My Summer of Magic Moments: Uplifting and romantic - the perfect, feel good holiday read!. Caroline Roberts
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gas bottles. If she hadn’t had to knock on his door, he might never have realized she was there, and the morning swims might have continued, brightening her day. She vowed to be alert during her stay in case, however.
Number 6: dance in the rain. She wasn’t sure where that idea came from, but it seemed like a nice, carefree thing to do. When it next started to pour down (and, being Northumberland, that might not be long), she’d head out onto the sands and do a jig – just because she could.
Number 7 (she was on a roll now): make a new friend. Someone here in Bamburgh. The lady in the deli came to mind; she seemed nice and chatty.
Number 8: what else made life feel good? A cup of tea, a glass of wine (already got that), cocktails. Hmm, yes, before all the treatments she’d been partial to the odd mojito in Bella’s Bar with Andrea down at the quayside in Newcastle, but maybe not now. Sex on the beach, now where did that thought come from? But not the cocktail, oh no, the real deal. Wow! That would be pretty cool and extremely sexy – or gritty and sandy, but worth a try. But, that could prove difficult to achieve, since she was staying here on her own and indeed she didn’t actually intend to have anything to do with men for quite some time. One day, maybe. Never say never. Her list could carry forward!
Number 9 wasn’t forthcoming, so she decided to leave that and number 10 to be confirmed. There was no point wasting wishes till you knew what you wanted.
She wondered if there was a post-cancer wish fairy. Like a tooth fairy. You lost a boob and got a few wishes for it. Wow, how did her brain come up with this stuff?
Actually, thinking of her list, maybe she should be less selfish and wish everyone she loved or knew good health, bucketloads of happiness and some magic moments for themselves. That could be number 9 sorted after all.
She sipped her tea and leafed through the bread recipes; they didn’t look too daunting, and the ingredients wouldn’t be expensive. That was one thing she could definitely do today. And next – no time like the present – she’d take a leisurely bath.
She left the balcony and headed for the bathroom, where she turned the taps to full. At least there seemed to be plenty of hot water today. She poured in some of the Molton Brown bubble bath she’d saved from Christmas, removed her robe, trying not to look at her scars, and sank below the surface to chin level, bubbles of fragrant ginger-lily bursting lightly around her. Bliss. She should be drinking bubbles in here too, sipping a chilled glass of champagne – but the budget didn’t stretch to that. Still, maybe she could pop along to the everything-and-more store in the village for that bottle of white wine for later. She’d be ticking off her wish list at a rate of knots!
She reached for the baking book, topped up the hot water and lost herself in a world of ‘00’ flour, rosemary focaccia, and stone-baked crust. She emerged after forty minutes pale and prune-like, but relaxed and content.
Half an hour later, armed with rucksack and cagoule, she set off up the beach again. The clouds were gathering dramatically on the horizon, a shaft of grey cutting down to the sea where the rain was sheeting offshore; definitely a sunshine and showers kind of day. She’d head for the deli – they’d hopefully have the flour and yeast she needed. She could picture herself kneading away in the 1950s kitchen like Mary Berry. Actually, what she could really picture was herself imagining it was her husband’s face she was slapping and pounding. Boomph. Just when she’d thought life might return to normality after all the treatments. Paul … That bombshell. She was still shaking from it. How hadn’t she guessed? ‘In sickness and in health …’ He’d hung in there just because he’d felt sorry for her, only to dump it on her like a shedload of shit, right at the moment that should have been the happy ending.
Okay, enough of feeling sorry for herself. She wasn’t going down that route. Stop all negative images, right there. She was here for peace and quiet, not violent thoughts. But maybe a bit of dough beating would be good therapy.
The beach was quieter today; the weather was keeping people away. There were some hardy anoraked holidaymakers and dog walkers about, and one stoical family camped out with windbreaks.
After a forty-five minute stroll, she reached the village. At the deli she was greeted with a warm smile by the same lady. Today she was wearing a cheerful vintage-style flowery apron.
‘Hello, pet – back again then?’
‘Yes – the loaf I bought here yesterday was gorgeous. I’ve been inspired to try and have a go at baking some bread myself. I’m after flour and some yeast if you have it?’
‘Oh, marvellous. How exciting. I just love home baking. I do all the artisan loaves here myself.’
‘Wow, that’s impressive. So you created the wholemeal honey loaf?’
‘Well, yes I did, and thank you. Right well, you say you’ve never baked before, so I’d suggest trying something simple for starters.’
‘Absolutely. I’ve found a recipe in an old cookbook for a basic bloomer.’
‘Sounds as good as any to start with, my lovely. First things first, you’ll need some strong 00 bread flour. Do you want to make white or wholemeal?’
‘I’ll start with a basic white.’
‘For yeast I’d recommend the dried sachets. They’re as good as anything and easier to work with. Oil – do you have any oil, just to work the dough? Olive or sunflower?’
‘Sunflower.’
‘And salt?’
‘I think there’s some back at the cottage.’ She’d spotted a Saxa pot lurking in a kitchen cupboard. Mind you, the packaging looked like something her gran had had when Claire was a kid. ‘Actually, it’s probably been there since the 70s, so yes please, I’ll take some salt too.’
‘Okay.’ The lady busied herself at the shelves at the back of the store, gathering the goods. ‘Where was it you said you were staying?’
‘The Hedley cottage, away along the beach. It’s called Farne View.’
She turned, her eyebrows arching up. ‘Ah yes, I do know of it.’ Her lip twitched; the cottage’s reputation must precede it. ‘And you’re okay there?’ She looked sceptical.
‘Yes, it’s fine. A bit basic, but fine.’
‘Right, well, I’m Lynda, by the way. Nice to meet you.’ She wiped the flour from her palms onto her apron, then offered her hand over the countertop.
‘Claire. I’m staying for a few weeks, so I’m sure I’ll be back in.’
‘Great. I look forward to seeing you, Claire. Have a lovely stay. And good luck with the bread. You’ll have to pop in and tell me how it works out.’
‘Hah, yes – and no doubt next time I’ll be coming back to buy one of yours!’
‘You never know, you might just have the knack for it. You might be a natural.’
‘I’ll see.’ She wasn’t so sure. Though she loved to watch other people baking, it had never been her thing so far. A few half-risen cupcakes had been her highlight.
She settled up and headed out just as a young mum and toddler were coming in.
‘Thanks. Bye, Lynda.’
‘Bye, my lovely.’
It was nice chatting to the locals. And, Lynda seemed really genuine and friendly. At least not everyone was grumpy round here.
Right, how difficult could this bread-making malarkey be then?
Firstly, she’d need some kitchen scales. Would there even be any kitchen scales here? After a full investigation of the cupboards, she found an ancient set made of black painted metal that had the proper individual weights on one side and a scoop balanced on the other. Boy, they were heavy to lift out. Luckily the old cookbook was in imperial measures as all she had were pounds and ounces for weights. She needed a pound