Pull one out. We'll tell you why.
Kettlestitch is a bookshop in Semaphore kept by two people who read a great deal. New fiction, poetry, history, cooking and gardening, and most of it carries a card saying why it's here.A bookshop in Semaphore kept by two people who read a great deal.
Drag along the shelf. Click a spine to pull it.
Kettlestitch · Semaphore
On the front wall this week
A harbourmaster's widow keeps the harbour's books and finds one line that won't add up. Start it on a Friday. You'll finish it at one in the morning and blame us.
A year in one street, told by whoever's at the window. Nothing explodes. I read it twice.
The old stock routes, walked and argued over. Better maps than most novels have plots.
Preserved lemons, nine ways. I've done six. The jar on our counter is chapter two.
Poems for the tide going out. I argued with half of them and lost.
Grows things in Adelaide sand without once saying 'simply'. Chapter four saved my tomatoes.
Three sisters, one house, and a tree nobody will admit to planting. Funny until it isn't.
For nights the fridge looks bare. It isn't, says this book, and it's right.
Short poems you can read standing at the jetty. Keep one in your pocket.
Chains, compasses and a great deal of dust. The chapter on the dry year is the one.
Plant the shade first, then worry about the hose. Changed how I look at a bare yard.
Twelve stories, each one a trip across something. The ferry one made me miss my stop.
Bread with no fuss and no mixer. My Sunday mornings belong to page forty now.
Essays on living by the water, from someone who clearly swims before breakfast.
A clerk sent to count a lighthouse's lamp oil stays the winter. Quiet, then not.
She's watched the foreshore gulls for years. So have I. She did more with it.
A man lists every tree his father planted, and finds a few he didn't. Gentle, and sly.
Coast walks with sand in every paragraph. Read it on the beach, obviously.
Small-town stories with tin roofs and long memories. Save the last one for a quiet night.
What ships carried when they carried nothing. Sounds dry. Isn't. Trust me.
An autumn book, all slow fruit and patience. The quince paste is the reason to buy it.
Twelve walks, none of them in a hurry. Don't finish it in a week.
Grey, patient poems. Read one a morning and see if you can stop at one.
Pruning, training and a lot of honesty about possums. The possum chapter got me.
A grandmother's button tin, one story per button. Sounds twee. It's anything but.
One brickworks, twelve months, everyone who handled the clay. Oddly gripping.
Poems about waiting for rain, from someone who clearly farms. No wasted words.
At last, someone admits compost smells. Practical, funny, and my heap works now.
Converted a lentil sceptic in this very shop. The sceptic was Ros.
Explorers' letters home, and what they left out. Read it with a map open.
A woman rows the same stretch of water for a year. You'll want to go outside after.
Night-shift poems from a ferry hand. Read them late. That's the point.
New this week Unpacked on Tuesday.
Eight books off the truck, and a pencilled line on why each one made the cut.
- TueThe Lemon Tree Accounts Wenna TruscottFictionthree sisters, one lemon tree, no truce
- TueSoup for Thin Evenings Mira CastellanCookingthe barley one, tonight
- TueKnots for a Calm Sea Judith ArkwellPoetryshort enough to learn by heart
- TueThe Mallee Surveyors Owen TregarthenHistory
slow startno, it's the right speed - WedShade Before Water Pim RosendahlGardeningfor anyone with a bare west wall
- WedTwelve Small Crossings Lise VarrianoStoriesone a night, the ferry one first
- ThuFlatbreads from a Cold Oven Samira BenhallamCookingIdris has flour on his copy already
- ThuSalt on the Verandah Bea ArnaldsenEssaysread it with the door open
Our picks Two readers, one shelf each.
Ros reads fiction on the bus and history in the bath. Idris cooks from everything and argues with poetry. Here's what they'd put in your hands this month.
Ros's shelf
The sums don't add up, and neither does the widow's story. Friday night, one sitting. — Ros
A year in one street, told by whoever's at the window. Nothing explodes. I read it twice. — Ros
History with dust on its boots. Read it with the atlas open on the floor. — Ros
Idris's shelf
Six ways in, the shop smells of lemons. Three to go. — Idris
Poems for the tide going out. I argued with half of them and lost. — Idris
Grows things in Adelaide sand without once saying 'simply'. Chapter four saved my tomatoes. — Idris
On hold Want it? We'll put it aside.
The Tidewater Ledger
A harbourmaster's widow keeps the harbour's books and finds one line that won't add up. Start it on a Friday. You'll finish it at one in the morning and blame us.
— Ros
Your book: The Tidewater Ledger.
If it's on the wall, we'll put it aside with your name on a slip. If it isn't, we'll order it in. Most books come in within a week or two.
Evenings The back room, once the door's locked.
A writer reads
New work read aloud, then questions, which are usually the best part.
Poetry night
Anyone reads, three minutes each. We keep time with an egg timer.
A cookbook, cooked from
One dish from a book on the shelf, and something to taste.
The gardening swap
Cuttings and seedlings on the trestle. Bring some, take some.
Usually a Thursday, usually once a month. Tea, juice and something from the bakery down the road, and a chair each. Bring the book you came for, or buy it on the way in.
Ask at the counter for the next one. We pin it on the door too.
Orders Tell us the book. Or the half you remember.
We'll find almost any book in print. Give us the title if you have it. If all you've got is 'blue cover, a lighthouse, the author's from somewhere cold', we've found books with less.
One slip, four copies. Here's the life of yours.
-
KettlestitchAsked
TitleThe Tidewater Ledger
Author
Foryou
on the wall? put aside. if not, order it.
-
KettlestitchOrdered
TitleThe Tidewater Ledger
Author
from the distributor, usually a week or two
-
KettlestitchArrived
TitleThe Tidewater Ledger
Author
in! on the hold shelf
InTodaySemaphore
-
KettlestitchCollected
TitleThe Tidewater Ledger
wrapped in marbled paper
Wrapping Every order goes home in paper we marbled.
Monday is marbling day: the shop's shut, the bath comes out, and we make enough sheets for the week. Make yours here and we'll wrap your book in it.
One of Monday's.
The bath's full. Comb it, or start a fresh bath.
Recipes
Tap to drop ink. Hold longer for a bigger drop. Drag to pull the comb through.
The shop Up from the foreshore, door propped open.
Who we are
Two of us. Ros did the history shelf for years somewhere bigger; Idris came in for a cookbook and stayed.
— Ros & Idris
What we stock, and don't
New books only. Fiction, poetry, history, cooking, gardening, and a small table of whatever we can't stop talking about. If it's in print and we haven't got it, we'll order it.
We're open
- Tuesday to Saturday ten till half five
- Sunday eleven till four
- Monday closed (marbling)
- Evening nights late