This is the book, published in 1967, that, after a long, complicated gestation, gave the world the film of The Wicker Man. Now, reprinted after years of obscurity, doubtless fans of that peerless work will want to read it to see where it all started. And you might be a little...puzzled, disappointed even. The book is an odd almost extended reverie, mostly around the thoughts, dreams and, it becomes clear as the book goes on, delusions, of a police officer fetched up in a small village iin Cornwall. There are some similarities to the film but the plot is oddly convoluted and elliptical and there's not really much of it, the language is so over ripe and adjective heavy it gets a little wearying at times, there is little light and shade, not much contrast, everything is at the same almost hallucinagenic pitch. This may not be a bad thing but the whole thing feels a little unfinished and unfocused. As an adjunct to a masterpiece it's a fascinating read, as a novel it's not so great, an odd haunting read, beautifully produced, not in the first rank of English weird fiction but a beguiling little distraction.