Why I Set a Novel on a Remote Island off the Norwegian Coast

I have always been drawn to places where the landscape refuses to remain in the background. A remote island off the Norwegian coast is not simply a setting for a crime novel; it is a pressure chamber. The weather, the sea, the limited transport and the small number of inhabitants all influence what people notice, conceal and fear.

For Thorkild Aske, isolation has a particular weight. He carries his own history into every investigation, so a place cut off from the mainland can become both a physical trap and a psychological one. On an island, there are fewer exits, fewer distractions and fewer ways to postpone an uncomfortable truth.

Australian readers may recognise some of that tension in the distance between Hobart and the west coast of Tasmania, or in the feeling of waiting for a ferry across Sydney Harbour when weather changes the entire rhythm of a day. The Norwegian coast is different in climate and scale, yet the emotional experience of remoteness is surprisingly familiar.

The island as a living presence

I wanted the island to behave like a character. Its cliffs, exposed beaches, old buildings and narrow roads should affect the plot rather than decorate it. A sudden fall in temperature can alter a search. Fog can erase a landmark. A missed boat can transform a minor delay into a serious threat.

The sea also creates an unusual form of uncertainty. In a city, people tend to believe that movement is always possible: there is another train, another street, another open shop. On an island, the tide and the timetable have authority. The water becomes a boundary that no character can ignore.

That idea can resonate with readers in Australia, where island life ranges from the well-connected communities of the Gold Coast’s hinterland to the much more isolated reaches of Tasmania and the Torres Strait. Distance is not an abstract concept there. It can determine whether help arrives before nightfall.

Distance changes human behaviour

A remote community often has a long memory. People know who belongs, who left, who returned and which families have carried an argument for decades. This does not mean that islanders are naturally secretive. It means that privacy is harder to maintain when everyone’s movements are visible.

I use that social closeness to complicate the investigation. A witness may be protecting a neighbour rather than obstructing justice. A shopkeeper may know a suspect’s routine but hesitate to speak because the suspect’s family has lived nearby for generations. Suspicion moves through the community like weather, touching everyone before it settles anywhere.

The contrast would be sharp for someone used to Melbourne or Brisbane, where anonymity can be almost effortless. In a remote Norwegian settlement, the equivalent of a busy tram stop or a crowded shopping centre may be a small harbour, a general store or a community hall. Those shared spaces carry an enormous amount of information.

Darkness, weather and the limits of certainty

Light is one of the reasons I chose a northern island. Long summer evenings can create the illusion that nothing is hidden, while winter darkness changes the meaning of time. A person can disappear at four in the afternoon and still seem to have vanished in the middle of the night.

Weather gives the story another layer of unreliable evidence. Snow covers tracks, rain alters the shoreline and wind carries or destroys sound. I am interested in the way characters make decisions with incomplete information, then reinterpret those decisions after the truth becomes visible.

Island condition	Effect on the investigation	Emotional effect
Unpredictable ferries	Delays witnesses and restricts escape	Creates frustration and urgency
Fog and winter darkness	Reduces visibility and distorts distance	Encourages doubt and fear
Small population	Makes everyone recognisable	Increases social pressure
Exposed coastline	Changes evidence and access	Makes nature feel threatening
Limited services	Slows emergency responses	Forces characters to rely on one another

For Australian readers, the seasonal contrast may feel especially vivid. Someone in Perth or Adelaide may associate summer with dry heat and open roads; on a Norwegian island, summer can still carry cold wind, wet stone and rapidly changing visibility. That difference helps the setting unsettle expectations.

A landscape that challenges the detective

Thorkild Aske is accustomed to following human traces, but the island keeps redirecting his attention towards the physical world. A damaged boat, an unlocked shed or a set of footprints near the water may seem insignificant until the geography gives it meaning.

I also wanted the investigation to move at the pace of the place. There are no convenient shortcuts simply because the plot needs them. A search may depend on daylight, a local boat, a working radio or someone willing to cross difficult ground. Practical details create friction, and friction creates opportunities for mistakes.

This is one reason crime fiction travels well between countries. A reader in Sydney can understand the danger of an isolated road, even if the road is covered in ice rather than dust. The particular landscape changes, but the underlying question remains: how much can a person see when fear is shaping their judgement?

Why the setting matters beyond Norway

An island setting also allows a novel to examine belonging. Who has the right to speak for a place? Who is treated as an outsider? What happens when an investigator arrives with authority but lacks the local knowledge needed to interpret what he sees?

Those questions matter in the Australian market, where readers are familiar with stories shaped by regional identity, migration and vast distances. A novel set in Norway can still connect with someone browsing a crime section in a Hobart bookshop, ordering through Booktopia or listening during a long drive between regional towns.

The form matters as well. The sound of an island can be as important as its appearance: rigging against a mast, boots on a wooden floor, a helicopter overhead or waves striking rock. My thoughts on working with a narrator grew from that awareness that atmosphere must survive when the printed page becomes a voice in someone’s headphones.

Writing towards the edge

The remote island gave me a way to place a damaged investigator inside a landscape that offered no easy comfort. It sharpened the crime, but it also made room for silence, memory and the slow recognition that every person is connected to the place where they live.

I hope the setting feels specific enough to be Norwegian and open enough to invite readers from elsewhere. The coast near Tromsø, the islands beyond the mainland and the colder northern light belong to their own geography, yet the feelings they provoke are widely understood: loneliness, suspicion, loyalty and the desire to find a way home.

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