Great books need holidays, too

grey cells”. But mostly it was about sailing down the Nile, reading about sailing down the Nile.

Beneath the window of the room in which the book was written, I remember that black gleaming rocks lay in dark water, and the clack-clack of the feluccas, their white sails billowing as pilots steered with their gnarled feet.

In Karon Beach, Thailand, I was miserable. There I was in an apartment with a magnificent view overlooking the sea, reading Joanne Harris’s Peaches for Monsieur le Curé. The flat was huge — meant to sleep five. But my friend, Peter, had taken ill and had had to fly home, my nephew had cancelled at the last minute and a friend in Bangkok had had to go to Singapore on business. So it was just Monsieur le Curé and me, at breakfast, on the beach, in the pool …

Then, when I discovered I had breast cancer — before doctors began talking surgery, double mastectomy, and chemo — I took myself off to St Francis Health Spa near Port Alfred to think. And I took Carl Jung with me. It seemed appropriate.

The Red Book is the 1913 personal record of 38-year-old Jung’s “confrontation with the unconscious”. He saw visions and heard voices. He thought he was going mad, so decided to put the valuable experience to use. I took away a lot from that and came home ready to face the lump in my breast and all that getting rid of it entailed.

Somehow, the right book seems to find the right holiday.

And books do more than just keep you buffered against the world. Sometimes they make you think, or cry or laugh. And the ones that make you laugh should be re-read and taken on more than just one holiday. — © Charmain Naidoo

Do you have a funny or quirky story about your travels to share with us? Send 600 words to travelmag@sundaytimes.co.za