Author: aloysius5

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!

“What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.

Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.

They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?

When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.

When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.

Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.

Find the kindle version on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 40

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…

—

I had to almost restrain Carlo from going up to the castle and singlehandedly kill everyone in it. I didn’t doubt he could do it, for a short time at least, until they realized what was going on. There were too many of them to take on alone.

It would need a careful plan, and knowledge of the layout of the castle, and the likely spots where the soldiers were located. It was a plan that had been slowly formulating in the back of my mind, especially after Carlo’s help with an internal map of the castle, some parts of which I hadn’t got to see in my brief stay.

I forgot that being built back in the middle ages, and the history of cities fighting against each other, there were ways in, out, and around, both inside and in the walls, so that soldiers could travel from one part of the castle to another without being seen, and not having to go inside the castle itself.

There were, also, tunnels, one of which I had inadvertently found, but there were more, and it seems only Carlo knew of those. Some were useful, others would lead to an early confrontation, and give early notice of our intentions. Those we would avoid, or use to escape.

We had set up a command center at the church ruins, having found several rooms off the cellar that had two exits. I didn’t like the idea of being trapped, nor waiting in a location that Fernando was familiar with and was likely to return to.

Which, in a sense, I was hoping he would because we had set a trap and he and his men would be caught in the crossfire. He was not going to get a chance to explain, nor would I ask any questions, or show him any mercy.

Especially when I found out what he had done to Martina. If it was as bad as Chiara, he would be repaid in kind, if the opportunity arose. I tentatively agreed to give Carlo five minutes in the room alone with him, but he knew that expediency might not give him that luxury. Blinky was not happy about it, but he hadn’t been here long enough to know what the man or his people were like.

We’d also worked out the surveillance system so that we would know when anyone turned up in the village, particularly our prized defector Meyer, and whether anyone left the castle to come down to the village because it was possible there would be more defectors passing through, and they needed to be warned.

What was particularly useful was finding the radio that Martina had been using. It was in the church grounds, which was not entirely unexpected, but one of Blink’s men had stumbled over it when looking to set up a latrine.

Blinky had brought a radioman, but his radio had been damaged in the parachute landing. Now he had a new toy to tinker with, and got a connection back to Thompson, after some initial difficulty in translation. That I could help him with, my Italian was marginally better than a schoolboy.

Thompson was relieved to hear from me, as I was to talk to him.

“It’s been difficult to get a clear picture with Martina, but I got the impression you had to be precise with your questions.”

“A case of getting lost in translation, perhaps.” I had not had similar problems, but Thompson was from the aristocracy, and his version of English was sometimes quaint.

“The situation is bad, I understand.”

“It is. The castle is over-run with British-German double agents. The three you sent out, and reinforcements that followed. I get the impression we have about 20 odd dead soldiers languishing in shallow graves somewhere on the Italian countryside.”

It hadn’t been hard to realize that while the officers were known British officers, the soldiers were substituted Germans whose English language and mannerisms were impeccable. I had no doubt once they’d reeled in Meyer, they would move on, integrating into invasion forces and creating havoc from within, unless of course, we stopped them.

A sigh at the other end, perhaps a lamentation of such needless loss of life. This war was getting tiresome for both of us.

“How close is Meyer? We last heard he was in Gaole, waiting for a courier to take him to the village. His arrival is anticipated to be any time from tomorrow onwards.”

“We’ve got men out keeping tabs on everyone.”

“Blinky arrive with his team?”

“All bar the radio, but as you can hear, we have access to one do it will not be a problem. I think we might finish this and talk again tomorrow. Don’t want the Germans tracking the radio waves.”

“Good. Tomorrow, and hour before today.”

I’d almost forgotten that the Germans were good at tracking radio signals, especially when they thought the enemy was using them, as those at the castle would. That radio unit could also be used to trace other radio signals, and no doubt they had picked up the signal. Hopefully, we had not been on long enough for them to run the trace.

That was not going to be a problem. One of Blinky’s soldiers on village reconnaissance was waiting for us as we approached the church ruins.”

“What is it, man?”

“There are four people at the village, looking for someone or something.”

“More defectors,” I said. “We’d better get to them before Leonardo and his men get to them first.”

—

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 4

This is

A rainy day.

Not much of a revelation when it’s winter, but why is it when you have to go somewhere in a hurry, the universe knows, and tries to throw everything at you so you don’t get there on time?

I like to be punctual.

I’m one of those people who leave home to get to the airport hours before I have to because I know, from past experience, that if you leave at the time where you’d make it with an hour to spare, you would get stuck in the mother of all traffic jams.

I know this to be true. It’s happened more than once to me,

If you’re not in a hurry, you get the best run you’ve ever had. I know that’s true too, because that’s what happens most times.

It’s like when at work you’re in a hurry to get a photocopy. The machine knows if you’re stressed and picks that particular moment to break down. That use to happen to me more times that I’d had hot dinners.

Sorry, I needed to use that expression, which generally means a lot. That photocopy machine, back in the days when they were huge and almost a new fad, my task every Tuesday was to copy a 3 page shipping report, 300 odd times. Not once did I get a clean run, not in the two years it was my job.

But…

Back to the weather.

My day to pick up one of the grandchildren from the railway station. It’s not far from our house, on any other day it would take about ten minutes, but since this is after 3 pm, I have the other school traffic to contend with, the tradies going home, and late afternoon shoppers getting dinner.

It never used to be like that. The road was a single lane that used to be blocked by floods when it rained, there was no shopping centre, and no new estates. In 30 years everything has arrived, the road expanded to two lanes either side, and almost continual traffic jams.

There’s a story there somewhere, but for the moment I have to take on the traffic. Maybe once I get to the station I might have time to consider it.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 23

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

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

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

An unlikely ally?

The bar in the hotel was tucked away in a small area behind the dining room, or perhaps it was part of the dining room, I wasn’t quite sure. There were indoor shrubs blocking the view from the front entrance, so we could feel safe enough, and less strenuous in watching the continuous comings and goings of the hotel’s guests and their friends.

For a small hotel, it was quite busy.

We were lucky it was not yet dinner time, so the restaurant was still being set up for the evening dinner service. I had a look at one of the menus, and the Shepherd’s Pie looked good. It was mostly hearty British staples like Bangers and Mask and Toad in the Hole. I guess by calling sausages by their real name sausages, no one really wanted them.

Three drinks down, and looking for the restroom, it ended up an exploration of the passage that led to a rear door, one that could be used by guests, but was mostly used by smoking staff. When I went outside, there were two housekeepers and a concierge boy talking about the couple in 506. I hope Jan and I were not labeled an ‘interesting couple’.

“Let’s go outside and make some calls.” She finished her drink and slid off the barstool.

I joined her and we went out the back entrance, along an alley to the next main street, then along the busy road to an underground station. There were two other hotels I noticed along the way, so we would not be making it easy for them if they could track us.

I called Nobbin first using the card he left under the name Wilson, leaving the phone on speaker.

“Yes.” There was no ring on the other end of the line.

“Wilson?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Sam Jackson. You said to call you if anything happened. I have managed to track down an address for O’Connell. I went there and found two women, one named Josephine, who was definitely not a resident or his friend as she claimed. Then I met another, whose name I can’t remember, but I suspect she’s not who she said she was, nor a friend.”

“Were they looking for the USB?”

“I don’t know. One was on the floor when I arrived, and I assumed she had been rendered unconscious by someone else. I roused her, but she had nothing conclusive to say. I think she was one of your operatives.”

Silence, then, “Why would you say that?”

“I followed her out onto the street.”

More silence, then, “She was asked to search the flat.”

“For what?”

“Anything that would be useful in telling us what he was doing.”

“I’m sure I told you that Severin was after a USB, so I thoroughly searched O’Connell’s flat and didn’t find it, or anything else.”

“Neither did she, which is unfortunate, but not unexpected. O’Connell must have been worried about the information he’d uncovered, enough to not be carrying it with him.”

“Well, I don’t think it was his primary residence. Still too many price tags on the furniture. He had somewhere else to go, and that might be where the USB is. I’m surprised you don’t seem to know very much about him or what he was doing given he was one of your operatives. Unless, of course, he went off-book.”

“I assure you that isn’t the case, and O’Connell’s activities were on a need to know basis. All I can say is that he was using a Journalist cover, investigating cyber currency being used to purchase weapons. We were scheduled to meet for a report on his progress late afternoon on the day he was killed. Are you sure there was no one else near the alley where he was killed?”

“It was empty except for Severin and Maury.

“And you.”

“Are you implying that I took it?”

“No, but there’s a compelling case that might fit you in the frame. Do you know who the other woman was in O’Connell’s flat?”

“No. Like I said, she gave me a name, but I don’t think it was real. She claimed to be his neighbor, but so did Josephine, so it’s likely she wasn’t. Other than that, she could be anyone. If he had another place, you might want to try and find out where it was. I’m going to take up the search tomorrow morning.”

“Are you sure there was nothing to point you in that direction lying around in the flat?”

“The man was a neatness freak. I doubt it. And now he’s dead. The only possibility I can see is that he found out what Severin and Maury are about to do, and by now they will be far more desperate to find it. We need to get to it first, so perhaps if you have some analysts looking for something to do, see if they can find that second residence. I’m sure you can get a hold of any CCTV there is. You might be able to find him that way. If you do and you get an address, let me know and I’ll go straight there.”

“Yes, of course. Keep in touch.”

The line went dead.

“Interesting man,” Jan said, “but not a trustworthy one. You listen to the modulation of his voice. That’s a man who wouldn’t know the truth even if he fell over it. And if he does find that address, you will not be the first person he calls.”

I shrugged. “Probably not. As for Nobbin, isn’t that the very nature of our business, to tell endless lies in order to get to the truth?”

“Remind me, one day, to tell you about pathological liars.”

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My second story 3

More about my second story

…

The Female Assassin: Breaking Stereotypes and Forging a Unique Path

As a writer, creating a compelling and complex female character can be a daunting task, especially when venturing into the realm of assassins. With a plethora of male-dominated stories in the genre, it’s essential to differentiate our female protagonist from her counterparts while maintaining the essence of the profession. In this blog post, we’ll explore ways to set our female assassin apart, infuse her with a conscience or unique rationale, and introduce a captivating on-again, off-again romance that will keep readers enthralled.

Setting Her Apart: Beyond the Typical Traits

To avoid clichés, let’s move beyond the usual characteristics associated with female assassins, such as:

The seductress: using charm and beauty to lure targets
The revenge seeker: driven by a personal vendetta
The stoic killer: emotionless and devoid of empathy

Instead, consider the following traits to make your female assassin stand out:

Unconventional skills: Perhaps she’s an expert in a unique area, such as cryptology, toxicology, or engineering, which she leverages to carry out her missions.
Moral ambiguity: She operates in a gray area, questioning the true nature of her targets and the motivations behind her contracts.
Vulnerability: She has a weakness, such as a chronic illness, a troubled past, or a personal loss, that makes her more relatable and human.

A Conscience or Rationale: Adding Depth to Her Character

Giving your female assassin a conscience or a well-defined rationale for her actions can elevate her from a one-dimensional killer to a complex, multidimensional character. Some possible approaches:

A personal code: She adheres to a strict set of rules, such as only targeting those who have committed heinous crimes or refusing to harm innocent bystanders.
A larger purpose: She believes her work serves a greater good, such as taking down a corrupt organisation or protecting a specific community.
A conflicted past: Her experiences have led her to question the morality of her profession, and she grapples with the consequences of her actions.

The On-Again, Off-Again Romance: A Complicated Dance

A romance can add an exciting layer to your story, but it’s essential to avoid clichés and make the relationship an integral part of the narrative. Consider the following:

A complicated history: The love interest has a past with the assassin, making their interactions fraught with tension and unresolved emotions.
A forbidden love: Their relationship is taboo, either due to the assassin’s profession or the love interest’s connections to her targets.
A cat-and-mouse game: The love interest is also a skilled operative, leading to a thrilling game of espionage and one-upmanship.

To keep the romance engaging, make sure to:

Develop the love interest: Give them their own backstory, motivations, and conflicts to create a well-rounded character.
Balance action and romance: Ensure that the romance doesn’t overshadow the main plot or the assassin’s character development.
Keep it unpredictable: Avoid predictable tropes and surprising twists to keep readers invested in the relationship.

By incorporating these elements, you’ll create a female assassin who defies stereotypes and captivates readers with her complexity and depth. Remember to stay true to your character’s voice and agency, and don’t be afraid to push boundaries and explore new themes. With a richly nuanced protagonist and a gripping narrative, your story will stand out in the world of assassin fiction.

If I only had one day to stop over in – London – what would I do?

One Day in London: Making the Most of Your Stopover

Are you lucky enough to have a one-day stopover in the vibrant city of London? With so much to see and do, it can be overwhelming to decide how to spend your limited time. As a seasoned traveller and blogger, I’m here to share with you the one place to visit that will make your day in London truly unforgettable: The British Museum.

Located in the heart of the city, the British Museum is one of the world’s greatest museums, housing a vast collection of artifacts from ancient civilisations. With a history spanning over 250 years, this iconic institution has something for everyone, from history buffs to curious travellers.

Why The British Museum?

Unparalleled Collection: With over 8 million objects on display, the British Museum boasts an incredible collection of artifacts from around the globe, including the Rosetta Stone, the Elgin Marbles, and the mummies in the Ancient Egypt gallery.
Iconic Landmark: The museum’s stunning Greek Revival architecture is a work of art in itself, with its grand entrance, sweeping staircases, and beautiful courtyards.
Free Admission: The British Museum offers free admission to all its permanent collections, making it an accessible and budget-friendly option for travellers.
Central Location: The museum is conveniently located in Bloomsbury, within walking distance of several major tube stations, including Holborn, Russell Square, and Tottenham Court Road.

Must-See Exhibits

The Rosetta Stone: This ancient Egyptian artifact is one of the museum’s most famous objects, and for good reason. The stone’s intricate hieroglyphics and Greek inscriptions helped scholars decipher the secrets of ancient Egyptian language.
The Mummies: The British Museum’s Ancient Egypt gallery is home to an impressive collection of mummies, including the famous Gebelein Man, who is over 5,500 years old.
The Elgin Marbles: These stunning marble sculptures from the Parthenon in Athens are a highlight of the museum’s Greek collection.

Tips for Visiting The British Museum

Plan Your Visit: With so much to see, it’s essential to plan your visit in advance. Consider purchasing a guided tour or using the museum’s mobile app to navigate the collections.
Arrive Early: Beat the crowds by arriving early, and take advantage of the museum’s peaceful morning atmosphere.
Take a Break: The British Museum has several cafes and restaurants on site, offering a range of refreshments and meals. Take a break and recharge before continuing your exploration.

Conclusion

If you only have one day in London, make the most of it by visiting The British Museum. This world-class institution offers a unique and unforgettable experience, with its incredible collections, stunning architecture, and rich history. Whether you’re a history enthusiast, a curious traveller, or simply looking for a memorable experience, The British Museum is the perfect destination for your one-day stopover in London.

So, what are you waiting for? Book your ticket, grab your camera, and get ready to discover the wonders of The British Museum!

What I learned about writing – Use the non-fiction writer’s playbook

How to Nail the Start of Your Novel by Borrowing from Nonfiction’s Playbook

Every novelist knows the pressure of a great opening.

You’ve got one page—sometimes one paragraph—to hook your reader, introduce your world, and set the story in motion. Too much exposition, and you risk losing momentum. Too little context, and your reader is left confused. So how do you strike the perfect balance?

Turns out, the answer might not come from fiction at all.

Surprisingly, one of the most effective strategies for launching a novel comes not from bestselling thrillers or Pulitzer-winning literary works, but from the disciplined clarity of nonfiction writing.

Nonfiction writers live and breathe the six fundamental questions:
Who? What? Why? When? Where? How?

These aren’t just journalistic tools—they’re storytelling essentials. And by applying them to your novel’s opening, you can craft a start that’s both compelling and crystal clear.

Let’s break it down.

1. Who?

Establish your protagonist (or POV character) quickly.

Readers need someone to anchor to—fast. Within the first few paragraphs, you should introduce the person whose journey matters most. You don’t need a full backstory, but give us a sense of who they are: their name, role, emotional state, or core desire.

Example:
“My name is June Kim, and I hadn’t spoken to my mother in three years when the call came about her hospitalization.”
— Already, we have a who (June), a relationship (with her mother), and emotional weight.

Even in ensemble casts or complex narratives, the opening should clarify whose perspective we’re experiencing.

2. What?

What is happening right now?

This isn’t about the entire plot—just the immediate situation. What action, event, or decision kicks off the story?

Are they receiving a mysterious letter? Boarding a train to a new city? Discovering a body in the woods? The “what” grounds the reader in the present moment.

Tip: Start mid-action when possible. Avoid long internal monologues or backstory dumps. Let the “what” drive momentum.

3. Why?

Why should we care? Why does this matter to the character (and reader)?

This is where emotional stakes enter. A character running through a forest is intriguing—but if we know why they’re running (a child is missing, they’re being hunted, they’re fleeing guilt), the scene gains urgency.

The “why” doesn’t need to be fully explained upfront, but it should be implied. Let readers sense a deeper meaning, a hidden pain, or an impending threat.

Example:
Instead of: “She walked down the street.”
Try: “She walked down the street, rehearsing the apology she knew her sister wouldn’t accept.”
Now we have context, history, and emotional tension.

4. When?

Establish the timeline—past, present, future, or era.

Is this story set in modern-day Brooklyn, 18th-century France, or a post-apocalyptic 2150? Is it unfolding in real time or being told in retrospect?

Even subtle cues—technology, clothing, language—can signal time period without heavy exposition.

Pro Tip: If your novel spans multiple timelines, make the “when” of the opening scene unmistakable. Clarity prevents confusion.

5. Where?

Anchor the reader in a vivid setting.

Every story lives in a world—real or imagined. Use concrete sensory details (sights, sounds, smells) to immerse the reader instantly.

Don’t just say “a small town.” Say: “A town where every porch light flickered the same shade of yellow and everyone knew whose dog barked at 3 a.m.”

Strong setting doesn’t just describe—it enhances mood and theme.

6. How?

How does this opening scene set the tone and mechanics of the story to come?

This is your narrative engine. How is the story being told? First person? Third limited? With humour? Urgency? Mystery?

The “how” includes voice, pace, and structure. It answers: What kind of book have I just opened?

If your novel is a fast-paced thriller, the how might be short, punchy sentences and cliffhanger pacing. If it’s a quiet literary drama, the how could be lyrical introspection?

Your narrative technique should match your genre and intent.

Putting It All Together: A Fictional Example

Let’s apply all six questions to a strong novel opening:

“When the subway doors hissed open at 1:17 a.m., Leo Chen was the only one waiting on the platform—but he wasn’t the man I’d agreed to meet. I’d come to trade a stolen hard drive for $50,000 and my sister’s freedom. Now, standing in the flickering fluorescent light, I realized I was already too late.”

Who? The narrator (unnamed, but clearly involved) and Leo Chen.
What? A clandestine exchange on a subway platform.
Why? The narrator’s sister is being held; the stakes are sky-high.
When? 1:17 a.m.—late, isolated, dangerous.
Where? A nearly empty subway station, dimly lit and tense.
How? Immediate tension, first-person urgency, and mystery—hinting at a thriller’s pace.

All six questions answered—in under 70 words.

Final Thoughts: Clarity is Not the Enemy of Creativity

Some writers fear that answering these questions upfront will make the opening feel “formulaic.” But clarity isn’t the opposite of artistry—it’s its foundation.

Nonfiction writers use these questions to inform, yes—but novelists can use them to seduce. To intrigue. To deliver just enough truth so the reader can’t stop turning pages.

So before you write (or revise) your novel’s first chapter, ask yourself:

Who is the reader meeting?
What’s happening now?
Why does it matter?
When is this taking place?
Where are we, exactly?
How is this story being told—and why this way?

Answer those with precision and purpose, and you won’t just start your novel.
You’ll launch it.

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.

I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021. It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

If I only had one day to stop over in – New York – what would I do?

A One-Day Stopover in New York: Making Memories at the Unforgettable High Line

Travelling, by its very nature, is about discovery. But what do you do when time is truly limited? Imagine this: You’re sitting on a transatlantic flight, mid-Atlantic, with a layover in New York City. Your window seat offers a bird’s-eye view of the East River, and the next 24 hours are yours to craft a moment you’ll remember. One place. One day. One memory. What do you choose?

If you’re like me, you’ll go where the past and present dance together, where nature defies urban grit, and where art whispers to the soul—The High Line.

Why the High Line?

The High Line is a 1.45-mile-long elevated linear park built on a disused railway track. Converted from an industrial relic to a lush, living mosaic of wildflowers, art, and urban soul, it’s the epitome of New York’s reinvention. Unlike museums that demand hours or skyscrapers that require reservations, the High Line is free, open-air, and designed for the kind of slow, sensory experience that sticks with you long after the plane takes off.

What to Do (and See) in One Day

1. Walk the Wild Path
Start at the southernmost point near Gansevoort Street, where the park blends with the Meatpacking District. The path is a tapestry of native plants and grasses, curated to feel like a meadow in the sky. As you stroll, pause at Spur—a small extension of the park with a glass-walled café and breathtaking views of the Hudson Yards and the Hudson River. It’s like watching the city from a secret balcony.

2. Encounter Living Art
The High Line isn’t just a garden; it’s an art gallery in motion. Over a dozen open-air installations line the route, from Marcel Duchamp’s Bicycle Wheel to the whimsical Curl by Sarah Sze. The programming changes seasonally, so even if you’ve been before, there’s always something new. Pro tip: Keep an eye out for the Chambers Street Poetry Spots—poems etched into the paving stones, blending literature with the cityscape.

3. Marvel at the City’s Skyline
The park’s vantage points are priceless. At the Hudson Yards Terminal, look down into the massive Vessel structure and the glowing facades of the area’s towers. At the Diller–vonn Imhoff Courtyard, see the juxtaposition of modern art with the Lower West Side. And when the sun sets, don’t miss the Standard High Line rooftop—order a cocktail and watch the Empire State Building glisten in the distance.

4. Sip and Savour
Post-walk, refuel with a coffee at The Porch, the Spur’s airy café, or enjoy a globally inspired snack from The High Line’s food kiosks (they rotate seasonal vendors). For a deeper dive, venture to nearby Chelsea Market across the 10th Avenue Connector for soups, sushi, or sweet treats.

5. End with a Ferry Ride
Time your exit at the northern end near 34th Street. Take the Hudson River Ferry (free with a MetroCard) for a 20-minute voyage past the Statue of Liberty, the Vessel, and the glittering East River. It’s the perfect finale—a different perspective of the city, one that feels like a hidden New York only insiders know.

Why This Day Stands Out

The High Line isn’t just a place; it’s an experience of contrasts. It’s the crunch of gravel underfoot versus the silence of a hidden garden. It’s a city that breathes, where art and ecology thrive in harmony. Unlike ticking off landmarks, this stopover invites you to feel the pulse of New York, not just observe it.

When your time runs out, and you’re back in the airport, you’ll leave with more than photos: You’ll have memories of the way the sunlight filtered through the willows, the scent of wild thyme in the air, and the realisation that even in the most crowded city in America, there’s a place to find peace.

A one-day stopover in New York should be memorable. With the High Line, it will be.

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

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 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 passenger’s 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 let 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 need 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 the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer 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 fulfill, 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 one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact 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 mesmerizing. 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 me without my realizing 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 subtle, 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 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 demeanor 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 realized 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 was, 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 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 realized 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 recognized me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not the 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 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 ignoring 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 traveling 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 traveling 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 realizing 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.

It just started to rain.

…

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Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance