What to make of those tales of early medieval saints who stood neck deep in freezing water for hours at a time, or who put to sea in tiny coracles without oars, trusting to God to take them where He would, be that to a new land or a water grave? They are men so very far from modern sympathies and sensibilities that it’s almost impossible to believe that they did such things – but they did.

Bringing them to life is difficult. Frederick Buechner, however, managed this feat brilliantly in his novel, Godric. He attempts it again in Brendan, a story about the Irish saint famous for setting forth in one of those little boats, to not quite the same effect. Where Godric is narrated by the saint himself, and credibly told in such wise, Brendan is told by a companion and friend, who stands in some ways for the reader: unsure but interested. However, in such matters, lack of certainty is ultimately fatal: the water will freeze the blood, the waves close over the boat, the narrative founder on ‘maybe’.

The book does, however, succeed in portraying well the sheer strangeness of 6th century Ireland and how very far it’s culture was from ours today. So read Brendan for its lyrical sensibility and its window into a very strange world.