I guess there was more to be worried about than a few scorch marks on the side of a ship.
It did beg the question, in those milliseconds I had to pull myself together, that the agreement everyone was a party to on Earth was that we were not going to have ships with weapons, and the ability to attack one another in space, was just that, between nations on Earth.
What if there was life other than on Earth?
The person I was looking at didn’t look like an alien, or at least not one of our endless stereotypes, but what if there was life other than us, and this was a representation of it?
I guess it was time to take the first step.
“I’m assuming this is some sort of dispute over cargo, or perhaps interstellar freight lines, and if it is, there are proper channels to resolve your issues, not at the end of a laser.” I looked at the weapon in the person’s hand and it looked nothing like anything I’d seen before.
Well, not outside our weapons lab, our there on the edge of space where the occupants were not likely to get snooping visitors.
The helmet with the reflective glass panel gave no indication who was behind it.
“It is not an issue over freight.”
OK. A humanised voice, spoke slowly as if by one feeling their way around the language. Yes, English, but why didn’t they pick French or Spanish, or even Japanese? English was not exactly universal, and the translators in our ears reduced everything to our native tongue. Myrtle’s language was Italian, so she would not be hearing this in English.
“Space lane violation?”
Yes, there were lanes in space so ships didn’t crash into each other. There was some degree of civilization out her in no man’s land.
Time for a different tack.
“Just exactly where are you from?”
In that same moment I heard the Captain’s voice coming over my private communicator, in a very uncaptain like manner. “What in God’s name is that?”
Started to write a post, got so far, and another theme or idea slips in, and demands to be written first?
I’m on this nostalgia kick simply because when I turned on the TV to catch up with the latest news, it was on a channel that shows old movies.
In case you don’t realise it, I love old movies, not just those from Hollywood, but also from Britain.
What was on?
An American in Paris.
Well, it had to be one of my favourites, even though I’m not a great fan of Gene Kelly; the sheer majesty of the music more than makes up for the story in between.
Could it be said, then, that this was from the golden years of Hollywood? Such bright and cheerful movies as Singing in the Rain and An American in Paris perhaps exemplify the Hollywood musical.
Years before, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were the quintessential musical stars, followed by the likes of Judy Garland and Deanna Durbin, and later Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. A couple of musicals, in particular, come to mind, firstly, The Wizard of Oz and then High Society.
Moving into more modern times, several stand out in the 1960s: My Fair Lady and The Sound of Music. By this time, theatregoers were dining on the superb talents of Rogers and Hammerstein, and Learner and Lowe. Of the former, musicals such as Carousel, South Pacific, and The King and I were on my list of favourites.
Even later still in the 1970s, there is Funny Girl, and Hello Dolly, which have a connection to the past with its director, none other than, yes, Gene Kelly.
But it seems once the 60s had passed, the notion of the Hollywood blockbuster musical had gone, and we were left with clip shows like That’s Entertainment, put together while Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire were still alive. We still had the film versions of the stage plays, but the lustre had, somehow, gone.
Perhaps it will return, who knows, after all, everything old is usually new again, it just takes time to go full circle.
And then there those horrible things called crosswords.
There are antonyms and synonyms
Sometimes we use words we don’t know the meaning of because of their similarity with others we do
Then there one or more words that make other words as in anagrams
There are substitute words, words we use around children like fudge instead of, well you get what I mean
There’s no doubt we would be lost without words
Words are to be chosen carefully and thoughtfully
They need to be delivered in an appropriate manner, not in haste, and not in anger
We need to believe in what we’re saying before others will believe it
We need to learn how to express our feelings
We should take advantage of learning English (or any other native language) when at school
We need to start reading as soon as we can and keep up reading as we get older. One should never underestimate the power reading and writing gives us no matter who we are.
Always have a dictionary by your side. It is the most valuable book you can own.
And always remember the power of speech can at times move mountains
The Agony of the Flawed Manuscript: Why Bad Books Deserve Our Empathy
“A bad book is as much a labour to write as a good one; it comes as sincerely from the author’s soul.” — Aldous Huxley
We live in a culture obsessed with greatness. From best-seller lists to Goodreads ratings, we are quick to elevate literary masterpieces and equally quick—sometimes brutally so—to tear down what doesn’t measure up. It is easy to mock a clunky metaphor, groan at a predictable plot twist, or mock a poorly paced narrative.
But take a step back and consider the reality behind that published failure.
When we read Aldous Huxley’s quote, it serves as a sobering reminder of a profound truth: the agony of creation does not discriminate based on quality. A terrible book requires just as many bleary-eyed 3:00 AM editing sessions, just as much emotional excavation, and just as many prayers whispered into the void as a timeless classic.
Here is a deeper look at Huxley’s insight, exploring the hidden empathy we should extend to “bad” books and the writers who bleed to make them.
The Myth of the Easy Flop
There is a common misconception among readers that bad books happen because the author simply didn’t care. We imagine cynical writers churning out garbage for a quick buck, laughing all the way to the bank.
And sure, that happens in commercialized corners of the industry. But true badness—the kind born of earnest effort—is usually tragic rather than cynical.
Writing a book is a marathon through a psychological swamp. It demands months, often years, of isolation, self-doubt, and relentless problem-solving. An author trying to write a brilliant fantasy epic experiences the exact same terror of the blank page as someone writing utter drivel. Both stare into the abyss. Both grapple with imposter syndrome.
When a book turns out bad, it is rarely because the author didn’t try. More often, it’s because they tried so hard that they lost perspective. They missed the plot holes because they were too close to the canvas. They forced a grandiose style because they desperately wanted to be profound.
Sincerity is No Guarantee of Success
Huxley’s most arresting point is this: it comes as sincerely from the author’s soul.
Sincerity is often touted as the ultimate virtue in art. “Just be authentic!” we tell aspiring creators. But sincerity is a wildly unreliable compass.
An author can pour their most authentic childhood trauma, their deepest philosophical musings, and their purest passions into a manuscript. They can bleed onto the pages. And yet, the result can still be unreadable. Why? Because writing is a craft as much as it is an art.
A carpenter can have a pure, sincere love for wood, but if they don’t understand joinery, the chair is going to collapse when someone sits in it.
A writer can have a soul bursting with profound human truths, but if they lack pacing, dialogue mechanics, and structural awareness, the book will collapse under its own weight.
The tragedy of the bad book is the gap between intention and execution. The author felt the magic while writing it. In their head, the scene was cinematic, the dialogue crackled, and the themes resonated like a cathedral bell. Waking up to find that readers experienced none of that—that the magic failed to translate—is a special kind of heartbreak.
Why We Should Read (and Judge) with Compassion
None of this is to say we should abandon literary criticism. Bad books exist, and pointing out why they fail helps elevate the conversation around art.
However, remembering Huxley’s words changes how we critique. It shifts our posture from sneering mockery to respectful critique.
Acknowledge the Courage: Every published author has done something terrifying. They have taken the chaotic, vulnerable contents of their mind and packaged them for public judgment. Even if the execution is a disaster, the act of completion requires immense courage.
Respect the Sweat: Behind every cringeworthy paragraph is a writer who deleted and rewrote that sentence five times, thinking, Yes, this is the one. Honor the labor, even when the product falls flat.
Appreciate the Attempt: A failed ambitious book is almost always more interesting than a safe, mediocre one. Authors who swing for the fences and strike out are doing the necessary heavy lifting of art. They are exploring the boundaries of what works—and sometimes, you have to map the swamps to find the gold.
The Ultimate Takeaway
Writing is hard. It is a grueling, humbling, often unrewarding endeavor.
The next time you pick up a book that simply doesn’t work—whether it’s riddled with clichés, bogged down by purple prose, or narratively hollow—try not to scoff too quickly. Remember that somewhere out there, a writer sat at a desk in the quiet dark, pouring their heart into those very pages, hoping against hope that they were making something good.
They may have failed, but as Huxley reminds us, their soul was in it all the same. And that, at the very least, demands our respect.
What are your thoughts? Have you ever read a book where you could tell the author tried immensely hard, but the execution just missed the mark? Let’s discuss in the comments below!
The One Place to Make Your Copenhagen Stopover Unforgettable
Have you ever found yourself with just one day in a city you’ve always dreamed of exploring? That’s exactly the magic of a Copenhagen stopover. Whether you’re en route to another destination or squeezing in a quick European getaway, this Danish capital offers a taste of hygge, history, and vibrant culture—all in a compact, walkable city.
But with limited time, how do you choose just one spot to capture the essence of Copenhagen? You could wander through colourful Nyhavn, explore the historic Tivoli Gardens, or marvel at the futuristic architecture of the Opera House. Yet if you’re looking for a truly memorable experience—one that blends history, culture, and breathtaking views—there’s one place that stands above the rest: The Rundetårn (The Round Tower).
Why The Rundetårn?
Built in the 17th century as an astronomical observatory, The Round Tower is more than just a historic landmark—it’s a journey through time. Unlike most towers with steep staircases, Rundetårn features a unique, gently sloping spiral ramp that winds its way to the top. As you ascend, you’ll pass historical exhibitions, an atmospheric library hall, and even a glass floor looking down into the core of the tower.
But the real reward awaits at the summit.
The View That Steals Your Heart
When you step out onto the rooftop platform, you’re greeted with a 360-degree panoramic view of Copenhagen’s rooftops, spires, and bustling streets. From this vantage point, you can spot iconic landmarks like the Christiansborg Palace, the Church of Our Saviour, and the distant silhouette of the Øresund Bridge. It’s the perfect place to orient yourself, snap unforgettable photos, and simply soak in the city’s charm.
A Stopover Moment to Remember
What makes Rundetårn especially perfect for a one-day visit is its central location. Just a short walk from Strøget, Copenhagen’s famous pedestrian street, you can easily pair your visit with a stroll through the city’s vibrant heart, a bite of smørrebrød (Danish open-faced sandwiches), or a quick coffee in a cozy café.
Whether you visit in the morning light, under the blue afternoon sky, or during the golden hour before sunset, The Round Tower offers a moment of reflection and wonder—a chance to pause and appreciate the beauty of Copenhagen from above.
So, if you find yourself with just one day in this Nordic gem, make your way to Rundetårn. Let its spiral ramp lead you upward, and let Copenhagen unfold beneath you. It’s not just a sightseeing stop—it’s a memory in the making.
Pro Tip: Arrive early to avoid crowds, and don’t forget to look up at night if you’re in town after dark—the tower’s observatory still opens for stellar views of the cosmos.
Happy exploring, and may your Copenhagen stopover be filled with wonder!
We are often told that it’s the choices we make that shape our lives.
It’s true.
What distinguishes the basis of those choices is the circumstances of the individual.
What a lot of people don’t realise is the diversity of backgrounds of everyone, and that in a minority of cases, the few that really have no choices at all.
Yes, some have no control over their circumstances, and therefore no choice whatsoever.
Inevitably, the people who are first to criticise those who apparently made the wrong choice are those who have never found themselves in similar circumstances.
And probably never will.
This, perhaps, is the biggest problem with governments that are staffed with advisors who do not understand the plight of the common man.
I never had the same opportunities as those who could afford a university education. My family were working class and was relatively poor. Had I not had a scholarship, who knows what sort of education I would have got, if any.
Certainly, my father never got an opportunity to get a good education, but, at the time, during the great depression, his choices were limited, whereas those with any sort of wealth had a different story.
And his lack of choices reflected on us, and that lack of opportunity haunted all of us as time passed.
It was always a case of the haves and the have-nots.
Yes, we all have choices, but sometimes it really is the lesser of two evils, and not whether we will have the fillet or the rib-eye steak.
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
One Day in Helsinki: The One Place You Must Visit for an Unforgettable Stopover
Picture this: You’ve just landed in Helsinki, Finland, with only one day to explore before catching your next flight. The city beckons with its sleek design, vibrant culture, and Nordic charm—but time is limited. So, where do you go to capture the true spirit of Helsinki in just a few hours?
While the city offers countless gems—from the striking Helsinki Cathedral to the bustling Market Square—there’s one spot that perfectly encapsulates Helsinki’s soul and ensures your short visit is nothing short of memorable.
That place is Suomenlinna Sea Fortress.
Why Suomenlinna?
A UNESCO World Heritage site since 1991, Suomenlinna is not just a fortress—it’s an island adventure, a historical journey, and a scenic retreat all rolled into one. Built in the 18th century, this maritime fortress sprawls across six interconnected islands and tells stories of Swedish, Russian, and Finnish history. But more than that, it offers an immersive experience you can savor even in a single day.
How to Make the Most of Your Visit
Getting There: From the heart of Helsinki, it’s just a 15–20-minute ferry ride from Kauppatori (Market Square). Ferries run regularly year-round, and the journey itself offers stunning views of the Baltic Sea and Helsinki’s coastline.
What to Do on the Island:
Step Back in Time: Wander through tunnels, cannons, and historic barracks. Visit the Suomenlinna Museum for a compact overview of the fortress’s 270-year history.
Embrace Nature and Views: Walk along the rugged coastal paths for breathtaking panoramas of the sea and the city skyline. In summer, the islands are lush and green; in winter, they transform into a serene, snow-dusted wonderland.
Taste Finnish Flavors: Stop by Café Vanille or the brewery restaurant, Suomenlinnan Panimo, for a warm drink, local pastry, or even a craft beer brewed on the island.
Capture the Moment: From the iconic King’s Gate to the tranquil shoreline, every corner is photogenic. This is a place where memories are made—and Instagram-worthy shots are guaranteed.
Why It’s Perfect for a Stopover
Compact Yet Complete: You can explore the highlights in 3–4 hours, leaving you plenty of time to return to the city, enjoy a meal, or even visit another quick attraction.
Authentic Helsinki Vibe: Suomenlinna blends history, nature, and local life in a way that feels uniquely Finnish.
Escape the Hustle: Despite being so close to the city, the islands offer a peaceful retreat away from urban noise—a refreshing pause during a travel day.
Before You Go
Check Ferry Schedules: Plan your trip around ferry times to maximize your stay.
Dress for the Weather: Helsinki can be breezy, even in summer. Wear comfortable shoes for walking.
Pack Light Snacks: While there are cafes, having a water bottle and a snack ensures you can explore uninterrupted.
One Day, One Unforgettable Experience
Your stopover in Helsinki is a gift—a chance to taste a new culture, even briefly. And Suomenlinna is the perfect bite-sized piece of Finland to savor. It’s more than a tourist attraction; it’s an experience that stays with you: the sea breeze, the whisper of history, and the serene beauty of the archipelago.
So, when you find yourself with one day in Helsinki, skip the stress of trying to see it all. Take the ferry, step onto the island, and let Suomenlinna turn your stopover into a story worth telling.
Safe travels—and may your day in Helsinki be unforgettable!
Have you visited Suomenlinna or have another Helsinki favourite? Share your experiences in the comments below!
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
The Agony of the Flawed Manuscript: Why Bad Books Deserve Our Empathy
“A bad book is as much a labour to write as a good one; it comes as sincerely from the author’s soul.” — Aldous Huxley
We live in a culture obsessed with greatness. From best-seller lists to Goodreads ratings, we are quick to elevate literary masterpieces and equally quick—sometimes brutally so—to tear down what doesn’t measure up. It is easy to mock a clunky metaphor, groan at a predictable plot twist, or mock a poorly paced narrative.
But take a step back and consider the reality behind that published failure.
When we read Aldous Huxley’s quote, it serves as a sobering reminder of a profound truth: the agony of creation does not discriminate based on quality. A terrible book requires just as many bleary-eyed 3:00 AM editing sessions, just as much emotional excavation, and just as many prayers whispered into the void as a timeless classic.
Here is a deeper look at Huxley’s insight, exploring the hidden empathy we should extend to “bad” books and the writers who bleed to make them.
The Myth of the Easy Flop
There is a common misconception among readers that bad books happen because the author simply didn’t care. We imagine cynical writers churning out garbage for a quick buck, laughing all the way to the bank.
And sure, that happens in commercialized corners of the industry. But true badness—the kind born of earnest effort—is usually tragic rather than cynical.
Writing a book is a marathon through a psychological swamp. It demands months, often years, of isolation, self-doubt, and relentless problem-solving. An author trying to write a brilliant fantasy epic experiences the exact same terror of the blank page as someone writing utter drivel. Both stare into the abyss. Both grapple with imposter syndrome.
When a book turns out bad, it is rarely because the author didn’t try. More often, it’s because they tried so hard that they lost perspective. They missed the plot holes because they were too close to the canvas. They forced a grandiose style because they desperately wanted to be profound.
Sincerity is No Guarantee of Success
Huxley’s most arresting point is this: it comes as sincerely from the author’s soul.
Sincerity is often touted as the ultimate virtue in art. “Just be authentic!” we tell aspiring creators. But sincerity is a wildly unreliable compass.
An author can pour their most authentic childhood trauma, their deepest philosophical musings, and their purest passions into a manuscript. They can bleed onto the pages. And yet, the result can still be unreadable. Why? Because writing is a craft as much as it is an art.
A carpenter can have a pure, sincere love for wood, but if they don’t understand joinery, the chair is going to collapse when someone sits in it.
A writer can have a soul bursting with profound human truths, but if they lack pacing, dialogue mechanics, and structural awareness, the book will collapse under its own weight.
The tragedy of the bad book is the gap between intention and execution. The author felt the magic while writing it. In their head, the scene was cinematic, the dialogue crackled, and the themes resonated like a cathedral bell. Waking up to find that readers experienced none of that—that the magic failed to translate—is a special kind of heartbreak.
Why We Should Read (and Judge) with Compassion
None of this is to say we should abandon literary criticism. Bad books exist, and pointing out why they fail helps elevate the conversation around art.
However, remembering Huxley’s words changes how we critique. It shifts our posture from sneering mockery to respectful critique.
Acknowledge the Courage: Every published author has done something terrifying. They have taken the chaotic, vulnerable contents of their mind and packaged them for public judgment. Even if the execution is a disaster, the act of completion requires immense courage.
Respect the Sweat: Behind every cringeworthy paragraph is a writer who deleted and rewrote that sentence five times, thinking, Yes, this is the one. Honor the labor, even when the product falls flat.
Appreciate the Attempt: A failed ambitious book is almost always more interesting than a safe, mediocre one. Authors who swing for the fences and strike out are doing the necessary heavy lifting of art. They are exploring the boundaries of what works—and sometimes, you have to map the swamps to find the gold.
The Ultimate Takeaway
Writing is hard. It is a grueling, humbling, often unrewarding endeavor.
The next time you pick up a book that simply doesn’t work—whether it’s riddled with clichés, bogged down by purple prose, or narratively hollow—try not to scoff too quickly. Remember that somewhere out there, a writer sat at a desk in the quiet dark, pouring their heart into those very pages, hoping against hope that they were making something good.
They may have failed, but as Huxley reminds us, their soul was in it all the same. And that, at the very least, demands our respect.
What are your thoughts? Have you ever read a book where you could tell the author tried immensely hard, but the execution just missed the mark? Let’s discuss in the comments below!
