On Reading

 It is something I do, reading.  Have done for as long as I can remember.  Those early days when Kandy Meets the Bunny Babes was the tale of choice to be read to me before drifting off into dreamland; the days when tokens on the Sugar Puffs or Weetabix packets were collected, to be followed by a volume of Treasure Island arriving in the post.  That may not have been my first introduction to RLS, for there was always a copy of A Children's Garden of Verse in the house, to share those bedtime story rotas.

 

In time an avid reader became a collector.  It probably started when Book Festivals became a fixture on the calendar.  Wigtown achieving the status of Scotland's Book Town was certainly a trigger.  Long days on the road, hours between the stacks; the occasional weekend trip.  Then visits planned solely around author talks.  RLS Collected Works.  And so many more.

Second hand books.  The possibility of finding the first edition of a favourite read; of turning a paperback reader into a collectible first.  No need to decorate if the walls were covered in bookcases.

And then.  And then we reached crunch time.  It was already with us, but with a planned house move to come, a down-sizing.  It became serious.  The existing library could not all fit into the future home.

Over the years I began to record what I'd been reading.  In one place or another I'd keep an ongoing list of my very favourite Reads of the Year.  I still do.  In the early days I'd write brief reviews, and link them to the listings.  That doesn't happen any more, though my reading record does contain brief comments on every book read.  I tot up the numbers annually, though usually only for my own interest, and a little sharing with various book enthusiasts on common socials.

I've noticed that my lists of favourites have been growing longer.  That's not because I've lost the ability to discern what I've really enjoyed.  It's because I'm reading more.  The volume is way up.  From an average 50+ books annually it's now heading for 150!  And there are reasons for that.  I have more time available, often with two or even three books under way.  In different rooms.  The Kitchen Table may be a completely different type of read to the Bedside Table.  Or the office.

Mainly though my reading evolved.  It was always people and places.  That was the travel writing interest.  It was easy to move from there into nature writing, to landscapes and the natural world, as well as people and places.  And then I turned to crime.  But still with people and places in mind.  Whether it was Allan Martin (his next is out very soon) writing of familiar places on the west coast of Scotland, or Lars Kepler taking me to Scandinavia, it was the people and the places that were more important than the plots.

That and watching drama, Walter Presents, on 4.  From Friday nights, to any night, streaming, in batches.  Bingeing I think we call it now.  I've seen them all; wait anxiously for new series to appear, from Belgium or France, all the Nordic countries.  And more.  And so my reading followed, expanded.  Icelandic crime, Norwegian.  Finland too.  People and places.  Pages turning.

I still follow my old instincts; still collect in hardback whether it is Travel or Nature.  And sometimes in fiction too, though that is rare.  Douglas Jackson has a full shelf now.  And he's already made the cut.  To Portknockie.

There's another list.  On the online auction site.  Some of the volumes that won't be making the journey north.  New owners need to be found.  And many, many more need to be added to that.  But it's such a hassle, posting them on the site, then putting them in the post.

And I have plans for bookcases, against walls that won't take the existing ones, dead spaces crying out to host books.  It won't happen overnight.  Right now the collection is split, and a fair amount of what remains is in a mess.  Stock to be sold.  The ones that have to come north.  The ones that are already in their new home.  And so many others.  What a quandary.

Meantime reading cannot stop.  Of late I've been reading some old ones again.  They even find places on those lists of favoured reads. But I digress.  Increased volumes, different genres, less space.

That was why I eventually gave way.  Acquired what I'd always resisted.  An e-reader; whisper it.  But it has been life changing, I have to admit.  I read even more.  I had to be selective, in the equipment, before I could even think about what to put on it.  I had long since abandoned doing business with that major online retailer, even though it meant paying more for books.  Aside from the way they treated staff, it was the appalling delivery service that saw me end that relationship.  Books left in houses some miles away, that may have shared the same postcode.  It happened so often that a regular onward delivery via the school bus developed.  Enough, more than enough.  I'd rather spend elsewhere.

So when it came to an e-reader that market leader was never a consideration.  I found Kobo.  And have no regrets at all.  My crime reading has expanded considerably.  I discover new authors on the site.  Read entire series, wait impatiently for the next.  And it's easier on the old eyes, adjusting the size of the font, avoiding bright lights.  Then I can be so very discerning in what I do want to add to the collection of hardbacks.  Those exceptional reads.  The ones that make my lists.  That ones that will make the journey.  From Peelhill to Porknockie.