If you’re anything like me, you find an old bookshop as comforting as a well-worn armchair—inviting, familiar, and the perfect spot to get lost for a few hours. Independent bookstores have a charm that chains simply can’t match. Think of old wooden shelves loaded with stories, quirky designs that feel like they pulled themselves together at the last minute, and the warm smell of pages turning.
Last summer, I decided to make my way around the UK to explore these hidden gems. What started as a casual weekend adventure quickly escalated into a bookish pilgrimage. So, grab your favourite mug of tea—hopefully better than the one I had at that cafe in Bath, which tasted suspiciously like dishwater—and let me share some of my misadventures in the Land of Independent Bookshops.
My first stop was the fantastical city of York. As soon as I arrived, I was greeted by the sight of Hugh & Co. Booksellers. Tucked away on a narrow street, this shop’s exterior looked like it hadn’t changed since Dickens’ time. Walking in, I felt like I’d stepped into someone’s attic. Piles of books huddled together like old friends.
I immediately struck up a conversation with a lovely woman behind the counter. When I told her I was on the quest for local authors, she perked up. "Ah, you must read The Last Train to Yorkshire!" she exclaimed, as if she were introducing me to her best friend. We both cringed a bit at my guess that the author was named Dave. Turns out it was a lady named Helen who was quite famous in local literary circles.
After a good rummage through the stacks, I walked out with more novels than I intended. Have you ever noticed how books seem to multiply in your bag? It’s like they have a mind of their own.
Next up was the picturesque town of Stratford-upon-Avon, best known for someone called Shakespeare. When in Rome—or should I say, when in Will’s hometown—you must go a bit cliché. I found The Bell Bookshop, a tiny, delightful establishment where the staff are as enthusiastic about books as a kid with a new PlayStation. They offered me the worst cup of tea I’ve had in my life, but I didn’t care. I could’ve been sipping sawdust, and I’d still be happy flipping through shelves lined with plays and poetry.
They even hosted an Othello reading group, which I politely declined. I’m still haunted by my high school drama experiences. Yes, I once forgot all my lines and started reciting the alphabet. Not my finest hour, I assure you.
Oh, and typical of independent shops, you can find odd, whimsical items for sale. I came across a pair of socks with Shakespeare’s face plastered all over. How could I resist?
After a few more explorations, I landed in London. Ah, the big smoke! Each neighbourhood has its own flavour, yet somehow, they all reek of coffee and the aroma of freshly printed books. In Clapham, I stumbled upon Clapham Books. Ever seen a bookshop and thought, ‘This is where I want to curl up for the next week’? This was it for me. It’s the kind of place where you feel comfortable just lounging on a beanbag, surrounded by piles of books like a cosy fort.
I ended up sitting next to this chap reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. He was so engrossed, I could have broken into a song about the joys of literature, and he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. I made myself scarce, though, not wanting to interrupt his happy bubble. Isn’t it funny how we can feel so connected to strangers in bookshops?
What’s even more delightful is the little events side to these bookstores. Clapham Books regularly hosts poetry slams. Picture a crowd of twenty-somethings, all raving about the best sonnets while sipping artisanal lattes. If that doesn’t sound like a scene from a quirky rom-com, I don’t know what does.
When I eventually found myself in Edinburgh, I couldn’t resist visiting The Lighthouse, a tucked-away haven where books and art collide. It’s a little less traditional—you’ll find a mix of novels and vibrant artwork decorating the walls. It felt like stepping into an indie film. I was convinced I’d meet a hipster there who could recite poetry while balancing on one foot.
The beauty of Edinburgh is its bookishness. Did you know you can’t throw a rock without hitting a literary landmark? Yet there I found solace in this quirky bookshop far away from the tourist crowds. I bought a coffee-table book filled with stunning views of the city, and honestly, I spent more time flipping through it than I care to admit.
Random thought: why is it that a book feels better in hand than on a screen? It’s like the universe just knew we needed something to make our fingers happier.
On this bookish escapade, I can’t not mention a few local curiosities. For instance, in Bologna, I found a cafe that had only two drinks on the menu: coffee or "unbelievable cake". Naturally, I had to try the cake. Spoiler alert: it was divine. Doesn’t that sound enticing?
And in Cambridge, while scouting for yet another bookshop, I stumbled into the local park where people were engaged in—get this—competitive frisbee golf. Picture it: students in their best academic gear slinging frisbees at poles while sipping smoothies. Genius!
After all this wandering, I realised that independent bookstores are less about buying books and more about connecting with the community. Each shop tells its own story, intertwining with the towns they’re in. Plus, who doesn’t like leaving with a uniquely wrapped book? It feels like you’ve adopted a new friend to take home.
So there you have it. Your next holiday could involve a thrilling hunt for books old and new. I urge you to seek out these charming places. And who knows? You might find support for the local crafts and meet the quirky characters that make these communities unique.
Now, over to you. Next time you plan a trip, will you put independent bookstores on your checklist? Or do you have any other hidden gems you recommend? Let’s swap secrets!
