‘On the Holloway Road’ by Andrew Blackman

The thing about me and travelogues is I find them a bit difficult to read. The premise is clear – descriptions of a journey. But the lack of conflict and weak (i.e. real) characters leave me a little cold and I have to really concentrate. I tried some Bill Bryson but it became clear that novels are my thing, where lives are at stake and characters are exaggerated. I do, as I have mentioned before, read the odd, mainly scientific, pieces of non-fiction on subjects of particular interest and usually related to a novel I am working on – coma, evolution, synaesthesia etc. Reading travelogues as research has proved a little more successful recently and I enjoyed Alexandra Tolstoy’s ‘The Last Secrets of the Silk Road’ very much, possibly because all the flirting with the various guides and the arguments between the girls made it more interesting (although put Alexandra in hot water on publication). Colin Thubron’s ‘Shadow of the Silk Road’ is a little more elusive although I will do battle with it again.

Then there is the fictional or semi-fictional account of a journey. Occasionally we read books because we feel that we should, that they are classics that we are missing out on. I once decided that I had to read at least one work by every Nobel Prize for Literature winner on my return from a trip to Iceland with a copy of Halldor Laxness’ ‘Independent People’ which was great but came to an abrupt halt when I floundered (haha) almost immediately at Gunter Grass. I convinced myself I didn’t get on with books in translation and moved on.

One such classic I not so long ago decided it was time I read was Jack Kerouac’s ‘On the Road’. I had heard, erroneously, that Kerouac wrote this (mostly autobiographical) novel in three days non-stop under the influence of amphetamines. Turns out this is mainly an urban myth although Wikipedia (source of all truth) says that he did complete the first draft over three weeks but with much preparation. Anyway, we didn’t get on. I can’t remember any of the small amount that I read.

I’m sad about this now since, although I thoroughly enjoyed Andrew Blackman’s ‘On the Holloway Road’, whose hapless narrator is, probably not at all coincidentally, called Jack, I feel that I might have missed out on some references. I was nervous at the start of the novel when it became apparent it was a journey as, as with travelogues, this can mean a weak premise and a lack of conflict. And in fact, even though there wasn’t a single conflict that the novel runs with, the conflicts along the way and Andrew’s superb writing make it a pleasure to read anyway.

At its core I would describe ‘On the Holloway Road’ as a Bromance. And surely there’s room in the market for more of these. In a chance encounter in a kebab shop late one night Jack meets nutty Neil. Deprived background, very clever, mouthy, lairy, hard as nails, spontaneous, opinionated – Neil is everything that Jack is not. I kept thinking that, romantically, the very things that attract you to a person in the first place, their identifying characteristics, often turn out to be the things that send you to distraction, in a not very good way, in the end.

And off they go on a journey, Jack trying to escape the trap he is in in London. Neil living out his endless, rambling philosophies and inventing more along the way. When the core plot is a journey, the reader I think can be forgiven for imagining that there are metaphors at play. The character is on a spiritual journey for self discovery, personal development, redemption perhaps. Maybe I have never fully recovered from The Book I Have Hated Above All Others, John Bunyan’s allegorical ‘The Pilgrim’s Progess’. I don’t feel too bad saying that as Bunyan’s been dead for over three-hundred years. But we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Strike me down. Or don’t, since it’s the book I have issue with and not the man himself (although, where is the division?).

Anyway, as I do, I have digressed. This is a story of people, their faith, love and attraction to each other where betrayals, decisions and a need for more meaning twist the tale over and over. I am very careful in my reviews not to give too much away, you shouldn’t find any spoilers here, but I will say that I found Andrew’s unpredictable ending satisfying beyond compare. At one point Neil suggests to Jack, who is a writer, that he writes a book with all of the possible endings. Jack’s brain implodes with the infinite consequences of the concept.

There was a certain amount of trepidation I have to admit with me reading a book about a writer. I am not sure what unsettles me about the concept. Maybe I think it’s a bit narcissistic. Maybe I think that there are so many things to write about it’s a waste. Maybe I think it’s too easy, writing about writing. But Jack isn’t really a writer. Jack has no idea what he is.