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.
In all of the goings-on, with Zoe chasing down old acquaintances in Bucharest, then moving on to Yuri, then Olga, we forget that Isobel and Rupert are on her trail, with Sebastian in tow.
It’s not so much Sebastian in charge anymore, not after going rogue and shooting his boss and John’s mother, an act that Rupert witnesses after following Sebastian on the hunch that he was up to something.
Rupert realises that Worthington still presents a major problem, and on the basis that Worthington was going to realise it’s not Zoe shooting at him, Worthington had to be taken off the chessboard.
Unfortunately, he has to enlist Sebastian to get a crew together to kidnap him and take him to a safe house.
Meanwhile, Isobel, with a computer in hand, takes up vigil at the hospital with John’s mother, pretending she is her daughter. There, she tracks Zoe via her cell phone to an address in Zurich.
Then, miraculously, John’s cell phone reappears and is active long enough for her to get a location, and see that a 96-second phone call is made to a phone in Zurich, Zoe’s.
Then it disappears again.
Isobel then calls Zoe and gives her the address. It’s a short call.
Calls to Sebastian and Rupert mobilise them, and everyone is on their way to John’s location.
In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.
In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.
Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.
Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.
She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.
Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.
All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.
Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”
Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!
“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.
He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.
“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.
“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.
“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.
Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”
They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.
Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.
His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.
Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.
No. That wasn’t possible.
Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.
It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.
“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”
At least we agree on that, she thought.
It was obvious he was running away from something as well.
Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.
After getting through this evening first.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”
A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.
Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”
Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.
She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”
She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.
Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.
Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.
Was that what she was expecting?
Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.
Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.
On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.
This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.
Rebellion was written all over him.
The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.
“Mr Henshaw?”
He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.
“Then my name is Michelle.”
Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.
“Staying long?” she asked.
“About three weeks. Yourself?”
“About the same.”
The conversation dried up.
Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.
Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.
“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”
Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”
“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”
You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.
“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.
“Yes, so do I.”
Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.
It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.
Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”
“By car.”
“Did you drive yourself?”
And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.
“After a fashion.”
He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.
And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.
“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.
“Whatever for?”
“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”
“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.
“Do you drive?”
“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”
The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.
“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.
“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.
“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.
“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.
He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.
“I’m a purser.”
“A what?”
“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”
“I see.”
“And you?”
“I was a model.”
“Was?”
“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.
As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.
“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”
“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”
Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.
Dinner over, they separated.
Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.
But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.
Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.
She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.
It’s the story that was inspired by the Castello di Briolio, which had small aspirations when first conceived, but now it’s reached a point where we need to fill in a few blanks at the start.
Thus, a revised Episode One
…
“You have got the guards set up on the back wall,” I asked Jackerby, the officer in charge of the rearguards.
“Can you see them?” he said in a tone that dripped sarcasm.
I didn’t like Jackerby; he seemed far too sure of himself and his men, and so far, we hadn’t had to rely on them.
But I expected that time was coming, and sooner than both of us wanted to believe.
“No.”
“Then no one else will either. Trust me; no one will be coming over the back wall.”
That was a matter of opinion, and, in my assessment of the fortifications and the security precautions, about the only way the enemy could attack us was from the sky.
And that was, given the current situation the enemy was in, practically impossible. But, as my old commander used to say, ‘This is war, anything is possible, and when you least expect it.’
I’d survived four years of it and didn’t want to be one of those who didn’t make it to the end. For that reason, I trusted no one, and particularly people who said ‘trust me’.
I glanced along the back wall again, just to make sure, but it didn’t make me feel any safer.
“I’ll be in the command post if you need me, and it has a clear view of anything coming.”
“Excellent,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We were in an old castle, though not strictly speaking a real castle, built only a few hundred years ago. It was an enemy stronghold up until a month ago, when, acting on advice from the local resistance that the enemy strength had dropped as they had begun to retreat, a strike force came and liberated it.
And, given its strategic position between the front line and the sea, it became a gateway for anyone who wanted to escape the Germans and what was left of the Italians.
That also included departing boffins from the Reich, looking to bargain their way to a new home in England or the US.
To oversee that operation was a Colonel called Johansson, along with a dozen or so specialist soldiers, and the operation had been running smoothly.
Then came an attempted incursion, where a group of enemy soldiers who were fighting to the end, made a brave attempt to take the castle back. They failed because of a twelfth-hour arrival of a Major called Jackerby and a small motley crew of men.
When I read the report after the battle, it seemed odd.
As a result of his help, Jackerby was recruited by Johansson in circumstances that seemed a little too coincidental for my liking. Johansson was too easy-going for me, and although he had not made a mistake yet, I felt sure one was going to happen on my watch.
I came later, sent by Command to ‘lend assistance where possible’ to the operation, assistance the good Colonel took no pains to tell Command he didn’t need. But they didn’t give him a choice.
Except…
On my way there, my driver and I had almost reached the castle when we were caught in a roadside bomb. The driver was killed, and I’d been saved by a dog, one we had found on the side of the road, badly in need of water and food.
I had brought him with me. The thought of doing so, at the time, had been on the end of a single idea: a dog could not betray me; men and women could. And the fact thatits name was Jack seemed to me to be rather poetic, if not somewhat ironic in the circumstances.
There was a communication in my pocket, one I’d received earlier in the afternoon, sent in a one-time code no one but I could decode.
A warning of a second attempt on the castle by the enemy, but for reasons unknown.
Tonight.
Jack and I were in the guard tower at the south-western corner of the castle. It overlooked the valley and gave a clear view of anyone or anything coming from that quadrant. If I were going to retake the castle, that’s where I’d launch an attack from.
Of course, if it came by air, you’d expect to hear it.
I didn’t, but Jack did. He suddenly stood and made a small moaning noise, as if he knew quiet communication was needed. The stiffness in his body told me it was in danger.
Then I saw it, just as I came out of the guardhouse onto the gravel path, the moonlight shining of very large wings, and for a moment it didn’t make sense until I realised it was a glider.
Silent. It passed, and behind me I could see parachutes, then the sound of boots on the gravel walkways just down from the tower. A precision flight and precision landing of a dozen stormtroopers.
A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.
A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?
A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.
A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.
After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.
From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature, but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
…
I never realised Boggs had this thing for treasure. Seems a long time ago that one of his relatives was a diver, found a wreck, and with it, gold bullion. He became rich, and the wealth in the family lasted till Boggs’ grandfather, who frittered away the last of the fortune on dodgy land schemes and supposed match tree forests in Ecuador.
It was up to him, Boggs told me, to restore the family fortune.
I couldn’t see how this was going to happen sitting in a bar that openly advertised treasure maps and an owner who was only too happy to tell the story of the Spaniard to anyone who’d listen.
The problem was that no two versions of the story were the same.
Whilst Boggs was taking in the fourth or fifth rendition of the story, I looked around at the clientele. They were certainly more interesting than the treasure.
Mostly here for the sun and surf, there were two notable exceptions, and if I were to guess, they looked Spanish.
Or was it my imagination working overtime?
They seemed very interested in Boggs, from time to time looking over at him, and then muttering to each other. Conveniently, they were along the path to the restroom, so I took a stroll, and lingering a moment near their table, I listened to the conversation.
In Spanish.
My Spanish was a little rusty, but what I thought I heard was, “Boy, map, find out what he knows, gold, and it’s in the hills somewhere.“
The phrase, there’s gold in them thar hills came to mind.
But for the moment, I think we had a problem.
When I came out of the restroom, the first thing I noticed was that the two Spaniards had left. When I looked over towards the bar, where I had left Boggs, I noticed he too was missing.
All of a sudden, I had a very bad feeling.
I ran outside, just in time to see the two men bundling Boggs into the back of a car and driving off.
It is, but it isn’t. Oddly enough after two weeks in temperatures ranging from -21 to 7 degrees Fahrenheit, I think I’m finally used to it.
My early morning walk after leaving the hotel is both for exercise and exploring.
Looking for locations, observing people, watching and learning what it’s like to live, work, and hang out in a city like New York.
It’s so much more interesting than where I come from. There it would be impossible to spin a story in such a small city. You need to be able to hide in plain sight among millions of people over a very large area that encompasses Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and everything else in-between and beyond.
I was looking at going to a Walmart in Secaucus, about three and a half miles from my hotel in Manhattan. Three and a half miles. In my city that’s way beyond the limits of the city and in the outer suburbs.
Here I can spin a tale that could live within the confines of 35th street, 85th street, 2nd Avenue and 10th Avenue, and have so much material, I could probably write a trilogy.
Pity is, I won’t be here long enough to gather enough background.
Still, it’s like being in literary seventh heaven.
I’ve written one book based in New York, I’m sure another is currently writing itself in my head and will be on paper over the next year.
When you open a book and begin reading, it’s more than just you reading words; it’s about a subtle relationship you have with the author, and that’s what he or she writes resonates with you…
…
That’s a profound and very accurate observation. You’re highlighting the fundamental difference between simply processing information and engaging with literature.
This “subtle relationship” you describe can be broken down into a few key concepts in literary theory and reader response:
1. The Author-Reader Pact (Resonance)
When a reader connects with a text, it often feels like the author is speaking directly to them. This resonance occurs because the author has successfully:
Anticipated the Reader’s World: The author uses language, references, and emotional contexts that they expect the reader to understand and relate to.
Established a Voice: The author’s unique style, tone, and perspective shine through, creating an implied personality that the reader either trusts or finds intriguing. If the reader finds this voice authentic or compelling, they are more willing to follow the narrative and accept the author’s vision.
Invited Collaboration: The author intentionally leaves gaps, ambiguities, and “blanks” in the text. The reader fills these in using their own experiences, imagination, and knowledge, effectively becoming a co-creator of the story. This active participation strengthens the personal bond.
2. Empathy and Shared Human Experience
At its core, the relationship is built on empathy. Reading is an exercise in experiencing the world through another’s perspective. Even if the author is long dead or writes about fantastical events, the underlying emotions—joy, fear, loss, curiosity—are universal and allow the reader to connect on a human level.
3. The Power of Intent
The act of writing for publication implies an intent to communicate, to be understood, or to persuade. The subtle relationship is the reader’s reception of that intent, even if they later disagree with the message. The author is saying, “Here is something I value and wish to share,” and the reader’s choice to engage is their acceptance of that invitation.
In short, it’s not just about what the author writes, but how their words make you feel.
The Archive of Experience: Why Your Past is Your Greatest Resource
In our modern, fast-paced world, we are obsessed with the “next.” We are constantly looking toward the next milestone, the next innovation, and the next version of ourselves. While forward momentum is essential for growth, we often overlook the most powerful tool in our arsenal for navigating the future: our own history.
The past is not merely a collection of memories or a series of “what-ifs.” It is a dynamic, living resource—a vast library of data, lessons, and patterns that, when leveraged correctly, can become the foundation for our future success.
Here is why your past is the most valuable asset you own.
1. The Laboratory of Pattern Recognition
Patterns are the language of reality. Whether in business, relationships, or personal habits, history tends to rhyme. When you look back at your past experiences—both the triumphs and the failures—you begin to see recurring themes.
Did you notice that you always thrive when you collaborate, but struggle when you’re isolated? Do you see a trend in the types of challenges that tend to derail your progress? By analysing your past, you aren’t just remembering; you are engaging in pattern recognition. This allows you to walk into new situations with a “map” that others, who haven’t done the work of reflection, lack.
2. Failure as R&D (Research and Development)
We often treat our past mistakes as sources of shame. However, in the world of professional innovation, a failed experiment is simply a piece of data that proves what doesn’t work.
When you treat your past failures as “Research and Development,” you strip away the emotional sting and replace it with objective intelligence. Every “no” you received, every project that stalled, and every lapse in judgment is a refined instruction manual for how to handle similar situations in the future. You are the only person who possesses the unique training data of your own life—don’t let it go to waste.
3. The Anchor of Resilience
There is a specific kind of confidence that comes from knowing you have survived 100% of your worst days. When the present feels overwhelming, looking back at your own history serves as a powerful anchor.
By remembering the times you felt trapped, confused, or defeated and recalling exactly how you navigated your way out, you remind yourself of your inherent resilience. The past doesn’t just show you where you’ve been; it proves your capacity to transcend adversity. It transforms the question “Can I get through this?” into “I have gotten through this before, and I will do it again.”
4. Harvesting Your “Hidden Hits”
Sometimes, we get so focused on the future that we forget the skills, passions, and insights we once possessed. Perhaps you were a great writer in college, a creative problem solver in your first job, or someone who naturally brought people together in a community group.
Modern life often causes us to prune away parts of ourselves to fit into a specific “career box.” Returning to your past allows you to rediscover forgotten talents. It is a process of harvesting the “hidden hits” of your early life and re-integrating them into your current identity to create a more well-rounded, effective version of yourself.
How to Use Your Past Effectively
To turn your past into a resource rather than a prison, you must change your relationship with it:
Practice Objective Reflection: Spend time journaling about past events as if you were an unbiased observer. Write down what happened, what you did, and what the outcome was.
Extract the Lesson: Don’t stop at the memory. Ask yourself, “What did this teach me that I am still using today?”
Forgive the “Past You”: Recognise that the version of you in the past was making the best decisions they could with the information they had at the time. Compassion for your past self is the key to clarity for your future self.
The Bottom Line
Your past is not a graveyard; it is a goldmine. It is where your wisdom resides and where your most authentic lessons are stored. By mining your history for its insights, patterns, and proofs of strength, you stop being a victim of your experiences and start becoming the architect of your future.
Don’t just move forward—move forward informed. Your past is waiting to tell you exactly how to win.
Budapest Beyond the Guidebook: 5 Adventures on the Road Less Travelled
Budapest. The Pearl of the Danube. A city of majestic architecture, thermal waters, ruin bars, and a history that echoes through every cobblestone street. It’s a city that rightfully earns its place on countless travel bucket lists, beckoning with the grandeur of the Parliament, the panoramic views from Buda Castle, and the vibrant pulse of Szimpla Kert.
But what if you’ve already seen the iconic sights, or perhaps you’re simply tired of following the well-worn path? What if you crave a deeper connection, a more authentic encounter with this incredible city?
If your adventurous spirit whispers for something different, something just off the main tourist radar, then pack your curiosity. We’re about to explore five truly unique experiences in Budapest that promise a new perspective and memories distinct from the typical postcard shots.
1. Descend into Budapest’s Hidden Labyrinth: The Pál-völgyi or Szemlő-hegyi Caves
Forget the surface for a moment and journey into Budapest’s fascinating underworld. Beneath the city, an extensive network of limestone caves riddles the earth, formed by ancient thermal waters. While few tourists venture here, these natural wonders offer a thrilling escape.
Why it’s unique: Unlike most cave systems, these are right beneath a bustling capital city! You’ll trade city noise for geological silence, marvelling at incredible stalactite and stalagmite formations, crystal growths, and narrow passages. The Pál-völgyi Cave offers a more adventurous, helmet-and-headlamp caving experience (guided, of course), while the Szemlő-hegyi Cave is more accessible, known as the “underground flower garden” for its stunning mineral formations.
Road Less Travelled Bonus: You’ll be one of the few experiencing an ancient, geological side of Budapest often overlooked. It’s an active, immersive adventure that feels a world away from the city above.
2. Bathe Like a Local: Rudas Thermal Bath (and its Rooftop Pool!)
Everyone knows Széchenyi and Gellért. They’re stunning, no doubt. But for a truly authentic, less-crowded thermal experience steeped in history, head to Rudas Thermal Bath. Dating back to the Ottoman occupation, Rudas offers a glimpse into centuries-old bathing traditions.
Why it’s unique: Rudas maintains designated gender-specific days in its beautiful 16th-century octagonal main pool (check their schedule!), offering a more traditional and serene experience. But the real hidden gem? It’s a contemporary rooftop panoramic hot tub. Imagine soaking in warm thermal waters, overlooking the magnificent Chain Bridge and the Danube, especially as the city lights up at dusk.
Road Less Travelled Bonus: While not entirely undiscovered, Rudas offers a far less ‘tourist factory’ feel than its more famous counterparts, allowing for a more reflective and local bathing ritual, especially on single-sex days. The rooftop pool is pure magic.
3. Ride the Whimsical Hungarian Children’s Railway (Gyermekvasút)
Step back in time and into a truly charming piece of Hungarian history. The Children’s Railway is no theme park ride; it’s a fully operational, narrow-gauge railway line winding through the picturesque Buda Hills, and almost every role – from ticket inspector to signalman – is performed by children (aged 10-14), under adult supervision.
Why it’s unique: It’s a fascinating relic of the socialist era, designed to teach children responsibility and discipline. The kids take their roles very seriously, making for a delightful and slightly surreal experience. The journey itself offers beautiful views of the surrounding forests and hills, a welcome green escape from the city’s concrete.
Road Less Travelled Bonus: Far from the city centre, this is a heartwarming, quirky, and surprisingly educational experience. It’s perfect for families, history buffs, or anyone seeking a genuinely unique interaction with Hungarian culture and its past.
4. Dive into Pinball Heaven at the Flippermúzeum (Pinball Museum)
If you’re looking for something purely fun, nostalgic, and utterly unexpected, the Budapest Pinball Museum is your answer. Tucked away in a basement close to Margaret Bridge, this vibrant museum houses over 160 playable pinball machines and arcade games, from the 1940s to the latest models.
Why it’s unique: It’s not just a museum; it’s an interactive arcade where your entrance fee grants you unlimited play for the entire day! You can spend hours immersed in the delightful clangs, flings, and flashing lights of pinball history, challenging friends or simply reliving childhood memories.
Road Less Travelled Bonus: This isn’t on any standard itinerary, making it a fantastic discovery for those craving entertainment beyond traditional sightseeing. It’s a quirky, joyful experience that appeals to all ages and offers a lively break from historical tours.
5. Explore the Ancient Charms of Óbuda
While everyone flocks to Buda Castle or Pest’s vibrant districts, take a tram or bus to Óbuda, the oldest part of Budapest. This tranquil district, effectively Budapest’s “Old Town,” predates the unification of Buda and Pest and offers a distinctly different atmosphere.
Why it’s unique: Here, you’ll find charming Baroque squares like Fő tér (Main Square), dotted with sculptures, quaint cafes, and local shops. Explore the ruins of Aquincum, an ancient Roman city that once thrived here, complete with an amphitheatre. Óbuda feels like a separate, sleepy village, with its own pace and unique history.
Road Less Travelled Bonus: You’ll experience a quieter, more residential side of Budapest, encountering fewer tourists and more locals going about their daily lives. It’s a chance to savour genuine Hungarian village charm within a major metropolis, and to walk among Roman ruins without the usual crowds.
Budapest is a city that keeps on giving, especially when you step away from the well-trodden path. These five adventures offer a glimpse into the city’s diverse soul, inviting you to connect with its history, nature, quirks, and local life in truly memorable ways. So, next time you’re planning a trip to the Hungarian capital, dare to take the road less travelled. You might just discover your own personal pearl.
What are your favourite Budapest hidden gems? Share them in the comments below!
I started off thinking that murder was pretty straight forward, you know, someone pulls out a gun and shoots someone else: murder. Of course, there are any other means of doing the same crime, by knife, poison, strangulation, or suffocation.
Or, by endless inane conversation. Much less chance of going to jail with that one.
Its the stuff that keeps crime writers going, fictional detectives detecting and crime scene investigators analysing.
Still the fact someone might be getting away with murder, means they’ve successfully found a way to have their cake and eat it.
Come to think of it how many times have we used that word in vain, like when a child drives you to distraction, red-faced and you say with a great deal of conviction ‘you do that again I’ll murder you’.
Just make sure it doesn’t actually happen, or those words will come back to haunt you.
But this is only one aspect of using the word.
You could, if you want, scream blue murder, which is literally impossible. In fact, what the does that really mean?
It can also refer to an onerous task or experience, hence the possibility that listening to that discussion about hot water bottles was absolute murder.
For one thing, it probably murdered an hour or two of my time.
It could also describe a comprehensive defeat, that we murdered the other side 86 to nothing. Come to think of it, I never got to participate in such a game, so that might account for why I’d never heard it used before.
And, lastly…
Did you know it can refer to a flock of a particular type of bird, I think crows.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 