Quiet places for soothing your soul. Unassuming spaces where you can wander for hours, lose yourself browsing the shelves, discovering hidden gems or just enjoying the peace. A low murmer of background chatter, words spoken gently, carefully, not wanting to disturb. The laugh or occasional shout of a young child frantically shushed by a harried parent, the cry of a small baby, hungry, overtired — but you forgive it here because this space is for everyone. A world-between-worlds, where you can pick up a tome and travel through time and space, or just enjoy a moment of respite in the here and now.

These are the libraries I love. Each one a calm oasis in a world teeming with more, faster, better, over-powered, AI-powered. Inviting and welcoming everyone. There is no judgement here, no shop assistants eager for commission, no over-eager “How can I help you?”, no one trying to upsell or lock you into a subscription.

For me, libraries are about books. Worlds undiscovered, ideas to devour. But they are so much more. For others they offer a lifeline. A place to learn, to connect with the community, to access vital resources. They have meant all these things to me over the years. As a child, they opened up a world of fantastic tales and adventures to me. Travelling in my early twenties, before an internet connection was ubiquitous, I would often use internet resources at local libraries. When my son was young I made use of free baby groups, where stories were read and nursery rhymes were sung. For some — an elderly pensioner, a young single mother, a vulnerably-housed person perhaps — they might represent the only chance to interact with a friendly face all week. They are social hubs, especially for those conveniently forgotten by the juggernaut of capitalism. They are inescapably human. I don’t want these special places to disappear.