These stories, these words, represent an honest, scalpel-sharp, and unafraid dissection of the collective British psyche, from its Scandinavian/Celtic origins and their expressions through contemporary England, Wales, the Nordic countries, and the occult waterways of a hidden London, the city's damp arterial crannies and the subcultures that inhabit them. Here are punks, ghosts, vampire-hunters, ancient gods that hate to be neglected. Here is a country and a world teetering on the lip of apocalyptic void. And here are, too, insanities, desperate longings, great loves and rages and beauties. Completely absorbing.
— Niall Griffiths, author of Runt

Budden’s writing is sparse, terse even, but perfectly suited to the landscapes of dislocation and alienation that are his natural milieu.
– Nina Allan, author of The Rift

Like some mythic counterculture coast; The Snow Goose on speed.
– Tony White, author of The Fountain in the Forest

On the fringes of London, Budden writes about notions of being and belonging: the idea that ‘memory is a marsh’ as the world diffuses in mist and nostalgia.
– The Contemporary Small Press