My Summer of Magic Moments: Uplifting and romantic - the perfect, feel good holiday read!. Caroline Roberts

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 of the strong flour, and she guessed at a sachet of the yeast as the recipe stated half an ounce of fresh. Some oil – she’d use sunflower; it said vegetable, but that would be fine. She then measured out the water she needed from the tap into a glass jug.

      Okay, here goes. Everything went in at once, apparently. Oops, but not all of the water; she quickly stopped pouring. ‘Mix to a firm dough,’ she read. Her hands went in and were soon covered up to her wrists in soft, gloopy paste. This was sooo messy. It reminded her of Play-Doh from when she was a kid, but even that stuff hadn’t been half as mucky as this. This was more like something you’d fill cracks in the walls with. Actually, it might just come in handy for the cottage – stick the old walls back together where they’d begun to crumble.

      ‘Push with the heel of your hand and fold back in.’ She had to keep oiling the work surface as the dough kept sticking to it, but gradually it started to become firmer, more elastic. She was meant to do this for ten minutes. That hadn’t sounded bad, but after five minutes her hand was aching and the mix didn’t seem anywhere near bouncy and smooth like it was supposed to be. Smooth? Knobbly and falling apart was more like it. She kept going. Push out and roll in. At least the rhythm of kneading was taking her mind off things. After a while it appeared to be rolling as one piece and felt springy under her palm. Eleven minutes; that would do. Next she had to put it in an oiled bowl. She covered the dough with a tea towel as directed and left it on the side.

      She felt less like Mary Berry and more like the contender who gets chucked out in the first round. Or more likely one of the ones who never actually made it as far as the Bake Off tent.

      The deed was done, the bread was left to rise. The recipe said it needed at least an hour and a half for this stage. Time to pour herself a nice chilled glass of the Pinot Grigio she’d picked up from the all-in-one store after visiting the deli, and sit outside. The clouds had dispersed after a short, sharp shower and – wonderfully – the sun was back out. Claire found a fusty-looking wine glass in a kitchen cupboard, gave it a wash and then took the bottle from the fridge and unscrewed the lid. The smell was fragrant and fruity; she poured herself a medium-sized glass.

      She went outside and sat on one of the wooden put-me-up chairs at the little wonky table in her small patch of scabby-grassed garden. Looking out across the sea with its breezy, choppy waves glinting in the sunlight, she took a long, slow sip of her wine. Apples and herbs and vanilla hit her all at once. Wow, it was great to taste properly again. The chemo had dulled every sense, diminishing her taste buds, but gradually they were coming back. She wouldn’t drink too much alcohol, of course, wary of abusing her body that had already been through so much. But a little of what you fancied …

      She’d СКАЧАТЬ