Grey lino floor; black tables; comfortable chairs; a pair of sofas at the front window. On this cold June day I am alone with a cope of Alistair MacCLeod’s Island.

Shelving holds items of variable interest: Mt Zero kalamata olives; jars of dukkah and olive oil; free-range eggs from Great Western; Silvertip teas; honey from the Grampians Lavender Patch.

Normal things on offer: soups; egg & bacon muffin; raisin toast; ham & cheese toastie; tomato & salami frittata. You get the picture. My lentil & vegie soup is of fair quality. Two remarkable pieces of bread accompany the soup. I do wish cafes, especially in the rural realms, would pay a little more attention to the comfort of a good whack of real bread.

Coffee is ordinary, yet it promises more. In fact the whole place promises more. It lists through the excellence of a few sweet things—my French vanilla slice @ $4.50 was of a rare quality.

After lunch I am directed by a friendly local to the library. Here I find bliss. A warm inviting space with comfortable reading chairs and a big work table overlooking a discrete courtyard. The peace and silence of a library in a quiet country town. Melbourne knows nothing of this. I pick up Dorothy Rowe’s blue-covered Depression from a shelf and nestle into a comfy chair. My bus is yet hours away.