Brogan Rees 11/11/2025 Brogan Rees 11/11/2025

The Fire that Found Me

Where fire meets water — and a long-held dream finally takes form.

I still remember the first sauna that truly touched me.
It wasn’t the kind at the local pool — it was a small, shepherd’s-hut sauna tucked away on a farm near York, where my husband, my sister-in-law and I went to celebrate her birthday. We were all wild swimmers at heart, craving that feeling of cold water and clean air even while living far from the Highlands.

The place was extraordinary — simple, rustic, and utterly alive. A wood-fired hut beside the water, a still lake for plunging afterwards, and a tiny café serving homemade food and laughter. But what struck me most was the community — the warmth of the people there, strangers chatting easily between rounds of heat and cold, the shared smiles and stories drifting through the steam. It was a way of socialising I hadn’t experienced before: open, grounding, deeply human.

That day, with my husband beside me, something clicked.
The combination of fire, water, friendship, and stillness felt like home.

When I returned to the North and walked around the bay, a quiet knowing rose within me — that we could have something like this here. A space to gather in warmth and connection, rooted in the rhythm of the land and sea. That small thought became a spark I could never quite put down.

The Call of the North

Over the next few years, I found myself seeking out saunas wherever I went — from the Black Isle to Loch Insh — learning, observing, feeling. I spoke with others who shared this passion for traditional, heart-led sauna culture: one that honours wellbeing over business, community over competition.

And to my joy, I was welcomed — so warmly — into that community.
Everywhere I turned there was encouragement, advice, and genuine excitement for what might one day be built here in the far North. My little spark was fanned by their faith; they reminded me that even the smallest ember can ignite a lasting fire.

But the path wasn’t simple. Funding fell through when I left a charity I’d co-founded, and finding support as a sole trader proved difficult. Still, I held the vision close. I trusted the timing, kept researching trailers, sketching designs, whispering affirmations that one day, this will exist.

A Meeting by the Water

Then, by pure chance — or perhaps perfect alignment — I went to visit a friend and met AJ and Jake from Seaview Sauna.
Where we stood looked straight across the water to Talmine Bay — and when I said, “One day my sauna will be there,” they smiled and replied, “Look at what we’re building right now.”

Together with them — and hopefully with other sauna owners in the future — we are helping to establish a generous, grounded community here on the North Coast: a culture of authenticity, mutual support, and reverence for the heat, the ritual, and the people who gather within it.

Since then, I’ve had the honour, alongside AJ, of training at Scotland’s first Sauna Master Training, facilitated by Anada and hosted at St Andrews Sauna. That experience deepened everything I thought I knew about sauna — not just the technique, but the surrender. It became a physical, emotional, and spiritual detox; the first time in months that my body softened and my spirit truly lifted.

That training also strengthened the bonds of friendship and shared purpose that had already begun to form. Together, we’ve become part of a growing network of sauna stewards — keepers of fire and water — helping to anchor this movement here in the Highlands.

Dream into Form

So here I am, four or five years since that first spark, standing on the edge of something real.
Soul Solstice Sauna is no longer just an idea. It’s a vessel for healing, connection, and belonging — a mobile sanctuary where people can come to rest, release, and remember their wholeness.

Soon, you’ll find it by the sea — the sound of waves mingling with the hiss of steam, the smell of pine and salt, the quiet joy of gathering in warmth.

This is only the beginning — the first ember of a much bigger dream — but already it feels like home.
This is how the fire found me — and how I will now tend it for others.

With warmth,
Brogan
Founder of Soul Solstice Sauna
Where fire meets water, and the body remembers how to rest.

Brogan Rees 06/11/2025 Brogan Rees 06/11/2025

The Sea that Saved Me

One of the many privileges of growing up in a small, mystical, and magical place is the access to true beauty, wonder, and connection.
As I get older, I find myself drawn to my memorial anchor points — significant places in the landscape that raised me — seeing my past through a new lens and learning from a new perspective. Magic has been interwoven through my life from the very beginning.

There were always paths carved into the land and along the rugged coastline, winding with their own mystery. I remember watching for herons, buzzards, and eagles; agonisingly peering out across the glimmering ocean surface for a glimpse of a dolphin or whale fin; seals and their pups soaking up every ounce of heat and light from the sun on the sand’s edge; and seagulls swooping for our picnics.
I remember climbing to the top of Castle Varrich and casting my eyes out from the Kyle to the islands and beyond — stories coming in on the wind, bringing past to present.

Remote. Silent. Wild.

I’ve always felt a deep connection to the land — one I’ll delve into in another story — but this one belongs to the water.

My childhood was spent imagining swimming alongside mermaids and selkies, dreaming up stories of a northern Atlantis where rugged, Viking-like mermen lived and defended our shores, and where stunningly beautiful selkie women danced naked on the beach in the moonlight. I would trace my fingers along the sand, hearing their laughter and the beat of their dance, while I splashed and played with my siblings.

The sea has always had a magnetic pull on my heart — and yet, there have been moments that could have turned me away from her altogether. I had two close encounters as a child: once, when I fell into the sea and sliced open my thigh on barnacles; and another, when I was caught in a riptide and dragged away from the shore.
The sting of the salt in the cut, the helplessness and power of the current — both were enough to open my eyes to the respect the sea demands and deserves.

For a while, I kept my distance. But the sea never let me go — her call just grew quieter, waiting for me to listen again.
After a truly difficult chapter of my life, I returned to the water’s edge — not even remotely prepared or aware of how the tides would change me.

Returning to the Water

Connection back to water saved my life.
I felt stuck and powerless in my job. I was going through an experience where very few around me could relate. My husband and I were drinking and fighting; I felt alone — wandering in vast darkness, longing for someone to come in and shine a light to show me where to go.

I can’t quite remember what happened, but there was a moment when I looked around and all I could see were patterns — behavioural patterns surrounding me everywhere. Others’ opinions and perspectives, telling me how I should be living my life and what I should be doing. But these people were stuck in negative mindsets, repeating behaviours that never made them happy, and I was doing the same. There was no way that was the direction my life was heading.
And that’s when I realised I was my own light.

After hitting one of the lowest points in my life, I decided this wasn’t how I wanted to live. I was determined to fight and get back up, even though I had no idea where to begin.

I’d heard people talk about the benefits of cold-water swimming, and swimming was something I had always loved, so I bought myself a wetsuit and began in the lochs. Starting in the sea felt too much at first; the time of year meant heavy swells and I didn’t yet have the confidence. The lochs gave me a sense of control and the freedom to move at my own pace.

For the first couple of times, I could only go up to my hips, and I wasn’t in for long at all. It was embarrassing — or at least, that’s how it felt. But even just doing that, I could feel the benefit — the fact I had tried, that I had got cold, that I had pushed myself to do it. There were many days I didn’t even bother, because the thought of it was too much. But with dedication and devotion to myself, perseverance paid off.

My favourite spot looks out toward beautiful Ben Loyal — my Gaia — and there I felt protected and safe. She has been ever-present in my life. My childhood home had a spectacular view of her; she has always brought me peace and comfort, a signal of home. My husband would watch from the shore, calling me mad but waiting with my dry robe ready when I came out.

At the time, I thought it was about pushing physical limits — testing how long I could stay in, facing the cold without a wetsuit, gloves, or boots. Looking back, I see it was really the beginning of a slow journey home to myself. In those early days, I thought strength meant endurance — staying in longer, going colder, proving something. Now I see it was never about proving; it was about remembering.

Each swim was an act of devotion — showing up for me. I would stand at the water’s edge, gather my thoughts, focus on my breathing, and use the water as a tool to wash away anxiety, stress, worry, and the harsh self-talk that had taken root. All of it would fall silent as the cold consumed me. The silence was deafening — full of heartbeat, breath, and pulse. For the first time, I felt alive inside my own skin. I loved being in my own skin. I cherished those moments and expressed deep gratitude for their blessings; they were what carried me through the storms.

When we’re warned of physical storms, we’re told to stay inside, to protect ourselves, to shelter until it’s safe. But when those storms happen inside of us — causing the same level of upheaval, fear, and wildness — we’re expected to go about our daily lives as if we’re fine. The sea taught me how to navigate those inner storms. She gave me strength and courage.

There are many physical benefits to cold-water swimming, and others can explain them far better than I can. But the spiritual and energetic benefits are just as powerful — perhaps even more so, if you’re open to welcoming the energy in. I didn’t go to the water seeking science; I went seeking peace.

It has been a practice in my life now for around five or six years — a steady constant, a rhythmic grounding pulse that has guided me through true turbulence. Through every season — sun, wind, hail, or snow — I go. Sometimes for a minute, sometimes much longer. It’s never about the length; it’s about the meeting. I perhaps even have more fun in the winter — it feels like being inside a washing machine, tumbling and laughing in the waves.

As I continue to grow, so too does my connection to the sea. I’ve found a deeper, more ancient bond with her — thinking of my forebears who looked to the water for guidance, survival, and, at times, in fear. I often wonder if they, too, stood on this shore — salt on their skin, the same wind in their hair — whispering prayers to the same horizon.

The sea is a fierce and formidable force — one that both demands and deserves our love and respect. From her thunderous waves crashing against the island cliffs to her clear, crystalline calm, she mirrors the tides of my own inner world — teaching me when to stand firm, and when to relinquish control.
In her rhythm, I found my own — a remembering that even when the tides pull me under, I will rise again with the next wave.

A Shared Journey

This journey has never been a solitary one. My incredible mum has walked beside me every step of the way — encouraging, supporting, and celebrating each small victory. She’s joined me beneath the light of full moons and on charity swims, standing on the shoreline or wading in beside me, reminding me that courage is often shared. Those moments together have become some of my most treasured memories — our laughter mingling with the sound of the waves, our hearts steadying in rhythm with the tide.

What began as a personal practice has grown into a way of connecting with others. I now invite friends to join me, to brave the waters and rediscover their own strength. These swims have become more than cold immersions — they are acts of communion, of trust, and of remembering that we are never truly alone.

To be a guide in this way feels like both a privilege and a blessing — offering others the same gift that once saved me. In truth, each person I accompany into the water also guides me. It is a mutual healing, a shared returning, and it continues to nurture my spirit every time I step into the sea.

Where Soul Solstice Was Born

Each swim, each shared breath of cold air, became part of something larger — a quiet remembrance of why I am here. What began as survival slowly transformed into devotion, and then into purpose. The sea called me home so that I could help others find their way back too — to their bodies, to their courage, to the elemental rhythm that connects us all.

This is where Soul Solstice was born — in the space between water and fire, silence and song, surrender and strength. It is my offering back to the land and sea that healed me; a way to share the warmth, the wisdom, and the wonder of remembering who we are when we return to the water.

I share this story in gratitude — for the sea that held me, the people who walked beside me, and for the quiet courage that lives in us all.

Brogan Rees 28/05/2019 Brogan Rees 28/05/2019

Blog Post Title One

It all begins with an idea.

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Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.