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Thin Places
A breathtaking mix of memoir, nature writing and social history: this is Kerri ní Dochartaigh’s story of a wild Ireland, an invisible border, an old conflict and the healing power of the natural world
Kerri ní Dochartaigh was born in Derry, Northern Ireland, at the very height of the Troubles. She was brought up on a grey and impoverished council estate on the wrong side of town. But for her family, and many others, there was no right side. One parent was Catholic, the other was Protestant. In the space of one year they were forced out of two homes and when she was eleven a homemade petrol bomb was thrown through her bedroom window. Terror was in the very fabric of the city, and for families like Kerri’s, the ones who fell between the cracks of identity, it seemed there was no escape.
In Thin Places, a mixture of memoir, history and nature writing, Kerri explores how nature kept her sane and helped her heal, how violence and poverty are never more than a stone’s throw from beauty and hope, and how we are, once again, allowing our borders to become hard, and terror to creep back in. Kerri asks us to reclaim our landscape through language and study, and remember that the land we fight over is much more than lines on a map, more than housing estates and parliament buildings – it will always be ours but, at the same time, it never really was.
Kerri ní Dochartaigh was born in Derry, Northern Ireland, at the very height of the Troubles. She was brought up on a grey and impoverished council estate on the wrong side of town. But for her family, and many others, there was no right side. One parent was Catholic, the other was Protestant. In the space of one year they were forced out of two homes and when she was eleven a homemade petrol bomb was thrown through her bedroom window. Terror was in the very fabric of the city, and for families like Kerri’s, the ones who fell between the cracks of identity, it seemed there was no escape.
In Thin Places, a mixture of memoir, history and nature writing, Kerri explores how nature kept her sane and helped her heal, how violence and poverty are never more than a stone’s throw from beauty and hope, and how we are, once again, allowing our borders to become hard, and terror to creep back in. Kerri asks us to reclaim our landscape through language and study, and remember that the land we fight over is much more than lines on a map, more than housing estates and parliament buildings – it will always be ours but, at the same time, it never really was.
255 pages, Hardcover
First published January 28, 2021
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 261 reviews
May 9, 2021
I have some mixed feelings about this book. There are no half stars on Goodreads, and 3 stars felt mean so I have plumped for 4. I had different views of this book as a reader than as a writer. As a reader I got one level of enjoyment, as a writer I think I learnt something.
Dochartaigh is, at her best, a very fine writer indeed. I have no doubt she will go on to write more wonderful material. Parts of this book are brilliant, particularly at the start. And she takes an unusual, and I think a bold and potentially really good, approach of interweaving autobiographical, historical and natural history materials.
The book is primarily a memoire about her and her troubled life in Northern Ireland, getting over her very difficult childhood living in Derry through the height of the troubles, and her outlet into the natural and to some extent, spiritual world. The spiritual world is not that of religions, but the other world of spirits that surrounds the Irish landscape and wildlife. But the book is not a memoire in the standard way. For me, the book is about belonging and not belonging, about boundaries - real and imagined between people and places, and about the way we flow between those boundaries.
Generally, I found it to be a good and interesting read. However, the writing at times feels like a mechanism for personal catharsis. There is no issue with this, but such catharsis, being such a deep personal thing, is not always interesting for the reader. I felt the balance was not quite right, and towards the end of the book I started to feel it was about 20% too long. However, there is much to admire, and some passages really are magical. I have no regrets about reading it and few images from it will stay with me.
Dochartaigh is, at her best, a very fine writer indeed. I have no doubt she will go on to write more wonderful material. Parts of this book are brilliant, particularly at the start. And she takes an unusual, and I think a bold and potentially really good, approach of interweaving autobiographical, historical and natural history materials.
The book is primarily a memoire about her and her troubled life in Northern Ireland, getting over her very difficult childhood living in Derry through the height of the troubles, and her outlet into the natural and to some extent, spiritual world. The spiritual world is not that of religions, but the other world of spirits that surrounds the Irish landscape and wildlife. But the book is not a memoire in the standard way. For me, the book is about belonging and not belonging, about boundaries - real and imagined between people and places, and about the way we flow between those boundaries.
Generally, I found it to be a good and interesting read. However, the writing at times feels like a mechanism for personal catharsis. There is no issue with this, but such catharsis, being such a deep personal thing, is not always interesting for the reader. I felt the balance was not quite right, and towards the end of the book I started to feel it was about 20% too long. However, there is much to admire, and some passages really are magical. I have no regrets about reading it and few images from it will stay with me.
October 28, 2020
I really struggled with this book. I think I thought it would be more about nature than it was. That's not to say that it wasn't, but the focus and drive of the book is the author's working through her incredibly traumatic life and the key events in that journey that led her home. She references the 'thin places' often but for myself I didn't get a full sense of what they were like as places, more like what they represented to her as an individual and how she was able to connect with her trauma in those spaces. The book is very much about her inner landscape and how that shaped her responses in later life. It was a pretty devastating read. It felt to me like her recovery was pretty raw and facilitated as much by her writing as the things she writes about.
March 3, 2025
This poetic meandering memoir is something truly special. The book wanders along memories and observations of nature and along trains of thought. The author isn't interested in efficiency, but in discovery and in describing a process of healing from trauma that she experienced but doesn't fully understand. The writing alludes and suggests but doesn't define or declare. It explores and the reader comes along for the journey.
A great book for the right reader.
A great book for the right reader.
March 20, 2022
Thin Places is something of an enigma, when I bought it, I thought it was in the nature writing genre, the inside cover calls it a mix of memoir, history and nature writing - such a simplistic description of the reading experience, which for me was something else.
This book is a kind of cathartic experience of being inside the experience of someone who has experienced trauma, who has yet to awaken from its implications, or be conscious of its effect - but who by the end will by necessity awaken to it, because it can no longer be contained inside the mind, the body and for the good of the soul, it must be expressed, broken down, if there is to be any change of coming out the other side.
So the first part of the book I can only describe as "being in the fog". We know Kerri Ni Dochartaigh was born in Derry on the border of the North and South of Ireland, at the height of the troubles, that her parents were of mixed heritage, one Protestant, the other Catholic, they existed in the oftentime dangerous in-between, safe in neither space or only temporarily.
Though we are told this, the uninitiated reader doesn't really understand what that means, how it actually manifests on the human level, on a day to day basis - until she arrives at the point where she realises, she needs to confront the reality of the things that happened - because she is losing it - and finding it harder and harder to function in the bubble of denial that allows her to go about her day, to work, to live.
And so she begins to share the events. And it's tough to read, to absorb as we imagine the magnitude of the effect these events must have had on a child, on an adolescent, a young adult. But what courage, to make that decision, to visit that dark place, to express those thoughts, recount those events, relive the disappointments, feel again the sense of abandonment, to trust that writing about it might bring one towards healing.
While there are those moments of how nature and the many metaphors and symbolism of it kept her sane, this is more about the nature of mind and the necessity of finding and/or making meaning in navigating the troubles of life, in order to overcome past hurts, reconcile traumatic events and find a way to live again, to believe in hope, to elevate one's self-worth and be able to function in a relationship.
It is a tough read and one that we as readers are privileged to gain insight from, because Kerri ni Dochartaigh could very easily not be here, and yet she is - and I like to believe that in part that is because the sharing of her experience and path to healing are an important part of her soul's purpose in this life, this extraordinary book is part of her life's work, she has found a way to articulate to the many, the terrible destructive effect of divisiveness and intolerance on young people, the effect of not feeling safe during childhood and adolescence and the difficulty of becoming something other than what you knew growing up - of learning to trust, to love, of connecting to the natural environment, learning a near lost language that connects the Irish to their environment and dwelling in just being.
Hard going at times, but extraordinary, a beating, bleeding heart, ripped open to heal.
Heaven and earth, the Celtic saying goes, are only three feet apart, but in thin places that distance is even shorter. They are places that make us feel something larger than ourselves, as though we are held in a place between worlds, beyond experience.
This book is a kind of cathartic experience of being inside the experience of someone who has experienced trauma, who has yet to awaken from its implications, or be conscious of its effect - but who by the end will by necessity awaken to it, because it can no longer be contained inside the mind, the body and for the good of the soul, it must be expressed, broken down, if there is to be any change of coming out the other side.
Even as a child, I could see no way of staying in my hometown. The edges of the broken and breaking city never quite held themselves in place, and my own family life mirrored those fractures.
So the first part of the book I can only describe as "being in the fog". We know Kerri Ni Dochartaigh was born in Derry on the border of the North and South of Ireland, at the height of the troubles, that her parents were of mixed heritage, one Protestant, the other Catholic, they existed in the oftentime dangerous in-between, safe in neither space or only temporarily.
We have a somewhat difficult relationship with the word 'tradition' in Ireland, particularly in the North. The way that religion has latched itself onto the politics of this land has left many people with no desire to look at the imagery of their ancestors; the story of their past. We have lost, broken, murdered, burned, stolen, hidden and undone - all in the false name of tradition. Lives, places and stories have been ripped out by their roots because 'that's how it has always been'. I wonder, I wonder so very much these days, what wealth of imagery and meaning was lost when we became so focused on our differences here, that we buried the things that had once tied us together, the things that might still know a way through, for us all.
Though we are told this, the uninitiated reader doesn't really understand what that means, how it actually manifests on the human level, on a day to day basis - until she arrives at the point where she realises, she needs to confront the reality of the things that happened - because she is losing it - and finding it harder and harder to function in the bubble of denial that allows her to go about her day, to work, to live.
The past, present and future all seemed to blend into one, and every single part of the story held sorrow that I couldn't get rid of, no matter how deeply I try to bury it. So many different things - situations, times of year, people - made the bad things rise up from inside to bite me again. Triggers, I know that now. It left me feeling scared, hollowed out and with no control over any of it, not really knowing how to make it - any of it - stop.
And so she begins to share the events. And it's tough to read, to absorb as we imagine the magnitude of the effect these events must have had on a child, on an adolescent, a young adult. But what courage, to make that decision, to visit that dark place, to express those thoughts, recount those events, relive the disappointments, feel again the sense of abandonment, to trust that writing about it might bring one towards healing.
While there are those moments of how nature and the many metaphors and symbolism of it kept her sane, this is more about the nature of mind and the necessity of finding and/or making meaning in navigating the troubles of life, in order to overcome past hurts, reconcile traumatic events and find a way to live again, to believe in hope, to elevate one's self-worth and be able to function in a relationship.
It is a tough read and one that we as readers are privileged to gain insight from, because Kerri ni Dochartaigh could very easily not be here, and yet she is - and I like to believe that in part that is because the sharing of her experience and path to healing are an important part of her soul's purpose in this life, this extraordinary book is part of her life's work, she has found a way to articulate to the many, the terrible destructive effect of divisiveness and intolerance on young people, the effect of not feeling safe during childhood and adolescence and the difficulty of becoming something other than what you knew growing up - of learning to trust, to love, of connecting to the natural environment, learning a near lost language that connects the Irish to their environment and dwelling in just being.
Naming things, in the language that should always have been offered to you, is a way to sculpt loss. A way to protect that which we still have.
Hard going at times, but extraordinary, a beating, bleeding heart, ripped open to heal.
July 22, 2022
I received a copy via Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.
It's hard to know how to review, let alone rate, this book. On the one hand: it's an intense autobiographical account of the author's trauma, which manages to discuss the Troubles and Brexit with extreme sensitivity and respect, and is beautifully written too. On the other: it does drag on a bit.
The problem I had was that eventually every chapter became a bit repetitive, with descriptions of harrowing events Dochartaigh went through and then how nature helped her cope and heal. After a while it becomes hard to cope with all the traumatic experiences that are recounted, and I felt numb and exhausted. I had a similar response to all the descriptions of how nature helped Dochartaigh heal, which I found very similar each time. The writing style became quite grating and the structure also seemed a bit odd - roughly chronological, but then some things overviewed before they were fully recounted, such as Dochartaigh's experience of alcoholism.
I feel unfair complaining about these things, because in many ways it's a beautiful and well-written book, and I appreciated the insight into what it was like living through the Troubles in Derry. I think that ultimately, it just wasn't the book for me; but I don't regret reading it either, and maybe it will be the book for you.
It's hard to know how to review, let alone rate, this book. On the one hand: it's an intense autobiographical account of the author's trauma, which manages to discuss the Troubles and Brexit with extreme sensitivity and respect, and is beautifully written too. On the other: it does drag on a bit.
The problem I had was that eventually every chapter became a bit repetitive, with descriptions of harrowing events Dochartaigh went through and then how nature helped her cope and heal. After a while it becomes hard to cope with all the traumatic experiences that are recounted, and I felt numb and exhausted. I had a similar response to all the descriptions of how nature helped Dochartaigh heal, which I found very similar each time. The writing style became quite grating and the structure also seemed a bit odd - roughly chronological, but then some things overviewed before they were fully recounted, such as Dochartaigh's experience of alcoholism.
I feel unfair complaining about these things, because in many ways it's a beautiful and well-written book, and I appreciated the insight into what it was like living through the Troubles in Derry. I think that ultimately, it just wasn't the book for me; but I don't regret reading it either, and maybe it will be the book for you.
January 19, 2023
This is a powerful memoir by Irish writer Kerri Ní Dochartaigh. She writes poignantly about how out of experiencing so much violence, poverty, trauma, and struggles with suicide, she found healing and hope through love, therapy, poetry, landscape, community, identity, and Celtic thin places in Ireland, Wales, Scotland, and Cornwall-those places where the veil of heaven and earth meet bringing one outside of time briefly. I have experienced those thin places myself in the mountains of North Carolina, Scotland, England, Scotland, and Ireland. I highly recommend this book.
October 5, 2021
This is one of those books where it is hard to do a review that does justice, there is no way I can put together enough coherent words to show you just how powerful this book is….but I’m gonna do it anyways. As a person who has led a safe and sheltered life it really does blow my mind how some people are able to take so many hits in life, be witness to so much trauma and still be standing on their own two feet at the end of it. Kerri was born to a Protestant parent and the other parent was a Catholic, in the time and place she was born this was not a safe combination. Humanity’s ability to be so cruel always amazes me, neighbours can so easily turn on each other with (to me) no logical reason. Growing up in and around Derry, Kerri was witness to a huge amount of violence and hatred and once there was peace in Ireland, the world managed to find new ways to traumatise her.
I think Kerri has been very brave in writing this book, being at a stable time of her life this must have brought up so much darkness and pain and to then put it out there in the world where any Tom, Dick and Harry (all 3 are well known trolls) can read it and then potentially deal with abuse over it’s content shows you just how strong this Lady is. I can’t say I’ve “enjoyed” this book, I was mesmerised by it, the honesty almost sweeps you away and you forget this is someone’s memoirs. The writing is poetic, at times it even feels like a chant, I know that sounds weird but when Kerri stops for a moment and directly addresses the reader, a chant is exactly how it felt to me. My favourite part was the bits about nature, when Kerri is at her darkest moment, when her grip on life is at it’s weakest nature steps in and pulls her back from the edge, it is only fleeting but enough for Kerri to know she has been seen, it’s only at these times you realise you’ve been holding your breath for the last 5 pages. It was great to see that she still has so much for the island even though she has faced so much there.
This is a book everybody needs to have a read of, maybe it will give you some hope, Kerri has faced so much and is still here. I loved the little dedication to M in the acknowledgments, some fine words there.
Blog review: https://felcherman.wordpress.com/2021...
I think Kerri has been very brave in writing this book, being at a stable time of her life this must have brought up so much darkness and pain and to then put it out there in the world where any Tom, Dick and Harry (all 3 are well known trolls) can read it and then potentially deal with abuse over it’s content shows you just how strong this Lady is. I can’t say I’ve “enjoyed” this book, I was mesmerised by it, the honesty almost sweeps you away and you forget this is someone’s memoirs. The writing is poetic, at times it even feels like a chant, I know that sounds weird but when Kerri stops for a moment and directly addresses the reader, a chant is exactly how it felt to me. My favourite part was the bits about nature, when Kerri is at her darkest moment, when her grip on life is at it’s weakest nature steps in and pulls her back from the edge, it is only fleeting but enough for Kerri to know she has been seen, it’s only at these times you realise you’ve been holding your breath for the last 5 pages. It was great to see that she still has so much for the island even though she has faced so much there.
This is a book everybody needs to have a read of, maybe it will give you some hope, Kerri has faced so much and is still here. I loved the little dedication to M in the acknowledgments, some fine words there.
Blog review: https://felcherman.wordpress.com/2021...
May 23, 2021
A raw and honest memoir - difficult to describe but highly recommended read. I listened to the audiobook, narrated by the author and I think that format definitely added to the poignancy and emotional impact.
January 28, 2021
Growing in up in Northern Ireland was tough in the time of the Troubles for all sorts of people. For Kerri ní Dochartaigh’s it was even harder. One parent was Protestant and the other Catholic and the area that they lived was part of a Protestant estate. Not fitting in with any of the divided communities really didn’t help, but she was witness to all sorts of traumatic events including witnessing the murder of a soldier as a small child, It got much harder to live there after her home was firebombed, but it was a place that felt that you could never escape from.
Moving to a new area of Ireland gave her a glimpse of what could be possible in her life, no one cared what her nominated religion was nor of her background. But still, the troubles impinged on her life; a friend was taken only an hour after seeing his and found later in a shallow grave. She somehow made it through school and university though and decided that Ireland was not for her anymore and headed to the UK. It was here that all the trauma of the past slowly caught up with her. She started drinking heavily, sunk into depression and gave up any hope that things might get better. She walked to the very edge of the abyss and waited her time.
There are places that speak of that unwritten language of letting go, of giving in, of being held like a hand in silent universal prayer
As heavy as this emotional baggage was there were points in her life that started the healing process long before she knows there was anything that could be fixed. Staying at Treshnish on the Isle of Mull, there was a day when the harr, a dense sea fog, had lifted and she was swimming in the dark waters in the intense blackness and silence of the place held her safe. She would sob beneath oak trees, her tears wetting the ground, the roots absorbing her sorrows. She would gather objects like a magpie, piling them up on her windowsills as fragments of memories of places and time spent alone. Her flatmate found her weeping uncontrollably under the stairs. She helped her to bed and then waited until she finally slept. Then came the moment on a beach in January when she felt held in a place other than this world; she had found a thin place. It was time to return to Ireland
Places only hold us close enough that we can finally see ourselves reflected back
At times this is a really hard book to read. Ní Dochartaigh has been through a lot in her life and she tells us about it in a way that is open, honest and unflinching in its intensity. She knows that her life story may well have been very different if she had made other choices. Thankfully she didn’t and this is why we have this book. She draws energy deeply from being in the wild outdoors, feeling the power of wind and water and understanding that we are mere moments in geological time. What she draws from the natural world is mirrored in her prose, which particularly in the second half of the book is just beautiful. This book might not be for everyone, but it comes highly recommended from me. 4.5 stars
Moving to a new area of Ireland gave her a glimpse of what could be possible in her life, no one cared what her nominated religion was nor of her background. But still, the troubles impinged on her life; a friend was taken only an hour after seeing his and found later in a shallow grave. She somehow made it through school and university though and decided that Ireland was not for her anymore and headed to the UK. It was here that all the trauma of the past slowly caught up with her. She started drinking heavily, sunk into depression and gave up any hope that things might get better. She walked to the very edge of the abyss and waited her time.
There are places that speak of that unwritten language of letting go, of giving in, of being held like a hand in silent universal prayer
As heavy as this emotional baggage was there were points in her life that started the healing process long before she knows there was anything that could be fixed. Staying at Treshnish on the Isle of Mull, there was a day when the harr, a dense sea fog, had lifted and she was swimming in the dark waters in the intense blackness and silence of the place held her safe. She would sob beneath oak trees, her tears wetting the ground, the roots absorbing her sorrows. She would gather objects like a magpie, piling them up on her windowsills as fragments of memories of places and time spent alone. Her flatmate found her weeping uncontrollably under the stairs. She helped her to bed and then waited until she finally slept. Then came the moment on a beach in January when she felt held in a place other than this world; she had found a thin place. It was time to return to Ireland
Places only hold us close enough that we can finally see ourselves reflected back
At times this is a really hard book to read. Ní Dochartaigh has been through a lot in her life and she tells us about it in a way that is open, honest and unflinching in its intensity. She knows that her life story may well have been very different if she had made other choices. Thankfully she didn’t and this is why we have this book. She draws energy deeply from being in the wild outdoors, feeling the power of wind and water and understanding that we are mere moments in geological time. What she draws from the natural world is mirrored in her prose, which particularly in the second half of the book is just beautiful. This book might not be for everyone, but it comes highly recommended from me. 4.5 stars
February 11, 2021
I've become a fan of what I might call Irish Noir fiction. So many talented writers continue to emerge in Ireland and I enjoy in particular the dark tragi-comedy that many express. Landscape is often a powerful 'character' in these stories which, my having made a number of visits to the country, makes the reading experience so strong. So when I read that 'Thin Places' was a mixture of memoir, history and nature I jumped in.
As I read the first chapters I felt a reluctant disappointment. Had no-one ever suggested to the author one of the first rules of writing – show don't tell? Key moments seemed to be merely referred to rather than conveyed. Landscape and the nature within it, so crucial to the author's experience, were expressed through a kind of magic realism so private that I struggled to feel the weight of trauma behind it. I didn't understand what a thin place is. I concede this could well be my failure of empathy or a reductionist attitude.
'Loss' and 'grief' figure overwhelmingly in the book but, again, as words on the page rather than as a consequence of realised experience. But it was through these encounters that I began to respond to the book in a different way. The author presents her life in the family and social sphere as unrelentingly painful and frequently traumatic. But, I wondered, how can you feel so much loss and grief if you have never had joy, if you've never experienced anything you wanted to keep and hold onto? How can you miss what you never had?
So we are drawn into the mysteries of the human heart. We discover that someone so traumatised is capable of summoning to her heart a knowledge of what she has never had. She grieves for a lost childhood without knowing what it should have been. The demon-creatures she evokes, some healing, some terrifying, exist in the landscape of her psyche where she seeks to live out alternative states of being. The black crow which figures frequently suggests the black dog that can visit those experiencing depression. I suppose the thin places are those where her spirit is most stimulated to enter this potential state of healing.
Kerri ni Dochartaigh was prescribed counselling relatively late, after enduring much pain and trauma. What we are reading in this book is self-counselling through talking/writing therapy before formal counselling had become available to her. So we have obsession, circularity, esoteric visions, gnawing on the bones of experience. In her conclusion she suggests she has found some peace.
As I read the first chapters I felt a reluctant disappointment. Had no-one ever suggested to the author one of the first rules of writing – show don't tell? Key moments seemed to be merely referred to rather than conveyed. Landscape and the nature within it, so crucial to the author's experience, were expressed through a kind of magic realism so private that I struggled to feel the weight of trauma behind it. I didn't understand what a thin place is. I concede this could well be my failure of empathy or a reductionist attitude.
'Loss' and 'grief' figure overwhelmingly in the book but, again, as words on the page rather than as a consequence of realised experience. But it was through these encounters that I began to respond to the book in a different way. The author presents her life in the family and social sphere as unrelentingly painful and frequently traumatic. But, I wondered, how can you feel so much loss and grief if you have never had joy, if you've never experienced anything you wanted to keep and hold onto? How can you miss what you never had?
So we are drawn into the mysteries of the human heart. We discover that someone so traumatised is capable of summoning to her heart a knowledge of what she has never had. She grieves for a lost childhood without knowing what it should have been. The demon-creatures she evokes, some healing, some terrifying, exist in the landscape of her psyche where she seeks to live out alternative states of being. The black crow which figures frequently suggests the black dog that can visit those experiencing depression. I suppose the thin places are those where her spirit is most stimulated to enter this potential state of healing.
Kerri ni Dochartaigh was prescribed counselling relatively late, after enduring much pain and trauma. What we are reading in this book is self-counselling through talking/writing therapy before formal counselling had become available to her. So we have obsession, circularity, esoteric visions, gnawing on the bones of experience. In her conclusion she suggests she has found some peace.
January 25, 2021
The "thin places" of the title refers to (in the author's own words - please be minded any quotes may change in the final version of the book): "places that make us feel something larger than ourselves, as though we are held in place between worlds, beyond experience."
I love the idea of this, and the blend of nature and memoir always intrigues me, but I'm sorry to say little here worked for me. I didn't feel wholly convinced by the connections the author looks for between emotions, memory and place, and think this has been done in a more cogent and affecting way elsewhere.
Thank you Netgalley and Canongate for the advance copy, which was provided in exchange for an honest review.
I love the idea of this, and the blend of nature and memoir always intrigues me, but I'm sorry to say little here worked for me. I didn't feel wholly convinced by the connections the author looks for between emotions, memory and place, and think this has been done in a more cogent and affecting way elsewhere.
Thank you Netgalley and Canongate for the advance copy, which was provided in exchange for an honest review.
December 24, 2020
Thin Places by Kerri ni Dochartaigh may be one of the last books I read in the strange year that has been 2020 but it is also one of the best. I found myself slowing down to savour the beautiful words on the page and the vivid images they conjured. The book is part memoir, part nature writing and part history, taking the author's story of growing up in Derry as part of a mixed Faith family during the Troubles and showing how from a very young age her connection with the natural world was a grounding force and a safety net during difficult times.
The theme of borders, both natural and man made runs through the book which feels so current in the time of Brexit and all the particular concerns that the people of Northern Ireland have about the process. It is an incredibly personal piece of writing , the author is courageous enough to share some very dark moments from her past, but there is also a lot of hope , and so much beauty in her writing. Her descriptions of the natural world almost sing from the page , so lyrical, evocative and powerful. that I am in awe.
I read and reviewed an ARC courtesy of NetGalley and the publisher, all opinions are my own .
The theme of borders, both natural and man made runs through the book which feels so current in the time of Brexit and all the particular concerns that the people of Northern Ireland have about the process. It is an incredibly personal piece of writing , the author is courageous enough to share some very dark moments from her past, but there is also a lot of hope , and so much beauty in her writing. Her descriptions of the natural world almost sing from the page , so lyrical, evocative and powerful. that I am in awe.
I read and reviewed an ARC courtesy of NetGalley and the publisher, all opinions are my own .
May 1, 2022
Dit is een "memoir" van deze auteur, over haar leven dat getekend is door het trauma van the troubles in Noord-Ierland, over hoe haar familie er aan ten onder ging, over hoe dit geweld een spoor van vernieling en pijn trok door de levens van al deze mensen en hoe deze pijn werd verzwegen en weggestopt. Weggestopt trauma zoekt steeds zijn weg naar buiten, vaak in de vorm van verslavingen, meer geweld en depressies.
Het is de weg uit het trauma, het zoeken naar de eigen en gedeelde identiteit, het verwerken van het verleden, de moeizame tocht naar hoop en uiteindelijk het loslaten waarover dit boek gaat.
"We hold in our open hands the strength to take suffering and turn it into song. Our voices can tell a story of hope above the cacophony of sorrow (...)".
Dit boek is op een vreemde manier poëtisch en vooral etherisch.
Mijn hart werd een beetje zwaarder telkens ik in het boek las. Weinig boeken hebben de kracht om een hart te vullen, om je gemoedstoestand te beïnvloeden, "Thin Places" heeft die kracht.
Eigenlijk, nu ik de weg ken die de schrijfster heeft afgelegd, zou ik het boek moeten herlezen. Veel beelden die in deel 1 werden aangereikt, werden ingevuld in deel 2. Ik weet zeker dat ik er nog meer zou ontdekken, en meer zal zien hoe het begin van deel 1 samenloopt met het einde van deel 2
Prachtig boek.
"There are still places on this earth that sing of all that came and left, of all that is still here and of all that is yet to come. Places that have been touched, warmed by the presence of something. By its heat, by its breath, by the beat of its heart. Places that hold on their surface a shadow-trace left behind by something we can still sense but no longer see."
Het is de weg uit het trauma, het zoeken naar de eigen en gedeelde identiteit, het verwerken van het verleden, de moeizame tocht naar hoop en uiteindelijk het loslaten waarover dit boek gaat.
"We hold in our open hands the strength to take suffering and turn it into song. Our voices can tell a story of hope above the cacophony of sorrow (...)".
Dit boek is op een vreemde manier poëtisch en vooral etherisch.
Mijn hart werd een beetje zwaarder telkens ik in het boek las. Weinig boeken hebben de kracht om een hart te vullen, om je gemoedstoestand te beïnvloeden, "Thin Places" heeft die kracht.
Eigenlijk, nu ik de weg ken die de schrijfster heeft afgelegd, zou ik het boek moeten herlezen. Veel beelden die in deel 1 werden aangereikt, werden ingevuld in deel 2. Ik weet zeker dat ik er nog meer zou ontdekken, en meer zal zien hoe het begin van deel 1 samenloopt met het einde van deel 2
Prachtig boek.
"There are still places on this earth that sing of all that came and left, of all that is still here and of all that is yet to come. Places that have been touched, warmed by the presence of something. By its heat, by its breath, by the beat of its heart. Places that hold on their surface a shadow-trace left behind by something we can still sense but no longer see."
September 2, 2021
I am so relieved to see other readers have enjoyed Thin Places as there's nothing worse than a pile-on of negative reviews. An open free writing approach of a woman who grew up during the Troubles, lost family because of it, was uprooted and spiritually destroyed by the experience, yet still remains drawn to the dark and almost ethereal beauty of the country... well, that's the promise of a beautiful book. However, I found this such hard going.
The writing style may be loose, flitfuly turning from war to nature with an intriguing turn of phrase, but after a while this becomes meandering. Any thread or narrative drive is lost, pages seem to become lost in over-descriptive passages. I found this book a challenge to finish.
Kerri is undeniable honest about her experiences, in particular, the ongoing psychological damage the Troubles continue to wreak on her and those she knows, But even these sections can jump around a bit, characters coming and going. it's hard to get a hold on where we are at any moment.
HOWEVER. I applaud the bravery and fierce originality of the approach. We always want to encourage new writing and avant garde styles. However, for me, this should probably be approached as a collection of essays on a theme rather than a complete book with structure and purpose.
The writing style may be loose, flitfuly turning from war to nature with an intriguing turn of phrase, but after a while this becomes meandering. Any thread or narrative drive is lost, pages seem to become lost in over-descriptive passages. I found this book a challenge to finish.
Kerri is undeniable honest about her experiences, in particular, the ongoing psychological damage the Troubles continue to wreak on her and those she knows, But even these sections can jump around a bit, characters coming and going. it's hard to get a hold on where we are at any moment.
HOWEVER. I applaud the bravery and fierce originality of the approach. We always want to encourage new writing and avant garde styles. However, for me, this should probably be approached as a collection of essays on a theme rather than a complete book with structure and purpose.
May 29, 2022
Great concept, honest and raw emotions. The author was brave to write this book. But I don't feel like the publishers chose an appropriate blurb. I didn't take much away regarding the use of nature and it's healing powers. I also didn't find it that informative about the troubles or gaelic folklore which I had expected elements of. It read like a trauma diary, cathartic to write but not that nice to read. I suppose it wasn't supposed to be a nice read - it was honest. Difficult though.
July 11, 2022
a harrowing memoir, this book takes us through the turbulent childhood of kerri ní dochartaigh who was raised during the height of the troubles. as she recounts her life up until 2020, she paints a traumatic, but ultimately hopeful, picture of living in derry, northern Ireland.
i had high hopes for this book as this is where my family is from. i wanted to dive in and better understand the trauma of the troubles from a first-hand account. kerri has gone through it, that's for sure. she tells us of the trauma she had to endure in explicit detail while balancing it with interesting reflection. she tackles themes of reconciliation and reciprocity of physical places, transformation through nature, and collective trauma. what i found most interesting is her discussions on place; the how and why a place is sacred, and how we can reclaim their ancient meanings for modern times. i think thin places exist all around us, a feeling of groundedness and clarity that can be felt while swimming in bodies of water, hiking through forests, and sitting in the expansiveness of a busy city. she shows us how she overcame trauma through nature, how briefly losing our sense of self can help us find peace in ourselves, and running away from a place steeped in personal trauma may be the only place that can be truly healing.
i think what i struggled with is how repetitive this memoir was. each chapter felt like a reflection on the same themes paired with a different part of her life while not providing anything new or insightful to consider. it, at times, felt indulgent and lacking in the depth that i was hoping for. this one took me about a month to finish for this reason, even though it's 250 pages.
i am CONTINUING to go through it with each of these gd Irish authors!!! SOMEONE GIVE THEM LEXAPRO OR SOMETHING
i had high hopes for this book as this is where my family is from. i wanted to dive in and better understand the trauma of the troubles from a first-hand account. kerri has gone through it, that's for sure. she tells us of the trauma she had to endure in explicit detail while balancing it with interesting reflection. she tackles themes of reconciliation and reciprocity of physical places, transformation through nature, and collective trauma. what i found most interesting is her discussions on place; the how and why a place is sacred, and how we can reclaim their ancient meanings for modern times. i think thin places exist all around us, a feeling of groundedness and clarity that can be felt while swimming in bodies of water, hiking through forests, and sitting in the expansiveness of a busy city. she shows us how she overcame trauma through nature, how briefly losing our sense of self can help us find peace in ourselves, and running away from a place steeped in personal trauma may be the only place that can be truly healing.
i think what i struggled with is how repetitive this memoir was. each chapter felt like a reflection on the same themes paired with a different part of her life while not providing anything new or insightful to consider. it, at times, felt indulgent and lacking in the depth that i was hoping for. this one took me about a month to finish for this reason, even though it's 250 pages.
i am CONTINUING to go through it with each of these gd Irish authors!!! SOMEONE GIVE THEM LEXAPRO OR SOMETHING
August 7, 2022
3.5 stars. A hard book to describe. I can’t imagine what it would have been like to grow up in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. I hadn’t really considered the impact of Brexit there and the fear of what reestablishing borders might mean for a still fragile peace. Some parts of the book resonated with me more than others.
April 14, 2025
Beautiful!
March 6, 2023
A difficult book to review, or quantify. Beautiful writing about sometimes very ugly, desperate things. A lot of duality. New and fresh, but repetitious. A story that at some times facilitates closeness and recognition, at other times distance and alienation. At times the language spoke to me, at times I found it overwrought, and I kept losing my place and concentration.
I simultaneously wanted less and more. Less repetition, less coming back to the same thing over and over (although I of course understand it was extremely traumatic), less waxing poetic without specificity. More personality. More linearity. More story.
I have always been drawn to stories of Northern Ireland and the very euphemistically named Troubles. Although I've never even been to the place, I guess as an Irish person I feel some kinship, some relation to the place and people. And growing up not that far from London in the late 80s and early 90s, we were regularly confronted with the realities of the conflict, and Victoria station seeming to be one unending bomb threat.
Fortunately, I have not had to live through this trauma myself. And ní Dochartaigh's writing does a good job of bringing home exactly how scarring and devastating this conflict has been for generations of Northern Irish people. I also loved learning more about Irish language and Celtic religion and tradition.
While the description of "thin places" is somewhat vague and ethereal, I feel like that is the nature of thin places, and it resonated with me. I have had such experiences myself, though rarely. It made me want to be more in tune with and connect more deeply to nature, which is something I've been working towards already.
The connection between the body and geography, borders being something that is felt physically and written onto us, the moving from place to place and searching for home, belonging - both physically and spiritually, is also something that spoke to me and something that comes up a lot in my own writing.
On the other hand it was a bit of a struggle, as the story such as it was felt very chaotic and fragmented and kept going in circles. While this is understandable, it feels almost as if ní Dochtartaigh is still too close to her story to write about it in an accessible way. And like I mentioned, at times I got a little bit lost in the descriptive, flowery prose.
So this was a mixed bag, and it took me a surprisingly long time to get through for such a short book. Yet it felt important, beautiful and profound.
I simultaneously wanted less and more. Less repetition, less coming back to the same thing over and over (although I of course understand it was extremely traumatic), less waxing poetic without specificity. More personality. More linearity. More story.
I have always been drawn to stories of Northern Ireland and the very euphemistically named Troubles. Although I've never even been to the place, I guess as an Irish person I feel some kinship, some relation to the place and people. And growing up not that far from London in the late 80s and early 90s, we were regularly confronted with the realities of the conflict, and Victoria station seeming to be one unending bomb threat.
Fortunately, I have not had to live through this trauma myself. And ní Dochartaigh's writing does a good job of bringing home exactly how scarring and devastating this conflict has been for generations of Northern Irish people. I also loved learning more about Irish language and Celtic religion and tradition.
While the description of "thin places" is somewhat vague and ethereal, I feel like that is the nature of thin places, and it resonated with me. I have had such experiences myself, though rarely. It made me want to be more in tune with and connect more deeply to nature, which is something I've been working towards already.
The connection between the body and geography, borders being something that is felt physically and written onto us, the moving from place to place and searching for home, belonging - both physically and spiritually, is also something that spoke to me and something that comes up a lot in my own writing.
On the other hand it was a bit of a struggle, as the story such as it was felt very chaotic and fragmented and kept going in circles. While this is understandable, it feels almost as if ní Dochtartaigh is still too close to her story to write about it in an accessible way. And like I mentioned, at times I got a little bit lost in the descriptive, flowery prose.
So this was a mixed bag, and it took me a surprisingly long time to get through for such a short book. Yet it felt important, beautiful and profound.
June 7, 2022
This was excruciating to get through.
I have never seen the title used so many times in the book before and honestly if I never see the word “thin” again in my life, I’d be ecstatic.
I’m still not really even sure what this was even about. Some parts were really intriguing and open hearted about the Troubles and then all of the sudden they would morph into some kind of explanation of a loon or some other winged creature. I realize that the book was trying to be a marriage of both those things but honestly it was just so dull and confusing to me I would roll my eyes every time the word “bird” showed up.
Maybe I’m just not smart enough or profound enough to read something like this lol but to me it was just so boring and repetitive with the vocabulary
I chose this book based solely on it’s cover and I made a grave, grave mistake
I have never seen the title used so many times in the book before and honestly if I never see the word “thin” again in my life, I’d be ecstatic.
I’m still not really even sure what this was even about. Some parts were really intriguing and open hearted about the Troubles and then all of the sudden they would morph into some kind of explanation of a loon or some other winged creature. I realize that the book was trying to be a marriage of both those things but honestly it was just so dull and confusing to me I would roll my eyes every time the word “bird” showed up.
Maybe I’m just not smart enough or profound enough to read something like this lol but to me it was just so boring and repetitive with the vocabulary
I chose this book based solely on it’s cover and I made a grave, grave mistake
August 19, 2021
Shortlisted for the Wainwright Prize 2021, and deservedly so, this is a book about nature and landscape, but it is also about the borders people put across the land. It tells of the Troubles, and the Northern Irish border, and the people whose lives have been impacted by the border, petrol bombings, murders, and suicides, all of which lead to the author’s decision to leave the island of Ireland. And yet. And yet… she is drawn back, in a wise beyond words way of cleansing herself of memories of the traumatic childhood she suffered.
This book is spell-bindingly beautiful, moving, heart sore, thoughtful, compassionate, grieving, and appreciative. I would highly, highly recommend it. One of my books of the year. Uplifting, magical, poetic, raw, heartfelt.
This book is spell-bindingly beautiful, moving, heart sore, thoughtful, compassionate, grieving, and appreciative. I would highly, highly recommend it. One of my books of the year. Uplifting, magical, poetic, raw, heartfelt.
February 3, 2021
I cannot but help thinking that this book is more of a fantasy than a reality. Most of her so called experiences are simply too numerous and too far fetched. She was born in the early-mid 1980s so even her age does not match up with these 'traumatic' experiences of the conflict that she states she had growing up in Derry.
Whilst I can't dispute that this author may have had some awful times in her life, nevertheless, it would appear that she cleverly uses her tenuous links throughout and embellishes them for dramatic purposes. It is simply not believable for the most part.
Kerri would be better sticking to fiction.
A definite no no.
Whilst I can't dispute that this author may have had some awful times in her life, nevertheless, it would appear that she cleverly uses her tenuous links throughout and embellishes them for dramatic purposes. It is simply not believable for the most part.
Kerri would be better sticking to fiction.
A definite no no.
January 14, 2021
4.5
Beautiful ♥️
Beautiful ♥️
May 22, 2023
I feel strongly about this book as a physical object; I think it might be the prettiest book I’ve ever seen, with the gossamer wings of a moth gracing its cover. My feelings about the words inside are more complicated. The author tells of her life growing up in Ireland, specifically in Derry at the center of the Troubles, in a mixed religion household. Her childhood home is bombed with her inside.
Though she and her family escape, the rest of her life is marked by this trauma and more. Her best friend is senselessly murdered when she’s 16, in a place (not Derry) that she’d just begun to think of as “safe.” She battles alcoholism, depression, and suicidal ideation, as well as physical illness. She struggles to escape abusive relationships with others and with herself.
Though she finds sanctuary in nature (especially in the water, as well as through a connection with winged things), this isn’t an easy book. The story the words tell isn’t an easy one. Neither are the words themselves easy; oftentimes, sentences are fractured, mirroring the brokenness inside. The teller is also unabashedly in love with certain ideas — liminal spaces, in particular (see: title) — and I think the voice of those ideas sometimes overshadows her own, unique voice.
I wish there had been more structure, too - that each chapter had been more like a separate essay. It almost feels as though each page is written like it’s the end of the book, like the language is coming together and everything is wrapping up, continually. But then…it doesn’t. It keeps going. It’s as if she has become so sick of boundaries that her words and her work have none of the typical ones I’ve come to expect. And that’s not wrong. It’s just not easy. Dochartaigh’s deep consciousness of language sometimes reads as affected; when it doesn’t, it dips, sparkles, and soars.
I struggled as a reader at times. But on some level, that feels sort-of right. I’m glad that the author has come to a place where she’s so herself and is no longer afraid if her story makes other people feel unsettled. Even if I was unsure about the particulars of the telling, I was never uninterested or unbothered. I would read more by Kerri ni Dochartaigh - with the foreknowledge that I’d need to be comfortable with moving through her words slowly and with patient attention - which, fittingly, is also what nature asks of us.
Though she and her family escape, the rest of her life is marked by this trauma and more. Her best friend is senselessly murdered when she’s 16, in a place (not Derry) that she’d just begun to think of as “safe.” She battles alcoholism, depression, and suicidal ideation, as well as physical illness. She struggles to escape abusive relationships with others and with herself.
Though she finds sanctuary in nature (especially in the water, as well as through a connection with winged things), this isn’t an easy book. The story the words tell isn’t an easy one. Neither are the words themselves easy; oftentimes, sentences are fractured, mirroring the brokenness inside. The teller is also unabashedly in love with certain ideas — liminal spaces, in particular (see: title) — and I think the voice of those ideas sometimes overshadows her own, unique voice.
I wish there had been more structure, too - that each chapter had been more like a separate essay. It almost feels as though each page is written like it’s the end of the book, like the language is coming together and everything is wrapping up, continually. But then…it doesn’t. It keeps going. It’s as if she has become so sick of boundaries that her words and her work have none of the typical ones I’ve come to expect. And that’s not wrong. It’s just not easy. Dochartaigh’s deep consciousness of language sometimes reads as affected; when it doesn’t, it dips, sparkles, and soars.
I struggled as a reader at times. But on some level, that feels sort-of right. I’m glad that the author has come to a place where she’s so herself and is no longer afraid if her story makes other people feel unsettled. Even if I was unsure about the particulars of the telling, I was never uninterested or unbothered. I would read more by Kerri ni Dochartaigh - with the foreknowledge that I’d need to be comfortable with moving through her words slowly and with patient attention - which, fittingly, is also what nature asks of us.
March 23, 2023
“I had grown up in a family and a city that had watched suffering ripple through their lines like an unstoppable wave; almost every single person I knew had suffered more than me”. Kerri ní Dochartaigh was born in Derry-Londonderry at the border between Northern Ireland and Ireland and knows what trauma and suffering are. She has experienced hostility, polarisation of the society, abuse and violence I can only imagine. Her incredibly beautiful and poetic memoir “This Places” is a reflection on identity and belonging, escapism and roots, pain and healing.
Battling with depression and suicidal thoughts since young age, suffering from burnouts and alcohol addiction, Dochartaigh grew up lacking confidence, unable to trust people and feeling she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. What saved her was her love for nature and the energy she got from ‘thin places’ - places that give “that sense of being both out of, and entirely in, myself and my surroundings”. She writes: “Places create ripples inside of us; they rise and they swell inside each of us in turn; how we experience place is completely unique to us alone”.
The author’s ability to convey a sense of loss - of the history, culture, land and identity of Ireland which were taken away by the British, her reflections on deeply felt eco grief - because to the loss of all of the above we must add global loss of animal and plant species, moved me to tears. I don’t remember the last time I read a book written by a person who felt everything so deeply, shared her sensitivity so openly, and who could articulate everything so lucidly and lyrically. I was in constant awe reading “Thin Places” and I still haven’t processed how magnificently she ties all her reflections and experiences together.
“How can we protect ourselves from things that we cannot talk about? How can we protect things that we cannot name?”, and in another chapter: “How to tell a new story of resilience and hope? How can we honour the suffering of our ancestors - of those who came before us - but still try to unravel the chains we find ourselves bound by?”.
Read this book and feel yourself transformed.
Battling with depression and suicidal thoughts since young age, suffering from burnouts and alcohol addiction, Dochartaigh grew up lacking confidence, unable to trust people and feeling she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. What saved her was her love for nature and the energy she got from ‘thin places’ - places that give “that sense of being both out of, and entirely in, myself and my surroundings”. She writes: “Places create ripples inside of us; they rise and they swell inside each of us in turn; how we experience place is completely unique to us alone”.
The author’s ability to convey a sense of loss - of the history, culture, land and identity of Ireland which were taken away by the British, her reflections on deeply felt eco grief - because to the loss of all of the above we must add global loss of animal and plant species, moved me to tears. I don’t remember the last time I read a book written by a person who felt everything so deeply, shared her sensitivity so openly, and who could articulate everything so lucidly and lyrically. I was in constant awe reading “Thin Places” and I still haven’t processed how magnificently she ties all her reflections and experiences together.
“How can we protect ourselves from things that we cannot talk about? How can we protect things that we cannot name?”, and in another chapter: “How to tell a new story of resilience and hope? How can we honour the suffering of our ancestors - of those who came before us - but still try to unravel the chains we find ourselves bound by?”.
Read this book and feel yourself transformed.
April 2, 2022
I felt I understood the concept of thin places as that area/ gap in between where we feel our inner peace and feel content. It certainly made me think of the place & life experiences where I have personally felt this. When I chose this book for my bookclub I read the reviews & many reviewers felt it was primarily a troubled memoir but on reflection I felt it balanced as nature was always mentioned as a coping mechanism among the various problems.
I remember growing up seeing the troubles in Ireland regularly in the media but reading the authors personal experiences was quite harrowing, the violence, fear, segregation/ divide, It opened my eyes.
I liked the nature parts the most and how descriptive her writing was and emotional, sometimes the pure amount of dark times got a bit too much but her style kept me hooked wanting to know what would happen next.
I remember growing up seeing the troubles in Ireland regularly in the media but reading the authors personal experiences was quite harrowing, the violence, fear, segregation/ divide, It opened my eyes.
I liked the nature parts the most and how descriptive her writing was and emotional, sometimes the pure amount of dark times got a bit too much but her style kept me hooked wanting to know what would happen next.
November 22, 2024
I found this an incredibly beautiful and searingly honest read. It's not just a book about nature, loss, the fallout of conflict, mental health, family or trauma - it's all of these things and more. It speaks to the error of glossing over the 'Troubles' as 'history', it tells a story of the land 'reading' us and us reading - or failing to read - the land. Kerri ní Dochartaigh is a keen observer of the natural world.
4.5 stars from me. It's a pernickety point, but I feel it would have benefited from a little bit more editorial attention at the level of some individual sentences to enhance the flow.
4.5 stars from me. It's a pernickety point, but I feel it would have benefited from a little bit more editorial attention at the level of some individual sentences to enhance the flow.
April 16, 2023
This was both a memoir and spiritual read. Felt very timely to be reading it around the time of the 25th Anniversary of the Good Friday Agreement. The wonder the author has for nature and “thin places” is very relatable for me. Her writing about it is poetic and very beautiful. My only wish would have been for a bit more focus on how that reverence for thin spaces carried her through from her childhood days in Derry to her current days in the middle of Ireland. But overall a very well done book. She really puts her heart out there.
February 10, 2024
This book was absolutely gorgeous. I savored every word of this beautiful reflection on life, trauma, nature, and Ireland. At times, the book took my breath away for being so relatable. And it amplified the call for me to return to my beloved Ireland even more than usual. This will easily be one of my top reads of 2024.
February 19, 2023
This book is thoughtfully and beautifully written. I loved Dochartaigh’s connection to borders and nature, and how nature is used as a coping mechanism in her life. The catharsis of writing this book is felt all throughout reading it.
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