There’s something ineffably tender about a handwritten letter. The pause between thoughts, the curve of the handwriting, the slight smudge of ink — it all speaks to the soul in a way no screen ever could. In my cottage, nestled between a pot of pens and a tin of sealing wax, is a drawer full of old letters, each one folded with care. They are among my most precious things.

I write letters still. Not just for birthdays or thank-yous, but for the sheer joy of it. A letter is a gift of time — a moment when one person chooses to sit, think, and connect.

The ritual is familiar now. I choose my paper, usually thick and cream-coloured. I pour a cup of tea and sit by the window. There’s no backspace, no spell check — only the slow rhythm of pen on page. Sometimes I press in a leaf or a dried sprig of thyme. Sometimes I don’t write much at all — just a few lines and a poem I liked.

Letter writing is not about being profound. It’s about presence. It’s about making someone feel remembered.

There is an intimacy to it. The weight of the envelope. The slight rustle as it’s opened. The thought that these words, unlike fleeting messages, might be tucked away and read again years from now.

I keep old letters in bundles — tied with string or ribbon — from friends, family, and even pen pals I’ve never met. Some are wrinkled from being read in the rain. Some still carry the faint scent of perfume or beeswax.

You might say it’s outdated, but I don’t mind. Slowness is not a flaw.

If you’ve never written a letter, try it. It doesn’t need to be long. Write to a friend, a grandparent, or even to yourself. Tell them what the sky looked like today. What you made for supper. What song you’ve had in your head.

And if you’re lucky enough to receive a letter in return, savour it.

Because there, in that folded paper, is something rare and real: a piece of someone’s day, placed gently into your hands.