Month: October 2026

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

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.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

lovecoverfinal1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 35

There’s something on the long-range scanner

…

I didn’t make it back to the leafy suburban late-night stroll, as much as I wanted to have that relaxing moment, going back to the bridge.

It was quiet, if not a subdued atmosphere, in other words, normal for the hour.  It was a skeleton crew, mostly volunteers, those without partners or couldn’t sleep. 

Sleep was one of the first problems because there was no real differentiation between night and day, a sort of hangover from those who worked night shift back on earth, only it extended to everyone.  I’d long since given up the notion of getting a good night’s sleep.

“Where are we?”  I asked, after sitting in the chair and casting a glance over the bridge in semi-darkness, and the view of empty, inky black space outside the ship.

The answer to the question, I thought wryly, was ‘in space’, but I doubt any of those on duty would have the desire to use humour in such a situation.

“In direct line with Pluto’s orbit.”

Salaman, the navigating officer, was not a man with a sense of humour, a just the facts sort of person.

“Any chance if seeing the planet?”

“If we sit here for the next 68 years, maybe.”

OK, so Salaman did have some humour in him if a little dry.

“Engineering.”  The Chief Engineer’s voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Good news, I hope?”

“Problem sorted.  Another item to take up with the inspection crew when we get home.  You’re free to resume.”

“Thank you.”  Then to the helmsman, “Let’s take it slowly, quarter speed.”

“Quarter speed it is, sir.”

There was a barely noticeable movement, then it was as if nothing had happened.  That was the disconcerting part, the fact we had no discernible way of knowing we were moving.

“Quarter speed, sir, all systems nominal.”

“Give it five minutes, then move to half, and so on “

“Yes, sir.”

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes.  I often tried to remember what it was like back home, before the weather changed for the worse, before people changed, not necessarily for the worse, but not as friendly or happy we once were.

That was a long time ago, though, and I’d spent more of my life in space than on earth now and wasn’t sure how I was going to survive once I had to retire.  That was, hopefully, a long time away.

“Sir, we have a long-range contact, not sure yet if it’s a meteor or a ship.”  The navigator’s voice cut into my reverie.

Did she just add the ship to the report, hoping to make a boring night into something more interesting?

“Should we hold off going to full speed, Sir?”

Probably a good idea until we identified the problem.  “OK.”

I stood, walked over to the window, and looked out, symbolically looking for the object.  Long-range meant, beyond a million or so earth kilometres, barely discernible to the scanners let alone a human eye.

“It’s moving at about half light speed, coming towards us.”

That might be a stretch assuming that we could possibly be on an intercepting course.

“Change our heading five degrees and see if it changes too.”

There was a slight movement as we changed course.  I remained by the window, watching and waiting.  There were a few flecks in the blackness, and I wondered if this was the outer rim of a meteor shower.  Were they too small for the sensors to pick up, or was the navigator concentrating on the one large object?

Five minutes passed, then ten.

“Object still on a collision course, sir.”

Which missed stating the obvious, that whatever was out there had also changed course.  Whoever or whatever was out there wanted to meet us.

“Revert back to the original course.  When will we have a clearer picture of this object?”

“Fifteen minutes, sir.”

I had read the specifications of the long-range sensors and scanners, the former mostly do we could avoid space debris that could damage the hull, though that would take a relatively large chunk.

It was our speed, and that of incoming objects that were the problem, and that’s why we had sn autopilot to help avoid these issues.

The scanners could see objects, magnify them, from a reasonable distance, so we could identify them if we had previous knowledge of them.  Alien spaceships, if we were to encounter one, might make that identification difficult but not impossible.  But, on the other hand, the specifications of every ship in space, that we knew about, of course, was in the database.

Anything else, it could be added.

Nothing more to see, I sat down again.  We were still sitting at half speed, and from what I could see on my console, everything was fine.

Then the screen switched to the long-range scan of the object.

It was a ship.

The scanner was going through the known ships list, looking for a match, until it reached the end, bringing up “unknown”.

The navigator stated the obvious, “it’s a ship sir, but not one in our database.  Do you think it might be the prototype the Russians were talking about making a dozen or so years ago?”

Everyone knew about the famous, if you won’t share we’ll build our own, bigger and better ship when the space alliance at the time baulked at bully tactics the Russians tried to use to take over running the alliance.

They had backed down in the face of a world united against them, but had they really?

“We’ll soon find out.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2022

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 17

I was poking around on the gallery on my phone and found this

It was the rear of the club house for a golf course that was adjacent to the resort we were staying at before COVID shut down the country and all travel.

It was a bleak day with rain falling from drizzle to a heavy shower, and I had to wonder what it would be like on a fine summer’s day.

The club house also had space for conventions and weddings, and I could imaging having the wedding in the rotunda as the the sun departed leaving behind shades of yellow, orange and red.

Having a fountain in the wedding photo would be so hard to take either.

Perhaps we could renew our vows one day in just such a location.

It’s a thought.

…

But as for a story…

…

It’s a bleak day with constant drizzle, the sort of day to fuel introspection.

A day to spend in front of a fire with a good book instead of chasing a white ball. The thing is, you never quite know when the weather is going to interfere with the best laid plans.

A week before, the forecast was for clear skies, and perfect blue skies.

Jake was going to meet up with some very influential people on the golf course to discuss business. It was not the sort of business that was conducted indoors, in a conference room, or an office.

But the weather was not going to play ball.

As the murky darkness dawned into a grey soggy morning with constant irritating drizzle, Jake was looking out the window of his room that overlooked the parkland when there was a knock on the door.

There was no way anyone was playing golf in this weather, so he was hoping it was his assistant with the alternate arrangements.

It was the assistant, but with a look of disappointment on her face.

“What news?” he asked.

“McDonald’s PA just called. He had a heart attack last night, and just died.”

…

Is this the beginning of the end?

What I learned about writing – You can lose track of what day it is

I used to like Saturdays, it was the first day of the weekend, and after working Monday through Friday, one could sleep in, have a leisurely breakfast, and then do the shopping.

Then there’s the reality.

Body clocks are dreadful, and never let you sleep in if, in fact, it’s bright daylight shining through the curtains at 5am.  Blackout curtains never seem to quite work.

Shutters are marginally better.

Once awake it is difficult to get back to sleep, so you lie in bed staring at the ceiling or partake in monitoring social media.

I read the latest in the New York Times, online.  Some days I wish I didn’t.

But…

Yes, there’s always a but…

I can, at times, go through the plotline of the latest story in my head, and if it’s boring, it puts me to sleep, and if it’s not, I head to the writing room and start putting it down.

Until notifications start distracting me.

Twitter, Facebook, WordPress, Linked In, Tumblr, and Instagram.

News headlines, the world is ending, or close enough, a car accident is causing traffic delays even though I’m not going out, yet another school shooting massacre in the USA, and my crossword for the day has arrived.

Why can’t the computer make me coffee, and toast and marmalade?

From 6am to 9am shot to hell, not a word on paper, perhaps I should go back to bed.

I remember Saturdays before computers, before social media, before any of those modern distractions.

What is referred to, these days, as the good old days!

 

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 281

Day 281 – Why great novels are more intelligent than their authors

…

Why Great Novels Are Smarter Than Their Authors: Unpacking Milan Kundera’s Bold Literary Claim

“Great novels are always a little more intelligent than their authors. Novelists who are more intelligent than their books should go into another line of work.” — Milan Kundera

At first glance, Milan Kundera’s famous assertion sounds paradoxical, if not entirely unfair. After all, how can a creation outsmart its creator? Surely the architect of the plot, the master of the vocabulary, and the orchestrator of the themes must possess a greater intellect than the collection of bound paper they produce.

Yet, when we look closely at the mechanics of great literature—from Tolstoy and Dostoevsky to Virginia Woolf and Kundera himself—this provocative quote rings profoundly true.

In this deep dive into the philosophy of fiction, we will explore what Kundera meant, why brilliant essayists often fail as novelists, and how the act of writing fiction taps into a collective wisdom that surpasses conscious thought.

1. The Novel as an Autonomous Entity

When a novelist sits down to write, they aren’t merely executing a pre-calculated mathematical formula. If a book is completely mapped out, controlled, and micro-managed by the author’s conscious intellect, it usually turns out stiff, predictable, and didactic.

Great novels, however, take on a life of their own. Characters begin to make choices that surprise even their creators. Subplots take unexpected turns. The thematic undercurrents evolve beyond the original outline.

As the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur noted, once a text is written, it escapes the author’s absolute control. It enters the public domain of interpretation, interacting with history, psychology, and philosophy in ways the author could never have fully anticipated. In this sense, the novel’s “intelligence” lies in its capacity to hold contradictory truths simultaneously—a feat that often overwhelms the author’s everyday, linear logic.

2. Why “Smart” Authors Often Write Bad Novels

Kundera’s warning—that novelists smarter than their books should change professions—is a direct jab at the intellectual who uses fiction merely as a vehicle for propaganda or philosophical lecturing.

When an author’s ego and intellect dominate the narrative, the book becomes a thesis statement in disguise. We see this in heavy-handed didactic literature where characters exist merely to spout the author’s political, moral, or philosophical views. There is no mystery, no moral ambiguity, and no room for discovery.

Conversely, a truly great novelist sets up a laboratory of human behaviour and steps back. They allow their characters to genuinely disagree with one another, embodying complex worldviews without tipping the scales.

  • Fyodor Dostoevsky was deeply conservative and religious, yet his novels (The Brothers Karamazov, Crime and Punishment) give voice to brilliant, devastating arguments against faith through characters like Ivan Karamazov. Dostoevsky the man may have had a definitive worldview, but Dostoevsky the novelist created a text smart enough to transcend his own biases.

3. Intuition vs. Intellect: The Unconscious Depth of Fiction

Human consciousness is limited. We are bound by our blind spots, our prejudices, and the constraints of rational thought. But art taps into something deeper: the collective unconscious, intuition, and emotional resonance.

When writing fiction, an author often channels truths they do not yet fully understand in their waking life. They might write a tragic character arc or a toxic relationship dynamic, only to realise years later that it mirrored an unresolved aspect of their own psyche.

In this light, the book knows things about the author that the author doesn’t yet know about themselves. The novel is smarter because it operates on a multi-dimensional plane of metaphors, symbols, and human empathy, bypassing the rigid gatekeepers of the conscious ego.

4. The Novel as an Inquiry, Not an Answer

Milan Kundera believed that the specific wisdom of the novel is ambiguity. In a world obsessed with fast answers, dogmas, and certainty, the novel exists to question.

If a novelist is “too intelligent” in the sense of being overly certain, dogmatic, and keen to provide neat moral conclusions, the book suffers. The best novels leave us with more questions than answers. They invite the reader into a co-creation of meaning.

Think of Franz Kafka’s The Trial or Albert Camus’s The Stranger. These books do not offer neat solutions to the absurdity of existence. Instead, they map out the labyrinth with such breathtaking clarity and depth that the books outlive the cultural moments in which they were written, continuously generating new insights for new generations of readers.

Final Thoughts: The Humility of the True Writer

Kundera’s quote is, ultimately, an ode to literary humility. It reminds writers that their job is not to play God or act as an all-knowing professor imparting wisdom to the masses.

Instead, the novelist is an explorer. They set sail into the vast, murky waters of human experience, charting territories they cannot fully map. If the journey is successful, the resulting book will return with treasures the captain didn’t even know existed—proving that the greatest stories are always wiser than the hands that wrote them.

What are your thoughts on Kundera’s quote? Can you think of a book that feels infinitely wiser than its author’s public persona? Let us know in the comments below!

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Venice

The Unbeaten Path: 5 Hidden Treasures in Venice (That Aren’t St. Mark’s)

Venice. The name alone conjures images of shimmering canals, graceful gondolas, and the architectural masterpiece that is the Doge’s Palace. It is, undeniably, one of the most beautiful cities on earth.

But let’s be honest: the magic can quickly evaporate when you’re battling a thousand other tourists just to get a photo of the Rialto Bridge.

The true, deep magic of Venice—the one that smells of salt-laced air and centuries of history—isn’t found on the main tourist arteries. It’s found in the quiet, echoing calle (streets) and the forgotten, sun-drenched squares of the districts that rarely make the postcard racks.

If you’re ready to trade the packed piazza for unique local discoveries, ditch the map of the standard tourist loop. Here are five essential, off-the-beaten-path things to do in Venice that will give you a taste of the city’s authentic heart.

1. Swap Grand Palaces for the Cemetery Island: Isola di San Michele

While most visitors focus on Murano or Burano, the island of San Michele offers a profound and beautiful experience few tourists seek out. This is the official cemetery island of Venice, and it offers a silence and solitude that is impossible to find on the main islands.

A short vaporetto ride (Line 4.1 or 4.2) across the lagoon transports you to a walled sanctuary where cypress trees stand sentinel over generations of Venetians, including famous residents like Igor Stravinsky and Ezra Pound.

Why it’s worth the detour: The stunning, stark beauty of the Renaissance Chiesa di San Michele in Isola, combined with the meticulously maintained gardens and marble tombs, offers a reflective pause in your itinerary. It truly feels like stepping into a different world—one without shops, crowds, or noise. It’s a poignant reminder of the ebb and flow of Venetian life.

2. Embrace the Bacaro Trail in Dorsoduro

If you want to eat and drink like a Venetian, you must embrace the bacaro culture. A bacaro is a traditional, often hole-in-the-wall Venetian bar specializing in cicchetti (small, tapas-style snacks) and ombra (a small glass of local wine).

While you can find bacari near the main spots, the Dorsoduro district, particularly near Ca’ Foscari University, is where the scene is truly vibrant and local. This area is filled with students and residents, not tour groups.

How to do it right: Forget sitting down for a lengthy, expensive dinner. Between 5 PM and 7 PM, join the locals and hop between a few chosen spots, ordering a couple of cicchetti (perhaps salted cod, polpetta, or marinated artichokes) and an ombra at each.

  • Try: Cantinone Già Schiavi (famous for its wine selection) or Al Squero (offering fantastic views across the canal to the boatyard where gondolas are repaired).

3. Seek Out the Hidden Staircase: Scala Contarini del Bovolo

In a city known for its bridges and canals, architecture often takes a supporting role. However, if you are drawn to hidden architectural gems, the Scala Contarini del Bovolo is a must-see.

Tucked away in a tiny, almost impossible-to-find courtyard near the Rialto, the Palazzo Contarini del Bovolo features an extraordinary exterior spiral staircase. Known as the “staircase of the snail” (bovolo), this Renaissance masterpiece combines Gothic and Byzantine elements, curling up five stories to an open loggia.

The payoff: Climbing the staircase is an adventure in itself, but the true reward is the panoramic view from the top. You get a unique, intimate perspective of Venice’s terracotta rooftops and bell towers without the claustrophobic crowds of St. Mark’s Campanile. Finding it is half the fun—put the address into your phone and be prepared to wander down several dead-end alleys.

4. Explore the Authentic Heart of Cannaregio and the Ghetto

To experience genuine Venetian daily life—the sight of laundry dangling over canals, residents chatting in dialect, and non-chain grocery stores—head north to the Cannaregio district.

This area, which stretches toward the Mestre train station, is largely residential and offers excellent, affordable dining options. More importantly, it is home to the Ghetto Nuovo, the world’s first Jewish Ghetto, established in 1516.

Why it’s special: The Ghetto Nuovo is a place of powerful history and resilient culture. Due to space constraints imposed by the Republic, the buildings here are some of the tallest in Venice, stacked upon medieval foundations. Walk through the quiet central square, observe the five historic synagogues (many offer guided tours), and soak up the unique atmosphere. It’s a perfect way to step back into a complex, vital layer of Venetian history often overlooked by visitors rushing to the main sites.

5. Capture the Pastel Hues of Burano (But Go Early)

Yes, Burano is often listed on the main island tours, but most visitors arrive mid-day when the ferry lines are long, and the narrow canals are choked with people attempting the perfect photograph. To truly experience the magic of the famous rainbow-colored island, you must commit to the early start.

The secret timing: Take one of the first vaporetti out to Burano (via Murano and Torcello). Arriving just as the golden morning light hits the facades allows you to wander the lanes in near solitude. The local fishermen and lace makers are just beginning their day, and the lack of crowds amplifies the whimsical, fairy-tale quality of the architecture.

Tip: Since the island is famous for lacemaking, skip the mass-produced trinkets and seek out a small workshop where you can see the intricate craft being actively practiced.

Don’t Just Visit Venice—Live It

To travel the road less travelled in Venice isn’t about ticking off lesser-known sights; it’s about slow travel. It’s about getting lost, turning down the alley that looks too narrow, and replacing the tourist map with genuine curiosity.

When you allow yourself to wander away from the golden routes, you stop being a hurried observer and start becoming a temporary resident. The Venice you discover in these quiet pockets is richer, deeper, and far more rewarding.

In a word: haul

Well, I know a lot about long haul because, living in Australia, it’s a long, long way to anywhere in the northern hemisphere on what is known as a long-haul airline.

For the rest, haul means to pull a load along with effort or force.

Or a haul can be the plunder of a thief, stolen goods.  It can be something different, though, but generally lots of something taken away, such as fish.

You can haul yourself up the side of a hill or up a cliff face

And for those who are nautically minded and love sailing boats, you’ll know how to haul offshore

If you’re an Olympian, you’ll know that a seven-medal haul was always going to be an uphill task.

This is not to be confused with a hall, which is what you walk down in a building heading to a particular room.

Or it can be the name of a stately residence or building, for instance, Toad Hall.

It can also be a university room where students are housed.

“One Last Look”: nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate: after Ben told his wife, Charlotte, he would be home late 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.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Rome

Escape the Crowds: Rome’s Top 5 Unsung Tourist Gems

Rome. Just the name conjures images of the Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain, and endless lines of eager tourists. While these iconic sights are essential, the Eternal City offers so much more—especially for those willing to venture slightly off the beaten path.

If you’re looking to soak up Rome’s history, beauty, and distinctive character without battling the massive crowds, we’ve curated a list of the top five visitor attractions that are surprisingly peaceful and utterly captivating.

Here are Rome’s best-kept secrets, proving you don’t need a huge crowd to have a monumental experience.

1. The Centrale Montemartini Museum (Museo della Centrale Montemartini)

Why Visit: This museum offers one of the most stunning juxtapositions in all of Rome: pristine classical statues set against the backdrop of a decommissioned early 20th-century thermoelectric power plant.

The Distinctive Feature: Imagine towering, oily industrial machinery—boilers, engines, and generators—acting as the unlikely stage for brilliant white marble statues of gods and emperors. Originally intended as temporary storage for overflow artifacts from the Capitoline Museums, the exhibit became permanent and breathtaking. It’s an unforgettable blend of industrial archaeology and ancient art, offering a quiet, contemplative space far from the bustling Capitoline Hill.

Crowd Level: Extremely low. Often, you’ll feel like you have entire halls to yourself.

2. The Baths of Caracalla (Terme di Caracalla)

Why Visit: Everyone knows the Roman Forum, but fewer people explore the vast, evocative ruins of the ancient Roman baths. The Baths of Caracalla were a massive public complex, more like a modern leisure center than just a place to wash, accommodating thousands of Romans daily.

The Distinctive Feature: Unlike the Forum, where structures are densely packed, Caracalla’s ruins are sprawling, allowing you to truly appreciate the sheer scale of Imperial Roman architecture. The remaining walls and arches soar towards the sky, hinting at the dome-covered halls and mosaic-tiled floors that once existed. Visiting here is an atmospheric experience, particularly beautiful at sunset, offering a powerful sense of quiet grandeur.

Crowd Level: Low to moderate. While tour buses occasionally stop, the immense size of the site easily disperses visitors.

3. The Basilica di Santo Stefano Rotondo al Celio

Why Visit: If you’re tired of the gilded splendor and tourist throngs of the major papal basilicas, head to Rome’s oldest circular church. Dedicated to Saint Stephen, this basilica is an architectural curiosity unlike any other in the city.

The Distinctive Feature: Built in the 5th century, the church utilizes a striking circular plan with concentric rings of columns. Inside, the walls are lined with graphic frescoes depicting the horrific martyrdoms of early Christian saints. While certainly macabre, these 16th-century paintings are historically fascinating—a unique and somber art gallery within a classical structure. Its isolated location on the quiet Celian Hill ensures a serene, thought-provoking visit.

Crowd Level: Very low. You are likely to find peace and solitude here.

4. The Quartiere Coppedè

Why Visit: Leave the Roman ruins behind for a moment and step into a fantastical, fairytale neighborhood that feels lifted straight out of a storybook.

The Distinctive Feature: Though technically a small urban area within the larger Trieste district, Quartiere Coppedè is an architectural masterpiece designed by Gino Coppedè in the early 20th century. Walk through the stunning archway (the Arco di Coppedè) and discover whimsical palaces, fountains (like the famous Fountain of the Frogs), and facades adorned with sculptures of nymphs, animals, and mythical creatures. It’s a hidden gem of Art Nouveau and Baroque fusion—a completely unexpected visual delight perfect for photography and quiet exploration.

Crowd Level: Minimal. This is a residential area primarily visited by local residents and architecture enthusiasts.

5. The Protestant Cemetery (Cimitero Acattolico)

Why Visit: Tucked away beside the Pyramid of Cestius, this cemetery is one of the most beautiful and tranquil spots in Rome. It is the final resting place for non-Catholics, including famous figures like the poets John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley.

The Distinctive Feature: Far more than just a graveyard, this site is a lush, perfectly manicured garden park often referred to as “the most beautiful corner of Rome.” Cypress trees cast shadows over elaborate, touching monuments and tombstones written in dozens of languages. It offers a poignant, introspective break from the city noise, blending art, history, and nature in a profoundly moving way. The air of quiet contemplation is palpable.

Crowd Level: Low, though the small entrance fee helps maintain its peaceful atmosphere.

Rome’s true magic isn’t just in its famous landmarks, but in the countless layers of history waiting to be quietly discovered. By seeking out these distinctive, less-trafficked attractions, you can enjoy a richer, more personal experience of the Eternal City. Happy exploring!

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

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What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

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It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.