It’s refreshing to read a book which is ‘different’.
The story starts with a plane crash in the middle of French Polynesia. On board the plane are three people; one is an American called Barry who has spent too many years working in finance in New York, though his dream is to be an artist. He takes the plunge, literally as it turns out, as the small plane crashes on its way to Paul Gauguin’s island. The other occupants of the plane are Etienne and Sophie Ducel a newly married couple who run an architectural firm in France. They are honeymooning in French Polynesia and want to see the grave of the singer Jacques Brel, buried on the same island as Paul Gaugin.
The plane sinks, as does Etienne. The artist and the architect have to work together to survive once the reach the island.
They do more than that, over several years – as they find love in the process.
Huckelbridge creates a sense of place like no other, and I laughed out loud many times as the ups and downs of needing to depend on one another takes precedence over wanting to deliver a shape smack.
The octopus capture is hysterical. The whole thing complete and compelling. A lovely novel.
Dane Huckelbridge has sent Frost Magazine his A Day in the Life in which you get a taste of his gloriously quirky turn of phase.
A Day in the Life of author Dane Huckelbridge
Well, I’d love to be able to say that I start each day here in Paris with a crack-of-dawn run along the Seine and some sort of nourishing health shake, but that would be what the French call une bold-faced lie—although I do enjoy the occasional piña colada, which is a health shake of sorts, and my groaning march to the writing desk each morning feels just as challenging as any Ironman Triathlon. All of which makes for a vigorous spiritual work-out, at the very least. After all, if I weren’t an athlete, why would I have so many second-hand sports coats?
However, once my electrolytes have been replenished via the weird little European Nespresso machine in the kitchen, and I’ve adequately warmed up with a callisthenic regimen of intense procrastinative dawdling, I get down to work—which usually isn’t so bad. I especially enjoy writing novels, like my latest one Castle of Water, although at the moment I’m working on a historical book about a man-eating tiger in 19th century India, which is precisely as weird and intriguing as one might think. I’m not too picky about where I write—back in New York, I lived and worked for a year in a pantry under my friend’s stairs known as “The Harry Potter Suite”—but Paris ain’t all bad. It is, simply by dint of its architecture, a predominantly grey city, and winter certainly does little to improve its spectrum. In spring and summer, however, Paris is wonderful, and upon stuffing the leftover Nespresso capsules into my ears to muffle the incessant, high-decibel whine of all the motor-scooters down below, it’s actually quite nice to type away with the balcony doors open and a baguette-scented breeze wafting in. I won’t lie—being a writer has plenty of attendant stresses, and it’s certainly not all beer and skittles. But there are those rare moments when it is sweet indeed. Even sweeter than skittles, as a matter of fact, although perhaps not the red ones. Nothing is sweeter than those.
I try to finish up for the day by late-afternoon, and if it’s not too close to supper, I like to squeeze in a walk, or even the odd beer. I do like wine, although being from the American Midwest, having to drink it too often is a bit like making a dog walk on its hind legs. Namely, it’s hard on my knee joints. So I’ll usually find a spot at a café on Oberkampf, or by the Place des Vosges, and enjoy a nice, cold…well, ok, the French never serve anything cold, and sometimes I’m not even sure it’s beer, but it’s definitely not wine. A piña colada, perhaps? Who knows.
But being healthy never tasted so good. And what is writing, after all, if not an exercise in good ta—
Dangit! Just spilled piña colada mix all over my skittle-red sports coat.
Castle of Water HQ paperback £7.99