year when I can spend time on my own tending to our home is what makes me feel grounded and content.

After busy seasons, there come quieter times when you just want to cosy in. Savour the season. Look at the changing skies. Smell the cooler air. Go for a short lunchtime walk. Enjoy cups of tea and coffee. Bake something nice. And just be for once.

Forget the noise of the outside world. Stop worrying about everything that’s being pushed onto us and realise that we have the ability to create a little cocoon of safety, without needing to buy more, strive for more.

What this requires is time. And focus. And our energy. And those are the precious commodities. Time is the one thing you cannot buy. You have to make it.

And I am purposely, this season, opting not to trade my time for more things. I’m putting my time into something that makes me happy. And it means slowing down completely. It means perhaps not so many social interactions, not so many sales and shiny things and achievements. Instead, just being and appreciating. Taking everything around us in, paying attention. Noticing. Quietly introspecting.

Spending a few minutes in the garden, tidying up the pots, picking the last of the raspberries—which are just enough to make a little jar of jam to savour over the weekend. Snipping some beautifully fragrant rosemary to bring inside to scent the house. Cooking lentils and chickpeas to have a good stock for the upcoming week’s meals. Making a big pot of delicious soup. Sorting out those little corners of the house you haven’t been able to get to.

So yes, this is just a little note to ourselves: to give ourselves that time to slow down when needed. It’s always amazing to see how this process changes your perspective on things too, and all of a sudden some things become less important than others…

I know that I am in a lucky position when I can take two or three days like this. But at the same time, that is because I purposely decided to and chose certain things over others. We can’t have it all, but we can choose.

What are you choosing to slow down for this season?