Reading Unlimited
Reading Unlimited.
Ali Hunter came on our Yorkshire Reading Retreat in September 2018. Here she shares her experience.
“You can have dinner in your pyjamas if you like,” Cressida Downing says as we stand, bag-laden and out of breath at the top of the third flight of stairs. She’s helping me haul a large pile of library books to my private room at the top of Rascal Wood, the secluded Yorkshire farmhouse I’m going to be calling home for the next few days. “We’ve never had someone go on a walk in them yet, but there’s nothing stopping you. It’s perfectly acceptable to stay in them all day.”
I’ve come to a reading retreat, to take a well overdue break. It’s been a hectic year and, feeling on the edge of exhaustion, I’m hoping to have some quiet time for myself. Freelance editor, Cressida, formed the idea with business partner Sara, after a similarly stressful year when, she decided rather than the usual spa-weekend to recuperate, she wanted to get away somewhere with her books.
The concept is simple. It’s a few days dedicated to reading without distractions. Being pampered and relaxed is key. So, meals are cooked for you, cups of tea and snacks are delivered on a tray, and a blanket is provided for sofa-snuggling.
After settling in, I slope back downstairs to the reading room having changed into a baggy tracksuit and thick woolly socks. Despite Cressida’s invitation, I feel a little self-conscious meeting my fellow readers for the first time in my misshapen tartan pyjamas.
As I tip-toe through the door, I find a reader sitting in brown suede slippers and swiftly turning page after page, as if he’s on a sprint to the end of a great literary marathon. Another is stretched out on a separate sofa, wrapped in a blanket with eyes fixed on her phone. I later discover she’s switched off the wi-fi and is using the handset as an e-reader to finish a thrilling spy novel.
This cosy room is silent, apart from a fire crackling and popping in the corner, and I sink into a soft leather sofa. No-one looks up or acknowledges me. The rules of the reading room are clear: It is a no-talking zone, and social etiquette is not required. There’s no need to smile, say hello or make polite conversation, here – concentrating on reading takes priority. It’s a relief not to have to make an effort, and I turn to page one to plunge headfirst into a dystopian world, leaving my hectic day and journey behind.
Later, the scent of home cooking starts to drift through from the kitchen, where Sara has been busy cooking dinner. A menu had been left by my bed earlier with instructions to inform her if there was anything I didn’t like or couldn’t eat. Now, the spicy aroma of middle eastern roasted sprouts and vegetable tagine tempts us to quickly finish our chapters, and we slink through to the dining room.
The table is laid with fresh flowers and candles, and Cressida has put together an anagram challenge which we puzzle over while we wait. It’s a small group of readers, and although we’ve never met before the conversation flows effortlessly between reading-related topics, like how we store our book collections and what book we’d take to a desert island. The three-course meal is delicious, but by the end, I’m itching to find out what happens next in the novel I’m reading. “If anyone wants to head off and read, feel free to go,” Cressida says while clearing the dessert plates, giving me the perfect opportunity to break away from the conversation.
The next morning, I awake early with sunlight spilling across my bed, and read another chapter before breakfast. Downstairs, Sara is already pottering around the kitchen, preparing breakfast and lunch. Over toasted crumpets with homemade raspberry jam, Cressida outlines the plan for the day. There will be free reading time until 1pm, when lunch will be served in the dining room (or on a tray if we prefer to keep reading), then an optional walk followed by more reading time, then dinner.
And so the hours unfold – a mix of reading in the garden, on the sofa, in the bath, and in bed, occasionally stopping to order a cup of peppermint tea.
It’s remarkably peaceful here in the Yorkshire countryside; birds chirruping in the trees and hares hopping about in the fields nearby. I soon become engrossed in my second book - so much so that I jump when Cressida appears with a five-minute-warning for dinner.
This time around, a glass of prosecco is slipped into my hand as I enter the dining room. Tonight is special as we’ll be joined at dinner by an acclaimed author who will talk about their own reading. So, there’s a fizz of excitement within the group.
Tom Harper sits in the middle chair, with an intriguing pile of well-read books in front of him. I feel a little nervous to meet him up close like this, and hesitate to join in at first. But, as we all dine together after his talk, the questions begin to flow. It’s not long before we’re all reminiscing about favourite books and I’m making an extensive list of ‘must-read’ recommendations.
As I scribble another title in my journal, I look down and glimpse a flash of tartan. I was so relaxed before coming in for dinner, I didn’t realise: I’m wearing my pyjamas. While dining with a famous author (!) And, I’m not even sure I’ve brushed my hair.
But, for once, I’m not self-conscious. Because this is what being on a reading retreat is all about. It is a place where it’s possible to simply relax, without judgement, and with full permission to choose comfort over style, silence over small talk, and, of course, reading over absolutely everything else.