Making it last (or why bread is like books)

You know that feeling, when you’re in the middle of something really good, but you know it has to come to an end and you can’t quite bear it?  It happens to me when I’m reading a really brilliant book.  I ration myself, carefully hoarding the last precious pages.  And then when I do get to the end, I’m so tempted to start from the beginning all over again.  Patrick Ness’s Chaos Walking Trilogy was like that for me and Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy and Michel Faber’s The Crimson Petal and the White.  None of these could be described as short books.  Far from it.  And yet, when I got to the end I was almost screaming “No!  You can’t leave it there! I want to read more.”

I get the same feeling when I am on holiday by the sea in St Abbs, one of my favourite places.

Actually, the beach is officially in Coldingham, but it’s only 5 minutes walk away.

However long I’m there – and last summer I was lucky enough to be there for six whole weeks at a stretch – I’m never ready to leave. Having just come back from two weeks in St Abbs, I’m in that grumpy in-between mood, when I just want to be back in a house with the sea at the end of the street and the sound of waves in my ears and the taste of salt on my tongue.  But I’ve found a way of making the transition more bearable, and it involves bread.

Yes, bread.  You see, when we’re in St Abbs, we buy truly delicious bread from the local baker (Lough’s) in Eyemouth.  When we’re there, we get through it so fast.  But when we bring some home with us, we all seem to have the same urge to slow our consumption down, to savour the taste which will soon be gone.

It’s not just about the bread, delicious though it is – especially the multigrain.  It’s also about taking a little bit of that seaside bliss back to everyday life.

Sadly, there’s only enough bread left now for today’s lunch.  It may be getting a bit hard now, but I will toast it and savour every bite.