Re-imagining this lighthouse

Please come in and have a look around 🕯️

The Longstone Lighthouse (or Outer Farne Lighthouse)—July 2025

Hi friend,

Since moving out of my last home, I’ve been trying to imagine what this space might become. My other lighthouse. This place we hangout together. The Lighthouse is the second-biggest home I’ve built for myself online¹, after my first blog (RIP Blonde on a Budget, 2010-2018). It’s gone through a few iterations, as I’ve grown and changed and settled into my new life as a writer in the UK. I moved out of its namesake, but I still love the title. It just took a little time for me to come up with a clearer vision of what I want to do here, and how I hope you’ll experience your time at this lighthouse.

For the last couple months, I’ve been working on a “renovation” behind the scenes. Now that it feels close to being done and I’ve told some readers what’s happening, I’d like to share my vision for this space with all of you.

This isn’t a usual “here’s what I’m going to write about” or “here’s what you get with your subscription” post. It’s more playful than that. I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy reading it!

Please consider this a bit of a re-introduction to The Lighthouse. And if you get to the end and want to (re)introduce yourself, please do! I’d love to meet you (again), wherever you are on your journey today…

xx Cait

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Re-imagining this lighthouse 🕯️

When you first come across The Lighthouse, I want you to see warm light shining out of the windows against a night sky. After navigating your way through the woods filled with dark news, self-help content and ads, I want The Lighthouse to stand out as something different. Not a beacon of hope. Just a reminder that there are other ways to live; softer places to land.

I want you to come through the front door, take off your heavy outer layers, and hang them up to dry. (There are enough hooks for everyone.) Then kick off your shoes and feel the floor beneath your feet. It’s hard and cold, at first, like you’re still outside. But when you look down, you see a basket of thick wool socks and slippers, ready for anyone who wants to put on a fresh layer between themselves and the elements.

You walk through the kitchen and are happily surprised to see the kettle is already on. Spread across the counter are all the drink options you can choose from. There’s a full pantry, and all the cooking supplies you could need, but not much else to see in here. The room is more functional than fun. So you fill a mug with something warm, then continue into the living quarters.

It’s a small space, but cozy. You notice the big things first. The windows, with no curtains. An old desk and new computer. Huge rugs on top of the hardwood. A few chairs pulled close together by a wood stove. Wool blankets hanging over the arms of each one. And tucked to the side, the classic spiral staircase. What’s upstairs? you wonder, and may never know.

You choose a chair and put down your mug. Cover yourself with the blanket. Pull it right up to your chin. With the warmth of the fire on your face, you close your eyes and listen. To the crackle inside. To the wind and waves outside. How can it be so stormy out there, and so calm in here? you ask yourself. Then open your eyes, reach out for your mug, and settle in.

You continue to look around and notice the smaller details. The items that have been brought into this home. There are heart-shaped rocks placed on most surfaces. Candles. Photos of family and friends. And some wonky wooden shelves stacked with books and journals—the lighthouse keeper’s logs. What’s inside those pages? you wonder, and are about to find out.

The lighthouse keeper sits in the chair next to you. She is quiet, but happy to have your company. You don’t exchange wild banter. It’s a slower conversation, with space to think and words chosen with care. You’ve only just met, and are surprised at how quickly she goes deep—and how much she shares with you. She’s not speaking as an expert, and doesn’t offer you any tips. You are just two humans sharing a moment of connection.

As you continue talking, you notice she laughs after most sentences—including her own jokes. And she swears more than some other people you’ve met on your travels. You learn it’s probably because her father was a sailor. She apologizes for it exactly once, so you know it’s who she is and that you should expect more of it.

Based on her stories, you quickly realize this lighthouse is for people who have been places. It’s for people who have seen some things… who feel things deeply… and who have experienced some darkness. People who know what’s out there, and that there’s always more work to do. But who have worked hard to get here, and who just want a place to retreat to, from time-to-time. A place that feels warm and safe, where you can reflect on the big questions—and look for the light in everyday life.

The lighthouse keeper points out that this can be a pretty dark place to live. Fog is a regular visitor, and there are a few good storms every month. The house doesn’t get a lot of natural light. That’s why she painted the brick walls a soft light green, and strung up fairy lights, and leaves them on 24/7. Because she knows: sometimes, you have to create the light. And she has committed to continue creating it, for as long as she lives here.

Before she heads upstairs to go to bed, the lighthouse keeper says she’s glad you’re here. Tells you she knows she’s chosen a quieter life, by moving somewhere so remote. She knows not everyone can, or wants to, make the journey here. But she’s chosen this lifestyle for a reason—and chosen not to open up The Lighthouse to all tourists for a reason.

She tells you she’s been working with the public for a long time. Out in the open, always visible and available to anyone who found her and needed her. That will always be part of her work. She knows she has to go into town for events sometimes, and she’s very happy to do that. But she doesn’t want an audience for her whole life.

She did the math and calculated that, as of October 1st, 2025, she’s been doing this for 15 years! And she feels done now. She reminds you that she’s not a journalist, and she’s not trying to position herself as an expert on any topics. She’s just a human who wants to share some human stories, and connect with others on their own journeys.

She doesn’t want to disappear. She will write books, which will be available for everyone. She will write about books (once/month this year) and share those posts with everyone, because she believes literacy is a human right and should be accessible to everyone. She will share pictures and a few words on Instagram, for anyone who follows her there. And any podcast interviews she does will be available for everyone to listen to, as well.

But this part of her work—writing and sharing stories about her life and home—that’s going to be for her now. She wants to write to her family and friends. To people who love her work. And to people who want to connect with her and help take care of this space too. This part of her work is for anyone who makes the journey to The Lighthouse.