The Bridge

So, I’m back from a month of driving around Scandinavia, where in theory I was supposed to be writing, while channelling some Scandi-crime vibes

(I made my husband drive a ridiculous distance out of our way just so I could cross The Bridge, left) but in practice, did not do very much at all apart from jumping with my kids into icy lakes, arguing with my husband about whether, as boat idiots, we should be taking one out into choppy seas, and sitting under gorgeous skies that don’t go dark until 11pm, daydreaming in a way I never do at home, where there’s always work to do, a wash to put on and homework to supervise.

I love travelling in the summer. It’s when I feel my mind relax away from routine, and ideas start to flow as I live a different life for a while. Most of the year, I write full-time in London, inspired by the intensity of the city. In the summer, I like to take my family and visit remote places, by lakes and the sea and the desert, where there’s nothing to distract me. That’s when I feel my imagination spark again, and ideas start to stockpile for the next book.

This summer, my trip gave me two new ideas. I stayed in a mysterious old Norwegian house with creaking stairs and locked basement, where I found a strange book of photographs from a hundred year ago. And then I had a one-minute conversation with an odd man on a ferry that unexpectedly left me in tears – and gave me the missing ingredient for a character I’ve been planning for a while. Look out for him in a book soon!