Sigh and Bell, along with their two dogs, decide to rent a dilapidated, old farmhouse deep in the Irish countryside. Its remoteness is a big part of the appeal because Sigh and Bell have chosen to have as little contact as possible with other people. No contact with family, no contact with friends, no contact with anyone except the occasional and unavoidable encounter with the neighboring farmer. Sigh and Bell don’t do much. They walk to the local beach, swim in the sea, and make a trip when necessary to the local shop to buy essentials.

Sigh and Bell are just two creatures passing through the house and the landscape. They make a conscious and determined effort not to impose themselves on the teeming life around them. Birds, insects, fish, dogs, and cows share the world, taking the space and everything else they need to survive. And watching over everything is the mountain, the mountain directly behind the house, the mountain that they don’t climb until eight years have passed.

With so little information, the reader’s imagination tries to fill the gaps. Are Sigh and Bell eco-warriors or hippies turning their backs on the modern world? Are they hiding from some terrible trauma in their past? Are they two individuals striving to merge and live a single life? Hints are provided, but they are fleeting and oblique.

Seven Steeples is an unconventional, demanding, daring, and puzzling book. It’s as much a prose poem as it is a novel, rich in language and rhythm. It’s not a book one closes and forgets. It lingers. It tunnels into one’s imagination, leaving images of decay, decline, and transience.