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I lived in Cambridge city for a while and it fast became one of my favourite cities. This book brought back lots of fond memories and wrapped them in a rich history - it's whimsically written, the story is superbly paced and tense - a great read.

The first chapter of the book takes place on the slopes of a dangerous mountain that a woman and her husband are attempting to climb. I'm not typically a fan of extreme mountain climbing, know nothing about the terminology, don't follow it as an activity - and yet found myself completely drawn in to the passionate summary of events given by the author.

And then the scene ended, the rest of the book began, and I struggled through a few chapters of dull writing before giving up. Such a huge shift in style and readability just between that one scene at the beginning and what came after. So I haven't read the full book. I might go back and try to finish it, if I ever find myself mind-numbingly bored one day.

Y'know how sometimes you watch a movie because you know it's going to be entertainingly bad and you can just sit there and roll your eyes at it for two hours? This is not the book equivalent. It's worse. It's a writer's nightmare; if stuff of this quality (or lack thereof) gets published, what's the point in even trying to better yourself as a writer?