Nothing beats the freedom of summer reading.
One book after another. On the dock, in the hammock, laying down, sitting up, even walking from couch to fridge there is so much time, space and place to read.
During my most recent sabbatical at the lake I dipped into my big book on Africa and roamed through Sengegal. I joined a friday night knitting club in New York City with another book; had a front row seat to amnesia in another; worked out some heavy duty mother-daughter stuff related to a horrible incident years ago in book four; experienced life as a Chinese immigrant in mid-century America in book five; and perhaps most beautifully of all, joined the unlikely pilgrimage of Harold Fry.
But one of the best reading treats of all was the joy of passing on books to my daughter who read them almost as quickly as I did. Now that was sweet.