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!

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

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying.  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humour failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

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365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 231

Day 231 – Writing in the first person

…

The Power of “I”: Unlocking the Advantages of the First-Person Novel

When you crack open a novel and the very first word you read is “I,” an unspoken social contract is formed between you and the narrator. You aren’t just an observer looking down from a cloud; you are strapped directly into the passenger seat of someone else’s mind.

First-person point of view (POV) is one of the most intimate and enduring tools in a writer’s arsenal. From classic masterpieces like The Catcher in the Rye and Jane Eyre to modern psychological thrillers like Gone Girl, the “I” narrator has the power to grip readers and refuse to let go.

If you’re an aspiring author trying to decide which POV to use, or a passionate reader wondering why certain books feel so visceral, understanding the advantages of the first-person novel is essential.

Let’s dive deep into the unique strengths of the first-person perspective and why it continues to dominate bestseller lists.

1. Unmatched Intimacy and Emotional Resonance

The single greatest advantage of the first-person novel is proximity. In first-person, there is no filter between the character’s internal emotional landscape and the reader.

  • Direct Access to Thoughts: We don’t just see characters cry; we hear the frantic, self-deprecating, or hopeful loops playing in their heads as they wipe away the tears.
  • Instant Empathy: Even if a narrator makes terrible choices, experiencing their motivations, fears, and heartbreaks firsthand makes them deeply human. We understand why they do what they do, even if we don’t agree with it.

This level of intimacy creates a profound bond. Readers often finish a great first-person novel feeling like they have just said goodbye to a real-life friend.

2. A Distinct, Unforgettable Voice

In a crowded literary marketplace, voice is everything. First-person narrative allows authors to showcase a character’s unique personality not just through their actions, but through how they speak and think.

Think of Holden Caulfield’s cynical, slang-heavy cadence in The Catcher in the Rye, or Humbert Humbert’s hyper-articulate, manipulative prose in Lolita. The narrator’s voice becomes the music of the book.

  • Rhythm and Diction: A weary detective, a sarcastic teenager, and a medieval peasant will all describe a rainy Tuesday differently. First-person forces the writing to be utterly specific to that character’s worldview, elevating the prose and making the storytelling infinitely more textured.

3. The Power of the Unreliable Narrator

One of the most thrilling narrative devices available in fiction is the unreliable narrator—and it only truly works in the first person.

Because we are locked inside one character’s perspective, we are vulnerable to their biases, blind spots, delusions, or outright lies.

  • Building Suspense: When a narrator is convinced of something that the reader slowly realises is false, the tension skyrockets.
  • The “Aha!” Moment: Twists hit harder in first-person because the reader has been actively complicit in believing the narrator’s deception. Think of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, where Nick and Amy Dunne’s conflicting first-person accounts keep readers guessing until the very end.

4. Heightened Suspense and Stakes

When the protagonist is the one telling the story, a very specific rule applies: They survived long enough to tell the tale.

While this might seem like a spoiler (we know the protagonist doesn’t die in chapter three), it actually heightens suspense in clever ways.

  • The “How” Over the “If”: Instead of wondering if the character will survive, the reader wonders how they possibly escaped the nightmare they are currently describing.
  • Subjective Danger: Because we only know what the narrator knows, we are ambushed by plot twists right alongside them. If they can’t see the killer sneaking up behind them in the dark, neither can we.

5. Built-In Focus and Streamlined Pacing

Third-person multi-POV novels can sometimes suffer from narrative bloat as authors jump between five different subplots across different continents. First-person acts as a natural anchor.

  • Laser-Focused Narrative: Everything in a first-person novel filters through the protagonist’s experiences. If they aren’t there to witness it, it doesn’t happen (unless they hear about it secondhand). This keeps the plot tight, fast-paced, and intensely focused on the core conflict.
  • Character-Driven Plots: First-person naturally prioritises internal growth and psychological transformation over sprawling world-building, making it the go-to choice for character-driven stories.

Potential Pitfalls to Keep in Mind

While the advantages are powerful, writing in the first person comes with unique challenges:

  • The “Head-Hopping” Restriction: You cannot show scenes where the protagonist is absent.
  • The “I-Ego” Problem: If your narrator is too passive, whiny, or unlikable without being fascinating, readers will drop the book fast.
  • Information Limits: It can be difficult to naturally reveal things the narrator wouldn’t reasonably know.

However, in the hands of a skilled writer, these limitations often force creative solutions that make the story even stronger.

Conclusion: Is First-Person Right for Your Next Read—or Your Next Book?

The first-person novel is more than just a stylistic choice; it is an immersive experience. It transforms reading from a passive activity into a deeply empathetic, psychological journey. Whether you are looking to get lost in a complex character study, unravel a twisty mystery, or feel the raw electricity of a unique literary voice, the “I” narrator delivers like no other POV can.

Are you a writer planning your next project, or a reader with a favourite first-person novel? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below!

…

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

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

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 20

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

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

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

A chessboard of players

…

I sighed.  Someone else who wasn’t who they seemed to be.

At a guess, it was a gun in my back.  We were far enough away from anyone else for them to recognise what was happening.

“No need for whatever weapon you have in my back.  I’m neither armed nor dangerous.”

“Why are you following me?”

Should I tell her the truth or tell her a lie.  The latter would be the most expedient, but I needed to talk to her, so I went with the former.

“You know O’Connell.”

“Were you the one who attacked me?”

“I told you I meant you no harm.  What happened to you wasn’t my fault.”

Whatever was in my back was no longer there, so I turned around to face her.  She had changed her look since O’Connell’s flat, not only the change in hair colour and length but also the makeup, making it difficult for anyone to recognise her from a distance.  I’d been lucky.

“What do you want with him?”

“More than likely the same as you.  He made the mistake of thinking you were interested in him, but I suspect your assignment was to get close, and the flat next door was as close as you could get.”

“What are you babbling about?  We were friends.”

“How often did he stay in that flat?  Everything in it still has the price tag on it.”

“You’re loopy.  I’m going now, and I suggest you don’t follow me again.”

“I know where you live remember.  All I want is some answers.”

“There are no answers.  He was a friend, that’s it.  I’m going now.”  She turned and started to walk away.

“If I know who you are, the chances are the others do too.”

She stopped.  Interesting response.  In her shoes, my first reaction, if I was an innocent person, would be to call for a policeman to have me taken away for assaulting her.

She turned and took two steps back towards me.  “What are you talking about now?”

“O’Connell’s flat was like Marks and Spenser this morning.  I came and found another woman claiming to live next door, named Josephine, unconscious on the floor, and I didn’t do it by the way.  She works for a man named Nobbin, McConnell’s direct superior, and whom I think, indirectly I do too, and I suspect she was neutralised by another man named Severin.

“Whatever O’Connell was up to, there are a lot of people who want a missing USB with what I suspect is very interesting, and probably damaging information.  You wouldn’t have it, by the way?”

“Who are you?”

“That’s what I’m not sure about.  Like I said, I think I work for the same man whom O’Connell worked for, but before that, I worked with the people who had him killed for whatever was on the USB.”  It sounded far more horrible out loud than it had a few seconds earlier in my head.  God only knew what she was thinking about it.  “Who do you work for, because a woman who can do the transformation you just did is either a call girl or an agent?”  Another thought just occurred to me, a reason perhaps why she had changed her appearance so radically.  “Your flat was searched too, wasn’t it?”

No need to answer yes or no.  The look on her face was enough.

We ordered coffee and sat down.  She was still very wary of me, but since I seemed to know, or presumed to know, what had happened, she was going to ask me some questions I wasn’t going to be able to answer.

And not because the answers were in the top-secret category, it was simply because I didn’t know.

“So,” I asked, “who do you work for?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“But you were either keeping O’Connell close company by insinuating yourself into his life, or you were maintaining some sort of surveillance.”

She was plating it close, and with a poker face.  She was better at it than I was.

“Where is he, by the way?”

“Dead.”

“Dead?”  

No mistaking that look of fear the flickered on her face, then disappear again into rocky granite.

“Dead.  Seems he came across some information, and it caused his death.  I was there shortly before he died, shot by a sniper, I think, and there was nothing I could do about it.  Any idea what that information was?”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about, but either way, if I did or I didn’t the answer would be the same, no.  He told me he was a reporter, working on a really big story, and that he would have to go away for a few days.  I knew that was his cover story.”

“Were you after that same information?”

“Probably, maybe, I don’t know.  Our information was mostly conjecture, a profile built up by our research department, based on his travels, and sightings at a location we know is running a network of agents.  The conclusion was that it was not one of ours, so I was assigned to find out exactly who they were.”

“O’Connell would not have told you.”

“Given the circumstances I find myself in, I’m beginning to think that.  If you worked with him, then he was on the same side as you, so are you good or bad?”

That was a rather interesting question to be asking me at this late stage, and especially after she had told me basically what I needed to know, bar who she worked for, but that, I was beginning to think, was MI6.

“A rather silly question to ask, don’t you think?  It stands to reason that if I was bad, then I would not have left you alive in O’Connell’s flat.”

“Not unless you wanted something from me and set this up as a trap.”

So that was the reason why she kept checking everyone she could see upstairs and monitoring the stairs to see who arrived and left.  We were in the right spot to keep tabs on everyone.  And I knew her gun wasn’t very far from her hand.

“Obviously you don’t have it, so my work is done here.  I suggest you don’t go back to that flat.”  I stood.  “Your location and probably who you are is compromised.  And two men and their attack dogs will be looking for you.  Good luck with that.”

“Aren’t you one of those two men attack dog, by your own admission?”

“I’m new and not cynical enough to shoot people out of hand.  You’re probably lucky in that regard.  And if someone like me can find you, then think what a seasoned professional would be able to do.  Have a nice life, what you have left of it.”

© Charles Heath 2019

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

…

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

… and it would have remained buried.

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

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 76

Here’s the thing…

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 installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

Boggs is not a happy man

…

I could feel the waves of hate emanating from Boggs as he was staring at Nadia, who was doing her best to ignore him.

The previous evening when I made the suggestion to her that we should do whatever we could to aid in his search, on the Cossatino’s beach head without involving the Cossatinos, and in an attempt to have a backup plan if they caught up with us, met the same stony silence as it had when I told Boggs.

Her response was a stony, ‘don’t expect me to go up against my father and Vince, I’m not that brave.”

All Cossatino’s were tarred with the same brush, he said, just short of telling me he was convinced she was working with them, trying to find out what he knew via me.  He didn’t believe me when I told him she had done anything but interrogate me.

I wanted to believe she was not on their side, but just in case he might be right, my idea was to keep the enemy, if she was playing me, close.  Certainly, if the family turned up to thwart us, then I’d be convinced she was against us.

But, at least we’d then know, and it would make little difference in the end.  What Boggs was planning, with or without me, was basically suicide.

And she had voiced exactly the arguments that I’d already expected, although stopping short of saying she would not be part of it.

What had surprised me, Boggs had actually come, knowing Nadia would be there.

I let the silence reign for a minute or so, then dived in.

“Right.”

Both heads turned towards me, and I could feel the temperature rise about 10 degrees.

“I had imagined this would go so much better when I planned it in my head, but I can see quite plainly there are trust issues on either side.  The point is, Boggs, you can’t do this on your own.  You tried once and failed.  You might get lucky a second time, but I suspect the Cossatinos know now what you’re trying to do, and will be waiting.”

“They tried to kill me,” he muttered.

That might be putting it a bit strongly, because he had said as much to the sheriff, and the Cossatino’s denied it, as expected, but the evidence was quite clear, Boggs’s rope had been severed with a knife, located when the sheriff had visited the site and found the rope still attached to the top of the cliff.

The Cossatinos had been sloppy in covering their tracks, and the excuse they had been rock climbing hadn’t been taken seriously since no equipment had been found at the house, and none of them could provide any details of doing so elsewhere.

Evidence or not, no charges had been laid yet, nor had the Cossatinos proceeded with a trespass charge, perhaps fearing a more detailed investigation might be too intrusive or prove Boggs’s case.  In turn,  Boggs had been forced to agree not to go back, but simple words on the paper he signed, meant nothing.

“Deter you, I’d say,” Nadia said, “because killing you would bring unwanted attention to their activities.” 

Nadia was probably right because Boggs’s quest was too well known, as was the theory that the treasure was still on The Grove.  Already, the story was on the front page of the local paper, and Lenny was trying to get interviews.

And it was attracting attention from other media.  If anything, the Cossatinos would want to hose it down, not throw fuel on the fire.

“Well, you’re not dead,” I said, “fortuitously we found you, and now if you are going to persist with this quest, there has to be a plan, and Nadia has to be part of it.”

“I’ve already told you I don’t need anyone’s help.”

“OK.  Then I’ll start my own quest, with Nadia’s help, and we’ll see who gets to the treasure first.  I told you I believe I know where it is, and I think you believe you know too.  Your problem will be getting back there, whereas, I have no such problem.  So,” I pointed to the door, “you can leave any time, but don’t call me again.  We’re done.”

I glared back at him, and while not exactly squirming in his seat, he appeared to be mulling over the ultimatum.  I hadn’t planned to give him one, but he was pushing all the wrong buttons.

It also elicited an interesting look from Nadia, because it was the first time she was hearing that I knew where the treasure was.  It was a calculated risk telling her, but I’d know soon enough whose side she was on.

“If you sign a document forfeiting any rights over the treasure you have a deal.  Both of you.”

So, it came down to the money, pure and simple.  I thought I’d made it clear long ago that I wasn’t interested in anything to do with the treasure because it was cursed.  “No problem.”

I looked at Nadia.

“God no, I want nothing to do with it.  I’ve seen what the obsession with wealth can do to people, and families, and it’s why I left.  I’m happy to sign anything you want.”

He pulled what looked to be sheets of folded paper from his pocket, unfolded them, and gave one to each of us.

“Call me when they’re notarized.”  With a final glare, he left.

That left Nadia looking at me with a curious expression.  “You know where the treasure is?”

“Maybe.  I just wanted to put the wind up him because I think he does.  There are clues that Boggs doesn’t know about, and I haven’t told him about.  I believe according to some of the information I’ve found, that he was in the right place when we found him.”

“I didn’t see any caves or tunnels, or any sort of hiding place, just rocks.”

“There are a few factors involved that make that area a likely spot and the reasons that spot was chosen.  One is that there doesn’t seem to be apparent access by land, other than the way we came, across the rocks, but at the time the pirates might not have had the time or the know-how to get there by anything other than the sea.”

“So, you’re saying they came by sea.  How did they get past the reefs?  And how the hell could they see a cave or tunnel in that rockface?”

“It’s been a couple of hundred years, and I think back then that shoreline would have been a lot different.  I’m not a geologist but that cliff face shows signs of rockfalls and slippage, so it’s possible it’s now concealed.  From what I’ve read, just in the newspaper archives alone, there’s been seismic activity occurring for the last seventy-odd years and maybe even during the last few centuries, just look at the fact there used to be a lake further inland.  Then, I suspect they came ashore by an abnormally high tide.  For an experienced seafarer, it has the pluses, and precise navigation through the reef, and it’s the hardest to get to spot on the Grove’s coastline.  An ideal spot that is to everyone other than a master mariner, an unlikely place to get to.

She looked like she was weighing up the pros and cons of what I’d told her.

“I’m surprised you’re telling me this.”

“The chances of the treasure still being there or that I’m right about the location is quite remote, so it doesn’t really matter.  Anyway, up to now, you haven’t given me a reason not to trust you, so if there’s anything you want to tell me, now would be the time.”

So, she had considered how it might look to me, the family name and reputation she had inherited.

“I’ve told you what my situation is.  To be honest, I don’t think there’s any treasure to be found either.  I once heard a discussion between family members, when I was very young and didn’t understand what they were talking about, involving putting a story out there that there was a treasure, and if they sold it well enough, people would pay plenty for maps.  In my opinion, the treasure story is a Cossatino special money-making scheme built off Ormiston’s and layer, Boggs’s obsession.  The myth has been perpetuated by articles in papers, and new maps surfacing from time to time.  I’d be surprised if you did find anything, but for Boggs’s sake, it’s better he learn the truth than hang on to false hope.”

“So you know it’s all a hoax?”

“On the face of it, you would think so, but Vince, not the sharpest of people, bought into it, especially when Boggs’s father came on board to draw the maps.  He was a cartographer you know, and worked for the county authorities in mapping the area.  I’m guessing that’s how he got started on this treasure thing.  That was another story my father liked to tell us, how Boggs had found a cave that was a pirates lair, only to see it destroyed not long after in one of the recent earthquakes.  That discovery turned him into a true believer and was happy to help the Cossatino’s so he could muddy the water while he searched for it.  There have always been rumors of treasure along this coastline.  It might be possible there was treasure somewhere, but don’t you think it’d be found by now?”

“Logic dictates that it would be, but anything’s possible.  Why did you take me on that coin-seeking exercise?”

“The truth Sam?  I heard Vince talking about Boggs snooping around, and I was hoping we’d find nothing.  Vince can be an ass most of the time, and I want to believe he wouldn’t do anything to seriously hurt Boggs, just put the wind up him.  Thankfully nothing happened, and it’s the best I could do in the circumstances.  I’m sorry.”

Was she by definition somewhere between a rock and a hard place?

“This time we were lucky.  Next time it might be a very different story.  I’ll understand if you want to quit now, because you may have to pick a side.”

“Let’s hope then it doesn’t come to that.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The 2am Rant: When is it ever an easy flight home?

The course of plane travel can run like clockwork, or rapidly come apart at the seems.

Every time you go to the airport, it can become an adventure. Checking in, battling the airline’s kiosk, printing and attaching bag labels, going to bag drop, remembering that every airline does it differently.

Today we are arriving at Hong Kong airport which is huge and there are endless boarding gates. Being dropped off in the zone that belongs to the airline you’re flying might lead you to think finding the check-in for your flights is going to be easy, but it’s not. The next stop is to find the aisle letter where your flight is checking in and then do the automated boarding pass and baggage label.

If it’s international travel which it is today, there’s the added stress of negotiating immigration, and the duty free stores. We followed the rules, got there early, had the usual problems at the kiosk requiring the assistance of two Cathay Pacific staff, and finally made it to the initial departure concourse.

Next there’s the temptation of overpriced airport food if you’re hungry which we are not. But we have a McCafe coffee to satisfy a caffeine fix before the flight.

The shops are all expensive at the initial departure concourse, so we decide to see if there are other shops near our departure gate. To get to it we descend to the train and get off at 40-80. It’s a short journey and then when we arrive there is a collection of more affordable shops where we proceed to buy every man and his dog a selection of sweets with our remaining Hong Kong dollars.

From there it’s a couple of travellators, which sounds ridiculously short, but are, in reality, very, very long, to our gate and we get there ten minutes before boarding is supposed to commence.

Today we are travelling on an Airbus A350-900, a relatively new plane so you would think there could not be anything wrong with it. We had the same plane coming to Hong Kong, and no trouble with it.

We find a seat in the gate lounge and wait, along with everyone else. I’m still surprised at the number of able bodied people who take the disabled seats for the sake of being closer to the start of the line, and worse the woman who not only took up one of the seats but also another seat for her cabin baggage which was extensive.

Boarding starts late, and routinely for the first and business, and disabled passengers. The rest now start to line up in the economy line. Some people haven’t moved, perhaps they know something we don’t.

We eventually join the line, and go through initial formalities while waiting. And waiting. As the minutes tick by and nothing is happening, other than what appears to be growing consternation by the gate staff. The tipping point for immediate concern is when the previously boarded passengers begin to come back through the boarding gate into the departure gate lounge.

One of those who had been on board came our way and said there was a problem with the plane. They were told it was due to technical difficulties, the official non scary description for your plane Is broken. In the face of growing consternation among the queued economy passengers, there was an official announcement that advised of the technical difficulties, and boarding would be delayed.

We all sit back down, but this time there were a number of disabled and elderly people who needed seats, and our able bodied lady and her baggage did not move. Shame on her. We are lucky that where we were in the waiting line was adjacent to nearby seats

Now we were able to watch the other passengers jockeying for position to race to be first in the economy class boarding queue the second time around. I think they don’t realise they have the same seat if they are at the front of the line or the back. Because we were all asked to sit down, those at the front of the queue would now find themselves at the end.

After a delay of about an hour and a half we are finally boarding. The worst aspect of this delay is losing our slot in the departures and I’m guessing this was going to have an effect on our actual takeoff time. It appears to be the case. Boarding does not take very long and shortly after the doors are closed we’re pushing back from the gate.

From there, it becomes a chess game when we get a slot. We are in a queue of planes waiting their turn, and on the taxi ramp before the main runway, planes are separated into two queues, and we are in the second. Since we are the only one, I suspect we’re in the delayed take off queue, and sit watching four or so other planes take off before we finally get on the runway.

On the plane we discover one of the toilets is out of action so perhaps that was the technical difficulty with our plane. It’s not full so one toilet down will have little effect. Leaving in the early afternoon will get us into Brisbane late at night. It was meant to be around 11 pm, but with the delays, and possibly making up time in flight, it will now be after midnight when we arrive. Fortunately we have a 24 hour airport in Brisbane.

The flight from Hong Kong to Brisbane is without event. Lunch after takeoff, then a few hours later, an hour of so before landing, we have dinner. Both of us are not hungry. As expected, we landed after midnight, tired but glad to be home.

,,,

I can’t say at this moment in time I miss travelling.

What I learned about writing: The murky art of plotting (2)

Truth is stranger than fiction

…

The Unseen Shadows: When “Not Suspicious” Hides a Deadly Truth

In the quiet hum of suburban life, where hedges are trimmed and routines are sacred, sometimes the most chilling stories unfold not with a bang, but with a whisper. A seemingly ordinary day, an ordinary house, and a tragedy that, on the surface, appears tragically straightforward.

This week, a news blurb, easily missed, caught my eye. It spoke of a man and a woman, new in their courtship, found deceased in an ordinary suburban home following a welfare call. Their bodies lay side-by-side on the floor. The initial report was stark, almost dismissive: police were not treating the deaths as suspicious.

And that, my friends, is exactly where our story truly begins.

Because what if “not suspicious” is merely the first layer of a far more intricate, and sinister, narrative? What if that seemingly benign conclusion is precisely the moment when a seasoned investigator should lean a little closer, peer beyond the immediate, and ask: “But what if…?”

In our hypothetical deep dive, the scene, initially dismissed as a tragic dual overdose, starts to sing a different tune – one of carefully orchestrated deception.

The Discordant Notes Begin to Play

For a keen eye, particularly one belonging to someone like Detective Chief Inspector Barnes, the “simple case” quickly unravels:

  1. The Implausible Overdose: The immediate assumption was drugs. Yet, friends of the deceased knew them as anything but recreational users. And even if they were, “lying on the floor at home” didn’t align with their known habits. Most tellingly? No drugs were found in the house, save for residual traces on the bodies themselves. Sniffer dogs confirmed this, finding nothing else. This isn’t just unusual; it suggests a planting of evidence, a narrative carefully constructed.
  2. The Selective Theft: In an upstairs office, a laptop was missing – not the charger or the mouse, just the computer itself. Both their cell phones were also gone. Yet, amidst this targeted disappearance, a significant sum of cash, around £500, was left untouched. If this was a robbery, it was remarkably selective, focusing not on valuables, but on information. A thief with a very particular agenda.
  3. The Silent Bruise: A preliminary examination of the woman’s body revealed bruising on her neck. A subtle mark, easily overlooked, but one that strongly suggested a struggle, a chokehold perhaps. This detail alone pushes the needle firmly away from “natural causes” or “accidental overdose” and towards something far more violent. The coroner’s report would confirm, but the suspicion was planted.
  4. The Ghost in the System: And then, the final, chilling piece of the puzzle. A routine check on the male victim’s name returned an “access denied” flag. In our interconnected world, such a block isn’t accidental. It screams of a hidden identity, a past carefully shielded, perhaps even a life lived undercover.

From Misadventure to Murder

For Detective Chief Inspector Barnes, these four seemingly disparate points converged into a single, inescapable truth. What began as a welfare check, initially deemed tragic but benign, was rapidly transforming into something far more sinister: a potential double murder. The scene, far from being straightforward, was a meticulously staged tableau designed to mislead, to funnel investigators down a path of false assumptions.

This fictional scenario, drawn from the briefest of news items and a “what if” musing, serves as a powerful reminder: appearances can be deceiving. The most unassuming details often hold the key, and sometimes, the loudest silence speaks volumes. It’s a testament to the fact that true investigation isn’t about accepting the obvious, but about questioning everything, about looking for the unseen shadows lurking just beneath the surface of the “not suspicious.”

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 230

Day 230 – Writing Exercise

…

The thing about a quiet neighbourhood – houses not built on top of each other, people next door near but far enough away not to be annoying; if they tended to be annoying, is that you could hear the silence.

We had lived there for nearly ten years, the last family to move into the estate that had about twenty families scattered over acreage.  It was one of those miracle moments, a house popping up in my search browser when I put in the parameters.

One house.  This house.  We came, we saw, we met the neighbours.  We bought.  It was like we were meant to live there.

…

Ten years on, our anniversary neighbourhood party had wrapped up at precisely 10 pm as all parties did, and the participants had dispersed, the last straggler just disappearing around the corner, a few hundred yards from home.

I was on the front verandah looking up at the sky filled with stars, some brighter than others, and then, one that appeared to be moving.

My eyes watered, straining to see it. I blinked several times to squeeze the moisture out, opened them again and whatever it was had gone.  Or blended in, so it was just another star.

I had a telescope out back and would go have another look before I turned in.

Edie poked her head out the door.  “You’re probably breaking some community regulation standing out there after 10pm. What are you doing?”

“Testing them.”

It was a running joke.  The neighbourhood had some rather quirky rules, but nothing that caused us concern.  The lady in charge of community watch, as she called it, was due to retire this year, and everyone was waiting for the new guard.

And new rules.  More lenient rules.

“Come in.  It’s cold out there.”

It had got cold, especially in the last few minutes.  I shivered, took a last look out at the sky, then went in.  The auto light switched off.  All was well again.

“What were you doing out there?”

She was closing the shutters on the front windows, and the moonlight that had been seeping through the open blinds disappeared.  Except for the passage light, the house was in darkness.

We had streetlights, but they were so low that the light didn’t reach the ground.  Normal street lights put out a lot of light, enough to see the road, but these were deliberately subdued.

Another quirk produced by our fearless Community Watch leader, who seemed to hold such sway with city hall.

“I’m just going out back to check on a shooting star.  I’ll make a wish.”

“I need a new vehicle “

A quick kiss, a touch of hands, she headed towards the bedroom.  I would be back before she got into bed.

The auto lighting lit the way along the passage floor to the back door.  I went out onto the back patio and saw Jake, youngest son and the family astronomer, had left the telescope pointing in the direction of Mars.

He was obsessed with the belief that Martians were coming to Earth, and was adamant he had seen a ship land nearby last year, just before it switched on its cloud of invisibility.

Jake had an excellent imagination.

He was in the middle of writing his first Sci-Fi novel and had asked me to read some of it.  It was quite good but technical.  I hadn’t the heart to tell him it was so boring it put me to sleep.

I peered into the lens up at the sky and focused on the last position.  It was a bright star among many. And something else.  It seemed to be flashing, or a whole lot of stars were passing it, which made it seem like it was flashing.

Or maybe not.  Nothing was happening.

Just before I went in, I looked up, in time to see a shooting star, or what looked like one, light a path across the sky.

I made a wish, and went to bed.

…

I usually slept like a log.  It had been said that a bomb could go off next door and I’d sleep through it.  While no bombs had exploded, there were a number of events I had missed.

Tonight?  There was no reason why I should be awake, and yet I dozed off the moment my head hit the pillow.  I remember seeing the time on the digital clock beside the bed.  11:03.

I looked now, and it said 1:07.  What felt like five minutes later, it said 1:16.  I did not feel sleepy in the slightest.

Edie was sound asleep, her breathing regular.  It always surprised me how easy it was for her to get to sleep.  Perhaps it was because of the early years with the children and the constant care they needed; she had taught mt herself to get what rest she could, no matter how short it was.

It had never been that easy for me.

It wasn’t the first time I had lain awake for hours, searching for that elusive moment.  I tried counting sheep, green sheep at that; I tried emptying my mind, but that was impossible.

1:38.

I slipped out into the cool night air and padded quietly across the room.  The door made a slight squeak as I opened it a fraction, the noise sounding very loud in that silence that came with the middle of the night.

I stepped into the passage, and the first of the footlights came on to guide the way.  I headed down towards the kitchen, where what I assumed was moonlight came through the open slats of the kitchen windows, filling that room with a pale whitish light.

On the tight hand side, the kitchen being on the left, was the dining room, with floor-to-ceiling windows that opened out onto the veranda that wrapped around the back of the house.

Outside the dining room was where the BBQ sat.

On that side, sitting on the veranda, the view stretched across a number the neighbours back yards that stretched down the the stream that divided pur properties from those on the other side, mostly ranches running either cattle or sheep.

Sometimes you could hear them at night, but mostly during the day.  When they were down in the lower pastures.  At the moment, they were higher up in the hills. 

Come Christmas, the vista from the back verandah would look like a Christmas card scene, one I could never get tired of.

Suddenly the dining room was filled with a very bright light, and it was almost as bright as day.  It lasted a few seconds before it just snapped off like someone had flicked a switch.

I had been almost blinded and couldn’t see anything for at least a few minutes before the inky blackness transformed into blurry shapes.

I crossed to the room and looked out the windows to see what I thought was some sort of vehicle, only it couldn’t be one because it was hovering above the ground.

My eyes were sore from the bright light before, and I think I must be hallucinating.  Under the craft were five figures, not human, and yet human-like, and walking towards them were the five members of the Richards, our next-door neighbours.

I just watched in utter fascination.

They stepped into the pool of very subdued light coming from under the floating vehicle, one by one, touched the hands of the newly arrived people and exchanged shapes.

Then the Richards went back to their house; the other creatures, human or otherwise, held hands and then disappeared.

Seconds later, the searing light reappeared and then was gone.  A second dose of light on my poor eyes looked a few minutes longer, and by the time my sight had returned, it was as if nothing had happened.

What had I just seen?

…

I woke up, and it was light.  Edie was already up and about, and it was just another day.

It didn’t feel like I had been awake for an hour or so, and in my head it felt like something had happened, only I couldn’t remember what.

I wasn’t tired, not like I had been awake half the night because I knew what that was like.

Something had happened.  Something significant, but it was just there, on the fringe of my memory, lurking, or waiting for me to find the right key and unlock that door.

“You going to stay in bed all day?”

Edie put her head in the door, on her way from the front door where she had collected the newspaper, to the kitchen where breakfast would be well underway.

It was just another normal day.

“Coming,,” I muttered.

“You snore.  I never realised it until last night.  You woke me.  Normally I can sleep through anything.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You do.  And talk in your sleep.”

I sat up and faced her.  That was frightening if it was true.  I often dreamed I was having strange conversations with people who were basically strangers, but only once.

“What did I say?”

“Something about old man Richards.  Not surprising you think he’s daft.  He hasn’t been the same since the accident.  Don’t hang about.  We have that appointment at the bank this morning.”

Then she was gone.

Richards.  There was that thing in my mind again, that memory that refused to come out of the vault.  Did it have something to do with Richards?

I shrugged.  It would return when it wanted to.  In the meantime, places to go and people to see.

…

Surprises were good, when they were surprises.  We had decided that after Elizabeth, the eldest daughter, got married, we would buy them a house.

With one thing and another, their six-month jaunt through Europe turned into a five-year work-and-play plan; they only decided to return when she fell pregnant.  Twins and a bot later, the place they were living in was too small, hence the house.

Everything was on track until Elizabeth saw us talking to the bank manager; she just happened to be in the neighbourhood and feared the worst: we had to downsize, or worse.

I was never very good at lying. Edie thought she had it under control, but what mother does with that first daughter.  The secret was barely intact.

Then we ran into the Richards, Bill and Betty.  It wasn’t a usual thing, and I couldn’t remember the last time.  Coming after the Elizabeth thing, I was a little shaken.

That nagging thing in the back of my mind got a bit of a shake.  Both the Richards seemed a little distracted, and Bill didn’t seem to recognise me.  Not at first, and I could see he was trying to cover it like people did when they have forgotten your name.

Betty was chatty, which was a change from her usual surly self; the reason she gave me many years ago was that Bill had dragged her out to this godforsaken place as punishment, though she never said what it was for.

Betty confused me with one of the other neighbours who looked a little like me, which I thought odd, but it wasn’t a thing.  Edie thought they were just the same as usual, vague and borderline rude.

Driving home, my head had got as far as deciding whatever was trying to get out had something to do with the Richards.

…

Once again I spent some time out with the telescope, studying the moon surface, and wondering if I’d live long enough to go there.  Every now and then a billionaire comes up with this idea of a weekend on the moon in a lunar hotel, and I dare to believe it might be possible in my lifetime.

The other day it had moved to Mars.  I’m sure the Martians wouldn’t mind, though I had no idea why I would think that.  It was like the day someone asked me what the Martians looked like, and I said, like us, only with synthetic bodies, so they could live in the atmosphere there.

It got me some very strange looks.

The sky was less crowded with stars, and there were clouds drifting by blocking the view.  It was a full moon, and I had a momentary thought of werewolves.  Not that they existed, but they were a part of folklore.

Then when the cloud cover was too thick, and the first spits of rain came, I went inside, made coffee and went to stand over by the patio windows.

A shard of lightning lit up the back yards of a number of the neighbours’ yards, as bright as day before darkness returned.

The rain became torrential.  The lightning was sporadic, and each time it lit up a different part of the countryside. 

There was a huge rumble just about overhead, followed by a bolt of lightning which, in the fraction of a second as it lit up the scene in front of me, I saw it land on Bill Richards, who had been standing out in his yard.

Another bolt hit our house, and there was a huge explosion.

That was all I remembered.

…

I was lying down in a brightly lit room; on one side, a man in a white coat was looking down at me.  On the other side, Edie was looking concerned.

“He’s been forgetting things, and talking in his sleep.  He hasn’t done that before.”

“It might be the settling process.  Sometimes it takes a few days.  The last upgrade was a little bigger than usual.”

“It worked for me.”

“You’re a 6AZ model.  More sophisticated algorithms because you are female.”

“You’re saying the male units are not as smart.”

What were they talking about?  Models, smart, sophistication.  I was just another person who was suffering from lack of sleep and hallucinations.

At least I think that was what I was there for.  This was a hospital?

Edie glanced at me.  “Oh, you’re awake?”

“That might be a matter of opinion.  I think I just woke in the middle of a nightmare.”

She smiled.  It didn’t fill me with confidence.

“You can’t go around telling people you saw aliens, Sam.  People get antsy when you say stuff like that.”

“I never said I saw aliens. When did I see aliens?”

“You said the Martians had landed next door and took the Richards away.  I mean, Sam, we saw them just a few hours ago.”

I was confused.  I could see in my head the spacecraft that was hovering next door and the body exchange of the Richards family.  I could remember meeting the Richards at the cafe, and how disoriented they had been.

The transfer process had still not been perfected.

Then I realised the truth.

“There it is,” the doctor said.  “It just needed a tweak.”

The doctor stepped away from the console, and I could see the twin flat lines running across the screen.  Memories and reality aligned.

I closed my eyes; everything went dark, and then opened them again.

Edie was looking concerned but relieved.  “How do you feel?”

“About sixty-four, give or take a week.  Getting old is not what it’s cracked up to be.”  I could feel something had happened, but couldn’t quite remember what it was.  “Another fall?”

“You need to remember to use your cane, Sam.  You are not as spry as you used to be.”

“No.  I guess not.”  I slowly got off the bed and stood.  I felt steady.

“Doc?”

“You’ll get there, Sam.  We all do in the end.  Just take care out there.”

“I will.”

Edie took my hand.  “Come on.  Places to go; people to see.”

Funny.  I was thinking that myself.  It was like I was reading her mind.

She opened the door and glared at me as I went past her.

“Don’t,” she said, not in words but in her thoughts.  “I don’t want to go home, so stop being difficult.  Earth is so much better than Mars.”

I looked at her as she followed me out and closed the door.

That doctor was our supervisor and had been assessing me.  The Richards had cracked the week before, and he had them replaced.  We’d be next if I didn’t appear ‘fixed’.

She was right.  Back home we’d be in a factory, chained to a production line.

“Understood.”

“Good.”  Then out loud, for the benefit of those around us.  “I need you because we have a housewarming to plan.  The bank just approved the house purchase.  Elizabeth is going to be so surprised.”

In more ways than one.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Harare

Hidden Gems of Harare: 5 Unique and Uncrowded Tourist Attractions You Shouldn’t Miss

When most travellers think of Zimbabwe, destinations like Victoria Falls, Hwange National Park, or Great Zimbabwe often dominate the conversation. But the vibrant capital city of Harare, often overlooked, holds its own with a blend of culture, natural beauty, and quiet charm. While many tourists rush through Harare on their way to other destinations, those who pause to explore will discover a city brimming with understated elegance and off-the-beaten-path experiences.

If you’re looking to escape the crowds and soak in Harare’s authentic spirit, here are five distinctive yet seldom-crowded tourist attractions that offer something truly special:

1. Harare Gardens (Botanical Garden)

Tucked away in the heart of the city, Harare Gardens—also known as the National Botanic Garden—is a serene 47-hectare oasis bursting with indigenous flora, tranquil ponds, and shaded pathways. Despite its central location, it remains one of the city’s best-kept secrets, often visited more by locals taking their morning strolls than by international tourists.

Why It Stands Out:
Home to over 900 plant species, including ancient baobabs and flame trees that bloom spectacularly in November, the gardens are a haven for birdwatchers and photographers. The rose garden and the peaceful duck pond add a romantic touch, perfect for quiet reflection or a peaceful picnic. On weekends, you might catch local musicians or art displays, adding a cultural flair.

Pro Tip: Visit early morning to enjoy the misty atmosphere and catch glimpses of sunbirds flitting between blossoms.

2. The Kopje: A Geological Wonder in the City

Perched atop a granite hill in the suburb of Mount Pleasant, The Kopje is a natural rock formation and one of Harare’s oldest geological landmarks. It’s a short, moderately steep hike (around 20 minutes) that rewards adventurers with panoramic views of the city and surrounding highlands.

Why It Stands Out:
Beyond the scenic vista, The Kopje is rich in history and geology. The massive granite boulders—some balancing precariously on others—were formed over 2.6 billion years ago. Look closely, and you’ll spot ancient rock carvings that hint at early human settlement. The site is sacred to some Zimbabweans and exudes a rare sense of stillness and spiritual energy.

Pro Tip: Bring sturdy shoes and a camera. Golden hour here offers some of the most breathtaking cityscape views with minimal foot traffic.

3. Chapungu Sculpture Park

A tribute to Zimbabwe’s renowned Shona sculpture tradition, Chapungu Sculpture Park in Borrowdale is a sprawling green space adorned with over 100 stone masterpieces. Despite its artistic significance, it remains refreshingly uncrowded, offering a tranquil space to appreciate the country’s rich sculptural heritage.

Why It Stands Out:
Each sculpture tells a story—some spiritual, some whimsical, all deeply connected to Zimbabwean culture and nature. The park is set within beautifully landscaped gardens, with gazebos, lily ponds, and winding paths. It’s an open-air museum where art and nature coexist in harmony.

Pro Tip: Look out for works by master sculptors like Bernard Takawira and Henry Munyaradzi. Guided tours can be arranged to deepen your appreciation of the symbolism behind the art.

4. National Gallery of Zimbabwe

Located in the city centre, the National Gallery is a cultural gem that showcases the best of Zimbabwean and African contemporary art. While it occasionally hosts bustling events, the galleries themselves are usually pleasantly quiet, giving visitors space to truly engage with the artwork.

Why It Stands Out:
The permanent collection includes traditional Shona sculpture, modern paintings, and thought-provoking installations by both emerging and acclaimed artists. The gallery also hosts temporary international exhibitions, film screenings, and artist talks, making it a dynamic cultural hub.

Don’t miss the outdoor sculpture garden and the charming café, which often features live acoustic music on weekends.

Pro Tip: Visit on the first Friday of the month for “First Friday,” a monthly art event with extended hours and special previews—still intimate but lively.

5. Samora Machel Avenue: Heritage & Urban Art Trail

Step off the main tourist routes and explore Samora Machel Avenue—a modest street in the city center that doubles as an open-air gallery of colonial-era architecture and vibrant street art. While not a traditional attraction, its blend of historical preservation and urban expression makes it a unique sight.

Why It Stands Out:
You’ll find beautifully restored Edwardian and Art Deco buildings standing side-by-side with striking murals that reflect Zimbabwe’s liberation history, cultural diversity, and social commentary. It’s a walk through time: from colonial Harare to modern, resilient Zimbabwe.

Pro Tip: Visit mid-morning when natural light hits the murals perfectly. Bring a notebook—this quiet street inspires reflection on art, history, and identity.

Final Thoughts

Harare is more than just a transit city—it’s a destination with a soul. These five hidden attractions offer peace, beauty, and cultural depth without the usual tourist throngs. Whether you’re admiring ancient stone carvings at The Kopje, soaking in the quiet elegance of the botanical gardens, or letting art spark deep conversations at Chapungu, you’ll come away with a richer understanding of Zimbabwe’s capital.

So the next time you’re in Harare, skip the crowded spots and discover the city’s quieter, more authentic side. After all, the best travel memories are often made in the places few others think to go.