White Raven Andrzej Stasiuk Serpent's Tail, 256pp, £12 ISBN 1852426675

A Ukrainian by birth, Andrzej Stasiuk lives in Poland (and writes in Polish), and he is one of a number of cult writers to emerge from post-communist central Europe. His road-river-and-rail narratives have led some to call him the Polish Jack Kerouac and, reading White Raven - the first of his novels to be translated into English, thanks to the innovative Serpent's Tail - you can see why.

This impressive novel centres on a group of six men languishing in the mountain villages of south-east Poland, a region bordering Slovakia and Ukraine. It is 1993, and the men are disillusioned and facing middle age ("we have passed the joking age"). Led by Bandurko and the mysterious Kostek, they form a "guerrilla group" and head off into the mountains, unsure of whether they are searching for the Holy Grail or retreating from a country in which there is little left to oppose. No longer involved in politics or religion, they drink, philosophise, smoke and then drink some more; but their nights of ice and darkness, of vodka-warmth and camaraderie become more fraught after Kostek beats up a border guard and the group is forced to turn fugitive.

Stasiuk's prose has the easy flow of Kerouac's, but rambles less. He etches dreamy landscapes of forests, rivers and mountains in a compelling, sub-zero pastoral. His sketches of Polish villages - from the wooden churches to the hostels cum whorehouses - are fragile with timber-and-stone detail, or else quiet with a sleepy intimacy. And he renders the beer, vodka and cheap cigarettes with the indulgence of an inveterate heavy drinker and smoker. This is not a book to read if you're trying to give up.

As the men camp out in various shacks and dens, they reminisce about (and try to recreate) the drinking and whoring days of a decade earlier, or else succumb entirely to the will of the Russians. And they talk endlessly of love and death. Which makes White Raven both a study of nostalgia and a shrewd meditation on the Polish Romantic tradition: the isolated country out on a limb, its inhabitants huddled together, defiant as it is betrayed by those around them. More than that, it is a beery-eyed squint at the demands of free will. The men used to drink because they had no choice; now they drink so they do not have to decide.

So terrible was Poland's fate in the 20th century that each valley the men venture through seems haunted by the spectre of invasion. These moments of realisation are balanced by the rueful acknowledgment that the days of romantic patriotism may soon be over: certain people in "Udu still claim there is such a thing as a Polish nation".

At times, the pace slackens as the existential drama - a Lord of the Flies for grown-ups - becomes convoluted. Despite the vast landscapes, there are only a few major scenes, as the characters seek salvation without actually travelling very far or doing much. Yet, for the most part, such is the control and power of Stasiuk's writing that it feels like a worthwhile journey all the same.

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