Early on in the book, I was reminded why I love these books so much. In one particular scene Father Tim wakes up at 5:00 am, slips out of bed at a bed and breakfast in Ireland, pulls the covers up around his sleeping wife, grabs a notebook and pen and heads for the dining hall where he's hoping to find coffee waiting for him. Along the way, he takes mental notes of what he sees.
And there, hanging on either side of the door to the dining hall, a display of early sepia photographs he hadn't noticed last night. Groups of men in rough coats and trousers, formal in the act of holding aloft silvered fish; knock-kneed boys displaying their own prize catches – a way of life he'd never known, given a father who believed fishing promoted sloth. Sloth – right now, he'd like a double shot of it, straight up.
He goes on to have a conversation with a Jack Russell Terrier, which prompts thoughts about his own dog, Barnabas. He pours his cup of coffee and then he sits down to right a letter to his brother.
He warmed his hands on the mug and inhaled the oily, slightly sweet scene of dark roast. It was nearly impossible to trump a blank page, a good pen, strong coffee.
I'm only four chapters into the book, but I feel right at home as I flip the electronic pages.
