Livy White

There is a particular kind of magic that settles over the sea in autumn. The beaches grow quiet. The air turns cold enough to sting your cheeks, summer cottages are shuttered, and the water seems darker somehow. At night, the moon stretches across the waves and everything beyond the shoreline disappears into black. It is beautiful. And just a little unsettling. I have always thought that if anywhere in the world could truly be haunted, it would be the sea. The ocean keeps so much. Old ships...

There is something about the sea that has always felt a little like magic. Perhaps it is the way the tide disappears and returns as though answering some ancient call. Maybe it is the treasures the ocean leaves behind—shells, smooth stones, sea glass and strange little fragments carried from places we will never see. Or perhaps it is simply that when you stand at the edge of the ocean, you are standing before something wild, beautiful and almost unknowable. A sea witch altar is a small place...

There is something almost impossible about walking past a beautiful shell. You spot the tiniest flash of pink beneath the sand, a perfectly spiralled shell between the rocks, or something pearly catching the morning light—and suddenly you're crouched at the water's edge with wet shoes and a pocket full of treasures. Shell collecting, or beachcombing, turns an ordinary walk along the shore into a treasure hunt. You never quite know what the tide has brought in overnight. And perhaps that's...