In the vast, rain-soaked expanse of County Mayo, where the Atlantic winds whisper ancient secrets and the peat bogs hold memories darker than their depths, Colin Barrett’s “Wild Houses” unfolds like a fever dream. This is a novel that seeps into your bones, leaving you unsettled and exhilarated in equal measure. It’s a tale of small-town suffocation, of dreams deferred and desperation unleashed, told with such visceral intensity that you can almost taste the salt air and hear the mournful howl of Georgie the dog.
Barrett, already acclaimed for his short story collections “Young Skins” and “Homesickness,” has crafted a debut novel that’s at once familiar and utterly singular. It’s no wonder “Wild Houses” has been longlisted for the 2024 Booker Prize – this is the kind of book that grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go, even long after you’ve turned the final page.
A Symphony of Broken Dreams
Set over a single weekend in Ballina, a town perched on the edge of nowhere, “Wild Houses” weaves together the stories of a cast of characters all teetering on the brink of something—breakdown, violence, escape, or maybe just another pint at the local. There’s Dev, a hulking recluse haunted by his past and the ghost of his mother. Doll, a sullen teenager caught in the crossfire of his brother’s misdeeds. Nicky, Doll’s girlfriend, navigating the treacherous waters of young love and small-town ennui. And looming over it all, the specter of Cillian English and the Ferdia brothers, locked in a dance of petty criminality and simmering violence.
Colin Barrett’s prose in Wild Houses is a masterclass in controlled chaos. He captures the lilting cadence of Mayo speech, the way words tumble and flow like the River Moy itself. But beneath the surface charm lurks a current of unease, a sense that everything could shatter at any moment. It’s like listening to a beautiful song played slightly out of tune—captivating and unsettling all at once.
The Ghosts of Mayo Past
One of the most striking things about “Wild Houses” is the way Barrett evokes the weight of history pressing down on his characters. This isn’t just a story about the present – it’s about the past that haunts every corner of Ballina, every field and bog and crumbling farmhouse. Dev’s house, with its musty rooms and the ever-present Georgie, becomes a physical manifestation of this haunting. You can almost smell the damp and hear the creaking floorboards as Dev moves through spaces still saturated with his mother’s presence.
Barrett has a knack for description that brings the landscape to vivid life. The “void” of the countryside at night, the “grey curve of the narrow, single-lane road that disappeared and recurred amid the rises and drops of the landscape”—it’s all rendered with such precision that you feel transported. This isn’t the postcard-pretty Ireland of tourism brochures. It’s a place of beauty, yes, but also of isolation and decay, where dreams go to die and secrets fester in the silence.
Characters on the Edge
At the heart of “Wild Houses” are its characters, each drawn with such complexity and empathy that they feel like people you might run into at the local chipper. Dev, in particular, is a creation of immense power. His struggle with anxiety and his own hulking physicality is portrayed with a raw honesty that’s often uncomfortable to read. The scene where he has a panic attack in the kitchen, with Doll watching, is a masterpiece of tension and vulnerability.
Nicky, too, is a standout. In Wild Houses, Colin Barrett captures the restlessness of youth, the desire to escape coupled with the gravitational pull of home. Her relationship with Doll feels achingly real – all fumbling passion and unspoken doubts. And then there’s Cillian, a character we mostly see through others’ eyes, but who looms large over the story. He’s the embodiment of small-town swagger and unfulfilled potential, a cautionary tale in the making.
The Rhythm of Violence
Violence thrums through “Wild Houses” like a bassline, always present even in moments of apparent calm. Barrett has a gift for building tension, ratcheting up the pressure until it feels like something has to give. The confrontation between Cillian and the Ferdia brothers in the woods is a masterclass in sustained menace, made all the more powerful by the presence of Nicky as an unwilling witness.
But it’s not just physical violence that Barrett explores. There’s the slow, insidious violence of dreams deferred, of lives lived in the shadow of what might have been. Dev’s isolation, Nicky’s growing realization that she might need to leave Doll behind, even Cillian’s desperate schemes—they’re all forms of violence against the self, against the future that could have been.
A Town Apart
Ballina itself emerges as a character in “Wild Houses,” a place both familiar and alien. Barrett captures the rhythms of small-town life with unflinching accuracy—the gossip, the claustrophobia, the way everyone knows everyone else’s business. There’s a scene where Nicky walks through town during the Salmon Festival that’s a perfect encapsulation of this world:
“On Main Street the second day of the festival was tentatively under way. Several stalls were open but at this hour, and in this weather, there were only a few people about. Through the filter of her hangover everyone else looked hungover too, scurrying pale-faced and clench-shouldered through the rain.”
You can almost hear the squelch of wet shoes on pavement, smell the greasy waft from the chip shops. It’s a place that feels lived-in, worn around the edges, but still holding on to some vestige of pride.
Echoes of the Past
While “Wild Houses” is Barrett’s debut novel, it bears the hallmarks of his acclaimed short fiction. Fans of “Young Skins” will recognize the unflinching portrayal of masculinity in crisis, the way violence simmers just below the surface of everyday interactions. There’s a kinship, too, with other great Irish writers who’ve explored similar terrain—think Kevin Barry’s “City of Bohane” or Lisa McInerney’s “The Glorious Heresies.”
But Barrett’s voice is uniquely his own. There’s a musicality to his prose, a way of capturing the rhythms of speech and thought that’s utterly captivating. He has a knack for the telling detail, the small observation that cracks open a character’s whole world. Take this description of Gabe Ferdia:
“He had smoker’s hands; the tips of his fingers a deep, sour yellow, his nails rust-rimmed and the fat wart embossing the knuckle of his thumb tinted caramel brown.”
In just a few words, we get a whole history of hard living and questionable choices.
A Symphony of Voices
One of Barrett’s greatest strengths is his ability to inhabit different voices. The novel shifts between perspectives – Dev, Nicky, Doll – with fluid grace, each character’s inner world rendered with vivid specificity. It’s like listening to a piece of music where different instruments take the lead, each adding depth and texture to the overall composition.
This polyphonic approach allows Barrett to explore the same events from multiple angles, revealing the complex web of motivations and misunderstandings that drive the plot forward. It’s a technique that keeps the reader off-balance, never quite sure where sympathies should lie.
The Weight of the Unsaid
For all its moments of explosive action, “Wild Houses” is just as powerful in its silences. Barrett understands the things people don’t say, the weight of unspoken truths that hang in the air between characters. There’s a scene where Dev and his father, now institutionalized, fail to connect at his mother’s funeral that’s heartbreaking in its restraint:
“Dev wanted to say something. To shout out, to get it to stop. He felt his heart lurch and silver motes began to sparkle and crawl in the corners of his vision.”
It’s in these moments of quiet desperation that the true emotional core of the novel reveals itself.
A Haunting Conclusion
As “Wild Houses” hurtles towards its conclusion, Barrett ratchets up the tension to almost unbearable levels. The final confrontation in Belleek Woods is a tour de force of sustained menace and unexpected grace. Without spoiling anything, it’s a resolution that feels both shocking and inevitable, a perfect distillation of the themes Barrett has been exploring throughout.
The novel’s coda, with its mix of tentative hope and lingering unease, is likely to stay with readers long after they’ve closed the book. It’s a reminder that in Ballina, as in life, there are no neat endings, only the continuous struggle to find meaning in the chaos.
A Voice to Watch
With “Wild Houses,” Colin Barrett has announced himself as a major voice in contemporary Irish literature. This is a novel of immense ambition and startling originality, one that grapples with big themes—identity, belonging, the weight of the past—while never losing sight of the intimate human dramas at its core.
It’s a book that demands to be read, reread, and discussed. In a literary landscape often dominated by urban stories, Barrett reminds us of the rich, complex worlds that exist in the small towns and forgotten corners of rural Ireland. “Wild Houses” is a novel that will haunt you, challenge you, and ultimately leave you in awe of Barrett’s prodigious talent.
As the Booker Prize judges deliberate, one thing is clear – Colin Barrett is a writer to watch, and “Wild Houses” is a novel that deserves to be celebrated. It’s a wild, exhilarating ride through the darkest corners of the human heart, illuminated by flashes of unexpected beauty and grace. Read it, and prepare to be transformed.
