Weathering the storms of life

Published on Sunday 7 January 2007 00:54

The Blue Cabin

Michael Faulkner

Blackstaff, 7.99

IT IS an ill wind, as the clich runs, that blows no one any good. In the case of Mike Faulkner it was the chilly gust of a business collapse in Scotland, with bankruptcy whistling on its heels, that forced him to cross to Northern Ireland to live on an island on Strangford Lough.

Islandmore, and the cabin that occupied its best vantage point, became home in 2002 to Faulkner, his wife and two feisty terriers. It had once been the holiday home of his childhood, with blissful memories of picnics, swimming and boating adventures led by Faulkner's father, who in 1971 became Northern Ireland's last serving prime minister, caught in the maelstrom of the Troubles.

That severest of ill winds erupts and shudders throughout the narrative. The ill winds of the lough itself in the maw of winter take their own toll on the flimsy fabric of the old cabin, with frosts and pipe-bursts to add to their miseries. This was not an easy flit.

This then is the story of a disruption and a resettling, of altered horizons, of human fortitude, not least the gritty resolve of Faulkner's parents under attack in the face of extremist sectarian buffeting. It is also a story of solid, enduring friendships - of old acquaintance renewed, sometimes touchingly as in the case of the RUC man returned to the stamping ground of his duties. It is the story too of a stream of visiting friends from Scotland who buckle under the bracing vicissitudes of stern weather, or bask in the idyll of Strangford in summer.

From chapter one, Faulkner exhibits a natural storytelling gift and a sureness with words, and also with rhythm, on which his phrases and sentences surf and maintain their momentum.

Whether he's writing about the best eating places, the landmarks that dot the lough, or local characters such as the aquaphobic plumber, he's always focused, bringing empathy and intelligence to the task of evoking the obdurate, humorous nature of so many Ulster types.

A tendency to whimsy combined with a penchant for mammoth sentences that sprout clauses, but somehow claw their way back to sense, occasionally distract. This said, the book is a heartwarming read, full of perception and gentle wit. Whether Faulkner's book is a classic in the making only posterity will judge. In the meantime, it makes the winter more bearable by the page.