Every independent bookshop is a small act of defiance: a rent cheque signed every month against the algorithms, a window display changed by hand, a staff picks shelf that reads like a love letter.
We visited six of them this season, from a converted chapel in the hills to a two-room shop above a bakery. What they share is not inventory but intention — the feeling that the books on the table were put there for you personally.
The owners we met are unfailingly optimistic, and their advice to readers is simple: tell the bookseller what you loved, not what you want; they will take it from there.
Buy one book, stay for the chair by the window, and remember that recommendation is still the oldest and best algorithm there is.