Category: #amwriting

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

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.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

Writing a book in 365 days – 358

Day 358

The Doyen of Noir: What Raymond Chandler’s Life, Style, and Philip Marlowe Teach Us About Storytelling

When you think of classic American crime fiction, the name that instantly flickers to mind is Raymond Chandler – the heavyweight champion of hard‑boiled noir whose razor‑sharp prose still feels fresh after more than eighty years. Chandler didn’t just write detective stories; he invented a literary atmosphere that turned a gritty, rain‑slick Los Angeles into a character in its own right and gave us the unforgettable gumshoe Philip Marlowe.

But behind the sleek dialogues and smoky tavern scenes lay a life riddled with missteps, self‑destruction, and surprising twists. By digging into Chandler’s history, his flaws, and his unmistakable style, we can extract timeless lessons for writers, marketers, and anyone who wants to make an impact with words.

1. A Rocky Road to the Pen

MilestoneWhat HappenedWhy It Matters
Early Years (1888‑1912)Born in Chicago, moved to Colorado, a peripatetic childhood. Lost his mother at 12 and was sent to live with relatives in England.Early displacement instilled a sense of alienation that later seeped into his urban landscapes.
Oil‑Field Engineer (1912‑1932)Spent two decades drilling in Texas and Mexico, clashing with corporate bureaucracy and the harsh desert.The “outsider‑against‑system” mindset is a core theme in his novels.
World War I ServiceServed in the U.S. Army, briefly, then returned to the oil business.Experience with hierarchy and authority fed his skepticism of power.
The Downward Spiral (1932‑1934)The Great Depression wrecked the oil market; Chandler’s marriage collapsed. He turned to alcohol, gambling, and a series of odd jobs.The personal chaos sharpened his eye for the darker side of human nature—fuel for the noir aesthetic.
Breakthrough with The Big Sleep (1939)At 49, Chandler finally published his first novel, introducing Marlowe.Proved it’s never too late to start a successful second career.

Takeaway: Chandler’s path to literary fame wasn’t a straight line. It was a series of failures, relocations, and personal battles that forced him to confront his own darkness. For creators, this teaches that authentic storytelling often springs from lived adversity—the harder the journey, the richer the material.

2. The Signature Chandler Style

a. The “Hard‑Boiled” Voice

  • Economy of Language: Chandler favoured short, punchy sentences that carried weight.
    Example: “She was a cheap, cheap girl, and the cheapness rubbed off on the rest of us.”
  • Wry Similes & Metaphors: He turned ordinary observations into unforgettable images.
    Example: “He looked as if he’d been run over by a train and then dragged through a sandstorm.”
  • Moral Ambiguity: The lines between good and evil are blurred; even the hero has flaws.

b. Los Angeles as a Character

  • Concrete Details: From neon signs to desert highways, Chandler painted the city with a painter’s precision.
  • Atmospheric Consistency: Rain, fog, and darkness aren’t just weather—they’re mood setters that echo the protagonist’s inner turmoil.

c. Dialogue That Cuts

  • Witty Banter: Conversations feel like chess matches—each line a strategic move.
  • Understatement: Frequently, what isn’t said speaks louder than the spoken word.

Takeaway: Chandler’s style is a masterclass in restraint. He shows us that brevity, vivid imagery, and a strong sense of place can create a world that feels larger than the sum of its pages.

3. Philip Marlowe: The Archetype That Still Resonates

TraitHow Chandler Crafted ItModern Echo
World‑Weary CynicMarlowe narrates with a mix of sarcasm and weary empathy.Anti‑heroes in film/TV (e.g., Breaking Bad, The Wire).
Moral CompassDespite his jaded outlook, Marlowe adheres to an internal code of honor.Brands that position themselves as “honest rebels” (e.g., Patagonia).
Lone WolfHe operates alone, skeptical of institutions.Freelance creatives, solopreneurs, and “maker” culture.
Sharp Observational SkillsHe notices the smallest details—a stray cigarette, a shaky handshake.Data‑driven marketers who derive insight from micro‑behaviors.

Marlowe’s lasting appeal lies in his human contradictions: tough yet tender, cynical yet idealistic. He’s a reminder that complex, flawed protagonists are far more compelling than flawless heroes.

4. What We Can Learn From Chandler’s Legacy

1. Embrace Your “Not‑So‑Great” Past

  • Your setbacks are a goldmine for narrative tension. Chandler turned his own bitterness into a voice that resonated with millions.
  • Practical tip: Keep a “failure journal.” Record moments that felt humiliating or painful; later, mine them for raw material.

2. Cultivate a Distinct Atmosphere

  • Whether you’re writing a novel or drafting a brand story, the setting is a silent storyteller.
  • Practical tip: Before writing, create a sensory map: list five smells, three sounds, and two visual motifs that define your world.

3. Write With the Economy of a Detective’s Pistol

  • Every word should earn its place. Trim the fluff, sharpen the similes, and let subtext do the heavy lifting.
  • Exercise: Take a paragraph you love and rewrite it using 30% fewer words without losing meaning.

4. Give Your Hero a Moral Compass, Even If It’s Bent

  • Audiences crave characters who stand for something, even if that something is a personal code that defies society.
  • Implementation: Define your protagonist’s “one rule they’ll never break” and let it guide every decision.

5. Let Dialogue Do the Detective Work

  • Bad dialogue is a dead giveaway of lazy writing. Let characters reveal plot, personality, and tension through how they speak—not just what they say.
  • Practice: Write a scene where two characters talk about a crime without mentioning the word “crime” at all.

5. Bringing It All Home: Your Own Noir Blueprint

StepActionOutcome
1. Harvest Personal GritList three moments of personal failure.Source of authentic conflict.
2. Choose a “City”Identify a physical or metaphorical setting that mirrors your theme.Creates immersive atmosphere.
3. Define the Hero’s CodeWrite a one‑sentence creed for your protagonist.Anchors moral ambiguity.
4. Draft with a “Marlowe Lens”Write every scene as if you’re a detective observing details.Boosts vividness and tension.
5. Polish for PunchCut words, sharpen similes, test dialogue for subtext.Delivers Chandler‑style impact.

Final Thoughts

Raymond Chandler’s journey from oil‑field engineer to the reigning monarch of noir proves that a writer’s personal turbulence can become a powerhouse of creativity. His blend of hard‑boiled prose, atmospheric detail, and a morally complex hero continues to shape everything from modern crime thrillers to brand narratives that crave authenticity.

If you can channel Chandler’s willingness to stare into his own darkness, harness it into a distinctive voice, and give your audience a world they can see, smell, and feel, you’ll not just write a story—you’ll craft an experience that endures.

Take a page from the master: own your scars, paint your city, and let your protagonist walk the line between the shadows and the light. The result? A story that, like Chandler’s, never truly fades.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.  That wasn’t possible.

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

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

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

At least we agree on that, she thought.

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

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

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

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

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

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

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

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

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

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

Was that what she was expecting?

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

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

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

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

Rebellion was written all over him.

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

“Mr Henshaw?”

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

“Then my name is Michelle.”

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

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, so do I.”

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

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

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

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

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

“After a fashion.”

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

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

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

“Whatever for?”

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

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

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

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

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

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

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

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

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

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

Dinner over, they separated.

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

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

lovecoverfinal1

In a word: Park

We mostly understand that a park is an area set aside for recreation, and can have trees, flowers, a lake, and vast lawns.  These parks are also sometimes called ‘gardens’.

A great example of a park is Central Park in New York.

Nearly every city has a park of some sort, some have more than one.

But the word park has a number of other uses.  For instance,

You can park a car, or bike, or yourself; in other words, it’s a place where you stop for a while.  For cars, it is a carpark.

You could say ‘it’s just a walk in the park’, which means that the job is going to be easy.  I never understood that analogy because quite a lot of parks have walks that are difficult, and not so much ‘a walk in the park’.

It is also used to describe a place where animals are kept, other than calling it a zoo, it can go by the name of a wildlife park.  Zoos though are more for cities.  Wildlife parks can be quite huge and many are found in Africa.

A park can also be used to describe a sporting arena or field.

You can park a bag in a locker.

You can park an idea in the back of your mind and come back to it later, or if you are like me, it disappears into the ether.

It can be an area of land around a manor house, but there are very few of those left now.  The most notable of these are in England, and were designed by a man called Capability Brown.

“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 discovers 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 – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 14

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

 

When I woke it was almost dark, and cold.

Was it night?  I was in a room, on the floor, and the only light came from a light bulb.

I tried to sit up, but any sort of movement made my headache.  Then my memory returned.  In the forest, a man, then a woman, then nothing.

Then I heard a noise from the other corner and looked over.  Jack.  He’d been lying on the floor, possibly waiting for me to wake up.  He came over and lay down next to me.

Had they tranquilized him too?  It would have been interesting to see what he had done in the forest when they tried to take me away.  I was surprised he had not run away, and waiting for me to return like he had the last time.

Were we back in the castle?  Around me smelt musty, so it was possible I was back in the castle in one of the more remote dungeons’.  But, there was no iron door, or wooden door to the room, just a passage outside, equally badly lit.

So, I was not exactly a prisoner.

A let another half hour or so pass before I tried to get up again.  This time, my head hurt less, but the effects of the tranquilizer still made me a little unsteady, and it was necessary to remain near the wall for support.

After I’d taken several tentative steps, Jack joined me.

At the doorway, I stopped and looked out.  A passage, with several other rooms off it, and leading to a larger one where there was a table, chairs, and several cupboards.  A storage area, or a barn?

I walked slowly, if a little unsteady, down the passage and into the room.  At one end of the table was the woman “I’d seen in the forest, the one that had shot me.  Behind her, with a mug of coffee, or something else in his hands, was the man.

The watched me as I crossed to a chair at the end of the table, and sat.  Jack sat next to me.

The woman spoke first.  “Giuseppe tells me your name is Sam Atherton?  Your rank?”

I was hoping for an apology.  “Captain.”

“The name of the officer who sent you?”

“The one working with the men in the castle, or the man who sent me?”

“The one who sent you.”

I took a moment to consider what might happen if I did.  I guess it wouldn’t make much of a difference if the Germans found out who he was if they didn’t know already.  There was not a lot they could do.  And he already knew and had doubtless dealt with the traitor.

“Colonel Forster.”

I could see, now, the man had his hand on a gun beside him, and was ready to use it.  My answer, obviously the correct one, had eased the possibility of getting shot.

“You passed step one, Mr Atherton.  But, if you are not who you say you are, you will be summarily shot.  I suggest you don’t make any sudden movements.”

“I’m fine with that, but I have a question for you.”

“How do you know we are not working with the Germans?”  She leaned back in her chair and I could see she, also, had a gun, under her hands.

Exactly.  But, in order to make contact with the right people, the Colonel had sent their leader a phrase, one to use to prove their identity.  Since my pursuers were following me to find the remaining resistance members, I had to assume these two were part of that group.

“A phrase was sent two days ago.”  I think it was two days ago.  “Maybe three.”

“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog, I believe is that phrase.”

It was.  Only the Colonel and I, as well as the resistance leader,  knew it.

“And you?”

“Around the rugged rocks, the ragged rascal ran.”  I don’t know who came up with them, but I hoped I hadn’t mixed up rugged and ragged.

She smiled.  Giuseppe looked a lot more at ease.

“Welcome to our nightmare.”

 

© Charles Heath 2019

The fourth attempt, let’s look at the main character

So there are words on paper, and three times I’ve tried to fix it, or, perhaps just make it sound better because reading it in my head, there’s too little background and too many questions.

The flow of the story isn’t working for me, so I guess it’s time to sit down and work out what it is I’m trying to say.

The notion that our main character, Graham, is a loser seems to shine through, and that’s not what I’m trying to portray him as.  No, far from it, it’s been a lifetime of bad choices that have put him where he is, and he knows it.

So, in part, this is about owning your mistakes, and it’s my job to make him come across as a hero in waiting.  There’s good in him, perhaps too much, but there is also that attitude that led to all those bad choices, the one that can get him into trouble, and a sort of intransigence inherited from his father, that has more or less got him ostracised from the family. 

I want this character to be a chop off the old block, both of whom are the type not to back down, not to say sorry, and, to quote a rather apt allegory, would cut their nose off to spite their face.

Graham’s intransigence led to his refusal to follow his father into business, refusal to go to University despite having the necessary qualifications, and just to round out the defiance, his choice of women whom he knew would meet with family disapproval.

And these factors, over a period of time, saw him bounce from a low-paying job to jobs with no prospects, and a string of failed relationships, until this moment in time, where he was basically on his own, working the graveyard shift as a security guard.  The sort of job where qualifications weren’t looked for and workmates looked like and probably were ex-cons.

There are a few more details like the older brother, Jackson, politician and schemer, the same as his father before him (the seat was passed down through the family), like the younger sister who is a highly successful surgeon, married into immense wealth.  His brother had been less successful in the marital stakes but what he lacked in a wife was more than made up with a string of highly eligible and beautiful women.

And, no, he doesn’t resent the fact they’re rich, or that his parents were, too, just that they treated him with contempt.

It was almost five years since the last time he had seen any of them, that last time he attended the family Christmas in Martha’s Vineyard, the ‘Stockdale Residence’ an ostentatious sprawling fifty-room mansion that, in a drunken rage, he’s tried to burn down.

Once again, he had not received an invitation to the next, due in a few days, and it was not entirely unexpected.

Graham has his faults, but that even, five years ago, had pulled him off the road to self-destruction, helped along by a year stint in jail where he learned a great many lessons about life itself, and survival.

The four years since?

A lot of regrets, and a lot of repentance.  Life after jail was a lot worse than life trying to defy the family and the system.  There were two roads he could have gone down, and thankfully for him, it was not the wrong one.

So, he’s back on the path, a whole lot wiser, a whole lot tougher.

That might not have been exactly what I was thinking for him over the first three attempts.  I don’t think any character really begins to shine until halfway through, as you find him meeting various challenges in ways even you, as the writer, find quite unexpected.

Is that the end result of being a pantser over being a planner?

I don’t think, even as a planner, you can create a character that’s not going to change, or even surprise you, as the story evolves.

And somehow I don’t think I’m about to change from one to the other.

Well, not completely.

But there’s more, and no, it’s not steak knives!

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2024

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.

Writing a book in 365 days – 357

Day 357

Writing exercise

He didn’t mind his job; it was all the work that bothered him.

…

The view from the balcony took in a large slice of the Mediterranean, the cloudless sky blue, the near calm ocean blue and the breeze refreshing.

“Your five minutes are up,” the voice from inside the room broke my reverie, that idea that life would be amazing, right here, if I were a multi-millionaire without a care in the world.

The voice belonged to Sonya, one of the undersecretaries of the actual multi-millionaire that we both worked for.

“This event isn’t going to plan itself.”

I shrugged.  She was right.  She flew into Nice the previous afternoon, and I arrived this morning.  The event was in two days on the yacht, which was arriving at Antibes sometime early tomorrow.

Neither of us was going to get any sleep tonight.

I poked my head in the door and looked at her.  Ready to jump into the sea, except that was never going to happen.  The closest either of us would see water was the hotel swimming pool.

If we were lucky.

“How can it possibly be that I have visited this place seven times, and this five minutes is the longest time I’ve had to stare at the water?”

“It’s the job.  We didn’t sign up for Sun and fun, Harry.  It will happen, one day.  Maybe.  Now, where did you say the Benjamins are?”

…

I knew when I took on the role of Events Manager, it was going to be hard work.  Seven months after the boss fired the last manager over a missed detail, he simply pointed at me and said, “Do a better job of it, Masters, or else.”

I didn’t ask what the or else was.

And I hadn’t made a mess of it yet.

That was largely because of Sonya, and the truth was she was better at it than me, and she should have the job. 

Heading to Antibes and the international dock for private yachts, we arrived just as it was tying up and about to lower the gangway.  The yacht had just arrived from Marseilles, where some engine repairs were effected.

God help anyone if the engines failed while the party raged as we slowly moved through the Mediterranean waters, out and back over the course of four hours.

The boss’s daughter was having her 21st birthday party.  It had to be perfect, and would be, if her current so-called boyfriend didn’t turn up.  He was on the list and not expected.  Skiing with his friends was more important.

“What’s the latest on Bozo?”  Sonya refused to call him anything else, not after he tried to schmooze her.  I wanted to hit him.  She said not to make a scene.

It was, she said, just another day in paradise.

“Hopefully, he’ll stay in St Moritz.  Mel extended an invitation, and he didn’t reply.  She’s not happy.”

“That makes one of us.”

“I’ll sort him if you want me to.”

She shook her head.  “He’s not worth it.”

The second officer came down the gangway to greet us. 

“Giles.”

“Harry, Sonya.  Shouldn’t you two be tucked up in bed?”

I’m not sure the inference was that we should be together.  We had made sure at all times our relationship was purely business.

There was no time for anything else.

“We never sleep,” Sonya said.  “I take it we are all shipshape and Bristol fashion, even if I don’t know what that means.”

“Scrubbed from top to bottom.  The house staff have prepared the staterooms and your quarters.  If you’d like a quick inspection…”

Silly question.  If there was a problem, I wanted to know before it became a bigger problem.

…

People look at those super yachts, the yachts that look like small ocean liners and gasp in awesome, thinking how lovely it would be to travel on one.

Sorry, not all it’s cracked up to be, if you’re not the owner or a guest.

After two hours sleep, if it could be called that, I had to front the ship’s staff, dressed in their proper work clothes for an inspection, and then a run down of the program, starting with getting the guests aboard, attending to the selection few who would staying after the party, to the phases of the event, catering, drinks, speeches, dancing, and post party wind down.

Every minute for the 24 hours was planned, with contingencies for every conceivable disaster.

That took four hours.  Then I was off to the airport to greet the boss, his third wife, and two daughters by his first wife on his private jet. 

The same jet Sonya and I, and a half dozen personnel for the yacht arrived three days ago.

They could be called perks if we got to enjoy the moment.  Well, maybe for a minute or two.

Three Rolls-Royce cars were waiting on the dock, having arrived from the mansion in Monaco, overlooking the sea with its own private beach.

Each of the houses in England, France, Austria and Monaco had its own staff and transport.  I was still negotiating with the various governments to build landing strips for the jet.  It wasn’t going well.

“You know that this is going to be like a three-ring circus.”

Jacob, the chauffeur, and a man with a warped sense of humour waited this time until I closed the door before driving off.

“You know something I don’t?”

“Henry said Mel exploded when Bozo said he wasn’t coming.  She asked Daddy to put a fire under him, and he said she could do better and stop wasting her time.”

Henry was the English chauffeur.  It was not secret Daddy was done with Bozo.  He wanted her to make something of herself, she wanted to party and spend her allowance. 

I felt sorry for the new wife, barely older than Mel, and having to put up with both daughters’ contempt for their father’s choice.  And the tabloids that called her a gold digger.

Who would want to be rich and infamous?

“So, we’re expecting the sulks from Mel, sarcasm from Billie, tears from the wife, and bad temper from the boss.”

“And that will be a good day.”  He looked at me with a wry grin.  “Just like herding sheep, boyo.  I’m glad I’m just the chauffeur.”

…

I was standing at the bottom of the steps waiting for the Chief Secretary, who always travelled with the boss.  She would come put first and wait with me.  I was there simply because the boss asked me.

Sometimes he summoned me aboard.  Not today.

The main hostess, yes, he insisted on that title, appeared at the top of the stairs, then the wife, the two daughters, then the boss.

No one spoke.

The boss and the secretary took the first car, the wife and the eldest daughter Billie, took the second, I got Mel.  The seating arrangements hit my cell phone before the jet’s door opened.

It left me wondering why I drew the short straw.

Mel stood by the car, not far from the driver, ready to open the door.  The pilots came down and told me they were to wait until further orders.  It explained the fourth car, which had just arrived.

They would be staying near Nice airport.

Mel was waiting for me, showing no inclination to be on her way or upset that she was stuck with me.  It wasn’t the first time I had to make sure she did as she was told.

“How did you draw the short straw?”

“The age-old trick, all the straws were short.  You are not happy, are you, Melanie?”

“You should be calling me Miss Albright, Harry.”

“Perhaps if you were a stuck-up bitch, Mel, but you’re not.”

“I could have you fired.”

“Please.  Then I might actually get to sleep longer than two hours.”  I nodded to the chauffeur and he opened the door.  “Get in, and whinge away.  I’m all ears.”

She glared at me, and I braced for an incoming salvo.  She shrugged.  “What’s the point, you’re just Daddy’s puppet.”

“Wow.  And here me thinking the strings were invisible.”

A half smile.  Good enough.

We drove for ten minutes.  She stared out the window, reflecting back at me, a furrowed brow.

“Daddy is unreasonable.”

Was I supposed to agree, or say something deep and meaningful?  Like any conversation with a woman, I couldn’t see the land mines I was about to step on.

“How?”

“He expects me to find a nice boy.  There are none.”

“Change where you’re looking.”

She looked at me.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you look in a dumpster, all you will find is trash.  Most, but not all, nightclubs are not the places to find a prospective boyfriend.  So, putting that aside for the moment, my mother, whom I always considered the fountain of wisdom, once said that you had to find someone with whom you could be friends first, hang out, talk, do stuff, but no passion or sex, or worst of all, have expectations.”

“That’s impossible.  You know what guys are like?”

“A lot of them, yes, but you’ll know when you find the right one.  That’s all the advice I can give you.”

“Is that how it is with you and Sonya?”

My turn to glare at her.  “No.  We work together.  You know as well as I do that type of relationship between employees is verboten.”

“But you like her.”

“I like everybody.”

“Even my sister?”

Now she was just playing games.  “She is an acquired taste, but even her.  Do you want me to throw Bozo overboard if he comes?”

Another half smile.  It was a calculated risk calling him Bozo. 

“No.  I can do that.  You just arrange for some sharks to be waiting for him when he hits the water.”

“As you wish, Miss Albright.”

…

Sonya was waiting for me in the small conference room, the table covered in paperwork.  It was clear her superior had dumped everything on her and gone up for drinks with the boss.

I had just delivered the prodigal daughter.

“Mel’s onto us.”

“What?”

“She thinks we’re having a fling.”

“When?  We barely have time to breathe.”

“That’s what I told her.  Has anything changed?”  Lots of paper meant trouble.

“A few more guests.  Bozo’s coming.  Wants to be picked up at the airport.  He actually thought we’d send the jet for him.  You want to tell Melanie?”

“Let it be a surprise.  Should I go up, see what’s going on?”

“Not unless you’re a glutton for punishment.”

My cell phone buzzed.  Message from the boss.

“Too late.  I’ve been summoned.  Please tell me everything is in order.”

“Until it isn’t, but as of now, it is.”

I took a deep breath and headed upstairs, through the main lounge and out onto the promenade deck, where a dozen people were gathered, wait staff mingling with drinks and canapes.  Dinner would be served later.

The boss was talking to several friends, their wives ensconced, unwillingly with the new Mrs Albright, perhaps disappointed with his choice but making the best of it. Billie was with her current boyfriend, a tech billionaire, maybe; no one was sure what he did, and Mel was gazing out over the dock at the other, smaller boats.

Or not.

Mrs Albright excused herself and came over.  I did not presume to move from the entrance to the deck until summoned.

“Harry.”

She was softly spoken and well-mannered.  She knew she was in the middle of a minefield, not of her choosing, but always keeping her composure.

I had no idea how she managed.

“Mrs Albright.”

“Cecelia, Harry.  We are past the formal stage now..”

I had given her the spiel on protocol expected from the employees, and such familiarity was frowned upon.

“If only.  What can I do for you?”

“Melanie?  She was upset coming over. Is she alright?”

We both looked at her, staring at nothing in particular.

“Just the usual rich girl blues.  I’m sure she’ll grow out of it, eventually.  How are you faring on the good ship lollipop?”

A frown, then a half smile.  We had an understanding, or maybe that was I had an understanding, she only understood sometimes.

“I want to say it’s all new and exciting, but…”

“The old guard is making noises.”

“Not today mention our old friends in the press gallery.”

“Tomorrow the Royal Family will screw up, and bingo, you are no longer front page news.  They’ll get over it.  And you will too.   The only two people who matter are you and the boss.  Everything else is just while noise.”

“Stay for a drink?” A waiter hovered with a tray of champagne.  The real stuff.

“I’d love to, but I have to solve the mystery of the missing beetroots before tomorrow comes and the salads are ruined.”

“The mystery of the missing beetroot, eh?”

“Never a dull moment down on the ordinary deck, Mrs Albright.  Never a dull moment.”

…

I was wandering the decks at 2am after seeing the guests off the ship and into their cars, and the guests staying aboard safely to their cabins, then got a bite to eat in the crew dining room.

A ca4 pulled up at the end of the gangway, and a figure got out, and all but ran in the gangway, where on deck he came up against the bosun acting as guard.

I arrived just as he asked for ID.  He had a list, and if you were not on the list, you were back on shore.

It was Bozo.

That was the fastest I’d ever seen anyone get from St Moritz to Antibes ever.

“Boris.  You’re early.”

The bosun was still looking at his list.

“Harry.  I assume Melanie is on board?”

“She is.”

The bosun sighed.  Perhaps we were hoping Bozo’s name wasn’t on the list, and he could have the pleasure of throwing him overboard.

I know I wanted to.

“His name is on the list.”

“Good.”  He started to head into the cabin when the bosun grabbed his arm. 

“You ain’t going anywhere without an escort.”

“Good heavens, man, I’m not a spy.  Harry?”

“I’ll take him.”  Scruffy and entitled.  I so wanted to throw him overboard.  “Follow me.”

I took him up to the stateroom deck and to Melanie’s cabin.  When I knocked on the door, I stood back and left Boris on the frame.

When she opened the door, she gasped, the slapped him across the face.  It was hard enough to make me wince.

“What was that for?”

“Being an arse.”  She stepped aside, and he went in and closed the door behind him.

Job done.

…

Of course, if only things ran smoothly.  But the best laid plans of mice and men never did.

5:47 am, I woke to a scream.  It took three minutes to reach the stateroom deck and the origin of the scream.

Mel’s stateroom.

The door was open, and Mel was outside.  She was distraught.

As well as being covered in blood, and a rather nasty knife in one hand.

A glimpse inside her room.  Bozo was equally covered in blood, and at a guess, dead.  Mrs Albright was checking, looking out at us and shaking her head.

I looked at Mel.  It was not the face of a murderer.  She was ashen.

“I didn’t do it.  I didn’t do anything.  He was alive when I went down to the galley to get some more champagne.  When I got back, he was on the floor, the knife sticking out of his chest.  I thought I pulled it out.”

The boss arrived.  “Lawyers and police, in that order.”

I didn’t think it was the right time to ask if the birthday party was off.

Then, suddenly, Melanie fainted.

“Revise that order, Doctor, then lawyers, then police.”  To me, he said, “Rouse everyone.  I want to know where they were during the last half hour.  And where was the guard at the gangway?”

So much for getting to bed.

At least now I would get to run my own murder investigation.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Buenos Aires

Exploring Buenos Aires Beyond the Tourist Trail: 5 Unexpected Adventures

When most travellers picture Buenos Pride, they think of the tango‑filled streets of San Telmo, the grand avenues of Recoleta, and the bustling cafés of Palermo. While those neighborhoods are undeniably iconic, the Argentine capital hides a wealth of lesser‑known gems that reveal a more intimate, quirky, and authentic side of the city.

If you’ve already checked off the classic attractions and still have a craving for something different, these five off‑the‑beaten‑path experiences will take you deeper into Buenos Aires’ soul—without the crowds. Pack a reusable water bottle, wear comfortable shoes, and get ready to wander where locals love to roam.

1. Stroll Through the Hidden Gardens of Jardín Japonés at Night

Why it’s special
Most visitors see Jardín Japonés (the Japanese Garden) during daylight hours, but the garden transforms after sunset. The soft glow of lanterns, the gentle hum of koi swimming under moonlight, and the occasional echo of a distant saxophone from a nearby jazz bar create a magical, almost cinematic atmosphere.

What to do

  • Evening tea ceremony – Join a 30‑minute tea‑ceremony workshop (offered on Fridays at 7 pm). It’s a quiet, meditative experience that includes a short talk on the tea’s cultural meaning.
  • Night photography – The garden’s bridges, stone lanterns, and the iconic tea house make superb low‑light subjects. Bring a tripod and experiment with long‑exposure shots of the koi pond.
  • Moonlit stroll – Follow the moss‑covered stepping stones along the tea garden’s “Shinrin‑yoku” (forest‑bath) path. The silence is punctuated only by the rustle of bamboo and distant traffic, offering a rare moment of urban tranquillity.

Pro tip – The garden closes at 9 pm, but the surrounding Barrio de Palermo’s quiet side streets remain lively with hidden speakeasies. Grab a late‑night empanada from a local bakery and head to Bar Los Galgos for an after‑hours gin cocktail.

2. Take a Mini‑Cruise on the Río de la Plata in a Historic “Patache”

Why it’s special
While most tourists imagine the Río de la Plata as a massive, industrial waterway, a handful of small, restored patache vessels (traditional Argentine sailing boats) offer intimate tours focusing on the river’s ecological and historical narrative.

What to do

  • Eco‑tour (2 hours) – Departing from Puerto Madero’s Muelle 1, this guided cruise visits the “Isla de los Pájaros” bird sanctuary. A naturalist points out native herons, cormorants, and the occasional shy black‑skinned swan.
  • Historical storytelling – On select evenings, a local historian narrates tales of early 19th‑century smugglers, the 1880 “Golden Age” of river trade, and the river’s role in shaping Buenos Aires’ identity.
  • Sunset salsa – Some night cruises feature impromptu tango or milonga lessons on deck, letting you sway to the river’s gentle lull while the city lights flicker in the distance.

Pro tip – Book the “sunset salsa” cruise for a Wednesday or Thursday—mid‑week sails are less crowded, and you’ll enjoy a complimentary glass of Malbec from a boutique vineyard in Mendoza.

3. Explore the Street Art Labyrinth of Colegio Nacional de Arquitectura (CNA)

Why it’s special
The façade of the National School of Architecture (CNA) is a living canvas. Since 2015, a rotating collective of local and international muralists has turned its concrete walls into a kaleidoscope of political commentary, surreal imagery, and whimsical cartoons.

What to do

  • Guided “Graffiti Walk” (45 min) – Follow a self‑guided QR‑code trail that links to short video interviews with the artists. Learn the symbolism behind the giant armadillo, the floating books, and the hidden QR‑code that unlocks a secret Instagram filter.
  • Hands‑on stencil workshop – Every Saturday at 11 am, the school’s community art space offers a free stencil‑making class. Produce a mini‑poster to take home—a souvenir you actually made yourself.
  • Evening “Light‑Up” show – On the first Friday of each month, the building’s façade is illuminated with projection mapping, syncing the murals to a live DJ set. The resulting visual symphony is a must‑see for night‑owls.

Pro tip – Bring a reusable tote bag for the workshop supplies and wear comfortable shoes; the CNA campus is a sprawling, cobblestone‑strewn complex perfect for a leisurely wander.

4. Savour a Secret Supper Club in Barrio Chino (Little China)

Why it’s special
Buenos Aires’ Chinatown, nestled in the heart of Belgrano, is often overlooked by tourists who flock to the more famous “Chinatown” of Buenos Aires (the restaurant strip on Avenida Corrientes). Hidden within the narrow alleys is a rotating supper club run by a collective of Chinese‑Argentine chefs who fuse traditional Sichuan flavours with Argentine ingredients.

What to do

  • Reserve a seat – The club operates on a “by invitation only” model. Sign up on their WeChat group or follow their Instagram (@secretchinasabado) to receive a secret code for reservations.
  • Taste the “Chimichurri Dumplings” – A standout dish that blends Argentine chimichurri sauce with delicate pork dumplings, served with a smoky paprika‑infused broth.
  • Cultural exchange – After dinner, the chef hosts a short talk about the migration story of Chinese families arriving in Buenos Aires in the early 1900s, followed by a live erhu (Chinese violin) performance.

Pro tip – Arrive a few minutes early to explore the nearby Plaza de la China, a tiny garden with a bronze statue of a dragon. The surrounding streets are lined with hidden tea houses where you can enjoy a post‑dinner té mate infused with jasmine.

5. Ride the Vintage Tram and take a short walk to the local Museum in La Boca

Why it’s special
Most visitors associate La Boca with colourful houses and the famous Caminito street. Few know that a vintage 1920s tram line still operates on a short, scenic route that ends at the Museum of Industry—a former meat‑packing plant turned interactive exhibition space.

What to do

  • Tram ride (20 min) – Board at the historic Tram Station Plaza de la República (a modest brick building with a tiny ticket booth). The tram clatters through cobblestone streets, passing hidden murals and small workshops.
  • Museum tour – Visit the museum that showcases local history.
  • Coffee at the café.

Bonus: How to Weave These Experiences Into One Seamless Itinerary

DayMorningAfternoonEvening
1Night stroll in Jardín Japonés (7 pm)Late‑night empanada & cocktail in PalermoRest
2Mini‑cruise on Río de la Plata (2 pm)Walk along Puerto MaderoLight‑up show at CNA (9 pm)
3Graffiti walk at CNA (10 am)Stencil workshop (11 am)Dinner at secret Chinatown supper club (8 pm)
4Tram ride and walk to La Boca Museum Museum tour & coffeeFree night – explore local bars in La Boca
5Free day – revisit favorite spots or relax in a parkOptional bike ride along the Ecological ReserveCelebrate with a tango show in a hidden speakeasy

Final Thoughts

Buenos Aires is a city of layers—each neighbourhood, street, and riverbank offers a story waiting to be discovered. By stepping off the traditional tourist map, you’ll uncover hidden gardens that whisper at night, historic vessels that glide through the river’s heart, and culinary experiences that fuse continents.

These five “road‑less‑travelled” adventures give you a taste of the city’s creative, industrial, and multicultural spirit, inviting you to see Buenos Aires not just as a destination, but as a living, breathing tapestry of stories.

Ready to explore? Pack your curiosity, charge your camera, and let the hidden corners of Buenos Aires become your personal playground.

Happy travels!