High summer is here. Term has finally ended south of the border; for the Scots there are still precious weeks before a subtle catch of autumn in the air means mid-August and back to school. Life is, at last, catching up with the heatwave: for many, a holiday beckons, or if not an actual escape from home, then perhaps a subtle slowing in life’s pace – a little more time.

It is the season for, among other things, reading. Summer is a liberating time for literary pursuits. It is when reading can be – should be – about pure pleasure. No one will judge a summer reader for devouring detective stories on a train ride, or an airport novel with a gold-embossed cover on a flight. Only, let the reading material be a real book: sand and e-readers do not mix. Paperbacks can be passed among friends or left in the holiday rental so that the next visitor, curiously perusing the shelves, can succumb to the siren song of a Lee Child or a Val McDermid, for once ignoring the insistent claims of the mobile phone.

After the first couple of thrillers have been raced through, their spines cracked, their pages yellowed from being left out in the sun, then perhaps the serious reader will consider the palate cleansed for the hefty classic they had meant all along to tackle: the Dickens, the Eliot, the Homer; or, as it might be, the serious work of nonfiction: the history of the Phoenicians or the book about the natural history of the octopus or the volume on physics and the nature of time. Sometimes summer books may be connected to the holiday place, sometimes not. There is one kind of pleasure when words on the page harmonise with the landscape in which they are read, another kind when there is a dissonance – a story of Antarctic explorations, for example, read through a haze of heat.

Sometimes the reading may be conducted on a beach lounger, in a hammock, or on a blanket in the park; the book may be held aloft above the head, and used to shade the eyes from the tiring rays of the sun. It is perfectly natural if, at a certain point in the afternoon, the book is actually placed on the face, and the eyes gently close. Books can play many useful roles. Hastening a post-lunch nap for the overworked is surely one of them, and no reflection on the talents of the author.

On the other hand, when the body is fully rested, then may come a blissful time of deep immersion in a book. This is the way to a more profound refreshment from another world than physical travel or even physical rest can offer. Books will take you further than aeroplanes ever can, and this is their season. In summer, for the lucky, come precious days free of responsibilities, when there is nothing to do but read, and nothing to prevent one from reading all night. Summer is not the time of the year to nibble at a book – 10 minutes at bedtime, or half an hour on the bus. Summer is a sweet, short season, and it is meant for gorging and feasting with abandon.