Month: January 2026

In a word: High or is it hie

When the boss says jump, the question is usually ‘how high’.

Not that it’s possible for many of us with a challenging centre of gravity to get much elevation.

High generally means height, how far something rises above ground level, is above our heads.

That plane flies very high in the sky.

Then there’s another meaning, increased intensity, such as a high temperature, a high fever, but my favourite is, a high dudgeon.

I’m still to get a definition on what a dudgeon is.

We have secondary schools here that we call high schools. Make of that what you will

And in the idiomatic world, flying high means we are very happy, and when were left high and dry then not so much. Unless it related to a ship, in which case a lot of people would be unhappy.

We can use high just about everywhere, high hopes, high ceilings, feelings that run high, a high chair for toddlers of course, high speed which may cause s crash and land you in a high security prison.

This is not to be confused with just plain hi which is a universal greeting.

But there is another, hie, which has a more obscure meaning, to hasten or go quickly.

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 24

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

 

While waiting for Carlo and Chiara to return with the villagers, and taking some time to consider the plan that had almost formed in my mind, I went back to my room, which, I was guessing was once used for wine storage, because now that I had taken a moment to stop and consider my surroundings, I could smell the aroma of spilled wine.

With a little more light, I could see the arches within which the bottles would be stacked.  I’d also noticed while I’d been outside, that there were vines everywhere, albeit in bad shape as the people who tended them had either left, or been taken away, or shot.

Red grapes if I was not mistaken, though I had no idea what the variety might be.

If the war dragged on much longer, it would do a lot of damage to the wine-growing districts, and I doubted, when the Germans were here, they had any interest in tending the vines, but just drink the wine, and then probably not with the appreciation it deserved.

That had certainly been the case up at the castle before fate turned against me.  Perhaps that was where all of the wine from this cellar had been taken for safekeeping, once the locals thought the Germans had gone forever.  Maybe that was the reason why Leonardo spent so much of his time at the castle, the free wine.

Jack had returned from what I assumed was an inspection of our new quarters and was sitting on the ground next to me.  I wondered what he made of everything he had seen.  It was certainly not a dog’s life being caught in the middle of a war.  

“It’s a fine mess we’re in,” I said to him, and he looked back with uncomprehending eyes.  I would have to brush up on my German.  Or maybe Italian.  It only just occurred to me that he was probably someone’s dog from around here.  We’d only run into each other a few miles away.

“Yes, and I’m sure if you spoke English you could tell me a thing or two.  But, alas, you can’t, so a piece of advice.  Try to keep out of trouble, and by that, next time I go out, you might want to stay here.”

I shrugged.  Things must be bad; I’m talking to a dog.

Martina stopped outside the entrance.  “I heard voices.  Who are you talking to?”

“The dog.  He’s the only one who’s making any sense at the moment.”

“Are you sure he’s not a German spy.  Or, in fact, it’s a he?”

“You probably know as much as I do.  Anything happening?”

“Carlo’s back with a dozen or so of those who want to stay alive.  Chiara has a few more.  The rest have other places to hide if they need to.  We’ve told them to expect a raid.  Leonardo and a few of his men have been out looking for you and told everyone that you are a German spy and that he’ll pay them a lot of money for information about where you are or who’s hiding you.  He doesn’t understand everyone hates him, they always have.”

“Good to know if I run into him, he won’t be happy to see me.”

“This plan of yours?”

“Wallace will be getting edgy about the men he sent out, those men we ambushed at Chiara’s place.  It depends on who he sends, and where they go, but I was thinking we could prepare another ambush at Chiara’s.  All we have to do is wait because I’m sure they’ll get there eventually.”

“And if I know Leonardo, he’ll send them straight to my farm.  He knows that both Carlo and I, and the other two you’ve met were the other four who refused to join him in going up to the castle to make peace.  It seems he’s made a bad choice.”

“Wallace didn’t.  He needs someone like Leonardo to find us.  You’re probably right.  I was thinking Carlo and I could go.  No sense sending all of us, and if anything happens, there will be someone left to carry on.”

“You don’t sound too confident.  You are a soldier, aren’t you?”

“In a manner of speaking.  But I was not trained to be a commando, and not necessarily on the front line, or in this case behind enemy lines.”

“You’re not one of those rich kids whose father bought a commission, so you didn’t have to fight?”

Interesting the ideas foreigners had about elements of the army.  I was not sure if that was done anymore, at least not in this war.

“I have poor parents, that is if they have survived the bombs falling on London.  Refused to give in to Hitler’s aggression.”

I tried to convince them to go to the countryside, just to be safe, but one of the places they thought of going, had also been bombed, so as far as they were concerned, nowhere in England was safe.

“But yes, they did teach me how to shoot, and I know my way around several different types of gun.”  My mind flicked to the sniper rifle and the damage that could do.  

I’d be definitely taking that with me.

I saw her turn her head, and then heard the sound of new arrivals.  Chiara had returned.

“Time’s up for planning.”

I told the dog to stay, but as usual, he ignored me.  We went back into the main cavern where a dozen more people were settling in various places along one wall.  They looked as though they’d packed for a reasonably long stay.

But what worried me was the way they looked at me.  Those rumors Leonardo spread, I was hoping no one believed him.  Above the sound of voices, I could hear Marina speaking to them in Italian, hopefully, to tell them I was not a threat.

I found Carlo. 

“I have a small job to do.  After our last exercise at Chiara’s my old commander will no doubt send someone down to the village to seek answers, and I’m hoping you’ll come with me so we can convince them of the error of their ways.”

He smiled.  There was no mirth in it, and I knew I didn’t have to say anything more.

I saw movement coming from a group of people, and among them the boy I’d met earlier, Enrico.  He had jumped up off the floor when he saw me and came over.

“What are we going to do now.  I mean, we’re not going to sit here and do nothing.”

Boyish enthusiasm.  He had not been shot at yet, and to him, it was all a bit of a game.  I remembered back to the start of the war, and the number of boys who lied about their age, hardly waiting for the war to be declared.  They had no idea what a real war was, and if they had known, they would not have been so recklessly enthusiastic.

“You’re going to stay here and protect your family and all the others here.”

“No.  I want to be useful, fight the bastards.”

Carlo gave him one of his dark stares.  “You will stay here and help others if anything goes wrong.  Out there,” he pointed towards the entrance, “out there, if you’re not careful, you will die.”

Martina had seen him talking to us and came over.

“Enrico, we’ve talked about this.  Go back to your family.”

A last pleading look in case we changed our minds, then he reluctantly returned to his group.

Carlo handed me the sniper rifle and a pistol, a luger, probably captured from a German earlier, when they were in occupation.

“Good luck,” Martina said.

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 7

Seven

Watching the body language of both husband and wife, it was hard to tell who was in charge, but if I had to make a guess, Angelina was in front by a nose.

Who had the most clout in that room, that was Angelina, via her father, Benito?  He might have retired and passed the reins onto his eldest son, but in terms of respect, he had it from all the crime families and syndicates, and was, for all intents and purposes, still a force to be reckoned with.

That was even after he and his eldest son, the heir apparent, decided to go straight.  It was a surprising turn of events for a crime family that had been notorious in its heyday.  Now the family were more involved in banks, shopping malls, casinos, and bearer bonds.

As for their illegal activities, those were shared out among the other three major crime syndicates equally so as to avoid a turf war. It also led to the marriage of convenience between Fabio Latanzio and Benito’s eldest daughter Angelina, mutually profitable for both sides.

At that time, Fabio had just been promoted to understudy his father, the heir apparent for that syndicate.  Fabio was ambitious but respectful, until his father was killed in a suspected hit, which led to a few months of tit for tat killings until Benito brokered an uneasy peace.

That meant Fabio became head of the family, and instead of sitting back and letting others do the work for him, he chose to be hands on.  And three suspicious murders later this he had privately said was to avenge the death of his father, here he was, on the brink of a long jail sentence. 

And the fact that he had allowed himself to be broken free of custody was a tell take sign that he knew he was both guilty of the crime, and that he was looking at a long sentence in jail.

Then there was the other undeniable fact, he had sent in a team to kill me.  If he was innocent, why would he bother?

Amy had been watching the family reunion with interest. She too, saw the signs of a rift which she could use against him.

She sat down when they went onto silence each on a separate side of the room, the air between them could be cut with a knife.  Benito, no doubt would be very angry at the turn of events, and of Fabio’s behaviour.  It was common knowledge that Benito thought him too big for his boots.

“Happy families, eh,” I said.

“That’s the trouble with absolute power, you tend to think after a while that you are untouchable.  He’s about to find just how wrong he is.  And, if we’re lucky we might yet get to find out who his high-level police contact is.”

That of course was something else I learned very quickly that a few, a very few cops were corrupt, and one in particular, the one that ratted me out.

It was a bit of a shock to discover that your safety really couldn’t be guaranteed, particularly when a high-profile criminal was involved, like Latanzio.

It was a can of worms she really didn’t want to open, but those who had helped Fabio stay free as long as he had, it was her intention to find out who it was and make sure they were punished.

It was determination I had seen only intensify since the attacking the hotel, and an escape after seeing several colleagues either killed or injured.

To me, sitting there watching the man who had ordered a hit on me and very nearly succeeded, and being able to observe the whole operation around his capture was, to say the least, fascinating.

It would be interesting to see how Latanzio reacted.

The least expected reaction was a steady pounding on the door, accompanied by yelling, Latanzio wanted to speak to the person in charge.

We watched him for a few minutes, and it looked like Amy wanted him angry, very angry, before she had him taken to an interview room.

She was expecting trouble, because he was not cuffed now, with two men collecting him, and two in the shadows with instructions to shoot a tranquilizer dart into him if he misbehaved.

The passageway was also set up so we could watch him, and there was definite proof he was seriously considering tackling the escort and making a break for it.  Amy could see the signs, but watching his escort, there were very aware of what he might do.

But in the end, he didn’t try to escape.

Not yet.

He was sent into the room, one guard outside, the other inside the door.  He kept what looked like a truncheon visible so the Latanzio would think twice about considering his odds against one rather than two.

For me, I might get past the first but not the second.  Any sensible person could see the odds stacked against them.

Amy stood up.  “Time to have a first pass at him.  Wish me luck.”

She didn’t need luck.  So far her plan was working.

Two minutes, perhaps three, passed before I saw her enter the room.  Latanzio has stopped pacing and had finally sat.  I could see him evaluation the possibility of using her as leverage to escape.

Whatever happened, the guards were instructed to kill him, irrespective of hostages.  It was a hard call, but everyone in the team chose to be there.

She sat but did not speak.  It was up to him to make the first move.

It didn’t take long.

“Just what exactly is going on here?  Who organised this?”

She took a moment to look him up and down, the sort of look that could make another, more ordinary person, squirm.  Latanzio was unmoved.

“The who, as I said before, is irrelevant.  The what is because we are putting the rest of your journey together, and it’s taking some time.  With one person it’s easy, with four it is more difficult.”

“Then forget about the family.  They’re safe.  No one will dare touch them.  I should be your most pressing case.”

Interesting that, if politely put, the rat thinks only of himself.

“You should realise that your wife and children will suffer the consequences of your actions if you leave them behind, so according to my instructions, you all go, or no one goes.”

“What does that mean?”

I thought it was obvious, but I was beginning to think Latanzio was not as clever as I thought he was.

“You don’t want to find out.”

“Is Benito behind this?  This smells like something he would do. More about saving his daughter than worrying about me.  He needs me.”

From what Amy’s sources had learned in the last few hours, the opposite was true.  Benito had put a contract out on him.  It hadn’t helped Fabio’s cause that she had leaked the fact Fabio was cheating on his daughter.

“Not since he was told about Gabrielle.  It is why we had to bring her in, too.  So, Benito is not your benefactor, he had, in fact, put a contract out on your head.  You should be thankful we got you out of jail, or you’d be dead by now.”

I could see his mind working, taking in what she had just told him and processing it.

Amy decided to add another variable.  “You have to decide who you want to go with you, Angelina or Gabrielle.  It can’t be both.”

There were a few seconds delay like a conversation being conducted from the earth to the moon

The he said, ” What will happen to those left behind?”

“I’m sure you know exactly what will happen.  The problem is, if you hadn’t shot that fool in the street in front of a witness, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“That witness is dead.  There is no witness.”

She shook her head.  ” No, Mr Latanzio, he is not dead.  You had to take on a very resourceful man, not your average Joe, nor by a long shot.  Special forces, or marines, or something I’m told, and he hasn’t taken it very well that you sent in a team to kill him.  It’s another mess were going to have to clean up.  All in all, you were given a simple job to do, and instead, let your ego and stupidity get us to this point.  You should realise my first instruction was to get you out and then put a bullet in your head.  I might still do it.  My people have been instructed to shoot you if you try anything.  That also means if you die, so does Angelina, Gabrielle, and your children.  My instructions are very clear.”

She stood, signalling the interview was at an end.

“You now have to make a decision.  Who would you like to see now?”

“Gabrielle.”

Angelina was going to be very impressed with her husband when Amy told her.

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job? – Episode 7

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

A body and a whole bunch of questions.

A full minute passed, with only one car passing, the rest of the time there was a strange sort of silence.

The man on the ground didn’t move.  Whoever shot him had shot to kill.  I took the few steps to stand beside him and could see the hole and the bloodstain of the wound.  Shot in the heart, instant death.

Usually, if it was a sniper, it was a head shot.  Less chance of missing a vital organ and leaving the target alive.

Odd too that it was just before he told me where some ‘evidence’ was located.  And who the hell was this Alfred Nobbin?

I heard a car turn into the alley and come towards me.  Halfway, it stopped, the engine switched off, and the doors opened.

Two men.  Maury, my handler, and Severin, the instructor.  Neither was carrying a gun, so neither had shot him.  That meant someone else was still in play.

I said, “I had him, but someone shot him.”

Stating the obvious, Maury’s expression told me.

“You’re not dead.”

“Perhaps I wasn’t a target.”

“Today.  Did he say who he was?”

“No.”

No hesitation or they’ll think I’m lying, which I am.  I was not sure why, but was it because I detected a note of sincerity in the target’s tone?

“Checked for identification yet?”

“Just about to.”  I knelt down and went through his pockets.  Nothing.  I told Maury that.

“Pity.”  He hadn’t moved from where he stopped.  Severin had been looking back up the alley, no doubt looking for where the bullet came from.

Had he reached the same conclusion I had, a balcony on the third floor of the left-hand building?  The shooter would be long gone by now.

A white van pulled into the lane and pulled up behind Maury’s car.  The cleaners.

It raided questions.  How did Maury know we’d be here, and that the target would be shot dead?  Or had he assumed I’d all but kill him in revenge for what had happened to the others.

What had happened to the others?

“The rest of the team,” I asked.

“Two dead, one critical.  One safe.  Let’s go.  We need to have a debriefing.”

I took a last look at the body, the joined Maury and Severin in the car.  I had questions of my own.

“A bad day’s work,” Severin muttered, as he drove off.

“But conclusive proof we have a traitor, the last thing we need right now.”

I was surprised they were discussing high-level matters that I considered above my pay grade.  And, I had to say, it worried me.

© Charles Heath 2019-2025

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 1

Day 1 – The five c’s of writing

…

The 5 C’s of Writing: Crafting Clear, Compelling, and Captivating Content

In the world of writing—whether you’re crafting a novel, a blog post, a business email, or academic essay—quality matters. But what separates good writing from great writing? Enter the 5 C’s of Writing: a set of guiding principles that help writers produce content that is not only effective but also engaging and impactful.

These five pillars—Clarity, Conciseness, Coherence, Correctness, and Consistency—form the foundation of professional and polished writing. Let’s dive into each one and explore how they can transform your writing from “just okay” to outstanding.

1. Clarity: Say What You Mean

Clarity is the cornerstone of effective communication. No matter how brilliant your ideas are, if they’re buried under jargon, convoluted sentence structures, or vague language, your message will be lost.

Tips to improve clarity:

  • Use simple, precise language.
  • Define technical terms when necessary.
  • Avoid ambiguity—be specific in your descriptions.
  • Structure sentences so the subject, verb, and object are easy to identify.

“If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough.”
— Attributed to Albert Einstein

Clarity means respecting your reader’s time and intelligence. Aim for transparency, not complexity.

2. Conciseness: Brevity with Purpose

Great writing doesn’t waste words. Conciseness is about delivering your message using the fewest words possible—without sacrificing meaning.

Avoid:

  • Redundant phrases (e.g., “free gift,” “past history”)
  • Overuse of adverbs and adjectives
  • Filler words like “very,” “really,” “just,” “actually”

Instead of saying:

“Due to the fact that it was raining, we decided to cancel the outdoor event.”
Say:
“Because it was raining, we canceled the outdoor event.”

Concise writing is powerful. It keeps readers engaged and ensures your key points stand out.

3. Coherence: Logical Flow and Connectivity

Even if your writing is clear and concise, it won’t resonate if it lacks coherence. Coherent writing guides the reader smoothly from one idea to the next. Paragraphs and sentences should connect logically, building a narrative or argument that makes sense.

How to boost coherence:

  • Use transition words (e.g., “however,” “furthermore,” “as a result”)
  • Maintain a logical progression—introduce ideas in a structured way
  • Ensure each paragraph supports the central theme or thesis

Think of coherence as the “glue” that holds your content together. It ensures your reader never gets lost midway.

4. Correctness: Grammar, Spelling, and Grammar, Spelling, and Punctuation

Correctness is non-negotiable. Errors in grammar, punctuation, spelling, or usage can undermine your credibility and distract from your message—even if your content is insightful.

Common areas to check:

  • Subject-verb agreement
  • Proper use of apostrophes
  • Tense consistency
  • Punctuation (commas, semicolons, quotation marks)

Invest time in proofreading, use tools like Grammarly or Hemingway Editor wisely, and when in doubt, consult a style guide (APA, MLA, Chicago, or AP).

Remember: correctness isn’t about perfectionism—it’s about respect for your audience and your craft.

5. Consistency: Maintain Your Voice and Style

Consistency involves maintaining a uniform tone, style, formatting, and voice throughout your piece. It’s what gives your writing a professional, polished feel.

Examples of consistency in action:

  • Using the same tense (past vs. present) throughout
  • Sticking with one spelling convention (e.g., American vs. British English)
  • Keeping a uniform style for headings, lists, and citations
  • Maintaining an appropriate tone (formal, conversational, persuasive, etc.)

Whether you’re writing a personal essay or a corporate report, consistency builds trust. It shows that your writing is deliberate and well-considered.

Why the 5 C’s Matter

The 5 C’s aren’t just rules—they’re tools. When applied together, they elevate your writing to a level where it’s not only understood but appreciated. Whether you’re:

  • Persuading decision-makers,
  • Informing readers,
  • Or simply sharing ideas,

Mastering clarity, conciseness, coherence, correctness, and consistency ensures your words land with impact.

Final Thoughts

Writing is both an art and a craft. The 5 C’s help you refine the craft so the art can shine through. As you revise your next piece, ask yourself:

  • Is this clear?
  • Could it be more concise?
  • Does it flow logically?
  • Is it correct?
  • Is my tone and style consistent?

By holding your writing to these five standards, you’ll produce content that’s not only professional but also memorable.

Start small. Focus on one C at a time. And remember—the best writers aren’t born. They’re made—one clear, concise, coherent, correct, and consistent draft at a time.

What’s your biggest writing challenge? Clarity? Grammar? Let us know in the comments—and share your own tips for mastering the 5 C’s!

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Cairo

Beyond the Pyramids: 5 Hidden Gems in Cairo for the Discerning Traveler

Cairo, the bustling capital of Egypt, is synonymous with ancient wonders and crowded tourist hotspots. Most visitors flock to the iconic Pyramids of Giza, the Egyptian Museum, and bustling Khan El Khalili Bazaar—and for good reason. But beyond the well-trodden paths lies a quieter, more intimate Cairo, rich in history, art, and authenticity. For travellers seeking unique experiences without the crowds, here are the top five lesser-known visitor attractions in Cairo that offer distinctive charm and unforgettable moments.

1. The Coptic Cairo (Old Cairo)

Why it stands out: A peaceful enclave of early Christian heritage tucked behind the Roman fortress of Babylon.

While many tourists pass through en route to other sites, Coptic Cairo remains surprisingly uncrowded, despite housing some of Egypt’s most ancient churches and religious artifacts. Wander through narrow cobblestone streets and visit the Hanging Church (Al-Muallaqa), built atop Roman fortress gates, or step into the Church of St. Sergius and Bacchus, believed to be a resting place for the Holy Family during their flight into Egypt.

Don’t miss the Coptic Museum, a serene treasure trove of early Christian art, manuscripts, and textiles that tell the story of Egypt’s Christian roots. The quiet ambience, combined with centuries-old spirituality, makes this area a contemplative retreat in the heart of the city.

Pro tip: Visit early in the morning to enjoy the golden light filtering through the ancient arches and minimal foot traffic.

2. Manial Palace (Al-Manial Palace)

Why it stands out: A stunning blend of Ottoman, Persian, Moorish, and European architectural styles, set in a lush garden oasis.

Overlooked by most tour itineraries, Manial Palace is a 20th-century marvel built by Prince Muhammad Ali Tewfik. Located on the banks of the Nile in the suburb of Manial, the palace feels like a fairy-tale retreat. Its opulent interiors—complete with hand-painted ceilings, intricate mosaics, and royal artifacts—offer a glimpse into royal life during Egypt’s final days as a monarchy.

The surrounding gardens, with fountains, pavilions, and botanical displays, make it a perfect picnic spot or quiet escape from the urban rush.

Why it’s special: Unlike the crowded museums downtown, Manial Palace sees few visitors, allowing you to explore at your own pace, without guides or tour groups crowding your view.

3. Al-Azhar Park

Why it stands out: A 74-acre urban paradise offering panoramic views, Ottoman-era restoration, and a breath of fresh air.

Built on a former garbage dump, Al-Azhar Park is one of Cairo’s greatest urban renewal success stories. Opened in 2005, this beautifully landscaped park offers walking paths, man-made lakes, and shaded gardens. It’s a favourite spot for local families on weekends, but during weekdays, it’s peaceful and nearly empty—ideal for quiet reflection or photography.

From the elevated terraces, you get a stunning bird’s-eye view of Islamic Cairo, including the minarets of historic mosques like Al-Rifa’i and Sultan Hassan. The park also houses Restaurant @ the Tower, offering fine dining with a view, and the Aga Khan Museum, which explores Islamic art and culture.

Bonus: The park supports community initiatives, making your visit both enjoyable and socially responsible.

4. The Museum of Islamic Art

Why it stands out: One of the world’s most comprehensive collections of Islamic artifacts, housed in a striking 19th-century building.

Despite its global significance, the Museum of Islamic Art reopened in 2017 after years of restoration and still remains off the radar for many tourists. Inside, you’ll find over 100,000 artifacts spanning over 1,300 years—ranging from intricately designed metalwork, Qur’ans, textiles, ceramics, and astrolabes.

The building itself—a former 1881 school—exudes old-world elegance, and the spacious galleries allow you to explore without the usual museum crowds. Highlights include the Mamluk-era brass trays, Ottoman calligraphy, and rare wooden minbars (pulpits) from Cairo’s historic mosques.

Insider fact: The museum’s renovation was a joint effort between Egypt and international institutions, preserving not just artifacts, but architectural heritage.

5. The Graeco-Roman Museum (in Cairo – Misr University for Science and Technology)

Why it stands out: Though the original Alexandria branch is better known, this satellite museum in 6th of October City offers a rare focus on Greco-Roman Egypt.

Located just outside central Cairo, this modern museum presents a fascinating chapter of Egypt’s history when Greek and Roman influences merged with ancient Egyptian traditions. The exhibits include statues of Cleopatra, Roman busts, funerary practices, and everyday objects that illustrate cultural fusion.

The location on a university campus ensures low visitor numbers, making it a peaceful place to explore. The museum also features interactive displays and educational installations, appealing to both history buffs and casual visitors.

Why go? It’s a chance to see another side of Egypt—one shaped by Mediterranean empires yet deeply rooted in Pharaonic traditions.

Final Thoughts: Rediscovering Cairo’s Quiet Soul

Cairo is more than crowds and commotion. These five under-the-radar attractions reveal the city’s layered identity—spiritual, artistic, and historically rich—without the overwhelm of mass tourism. Whether you’re wandering through Coptic alleyways, strolling palace gardens, or marvelling at Islamic masterpieces, these hidden gems offer something truly distinctive.

Next time you’re in Cairo, skip the line and venture off the beaten path. The city’s quieter corners are waiting to whisper their stories.

Traveller’s Checklist:

  • Visit early in the day to avoid even small crowds.
  • Carry water and sun protection—Cairo heats up quickly.
  • Respect local customs, especially in religious sites.
  • Consider hiring a local guide for deeper insight, even at quieter spots.

Let Cairo surprise you. Sometimes, the most memorable moments come not from the loudest landmarks, but from the quiet ones that time forgot.

What I learned about writing – Always look for words of wisdom

And learn from the works of other writers, famous or not…

…

Can you find the words to describe what you think fiction means to you? Or even what it is for a particular novel?

One opinion, Russian, is that it’s aesthetic bliss. To me, most works by Russian writers tend to go on and on and on. Fyodor Dostoevsky is a case in point. I grant you that if you can sit through the novel, which is very good, your opinion might be a little different. Not so much Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn and some of his works.

In my younger days of reading when a large book never fazed me, a thousand plus pages (And Quietly Flows The Don – War and Peace) to a few hundred (One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich) to mid-range five hundred pages (Doctor Zhivago) they all could tend to be tedious, though I have to say Doctor Zhivago as a book was fascinating, the film by David Lean, captivating, and the stage play, boring beyond words.

That is to say, once you get past the Russians, there were British authors like Charles Dickens who could get up to that magic number of pages, and whose works could reach that lofty thousand. They were, however, perhaps more interesting, and most having been made into mini series for television, far more interesting as a spectacle than in reading the book.

And, of course, there is Jane Austen. Need I say more?

But there are times when you pick up a book and start reading the first page, and then stop. It tells a budding author that, on the one hand, it’s not going to be your genre, and on the other, that the opinion of the book is in the eye of the beholder.

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense.  Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan.  He was about six or seven.  The girl was Louise, and she was five years old.  She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds.  I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell.  Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children.  They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand.  She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it.  The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants.  It was enough to have them arrested.  It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die.  It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing.  I had murder in mind.  It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows.  It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out.  I knew he eventually would.  The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go.  I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me.  He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes.  He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours.  I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.”  An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe.  It had blood on it.  Willy’s blood.  “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up.  He sang like a bird.  That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me.  Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.”  Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie.  He didn’t.  I’m coming for you.  All of you Bannisters.  And everyone who touched my sister.”

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries.  Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late.  If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood.  The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told.  He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy.  There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone.  It was a half mile walk, through a park.  The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness.  He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names.  At first, when he saw me, he laughed.  He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list.  I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi.  The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me.  I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality.  The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face.  He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out.  He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged.  I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me.  I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital.  He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come.  Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters.  His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful.  Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered.  A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub.  We got along like old friends.  He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges.  We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared.  I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me.  He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes.  I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it.  He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report.  They all had a turn.  He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats.  Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities.  She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me.  I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily.  The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family.  I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony.  I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes.  This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily.  He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm.  Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie.  My friend.”

Then she shot him.  Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

Now I was in jail.  I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession.  Without my sister, my life was nothing.  I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors.  I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone.  They ignored me.  I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that.  You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good.  I told him to go away.

He didn’t.  Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table.  The prison officers thought I was dangerous.  Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that.  McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.”  Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister.  By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same.  No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right.  But you’re different, Alan.  As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen.  We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him.  It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible.  People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot.  I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life.  Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward.  A team.  On the plane early before the rest of the crew.  A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless.  Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides.  It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision.  If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness.  Not that day.  Not any day.

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag.  They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her.  It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she?  No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it.  After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks.  Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away.  He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground.  I looked at his two friends.  “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk.  She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were.  The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her.  “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me.  She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state.  Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.”  I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care.  Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person.  If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.”  I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again.  “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder.  We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one.  Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk.  What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet.  “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

The wedding was in a small church.  We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot.  Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age.  She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look.  “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said.  It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte.  It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me.  “I like you.  Take care of my granddaughter.  You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us.  Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother.  She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends.  For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother.  It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close.  I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness.  We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head.  It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction.  “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother.  Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?”  I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong.  She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life.  I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled.  It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye.  Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

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Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Georgetown

For those seeking experiences beyond the well-known landmarks in Georgetown, Guyana, here are five excellent things to do on a more unconventional path:

  • Visit the manatees at Guyana National Park (or Botanical Gardens)
    While the botanical gardens and national park are known, a specific, less common activity is feeding the manatees in the ponds. It is one of the few places in the world where it’s possible to interact with these endangered creatures by feeding them grass.
  • Explore the local culture at the lesser-known markets
    Beyond the central Stabroek Market, venture into local markets like Bourda Market or Kitty Market for a more authentic feel of daily Guyanese life. Here, you can experience the vibrant atmosphere, interact with locals, and find unique spices, fresh produce, and local crafts away from the main tourist flow.
  • Experience a local “seven curry” food tour
    Immerse yourself in the unique Indo-Guyanese culinary tradition with a “seven curry” tour, which typically involves collecting lotus leaves and experiencing a cooking class with local chefs in an authentic setting. This provides a deep cultural and gastronomic experience that goes beyond simply visiting a restaurant.
  • Take a blackwater creek adventure
    An excursion about an hour outside the city leads to the serene blackwater creeks, such as those along the Soesdyke/Linden Highway or with local operators like Blackwater Adventures. These unique, palm-fringed swimming spots offer a tranquil escape into nature and a chance to see diverse wildlife, including birds and monkeys, away from the city bustle.
  • Discover Amerindian culture with a village day trip
    Organise a day trip to an Amerindian village, such as the community-run Pakuri Village or lodges like Surama Eco Lodge (which is further afield in the Rupununi region), to learn about the indigenous culture and lifestyle. Engaging with local communities and guides offers a profound insight into Guyana’s heritage and biodiversity that general city tours rarely provide