When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.
I’ve been on a few of those in my time.
And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.
For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.
Did I say ‘Iron Horse’? Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.
It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast
But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay. I’m sure it’s happened more than once.
Then…
Are you inclined to go?
A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.
An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?
There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation. Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.
But, you never know. Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.
Hang about. Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?
I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!
Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.
I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?
Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.
Right now.
I pick up the pen.
Character number one:
Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing. Still me, but with a twist. Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance. Yes, I like that.
We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.
He had a wife, which brings us to,
Character number two:
Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons. It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated. There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.
Character number three:
The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.
Oops, too much, that is my old boss. He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him. Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him. Last name Benton. He will play a small role in the story.
Character number four:
Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.
More on her later as the story unfolds.
So far so good.
What’s the plot?
Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers? No, that’s been done to death.
Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world. Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people. That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people! There will be guns, and there will be dead people.
There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around. That’s better.
Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.
All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.
Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work. He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks. The phone rings. Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down. He’s needed. A few terse words, but he relents.
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.
But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
The Blank Page Blues: Understanding the Real Effects of Writer’s Block (And How to Beat It)
Every writer, whether they are penning a Pulitzer-winning novel, a corporate newsletter, or a simple blog post, has been there. You sit down, open your laptop, crack your knuckles, and… nothing. The cursor blinks at you, rhythmically mocking your lack of progress.
Writer’s block is the universal enemy of creativity. But what actually happens when we hit that wall, and how can we climb over it? Let’s break down the mechanics of the “block” and, more importantly, how to get your momentum back.
The Hidden Effects: More Than Just “Stuck”
We often think of writer’s block as a simple pause in production. However, the effects are usually deeper and more taxing than just an empty page.
1. The Erosion of Confidence The longer you stare at a blank screen, the more your inner critic takes the wheel. You start to doubt your premise, your vocabulary, and eventually, your aptitude as a writer. This “imposter syndrome” can linger long after the initial block has passed.
2. The “Avoidance Cycle” When writing becomes associated with the frustration of being stuck, you naturally start to avoid it. You find “productive” distractions—doing the dishes, organising your email, or doom-scrolling—which only increases the anxiety you feel when you finally do return to the desk.
3. Creative Atrophy Writing is a muscle. When you stop writing for extended periods, the “creative flow”—that effortless state of articulation—becomes harder to tap into. The longer the blockage persists, the more you have to fight your own brain to regain that rhythm.
How to Break the Cycle
The good news? Writer’s block is not a permanent state; it’s a temporary neurological bottleneck. Here is how to unclog it:
1. Lower the Stakes
Often, we get blocked because we are trying to write something “perfect” on the first pass. Give yourself permission to write “garbage.” Write the worst draft imaginable. Once the words are on the page, you can edit them. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can always fix a bad paragraph.
2. The “Pomodoro” Trick
If the task feels gargantuan, break it down. Set a timer for 15 minutes. Tell yourself you only have to write for that long. Often, the hardest part of writing is the starting—once the gears are turning, continuing becomes much easier.
3. Change Your Environment
If your brain associates your desk with anxiety, move to a coffee shop, a library, or even your kitchen table. Sometimes a change of scenery, ambient noise, or a different chair is enough to signal to your brain that it’s time for a new mode of thinking.
4. Switch Mediums
If the laptop screen feels stifling, go analog. Grab a legal pad and a pen. The physical act of handwriting taps into different creative pathways in the brain and removes the temptation to delete, backspace, and over-edit as you go.
5. Use Prompts to Prime the Pump
If you don’t know where to start, stop trying to write the “masterpiece” and just write five sentences about anything. Describe the room you’re in. Describe your breakfast. Once you break the silence of the page, the transition to your actual project will be much smoother.
The Bottom Line
Writer’s block isn’t a sign that you’ve lost your talent; it’s a sign that your brain needs a different strategy. Don’t try to force your way through it with sheer willpower alone. Sometimes, the best way to move forward is to step back, change the environment, and lower your expectations until the words begin to flow again.
Remember: You are a writer because you write, not because you never get stuck.
So, close this tab, take a breath, and write one sentence. Just one. That’s how the block ends.
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is a foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
…
We flew out of an unnamed base in an unmarked aircraft, heading for Africa. It would be my second visit. The first didn’t quite go as expected, but there was a chance of redemption this time around.
I was the only one who had been there before, other than our two-faced guide, Jacobi, who by now would be working out how he could double-cross us and save his skin. I had no illusions about a man who would turn in his own mother if he had to.
We were going to need a plan B and a plan C going in with him because I had no doubt plan A had already been sent to the relevant people, who were awaiting our imminent arrival with bated breath. Pity we would not be landing anywhere near that location.
In fact, none of us would know where we would be dropped until minutes before it happened. Security, this time, was going to be formidable. Lallo explained why it was a matter of need to know, and all I had to say was, I didn’t need to know. I suspect Monroe knew, but she was the sort who could keep a secret.
As for the rest of the team, they were a motley crew, but within the group, there was an odd sort of camaraderie between them. Perhaps Lallo had told them that if they stepped out of line, Monroe would shoot them.
Aside from the passengers in the C47 transport, there was a pack for each of us, and enough weapons to start a war. Since we would not be calling at any recognisable airport, I doubted we would have any customs or immigration problems. No one was travelling with any identification papers. It was that sort of mission.
Bamfield met me at the airport before we took off. Monroe had come over and told me there was a visitor in one of the rooms, the one with Operations crookedly glued to the door. She opened the door, ushered me in, then stepped back out, closing the door after her.
Mental note: the door to that room would not withstand a good kick.
There was a table, two chairs, and one of them had Bamfield sitting, looking up expectantly when I entered the room. His eyes beckoned me to the other chair, so, after a look around the room, nothing else other than the table and chairs were in the room, I casually made my way to the chair and sat.
We glared at each other over the tabletop.
”I’m guessing this is the last place you expected to be?”
“You have a funny way of issuing invitations?”
“Would you have come along if I had asked you politely?”
“Probably not.”
Another minute’s silence while he looked for the words that would be anything other than an apology for coercing me into a corner. I’d come to realise that Bamfield was far from the sort of officer I’d first thought him to be.
An excuse could be made that, because he needed to find people to do a particularly dangerous and covert operation, nothing was off the table, including blackmail, in order to get the job done. How he was justifying it using armed services personnel was anyone’s guess, but it would have been kicked higher up the food chain before approval was given.
These operations weren’t just conceived by military commanders, but also by the CIA on a good day, allowing the armed services to tag along. But make no mistake, this would be a CIA operation, and the CIA would take the credit if it worked out, and the army would take a hit if it didn’t. Either way, it would never reach the newspapers.
“You don’t need me to tell you how important this is, and that we’ve only got one shot at it. If you get caught, any of you, we cannot acknowledge you, so you will be on your own. Your team will obey orders. Monroe is there to maintain discipline if it’s needed.”
“So she’ll be shooting first and asking questions later?”
“Something like that. She’s a tough officer and worthy of your respect.”
“And the rest?”
“Good soldiers who just got into trouble. They’re being given an opportunity for redemption, and this mission will count towards lessening their sentences. At any rate, Monroe will have your back.”
Good to know.
“You’ll be going to a new destination, after stopping over in northern Uganda. We’ve arranged for the plane to land at a disused airstrip, where you’ll be met by Colonel Chiswick. He’ll be arranging your and your team’s travel arrangements from there. I can’t tell you any more at this time for security reasons.”
“I have only one question.”
“Only one?”
“There is another 999, but I figure none of those will get answered. It was the same question I asked the last time, who are these people we’re supposed to be rescuing?”
A long and thoughtful look. Could he trust me?
“Two CIA operatives, meddling in DRC affairs without authorisation. They were originally sent to clean up the child soldier problem, but somehow got in the middle of the war between government forces and rebels, if you could call them that. They’re mostly militia groups, and the situation was too fractured for them to do much good. Problem is, they made promises, and now we have to bail them out.”
“Another CIA stuff up then.”
“It had good intentions, but in Africa, good intentions are often mistaken for something else entirely. This is, however, one other possible problem you may have to deal with.”
Of course, there always was. Nothing covert operations were involved in didn’t have a wrinkle or three.
“Good or bad?”
He shrugged. “They might not want to go with you. We now suspect they may have had something to do with the last fiasco, and it wasn’t entirely Jacobi’s fault. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he might not be working with them. You’ll be travelling with a small fortune in diamonds as payment for their release, but it may not necessarily be what it seems. I tell you this, so you don’t get any surprises.”
“Good to know, but I suspect there’s more to the story that you’re not telling me. I’m sure Monroe will keep you in the loop.”
I stood.
Was I expecting a handshake or a good luck, maybe, but I don’t think that was his style? He was probably used to sending men to senseless deaths, so another few would not stir his conscience. I shrugged and walked out of the room, not looking back.
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
I was woken to a bunch of messages arriving on my phone just after the time I’d designated as ‘switch on’. I had only recently realised the phone had a ‘sleep’ function.
Among the messages was one that said he had arranged for the will matters to be finalised in a week’s time, and that he had organised a stay of proceedings based on what appeared to be legal mumbo jumbo.
It doesn’t matter. It was the week I needed.
I didn’t have to wake Cecelia; she was an early riser and an exercise freak. She’d already been out and back, showered and dressed and was ready.
“You have an assignment.”
“From all that stuff we got. It looked like we needed a lawyer to decipher it.”
“It’s simply given us a week to close this case. I want you to go to the main Dicostini resident and stake it out. I suspect you might see some familiar faces before the morning’s out.”
“What are you going to do.”
“Break the news to our three charges, if they’re still there.”
“And you think…”
“We’ll soon find out.”
“Can I take the sniper rifle?”
“Have you got one?”
She just gave me one of those condescending looks of hers.
“Yes.”
“Good. There might be some prospective big game hunting.”
I showered and dressed and headed over to the hotel where, hopefully, the three women were still waiting. I guess the fact they might be still in someone’s crosshairs might be incentive enough to sit still.
For them, it was only another day. I wondered what they were going to sat when I told them it had been put back a week.
When I arrived, they were cooking breakfast, and it appeared they were all good friends, almost as if they were on holiday together. None seemed to look like they were going out for the day, though Juliet had dressed, so perhaps she was the one going out for supplies.
She was sitting at the table nursing a mug of coffee. It smelled better than the one I made from the hotel minibar, and I was still slightly annoyed I hadn’t got down to the hotel breakfast room.
“One day to go,” the countess said.
I wondered, in that moment, just who she really was. To look like the countess, enough to fool the Burkehardt’s she could not be one of the Dicostini family. Dicostini had gone to a lot of trouble to make this work, including kidnapping and attempted murder.
If he was the one behind the deception.
“That’s what I came to discuss. There are some legal issues to be ironed out and the signing will not happen for another week.”
The countess looked annoyed. “Those Burkehardt’s are up to something, trying to find a way around it. We can’t let that happen.”
“And we won’t. I’ve alerted your solicitor, and he assures me that he’s on the case, and will be calling on Anna tomorrow. I saw her yesterday, and whilst she would rather it didn’t happen, she recognises that in the absence of a will, the state determines your claim. I presume that you searched for a will and couldn’t find one?”
Or more to the point, she had not been there to search for anything, but the real countess had. What would she have done? It was a question I’d asked when we finally met.
“Benito?”
“The one and same. We met, and he seems to me to be quite stodgy. I can tell him, if I see him, you’re here.”
“No. I don’t quite trust him, simply because he once worked for the Burkehardt’s and may still have some allegiance towards them. I’d rather he not know where I am.”
“As you wish.”
I would have thought she if she was the real countess, would want to see him. Another nail in her coffin.
Juliet handed me a mug, and it had a nice aroma about it. Our hands touched, and there was a tingle. Damn her. Despite everything, she was still in my thoughts, and that was not good.
Especially if I had to shoot her.
I sat next to her at the table. The others kept cooking breakfast.
“What are you doing with yourself? I bet that Cecelia type is keeping you amused.”
“She is a colleague. If I want anything to keep me amused, it’s working out why you are here, and there, and everywhere I go.”
She smiled. “Serendipity.”
“Or a curse.
“Perhaps it’s fate trying to bring us back together?”
“Why?”
It had been a mismatch and ill-fated relationship the first time around, perhaps one of those things a patient has for their doctor. She was there, she treated me nicely, and she needed someone to pour out her troubles to. We mutually kept each other sane. I was disappointed when I discovered she had gone off the deep end.
But, as Rodby said in his usual pragmatic way, shit happens.
But, the question loitering in the back of my mind was how she could find me when I was so deeply buried in a new persona in a place where no one could possibly find me.
Venice.
“Why are you here?”
“To tell you about the legal proceedings.”
“You could have called.”
“And you should be working for us. A third degree if I’m not mistaken.” She was not a fool. A distracting answer was needed fast. “I hate to admit this but I was thinking about you last night, and I got it in my head that I had to see you.” I shrugged. “Now I have.”
It seemed to assuage her curiosity. “What’s going to happen after this is over?”
“You’ll get to live happily ever after with your mother. It had to be what you call serendipity to be reunited with her after all these years?”
“You might think so.”
“You don’t.”
“There’s a reason why she left me behind. I doubt a leopard is going to change it’s spots. Once she gets her money she’s gone.”
“What money?”
“On one hand, if she had to verify the countess’s identity, on the other, putting me in the frame as an heir. I don’t want it, but it is worth quite a lot, and she says I can just sell it and both of us could have the life we were meant to have.”
“You believe her?”
“Everybody in my life has screwed me over, Evan? What do you think?”
“I think, if you’re rich, I could come and live with you. That Burkehardt residence is something else, and, it has servants.” I stood. “Just a thought.”
I’m not sure what she made of that, but it certainly wasn’t what she was expecting.
Started to write a post, got so far, and another theme or idea slips in, and demands to be written first?
I’m on this nostalgia kick simply because when I turned on the TV to catch up with the latest news, it was on a channel that shows old movies.
In case you don’t realise it, I love old movies, not just those from Hollywood, but also from Britain.
What was on?
An American in Paris.
Well, it had to be one of my favourites, even though I’m not a great fan of Gene Kelly; the sheer majesty of the music more than makes up for the story in between.
Could it be said, then, that this was from the golden years of Hollywood? Such bright and cheerful movies as Singing in the Rain and An American in Paris perhaps exemplify the Hollywood musical.
Years before, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were the quintessential musical stars, followed by the likes of Judy Garland and Deanna Durbin, and later Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. A couple of musicals, in particular, come to mind, firstly, The Wizard of Oz and then High Society.
Moving into more modern times, several stand out in the 1960s: My Fair Lady and The Sound of Music. By this time, theatregoers were dining on the superb talents of Rogers and Hammerstein, and Learner and Lowe. Of the former, musicals such as Carousel, South Pacific, and The King and I were on my list of favourites.
Even later still in the 1970s, there is Funny Girl, and Hello Dolly, which have a connection to the past with its director, none other than, yes, Gene Kelly.
But it seems once the 60s had passed, the notion of the Hollywood blockbuster musical had gone, and we were left with clip shows like That’s Entertainment, put together while Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire were still alive. We still had the film versions of the stage plays, but the lustre had, somehow, gone.
Perhaps it will return, who knows, after all, everything old is usually new again, it just takes time to go full circle.
The Art of the Opening Line: Impact, Promise, and the Perfect Sentence
In the sprawling landscape of literature, where countless stories vie for attention and untold universes beckon, there’s a single, vital pivot point: the first line. It’s more than just a gentle nudge; it’s a carefully constructed piece of prose, a declaration, a whisper, or a shout that sets everything in motion. And if you’re a writer, or simply a discerning reader, you know this truth deep in your bones: the first line has to make an impact.
The immediate, undeniable truth is this: a first line must make an impact. In a world saturated with content, where endless scrolls and countless tabs compete for precious moments, your opening sentence is your do-or-die moment. It isn’t merely about grabbing attention; it’s about demanding it. It might shock, mystify, intrigue, or present a profound truth that resonates instantly. Think of “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” or “Call me Ishmael.” These aren’t just words; they’re literary thunderclaps, perfectly thrown darts hitting the bullseye of the reader’s curiosity. They don’t just invite you in; they pull you in, often before you even realise you’ve been hooked.
But impact alone, while crucial, is only half the story. While the subsequent chapters unfurl the full tapestry of your narrative, why wait? Why not offer a tantalising glimpse, a foundational understanding of what awaits, right from the start? A well-crafted first line or paragraph subtly hints at the genre, the tone, the central conflict, or even the protagonist’s core dilemma. It’s a non-verbal contract with your reader, a promise of the journey to come. It says, “This is what you’re in for. This is the kind of world you’re about to enter.” It might promise wonder, dread, humour, or profound introspection. Even if the full qualification of these hints comes much later, the initial setup creates an expectation, a framework that encourages the reader to lean in and commit.
Which brings us to the bedrock of all this: the art of the sentence itself. The first line isn’t just a container for ideas; it is an idea, perfectly formed. It’s about meticulous word choice, the rhythm and cadence, the conciseness that packs a punch, and the elegance that makes it linger in the mind. Every word must earn its place, and every punctuation mark serves a purpose. This isn’t just about conveying information; it’s about crafting an experience. When we talk about the “art of the first line,” we are, in essence, talking about the art of the sentence – its power to evoke, to define, to resonate, and to stand as a miniature masterpiece in its own right. It elevates prose from mere communication to an experience.
So, when you sit down to craft your opening, whether you’re a seasoned novelist or a budding blogger, remember it’s not just a starting point; it’s a destination in itself. It’s the initial impact that makes a reader pause, the subtle promise that makes them stay, and the sheer artistry of the sentence that makes them marvel. Invest in your first line. Polish it, perfect it, and let it sing. For in that one perfect sentence lies the entire universe of your story, waiting to unfold.
The Case for the Page: Why Your Next First Draft Should Be Handwritten
In an era of lightning-fast keyboards, voice-to-text, and AI-assisted drafting, the act of putting pen to paper can feel almost prehistoric. Why reach for a pen when you can type at 80 words per minute? Why endure the hand cramp when you can edit with a simple backspace?
Yet, there is a growing movement of writers—from novelists to essayists—who are returning to the humble notebook for their first drafts. Beyond the aesthetic appeal of a leather-bound journal or the scratch of a fountain pen, there is a profound, functional benefit to writing in longhand.
If you’ve been feeling disconnected from your writing, here is why you might want to slow it down and go analog.
1. A Tangible Record of Your Evolution
When you write digitally, the “delete” key is a magician. You type a sentence, realise it’s weak, hit backspace, and it vanishes into the ether. It is as if the thought never existed.
In longhand, you cannot truly erase. You can only cross out.
This creates a tangible map of your creative process. When you look back at a physical page, you see the evolution of your ideas. You see the discarded phrases, the scribbled synonyms in the margins, and the sudden arrows pointing to a better arrangement. This “messy” draft becomes a record of your intellectual labor. It proves you didn’t just arrive at the finished product; you fought for it. There is a deep, psychological satisfaction in seeing that history remain on the page, rather than in a digital void.
2. The Permanence of Thought
Digital writing is ephemeral. Even with “Track Changes” or version history, the digital experience is defined by constant editing. We are trained to polish as we go, which stifles the raw, uninhibited flow of a first draft.
Longhand forces a slower pace, but it also provides a sense of finality. Once the ink touches the paper, the thought is “baked.” This forces you to be more deliberate with your word choices, yet paradoxically, it also allows you to make mistakes without the pressure to correct them immediately. Because you can’t easily “clean up” a handwritten draft, you are forced to keep moving forward, which is the golden rule of drafting: don’t look back until the page is full.
3. A Deeper Cognitive Connection
Neuroscience suggests that the brain processes information differently when we engage in handwriting. The physical act of forming letters and the tactile sensation of pen on paper activate different areas of the brain than typing does.
Many writers report that longhand helps them enter a “flow state” more easily. There are no notifications popping up in the corner of your notebook. No temptation to check email. No ability to reformat your font or check the word count every five minutes. It is just you and the paper, creating an environment where deep focus is the default, not the exception.
4. The Beauty of the “Permanent Erasure”
There is a unique kind of vulnerability in handwriting. Because you cannot delete, you learn to embrace the imperfection. You stop obsessing over the perfect opening sentence and start focusing on the truth of the sentence.
When you do eventually transcribe your handwritten draft into a digital format, you are essentially performing your first major edit. You aren’t just copying; you’re reading, refining, and selecting the best parts of what you wrote. It turns the editing process into a deliberate, second-pass creative act rather than a chore.
The Verdict?
Writing in longhand isn’t about being a Luddite. It’s about recognising that the “best” tools for efficiency aren’t always the “best” tools for creativity.
If your writing feels stagnant or you find yourself endlessly editing instead of creating, put the laptop away. Grab a pen. Feel the weight of the ink on the page. You might find that the best way to move your writing forward is to take a step back into the past.
Have you ever tried handwriting your first draft? Do you find it helps you unlock new ideas, or does it feel like extra work? Let me know in the comments below.
This morning started with a visit to the car rental place in Vancouver. It reinforced the notion that you can be given the address and still not find the place. It happened in Washington where it was hiding in the back of the main railway station, and it happened again in Vancouver when it was hidden inside a hotel.
We simply walked straight past it. Pity there wasn’t a sign to let people know.
However…
We went in expecting a Grand Jeep Cherokee and walked out with a Ford Flex, suitable for three people and four large suitcases. It actually seats 7, but forget the baggage, you’d be lucky to get two large suitcases in that configuration.
It is more than adequate for our requirements.
Things to note, it was delivered with just over a quarter of a tank of gas, and it had only done about 11,000 km, so it’s relatively new. It’s reasonably spacious, and when the extra seats are folded down, there is plenty of baggage space.
So far, so good.
We finally leave the hotel about half-past ten, and it is raining. It is a simple task to get on Highway 1, the TransCanada Highway, initially, and then onto Highway 5, the Coquihalla Highway, for the trip to Kamloops.
It rains all the way to the top of the mountain, progress hampered from time to time by water sprays from both vehicles and trucks. The rain is relentless. At the top of the mountain, the rain turns into snow and the road surface becomes slush. It’s 0 degrees, but being the afternoon, I was not expecting it to turn to ice very quickly.
On the other side of the mountain, closer to Kamloops, there was sleet, then rain, then nothing, the last 100kms or so, in reasonably dry conditions.
Outside Kamloops, and in the town itself, there was evidence of snow recently cleared, and slushy roads. Cars in various places were covered in snow, indicating the most recent falls had been the night before.
We’re staying at the Park Hotel, a heritage building, apparently built in the late 1920s. In the style of the time, it is a little like a rabbit warren with passages turning off in several directions, and showing it is spread across a number of different buildings.
It has the original Otis elevator that can take a maximum of four passengers, and a sign on the wall that says “no horseplay inside the elevator” which is a rather interesting expression that only someone of my vintage would understand. And, for those without a sense of humour, you definitely couldn’t fit a horse in it to play with.
The thing is, how do you find a balance between keeping the old world charm with modern day expectations? You can’t. Some hotels try valiantly to get that balance. Here, it is simply old-world charm, which I guess we should be grateful for because sooner rather than later, it’s going to disappear forever.
In my writer’s mind, given the importance of the railways, this was probably a thriving place for travellers, and once upon a time, there were a lot more hotels like this one.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 