Over the years, I have traveled extensively and kept journals, with the idea that one day all of those places would become locations in books. Notebooks filled with odd characters, people and incidents observed, and whole tracts of stories written when the on the spot inspiration has been a driving force.
All of this is the basis of the first three novels, Sunday In New York, set, of course, in New York, probably my favorite city in the world, “Echoes From The Past’ equally set in New York, Brooklyn Heights and Philadelphia. The third, The Devil You Don’t, travels through Europe, starting in Geneva, moving to Rome, then Sorrento, and then to Venice.
Now, my passion to write is fuelled by travel and fine dining. When I take a break from these, I get to torment my three wonderful grandchildren whom I actively encourage to read as much as they can, and more recently to also write.
As for almost every other writer, I would not be able to do any of this without my wife who has put up with my moodiness, the times when I'm locked away in a room trying to push out another 2,000 words, and yet despite everything still puts up with me.
I wish I could say the same for our cat. Alas, I am still trying to work out how to be his friend!
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…
——
Mayer fought the urge to panic, and then consider giving himself up. He remembered what the Standartenfuhrer said, and knew that it was not an option.
He slid back into the forest, then far enough back, stood, and ran, the thick snow not only hampering his speed but also covering the sound of his flight.
He stopped and listened for the sound of the following soldiers, but all he could hear was the sound of a locomotive and his breathing. His heart was pounding, not used to such exercise or fear.
The soldiers must have stopped where the running person had fallen, and then on the verge of the tree line when the Standartenfuhrer had been shot.
He kneeled down and struggled to catch his breath. He had the bad the Standartenfuhrer had thrust upon him as they got out of the car, and hoped it had a map, but it was too dark to look now.
From earlier, he remembered the other side of the railway tracks had trees too, and the road that led to the border, the village, if there was one, and the railway station. There would also be a small shunting area, freight sheds, or something else to hide in, maybe even a signal tower.
Somewhere warm, and with some light, so he could plan his next move. He was not sure what the Standartenfuhrer Had planned, but it certainly could not be by car the whole way, and they would not make the rendezvous by walking.
The plan had to include going by train.
Brenner pass was along the main track from Austria to the south of Italy, and from an earlier look at a map, the train would go through F, Verona, Bologna, to Florence where he would find the next guide.
Details of that guide hopefully were in the bag, a bag that he would have to hide or lose if he was captured because it would give away the escape route and resistance members who helped those fleeing Germany.
If he had the time or could think straight. The cold was making that very difficult. And there was the shock of losing the Standartenfuhrer.
It took five minutes to regain a certain amount of calm and be able to think.
First, he had to get back to the tree line and see where he was, in proximity to the village, and the railway tracks.
That took about ten minutes carefully picking his way through the trees. There was no path, it was dark, and he kept hitting low branches and getting covered in snow. There was enough down the back of his neck to make him very uncomfortable.
When he reached the tree line he looked back from where he had been, about a kilometer, and he could see the torches of the soldiers milling around where he and the Standartenfuhrer had been. The train was still there, the locomotive’s light blazing in front, lighting a short distance of the track in front of it, almost blindingly bright.
He was not sure why it was waiting on the track.
Looking the other way, there were two sets of tracks, a wide clear area, then another track with several flat cars and a guards van sitting in darkness, all of which were covered in snow. They were not being used, so the van might provide some shelter.
He just had to get over there, about 100 meters distant. The problem was there were lights, not very bright, at regular distances, but short enough that a man might present a shadowy outline if anyone was looking.
If he stayed low and run fast, it might just work.
A train whistle in the distance, coming from Italy caused him to shrink back into the cover of the trees. Another train was coming. It was oddly busy at a very late hour.
The locomotive also had a bright light that lit up the edge of the tree line, so he had to go further back to get away from it, and wait until the train passed. It had a lot of flat cars with tanks and troop carriers on it, going back to Germany. There were no soldiers so perhaps the equipment was needed elsewhere, maybe that final push to England he kept hearing about.
Once that train passed, the one that had been waiting finally restarted itsjourney south and slowly rumbled past him. It was almost like a passenger train with no priority had had to wait until essential war trains passed.
When that train had gone, the surrounding area descended into a quiet, also silent field. The snow had begun to fall heavier, which would be advantageous, and after several long looks in both directions, he ran, crossing the tracks, the empty space, and then to the guard van where he hid between it and the freight car until he caught his breath.
And see if anyone had seen him, expecting whistles and shouting coming from up the track.
Another look showed that only two torches remained back where there had been frenetic activity. He hoped they considered they had caught the people they were looking for.
He went down the side of the guard’s van to the door, climbed the ladder, and tried the door. It was unlocked. There was no reason why it would be locked.
He went in and shut the door, and immediately it was warmer, and certainly dryer. IT was impossibly dark inside, so he felt around in the bag and found a torch. Someone had been clever enough to add a torch, some first aid equipment. The papers included a map.
He checked the cabin for windows and found the shutters were closed, so he didn’t have to stifle the torches light. A further check showed a bed at the end of the cabin, with a blanket, musty but dry.
There was a stove, a kettle with water, and a tin of tea leaves. He wasn’t going to start a fire, so no tea. There was no food, so the hunger would have to remain for a while longer. The water tasted alright, but he could melt some snow if he needed more.
A place to stay, at least until daybreak when it would be wise to get into the forest on the roadside, and head towards the village, or perhaps wait for a train and see if he could hide on it for the trip south.
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature, but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
There was a clock tower not far from the hotel, and I heard it strike 12 midnight. It was time to go home before I turned into a pumpkin. Or perhaps I didn’t quite have it right. It didn’t matter. I needed sleep and it wasn’t going to happen here.
Nadia was being a temptress and not even realising it.
“You need me on your team. I know the inside of the mall like the back of my hand.”
It didn’t surprise me. She used to run with a group of girls who could give Alex and Vince a run for their money in being cruel. I was positive now that she was in the mall at the same time we were, and quite possibly following us. After what Alex said earlier, there were going to be a lot of people following each other.
“You know where the bodies are?”
A slight hesitation before she said, “I might.”
The question was whose bodies. Missing girls, Benderby’s enemies. Certainly not the archaeologist, but if there was a torture chamber down there, maybe some clues that would point the police in the right direction.
“Well, tempting as that sounds, but no.”
“What if I told you I think I know where they tortured that archaeologist guy.”
“Why would they, in fact, it’s the one thing in all of this that puzzles me. Rico might have had a reason simply because he’s little more than a blunt instrument, not an extractor of information, that required a little more refinement than he’s, and the Benderby’s, what on earth could he know that they needed it from him.”
“Try the exact contents of this so-called treasure.”
“No one could possibly know what that pirate, whatever his name was, actually had?”
Not unless he was with the captain when he buried it, which, of course, unless he was a time traveler, he wasn’t and therefore couldn’t know.
“No one could possibly know that.”
“I beg to differ.”
She knew something we didn’t. This was turning out to be a very interesting day.
“How?”
“Say for instance the pirate had a journal, a ship log I think it’s called, and in that journal, he noted everything he pillaged from all of the ships they attacked.”
“You’ve seen it?” I asked, slightly incredulously. This was the first I’d heard of one, and I doubted Boggs had either unless it was something he was not telling me.
“No.”
“How do you know about it?”
“Vince.”
“He’s pulling your leg. There’s no such journal or log in existence.”
“Oh, there is. That’s what the archaeologist had. And that’s what both Alex and Vince were trying to buy. And when he wouldn’t sell it to Alex, his men went a little too far with their persuasion tactics.”
“I bet Vince wasn’t happy.”
“No. He thinks Alex does know where it is, so they’re playing their games of cat and mouse. But it’s a waste of time. My source tells me the archaeologist never gave up the location of the journal. Both the Benderby’s and the Cossatino’s have been to his house but it was nowhere to be found.”
And if that was the case, then there would be no interior to the house left; one of the other would have stripped the walls in their search. But, if it was true and there was such a journal, two questions came to mind. The obvious was, where was it? The less obvious was why the archaeologist didn’t go looking for the treasure himself?
There was an answer: he didn’t have the right map.
I cast my mind back to the only time Boggs showed me what he called the real map. It had been folded, and you could see the fold marks that had been there for a long, long time. Was it possible at some point the map was separated from the journal?
Had someone known about the map, and stolen it rather than the journal?
“I can see the cogs ticking over in your head, Smidge. You are going to need me, in the end. Especially if you find the treasure. You’ll want to know what both Vince and Alex are up to, and little old me will be right there between them.”
“You think that Alex doesn’t know what you’re up to?”
“You already know more than you did when you walked in the door. Either of them finds the treasure, I get nothing. You and Boggs find it, maybe I’ll get something. I don’t care what they think.”
She was dangerous, deceptive, and beguiling sometimes all at the same time. This was one of those moments.
“I think Boggs doesn’t entirely trust you, or anyone,” she said.
“That couldn’t possibly surprise you. Look what’s happened to him over the years. No one knows what happened to his father.”
“Maybe we can find out. How about you and I pay the mall a visit. I guarantee it will be a lot more interesting than finding a mannequin.”
How can something so simple become so complicated and complex?
In New York, it seemed impossible to get exactly what you would like. The coffee there is driven by what the machine interprets you want, aside from the language constraints due to the fact that English (or American) comes in a zillion different flavours.
So, what do I like (you notice I don’t say ‘want’)
A double shot Latte with two sugars and half a shot of vanilla. That’s in a large cup.
As we all know, coffee can come in a regular, large, or extra-large cup, but, hang on, these cup sizes sometimes have names, and you need to know what these names are.
My efforts of pointing to the cup size in New York often had horrendous consequences when the cup piles were close together. Sometimes it was a double shot in a regular, and a single shot in an extra-large cup.
One even had the name benti, or bento, or something like that.
Being old and decrepit, my memory for cup sizes isn’t all that great, so using a name in one shop that doesn’t have that size, well, you get it.
It seems not only coffee makers in New York have a problem producing consistent coffee.
Perhaps, then, that’s half the charm of drinking it, the fact that no cup is ever the same.
And, when an outlet gets it right, finally, they go and change the coffee bean supplier, and all of a sudden, it’s bitter, or it’s lighter, as coffee shops try to reduce their costs and maximise profits.
Six dollars is a lot of money for a cup of coffee unless, of course, you have to feed that addiction, in which case, you’ll have a cup at whatever the cost.
I need coffee right now, so it’s off to the cupboard to see what’s available.
Maccona instant, which is not bad
A Nespresso long black – ok, don’t get me started with Nespresso because they have numbers from 1 to 12, possibly more, recognising strengths, and I usually have a double shot using a 10 and a 12.
And, yes, they fool around with the type of beans they use because there seem to be inconsistencies in potency from time to time.
Then there are coffee bags, much the same as tea bags, which produces and interestingly flavoured brew which I’m still trying to figure out. It tastes like coffee, but there’s something else there, like … paper?
Beyond the Fold: Is Speculative Fiction Just a Series of ‘What Ifs’ Gleaned from Today’s Headlines?
Ever read a news story – a groundbreaking scientific discovery, a chilling political development, a startling environmental report – and felt a tiny tremor in your imagination? That whisper of a thought: “What if this continued? What if this went wrong? What if this changed everything?”
If so, you’ve touched the very essence of speculative fiction.
The idea that speculative fiction – encompassing science fiction, fantasy, dystopia, and alternate history – is simply a series of “what-ifs” is compelling. And the notion that these “what-ifs” are often gleaned from the headlines of the papers over time is not just plausible; it’s often the very engine driving the genre.
Let’s unpack this fascinating relationship.
The “What If” Generator: Curiosity as a Catalyst
At its heart, speculative fiction is the ultimate thought experiment. It doesn’t merely invent worlds; it interrogates ours. Authors take a single variable – a technological leap, a societal shift, a historical divergence, a potential disaster – and push it to its logical (or terrifyingly illogical) conclusion.
The “what if” is the seed. What if humans could genetically engineer their children? What if artificial intelligence achieved sentience? What if a virus wiped out most of humanity? What if a forgotten magic re-emerged? What if a certain political leader never came to power?
These questions aren’t born in a vacuum.
Headlines as a Crucible of Inspiration
The news, whether the morning paper, the evening broadcast, or the relentless scroll of our digital feeds, is a rich and constantly evolving source of these “what-ifs.” It reflects humanity’s biggest fears, our grandest ambitions, our ethical dilemmas, and our scientific breakthroughs.
Consider these historical and ongoing examples:
Technological Advancements: The discovery of electricity led to tales of Frankenstein. Early computer science gave rise to cyberpunk visions of interconnected digital worlds. Today, headlines about AI development, CRISPR gene editing, quantum computing, and space tourism are actively feeding new narratives about our future and what it means to be human. Environmental Concerns: From Rachel Carson’s “Silent Spring” to modern reports on climate change, deforestation, and plastic pollution, environmental headlines have directly inspired dystopian futures where resources are scarce, and humanity battles the consequences of its own hubris. Societal and Political Upheaval: Totalitarian regimes, surveillance states, economic inequalities, and political polarisation are not new. 1984, Brave New World, and The Handmaid’s Tale are poignant examples of authors extrapolating from contemporary political anxieties and societal trends, pushing them to their extreme conclusions to serve as warnings. Epidemics and Public Health: Long before recent global events, authors explored fictional plagues and pandemics, drawing on real-world outbreaks throughout history to imagine scenarios of societal collapse, survival, and the ethical dilemmas of containment. Scientific Discoveries: From the discovery of new planets to breakthroughs in neuroscience, astrophysics, and biology, every scientific headline offers a potential portal to a new fictional reality. What if we found alien life? What if we unlocked the secrets of the brain? Speculative fiction doesn’t just copy the headlines; it amplifies them. It takes the disquieting whispers of today’s news and turns them into roaring narratives, exploring the deeper implications that headlines can only hint at.
Beyond the Event: The Human Element
But it’s crucial to remember that speculative fiction isn’t just about the event or the discovery. It’s about what those what-ifs do to people. How do individuals adapt, resist, thrive, or crumble under these altered circumstances? It explores human nature in a crucible of change, examining our ethics, our resilience, and our capacity for both cruelty and compassion.
The headlines provide the stage and the initial conflict, but the human drama unfurls within.
A Mirror and a Lantern
Ultimately, by taking these “what-ifs” gleaned from the continuous narrative of our world, speculative fiction serves a vital dual purpose:
It holds up a mirror: Reflecting our current anxieties, hopes, and moral quandaries back at us, often in exaggerated forms, forcing us to confront them.
It acts as a lantern: Illuminating potential futures, both utopian and dystopian, allowing us to consider the paths we might be heading down and perhaps, to choose a different course.
So, yes, speculative fiction is indeed largely a series of “what-ifs,” and the headlines of the papers – both today’s and yesterday’s – are its constant, fertile ground. It’s a testament to our enduring curiosity, our inherent need to understand consequences, and our powerful imagination to dream up not just what is, but what could be. And in doing so, it helps us better understand what we want our present to become.
Day 198 – Robert Heinlein’s five business habits for writers
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Master the Craft: 5 Business Habits of Robert A. Heinlein (And Why One is So Contested)
When people think of Robert A. Heinlein, they picture a grandmaster of science fiction. Alongside Isaac Asimov and Arthur C. Clarke, Heinlein was one of the “Big Three” writers who shaped the genre during its Golden Age, penning timeless classics like Starship Troopers, Stranger in Strange Land, and The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress.
However, Heinlein was more than just a visionary storyteller; he was a disciplined professional. Long before he became a household name, he treated writing not as a fragile artistic muse, but as a hard-nosed business.
In his famous essay “On the Writing of Speculative Fiction” (and later expanded in letters and his collection Grumbles from the Grave), Heinlein laid out five simple rules for writing success. They sound deceptively easy, but together, they form a rigorous boot camp for any aspiring author.
While four of these rules are widely accepted wisdom in the writing community, the third rule remains a fierce point of debate among authors, editors, and writing coaches to this day.
Let’s break down Heinlein’s five business rules, examine why they work, and dive into the controversy surrounding rule number three.
Heinlein’s 5 Rules for Writers
Heinlein stated these rules with trademark bluntness. If you want to make a living as a writer, he argued, you only need to follow these steps:
You must write.
You must finish what you start.
You must refrain from rewriting except to editorial order. (The Contested One)
You must put the work on the market.
You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.
At a glance, this looks like a blueprint for industrial-scale content production. Let’s look at each one to understand the philosophy behind the master’s machine.
Rule 1: You must write.
It sounds painfully obvious, but millions of aspiring writers fail at the very first hurdle. They talk about writing, they think about writing, and they outline for years. Heinlein’s point is that a writer writes. Ideas are worthless until they hit the page. You cannot call yourself a writer based on your potential; you are only a writer based on your output.
Rule 2: You must finish what you start.
Half-written manuscripts sitting in a digital graveyard earn zero dollars and tell zero stories. Heinlein argued that writers who constantly abandon projects to start “better” ideas train themselves in the habit of quitting. Finishing a flawed book teaches you infinitely more than abandoning a brilliant premise at Chapter Three.
Rule 3: You must refrain from rewriting except to editorial order.
Cue the record scratch.
This is where the collective groan of the modern writing community echoes across the internet.
In Heinlein’s view, endlessly tweaking, polishing, and revising your own work is a trap—a form of procrastination disguised as perfectionism. He believed that the longer a manuscript sat on your desk, the colder it got, and the more likely you were to tinker it to death. Furthermore, if you are revising endlessly before selling, you aren’t producing new work. Write it, get it as right as you can the first time, and move on. Revise only when a paying editor tells you what needs to be fixed.
Why is this rule so contestible today? Modern creative writing culture is built on the altar of the revision. Today’s authors are told that “writing is rewriting,” and that the real magic happens in drafts two, three, and four (and beyond). Writers work with critique partners, developmental editors, and beta readers to refine pacing, deepen character arcs, and fix plot holes before ever submitting a manuscript to a publisher or self-publishing platform.
Critics of Heinlein’s third rule argue that:
Writing standards have changed: Readers and publishers expect a higher level of polish in a first submission today than they did in the mid-20th-century pulp magazine era.
Heinlein was a genetic anomaly: Heinlein famously claimed that his first drafts required virtually no corrections. Not every writer possesses the preternatural internal editor that Heinlein had.
Self-publishing demands quality control: In the indie publishing boom, authors act as their own publishers. If you don’t revise your work heavily before hitting “publish,” the reviews will be merciless.
The Defense of Rule 3: To be fair to Heinlein, his rule is often misunderstood. He wasn’t saying “turn in sloppy first drafts.” He was saying, “Trust your initial creative instinct, finish the book, and get it out the door.” He wanted writers to avoid the endless loop of self-doubt where a manuscript is trapped in revision purgatory for five years. For high-output authors (especially in genres like sci-fi, fantasy, and romance), over-editing can indeed be a profit-killing waste of time.
Rule 4: You must put the work on the market.
A manuscript gathering dust in a drawer or a hidden folder on your desktop has a success rate of 0%. Heinlein was ruthless about this: a writer’s job doesn’t end when the typing stops. You have to submit the work to agents, publishers, or—in today’s landscape—platforms where readers can buy it. Fear of rejection keeps too many great stories locked away. Put the product on the shelf.
Rule 5: You must keep the work on the market until it is sold.
If magazine A rejects your short story, send it to magazine B. If publisher X passes on your novel, submit it to publisher Y (or self-publish it). Heinlein understood the statistics of the business. Rejection is rarely a definitive judgment of a story’s quality; often, it’s just a mismatch of taste, timing, or market trends. A professional writer keeps the inventory circulating until it finds a home.
How to Apply Heinlein’s Wisdom Today
You don’t have to agree with 100% of Heinlein’s advice to benefit from his core philosophy. Here is how you can synthesize his business habits for the modern writing era:
Treat writing like a job: Show up consistently. Word counts matter.
Embrace completion: Fight the urge to abandon projects when the initial dopamine rush fades. Push through the messy middle and type “The End.”
Find a balance on revisions: Respect modern standards of quality, but beware of “perfectionism paralysis.” Set a deadline for your edits, and once the book is strong, let it go into the world.
Detach your ego from rejection: Rejections aren’t personal failures; they are simply shipping expenses on the road to publication.
Final Thoughts
Robert A. Heinlein’s five rules remind us that writing is both an art and a business. While his third rule—avoiding major rewrites unless requested by an editor—remains a hot-button debate in writers’ circles, the underlying mindset is bulletproof: produce, finish, submit, and repeat.
What do you think? Can modern authors survive by following Heinlein’s strict “no rewriting” policy, or is rule number three a relic of a bygone era? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below!
Beyond the Beaten Path: 5 Hidden Gems to Discover in Stockholm
Stockholm is a city that effortlessly blends old-world charm with modern innovation. While most visitors flock to iconic landmarks like the Royal Palace, Gamla Stan, and the Vasa Museum, there’s an entirely different side of the city waiting to be explored — one that reveals intimate neighbourhoods, local rituals, and quiet corners tucked away from the tourist trail.
If you’ve already climbed the usual sightseeing checklist — or if you simply prefer a more authentic, off-the-beaten-path adventure — here are five lesser-known experiences that offer a fresh perspective on Sweden’s capital.
1. Wander the Abandoned Beauty of Fårö Island (Just Beyond the City)
While technically not in Stockholm, Fårö — a quiet island in the Baltic Sea just a short ferry ride from the mainland — feels like stepping into a Nordic fairytale. Made famous by filmmaker Ingmar Bergman, who lived and worked here, Fårö is a tranquil mosaic of windswept beaches, ancient stone forts, and dramatic limestone caves.
Most travellers focus on Gotland’s main island, Visby, but Fårö remains relatively untouched. Rent a bicycle and explore the Fogelhushamnen nature reserve, where jagged alvar plains meet the sea. Have lunch at Högklint, a café with panoramic ocean views, and time your visit with the spring lambing season to see the island come alive. It’s a poetic detour that feels worlds away from urban life, yet is easily reachable via a day trip.
Pro tip: Combine with a stop in Ljugarn, a charming fishing village on Gotland’s northeastern coast.
2. Get Lost in the Graffiti Labyrinths of Tantolunden Tunnel
Tucked beneath a busy overpass in Södermalm lies one of Stockholm’s best-kept secrets — the Tantolunden graffiti tunnel. Unlike the curated street art of other cities, this underground corridor is a constantly evolving canvas of colour, emotion, and political commentary.
Spray-painted by local artists and rebellious youth, the tunnel pulses with raw creativity. It’s especially stunning during winter when the soft glow of streetlights reflects off icy walls, illuminating vibrant murals of wolves, goddesses, and dystopian visions.
Take the tunnel as a starting point and continue your urban exploration into nearby Hornsgatan, lined with independent boutiques, vinyl shops, and hidden cafés like Kafé Döbling, where locals sip fika in cozy nooks.
3. Soak in the Silence at Djurgårdsbrunn Canal
Forget the crowds lining the shores of Nybroviken — for a truly peaceful moment on the water, head to Djurgårdsbrunn Canal. Nestled within the expansive Djurgården island, this 18th-century waterway was once used to supply fresh water to the Royal Palace.
Today, it’s a serene escape, perfect for a morning walk or a quiet picnic. The canal is flanked by lush greenery, wooden bridges, and historic pump houses, with the occasional swan gliding past. Come summer, locals bring out folding chairs and books, unwinding in near-silence.
Pack a Scandinavian-style picnic — think crispbread, pickled herring, and lingonberry juice — and enjoy a moment of mångata, the Swedish concept of the shimmering reflection of moonlight on water. You’ll likely have the entire area to yourself.
4. Explore the Secret Soviet-Era Bunker at Lovön
Did you know Stockholm has a Cold War bunker hidden beneath an unassuming forest? Located on the island of Lovön — part of the city’s national urban park — the Klara Shelter is just one of many underground military installations built during the mid-20th century to protect government officials in case of nuclear attack.
While the original bunker in central Stockholm is occasionally open for tours, the more accessible and atmospheric option is the P1 bunker at Lovön. Officially declassified and occasionally open for public visits or special exhibitions, this labyrinthine complex could house thousands and function independently for weeks.
Even if it’s closed, the surrounding area is worth visiting — pine forests, rocky shores, and the nearby Drottningholm Palace Water Theatre, a UNESCO-listed outdoor stage dating back to the 1700s that still hosts baroque operas.
Keep an eye on events by the Stockholm City Museum — they often organise rare guided bunker tours.
5. Sip Coffee in a Converted Church: Kaffistiet @ Katarina Kyrka
In the heart of Södermalm lies Katarina Church, a stark 18th-century building with panoramic views of the city. But the real treasure is downstairs, in the crypt-turned-café known as Kaffistiet.
This intimate coffeehouse, run by Katarina Parish, feels like drinking espresso in a sacred cave. Exposed stone walls, soft candlelight, and the faint scent of incense create a meditative atmosphere. They serve single-origin beans roasted in Stockholm and homemade pastries baked daily.
Sit by a small window overlooking the graveyard and listen to soft choral music drifting from above. It’s a place where spirituality and secular calm coexist — and where you can enjoy one of the city’s best cappuccinos with a side of introspection.
Bonus: Sundays often feature live acoustic music or poetry readings — check their Facebook page for schedules.
Final Thoughts: Embrace the Quiet Side of Stockholm
Stockholm’s charm doesn’t lie solely in its famous sights — it lives in the hushed echoes of ancient tunnels, the spontaneous art on forgotten walls, and the quiet rituals of daily life that unfold beyond guidebooks.
The city rewards the curious traveller. So next time you’re in Sweden’s capital, leave the map behind. Venture into the misty islands, dive into underground art, and find peace in places where history and silence speak louder than words.
Because in Stockholm, the road less travelled doesn’t just lead to discovery — it leads to soul.
Have you found your own hidden gem in Stockholm? Share your secret spots in the comments below!
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
Beyond Nyhavn: 5 Off‑the‑Beaten‑Path Adventures in Copenhagen
Copenhagen is famous for its pastel‑colored houses along Nyhavn, the Tivoli Gardens roller–coaster thrills, and the iconic Little Mermaid statue. But the Danish capital hides a treasure trove of quieter, quirkier experiences that most guidebooks overlook. If you’ve already checked the “must‑see” boxes and crave something a little more intimate, here are five low‑key activities that will make you feel like a true Copenhagen insider.
1. Wander the Secret Gardens of Kongens Have’s Hidden Corners
Why it’s special
Kongens Have (the King’s Garden) is the city’s oldest royal park, but most visitors stick to the manicured lawns and the open‑air museum of the Rosenborg Castle. Slip away into the lesser‑known north‑west quadrant—near the Kongens Nytorv entrance—where you’ll discover:
The “Rose Path” – a winding lane lined with centuries‑old climbing roses that burst into fragrance every June.
The Sculpted Herb Garden – a quiet patch of rosemary, thyme, and sage that once supplied the royal kitchen.
The 17th‑century Baroque Maze – a tiny, partially hidden maze that is rarely mentioned in tourist maps.
How to get there
Enter through the Nørreport side of the park (just a 2‑minute walk from the metro station). Follow the stone wall toward the old oak tree—look for a discreet wooden gate marked “Privat” (it’s actually public).
Insider tip
Bring a small picnic and a blanket. The garden’s north‑west nook is shaded by a canopy of linden trees, perfect for an impromptu lunch away from the crowds.
2. Sip Coffee in Kødbyen’s Underground Roasters
Why it’s special
Kødbyen (the Meatpacking District) is now a buzzing hub for nightlife, but beneath the industrial lofts lies a subterranean coffee scene that most tourists miss.
Coffee Collective’s “Basement Lab” – a speakeasy‑style tasting room that roasts beans on site and offers cupping sessions with the master roaster.
Brew Lab – an experimental bar where baristas play with Nordic‑foraged herbs, creating latte art that smells like birch and juniper.
How to get there
Take the København metro to Kongens Nytorv and walk 5 minutes east to the alleys behind the meatpacking warehouses. Look for the discreet black door with a minimalist “C” logo.
Insider tip
Book a 30‑minute “Coffee Journey” in advance (they only have a handful of slots each day). You’ll leave with a small bag of your favourite single‑origin beans, freshly sealed with the roastery’s stamp.
3. Explore the Abandoned Railway Tunnel of Vestamager
Why it’s special
The city’s modern architecture gets most of the applause, but an old freight tunnel underneath the Ørestad district remains untouched by tourists. This 1‑km stretch of rust‑colored steel and graffiti‑covered walls offers:
Street‑art murals by local collectives, ever‑changing and never photographed.
Echoes of the past – the tunnel once carried coal to the harbour; now it’s a quiet, echoey corridor perfect for urban photography.
How to get there
Take the M2 metro to Ørestad and follow the signs to “Vestre Fælled”. The tunnel entrance is a metal gate hidden behind a row of shipping containers.
Insider tip
Wear sturdy shoes and bring a flashlight. The tunnel is dim, and the floor can be uneven. The best time to visit is early morning, before the occasional joggers pass through.
4. Attend a Live‑Action Role‑Playing (LARP) Session at Dyrehaven
Why it’s special
Dyrehaven (the Deer Park) is a sprawling forest north of the city, famous for its majestic stags. Every summer, a group of dedicated Danes sets up an immersive LARP event that blends medieval fantasy with Danish folklore.
Costumed battles in the clearing near the historic Jægersborg palace.
Story‑driven quests that involve riddles hidden in ancient oak trees.
A chance to join at any skill level—no prior experience required.
How to get there
Take the S‑train to Klampenborg and walk 15 minutes through the park’s western side. Look for a large, red‑and‑black banner near the “Kongens Nærhed” clearing.
Insider tip
Bring a simple costume (a cloak or a tunic works fine) and a reusable water bottle. The events run from 2 pm to sunset, and there’s always a community potluck afterwards where you can sample traditional Danish fare like rye bread with smoked fish.
5. Dive into the Micro‑Museum of Danish Design at Købmagergade 45
Why it’s special
While the Design Museum and the National Museum attract crowds, a tiny, hardly‑noticed space tucked behind a boutique on Købmagergade showcases rotating exhibitions of obscure Danish designers—think avant‑garde furniture from the 1920s, experimental ceramics, and even a collection of vintage bike accessories.
“The Lost Chairs” – a series of handcrafted stools made from reclaimed ship timber.
“Light in the Dark” – an interactive exhibit where you can rewire vintage lamps to create new lighting moods.
How to get there
Enter the building through the glass storefront; the entrance is a narrow hallway marked “Kunst & Håndværk”. Admission is free, but donations are welcome.
Insider tip
Ask the curator (usually a friendly design student) for a short, behind‑the‑scenes tour. They love sharing the stories behind each piece, many of which involve collaborations with local artisans still active today.
Bonus: Make Your Own Copenhagen Map
If you’re the type who loves charting hidden gems, grab a blank A4 sheet and plot the five spots above with a different colour for each activity. Add a tiny icon (a rose for Kongens Have, a coffee cup for Kødbyen, etc.) and you’ll have a personalised guide that no one else in the city will have.
Wrap‑Up: Why “Road‑Less‑Travelled” Matters
Travel is more than ticking boxes; it’s about the moments that surprise you—when you stumble into a secret garden, sip a coffee brewed in a basement, or hear the echo of trains long gone. Copenhagen’s polished tourist veneer makes it easy to overlook these pockets of authenticity, but with a little curiosity (and a willingness to wander off the main streets), the capital reveals a softer, more intimate side.
So next time you’re packing for a trip to Denmark’s capital, leave a few hours open on your itinerary. Follow these five off‑beat suggestions, and you’ll return home with stories that go beyond the postcard—stories that only a true Copenhagen explorer could tell.
Ready to roam the hidden corners? Share your own secret spots in the comments below, and let’s build a community of curious travellers who love the road less travelled. Happy exploring!
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 