Books in brief: The Light of Evening by Kevin McManus; Grand by Nick Park; One Man and His Dog by Declan Murphy

The Light of Evening by Kevin McManus (The Book Social. 288pp, £9.99)

In this delicate novel, poet Ciarán Devlin has just buried his father and is carer for his mother and his beloved wife Joan, herself ill with cancer. There is a keen sense of place and of nature: how the light is “already retreating, the days drawing tight like a closing hand”. The prose is evocative and richly rewarding. We follow Ciarán through the minutiae of a family death, his own health fears and what’s facing Joan, in an Ireland where rural health services for the very ill can leave people “drowning quietly in a place no one can reach”. In Ciarán’s reflections there is humour, regret, compassion and some beautiful writing about everyday love and the realities we face as the light of all our lives inevitably dims. Helena Mulkerns

Grand: The Autobiography of Gromit by Nick Park (Ebury Spotlight, 272pp, £22)

After decades of communicating exclusively through knowing looks and eye-rolls, Gromit has finally found his voice. Having agreed to write his life story, Wallace is distracted by a new invention, and Gromit finds himself picking up the pieces once more with the deadline looming. Grand – as told to Nick Park – offers a revelatory perspective across the series, in which Gromit redefines the parameters of Wallace’s genius and the power dynamic of their relationship. Park’s penchant for puns – Gromit turns to Kierkegaarddøg to quell his existential dread – and the addition of original storylines, one of which informs this Bildogsroman’s entire form, result in a charming addition to the Wallace and Gromit universe that isn’t content with resting on its laurels. Colm McKenna

One Man and His Dog: On a Quest for Ireland’s Wild Orchids by Declan Murphy (Lilliput, 256pp, €24.95)

New Year’s Eve on Ireland’s Atlantic coast, and Declan Murphy has scrambled across the Burren limestone to watch the sunset – when his attention is taken by the microscopic: by the tracery of winter-withered plant stems inhabiting the rock crevices all around him. Wood sage, golden rod, blue moor grass – and something else: a ‘thin, leafless and almost twig-like stem, which seemed to emerge from the very heart of the Burren […] as though it was not just simply part of the flora but part of the landscape’. This is the dark-red helleborine orchid – and so begins a quest to understand a unique botanical and cultural universe. This is a beautiful book, reminding us of the virtues of quiet, loving, patient observation amid a frenetic world. Neil Hegarty