Rare things tend to find their guardian. When something stirs in my world, seeking its home, you'll hear about it first.
I breathe life into one precious moment at a time—no more, no less. When one finds their place in this world, space opens for the next.
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The most beautiful things whisper. They don't compete for attention—they reward it...
Dew of the Sea
A bath as an apothecary. Warm water, a splash, and a door to somewhere else. A potion brewed under the mysterious alignment of the most southern stars, then slowly aged while it slept, sweetly sung to by blue wrens.
I made 2,000 litres by hand in my little shed, a few batches at a time. That's an immeasurable number of baths, each one taking its bather to a place that only they and I now know.
What's left of Dew of the Sea, Rosmarinus, is still out there with those who stockpiled enough, and they keep their stash a secret. And yet, lately, the shed has smelt faintly of rosemary, and the blue wrens have started singing again.
If it ever surfaces again, you'll hear it here, first…
Far Away Farm
Some places sit closer to the other side than the rest. Five years ago I found one on Tasmania's east coast, just past St Helens, and I've been quietly tending it ever since.
Here, I hope to build a hidden door, and behind it anything is possible. I'm a girl who grew up in Narnia, so I'd still like to walk shoulder to shoulder with my lion, ride further still atop a centaur's gallop, and finally board a mighty galleon with its name blazed in gold across its stern. The Dawn Treader.
Behind its gates and hedges, this place glows with an eternal warmth, as if every season has agreed to stay. The grass is as soft as emerald velvet, the trees are heavy with blossom, and a table is laden with peaches, Turkish Delight and pink sparkling wine.
The stars seem to linger closer to the Earth here…
I do small things with great love.
Sarah Andrews
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© Sarah Andrews — words, worlds, and ideas protected by imagination and law, 2026.
Stay curious, stay kind.
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