The Last Witch on Skye by Carolyn J. Nicholson - REVIEW
Celebrating Myth, Mischief, and the Enduring Magic of Storytelling
Carolyn J. Nicholson’s The Last Witch on Skye is a radiant tribute to oral tradition, Celtic folklore, and the quiet resilience of those who live between worlds—be they witches, fairies, or misunderstood humans. With her debut into middle-grade fantasy, Nicholson gifts readers a story rich with mischief, wit, cultural texture, and emotional depth, all wrapped in a narrative voice that is both timeless and tender.
Her greatest strengths lie not only in her imaginative storytelling, but in her deeply rooted sense of place, her gentle humour, and her ability to draw empathy for every character, no matter how strange their shoes—or paws—may be.
Set against the evocative backdrop of the Isle of Skye, the book weaves Gaelic mythology and Scottish landscape into every chapter. Nicholson’s affection for her ancestral homeland is palpable, grounding the fantasy in a sense of emotional and geographical authenticity. Readers are not simply told about Skye; they are immersed in it. From the Fairy Hills to the looming Castle MacLeod, and from the folklore-laced footpaths to the haunting lochs, Nicholson conjures a setting that is itself a character—mysterious, lyrical, and always alive with possibility.
At the heart of the story is Magaidh, the titular last witch on Skye, who shapeshifts from feline to witch with as much ease as she shifts between humour and heartbreak. In Magaidh, Nicholson creates a wonderfully complex protagonist—competent yet clumsy, brave yet vulnerable, and ultimately, entirely lovable. What makes Magaidh unforgettable is not just her magic, but her humanity. She longs for family, fumbles with spells, and finds herself caught between longing for connection and a desire to hide away. In this way, Nicholson’s characterisation feels remarkably modern despite its fairy-tale veneer: these are characters with inner lives, dilemmas, and doubts that echo our own.
Equally impressive is Nicholson’s supporting cast, from the well-meaning but blundering fairies Sean and Iain (whose Laurel-and-Hardy style dynamic provides much of the book’s charm), to the regal Fairy Queen, the terrifyingly competent mother witch, and the baby sea monster Calum, who is perhaps the most unexpected emotional centre of the story. Nicholson handles her characters with warmth and care, even when they’re making terrible decisions—especially then, in fact. No one is beyond redemption in her world. That generosity of spirit is one of the book’s quiet moral compasses.
One of Nicholson’s clear strengths is her narrative voice. She writes with a storyteller’s cadence that invites reading aloud. Her prose is accessible but never condescending, humorous without losing heart, and often layered with subtle moral insights. The tone is consistently engaging, oscillating between the playful and the poignant. Young readers will delight in the slapstick adventures of the fairies, the transformation spells gone wrong, and the magical mishaps, while older readers will appreciate the emotional undercurrents—identity, belonging, prejudice, and the enduring power of belief.
Underlying the fantasy is a sensitive treatment of themes often overlooked in children’s literature. The banishment of fairies and witches, for instance, becomes a gentle allegory for cultural erasure, exile, and forced conformity. The Ban the Witches & Fairies Party is a satirical but poignant reminder of what happens when fear replaces understanding. Magaidh’s sense of alienation—`heightened by the discovery that she is only half-witch, born of a human father who disavowed her—is a tender exploration of identity, shame, and self-worth. These threads are never heavy-handed, but they resonate, offering opportunities for reflection alongside the fun.
Another of Nicholson’s gifts lies in how she handles humour. Much of the comedy emerges from character, not caricature—from Iain’s obsession with porridge and oatcakes, to Magaidh’s passive-aggressive bat and her overgrown herb garden. The dialogue sparkles with lightness, but always serves the development of relationships and plot. Even the absurdity of the each-uisge hatchling being hidden like a puppy is used to explore deeper questions of responsibility and consequence. Nicholson’s wit is never cruel; her world is mischievous but kind-hearted, just as a magical world for children should be.
The use of Scottish Gaelic words and place names throughout the story adds depth and authenticity, and Nicholson cleverly includes a pronunciation and glossary section at the beginning, which enhances the reader’s engagement rather than alienating them. It’s a subtle act of preservation—a celebration of linguistic and cultural heritage that avoids becoming didactic. It also reinforces the book’s central message: that what others deem “superstition” might hold deep personal and communal truths.
The structure of the book—composed of interconnected adventures and character arcs—is both episodic and cumulative. While each chapter could stand alone as a tale in itself, together they form a cohesive arc of transformation, not just for Magaidh but for Skye itself. By the final chapters, the island has been reshaped by the return of magic, memory, and forgiveness. Nicholson allows her plot to meander in places, but this is no flaw—it mirrors the rhythms of folktale and oral storytelling, where digressions are part of the delight and the journey is as important as the destination.
Illustrations by E. M. Gales provide a lovely complement to the text, capturing the whimsy and texture of Skye’s landscapes and characters. The visuals extend the story’s charm without overwhelming the imagination, and Gales’ delicate linework echoes the gentleness of the prose.
Ultimately, The Last Witch on Skye is a triumph of tone and imagination, steeped in a love of land, lineage, and lore. Nicholson writes with an old soul’s understanding of story and a modern heart’s empathy for the outsider. She trusts her readers—young and old—to be curious, to be brave, and to believe in things they can’t see. In doing so, she joins a lineage of storytellers who know that the real magic lies not in potions or spells, but in kindness, courage, and the courage to laugh at oneself.
With this first instalment, Carolyn J. Nicholson has planted her own flag—much like the fairies’ golden banner—on literary ground that feels both ancient and refreshingly new. Readers will undoubtedly hope that this is not the last they hear of Magaidh, Sean, Iain, or the magical Isle of Skye.
