I wrote this, my second novel, as the twentieth century was drawing to a close. It’s about a chap in his early thirties yearning for something more and going off in search of it. Funnily enough, I was then a chap in my early thirties… you know how that goes.
It was either during the writing, or shortly after finishing it, that I gave up my career as a solicitor. Not so much art imitating life as the other way around.
Paradise isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Unlucky in love, unlucky in life, Quirke yearns for something more. That indefinable, elusive something.
In his role as a prison counsellor, he meets Seff, an enigmatic convict who hints at an earthly Paradise, a place where Quirke may find his heart’s desire. When fate and an embittered co-worker conspire to lose Quirke his job, he sets off with his best friend to follow Seff’s vague directions.
Concealed by mountains and remote forests in deepest Wales, they stumble across a self-sufficient settlement inhabited by escapees of the pressures of the late twentieth century. When Quirke discovers that they brew their own beer, he feels he has found a way of life that might bring him contentment.
But beer’s not the only thing brewing in Paradise…