Books, Boots and Bakeries

Bit of a throwback post today. I’ve been feeling nostalgic, and that always leads me back to comfort reads — the ones you’ve got tucked away in your brain like a favourite hoodie or a beloved recipe you never have to write down (thank you, Mum, for the beautiful chocolate pudding recipe that lives rent-free in my memory and tastes like home). This time? Blackberry Wine by Joanne Harris.

Yep, same world as Chocolat (which I still love, by the way), but this one leans less into cocoa and more into the earthy, boozy magic of home-brew and half-buried memories.

Jay is a once-successful author stuck in a bit of a rut. Midlife writing crisis, London gloom, you get the gist. On a whim, he ups and moves to a sleepy French village with nothing but a typewriter and a case of homemade wine he’s been hoarding since childhood. Honestly, same. Who hasn’t thought about running away and reinventing themselves with carbs and alcohol?

The story jumps between Jay’s present in France and his Yorkshire childhood, where he spent time with a mysterious man named Joe — a gardener, winemaker, maybe a little bit magician? Joe was the kind of character who leaves fingerprints on your soul, even if the world writes them off as a nobody.

And here’s the bit that sounds strange but somehow feels perfect when you’re reading it: the wine talks. Literally. Those old bottles from Jay’s past? They have voices. The wine remembers what he’s forgotten — friendships, turning points, magic tucked into ordinary days. It’s weird, but wonderful.

The vibes? Immaculate. Lavender and dust, sun-warmed stones, blackberry-stained fingers, and that particular kind of sleepy village where you swear time stretches a little slower. If you’ve read Chocolat, you’ll clock the familiar magic here, but Blackberry Wine stands quietly on its own — less dramatic, more introspective, like a late-night chat over a good bottle.

It’s not a big, loud book. It doesn’t try to dazzle. It just gently unfolds — full of nostalgia, grief, hope, and the kind of slow magic that takes root before you even notice.

It’s been years since I first read this, and going back felt like slipping into something familiar and safe. If you’re in the mood for something soft, a bit wistful, and very human (with a cheeky dash of wine-soaked whimsy), give this one another pour.

Preferably with a glass of something red and a bowl of Mum’s chocolate pudding — still the best pairing I can think of.