Cloud on the Horizon

Being stranded in a comfortable apartment by the pool in a sunny holiday resort really isn't that bad. Sunbathe. Swim. Drink sangria. Relax. What on earth could go wrong with this dream-come-true scenario?

I am facing the appalling, nightmarish prospect of running out of books.

I am down to the last one. It’s long, and not a rushed read with its small type and its rich content, but it won’t last me beyond mid morning tomorrow at the latest - I’m already a quarter of the way through.

After that I am left to rifle the “library” in Reception (Dick Francis, Dan Browne, Alan Titchmarsh). Or a several-days-old copy of the Daily Mail. I was once driven to read a Dick Francis, on a holiday with my ex and his parents. The book was shit, but listening to my father-in-law tell his racist, sexist, homophobic jokes would have been even worse I expect.

People laugh at me on holiday as I often read non-holiday-ish things - on the basis that this is my main reading time and I can tackle books for several hours at a stretch. At home if I manage any reading it’s before bed, and I can’t often stay awake for long. Besides, I’ve been doing a lot of needing-reading (insolvency, raising tweenagers, internet safety, so forth). Previous holiday reads have included a history of modern Britain, a biography of Albert Speer and novels in other languages, just for the practice. I feel that if we are stranded a moment longer I might be in danger of adding to my short but pithy GoodReads categories of Started-but-couldn’t-finish and Never-again.

These bloody Icelanders. Punching above their puny weight with their over-fishing of our cod and their pinching of our savings and their stuffing-up of our travel plans. Who the hell do they think they are? They may well have seventy-two words for snow but I wonder how many words they’ve got for unpopular?

I flirted for a moment or two with the heretical idea of buying an E-Reader. I even thought of looking on line to compare brands and styles and features. Then I thought about the voice of wisdom.

“It’s not the same,” he said. “It doesn’t feel like a book”.

He’s right. As he so often is. I already know I’m not the kind of person who buys music downloads. I like to browse my CDs, enjoy the cover art, savour the process of taking the disc from its case, putting it into the player. I confess I’m still playing, and indeed buying, vinyl, for those reasons. Ever hear a song on the radio and find you’re listening out for the jump, the scratch, the infinitesimal blip from your own well-worn, bought-when-it-came-out single?

I love to hold and handle a book. Beautiful crisp Folio Society hardbacks with their elegant fonts, old leather editions that gave the smell to those late-night essay writing stints in the college library, soft American paperbacks that fold right over. A book is the perfect gift, the ideal companion.

I just need to bring more with me, in case of emergencies. God forbid we should have to rely on conversation to pass the time.