“The Things We Do For Love”

Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?

…

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledged that something had happened the moment they first met.

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive, she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realises is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 44

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

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

And, so, it continues…

——

Mayer was woken by the abrupt jolting of the guard van, and for a few moments was disorientated. It was no longer dark, and the light was coming in through the cracks of the windows, and he could see now the van was quite old and battered.

And that odd smell was the residue of many fires in the potbelly stove, that presumably kept the guard warm in winter. There were a few scattered coals on the floor.

Then he remembered he was in the van and it felt like it was being connected to a shunting loco.

That, and the sound of voices outside the van.

“How long has this lot been sitting here?”

“Three weeks, the shunting crew seem to have just forgotten about these wagons. They were supposed to be sent back south months ago.”

Suddenly there was the sound of footsteps on the stones outside.

Mayer slipped down off the bunk, taking the blanket with him, and looked for somewhere to hide. There was a door in the panel under the bed; he opened it and saw an empty space.

It was not very big, and in places, daylight could be seen through cracks in the outside wall. It was smelly but manageable, and he wriggled into the space and jammed the door closed so if they tried to open it, it would not, and they would assume it had not been used in a long time. Or he was hoping that’s what they’d think.

Just in time, steps on the ladder, and the door bang open.

“Ghastly, it’s ready for the scrap heap.”

“It’s for the war effort, even scrap is good. You staying?”

“Until they hook it up, but outside. This place feels like someone died in it.”

Mayer squirmed until he was in a more comfortable position, thankful that the space was large enough to stretch out, though cold.

He could see through the cracks, back up the track where another train was waiting.

His watch said it was near seven in the morning, and that mean he had slept for about four hours. He had intended to get off before anyone would notice, but it was too late for that now.

At least he would be going in the right direction, it was just a matter of where the wagons would end up. Maybe he would get lucky, and that would be Florence.

But, the chances were he would be discovered before then because if the man who had boarded before was going to stay with the train, the chances were he’d come back to the van, it would very likely he’d explore out of sheer boredom, and that would include that space behind the door.

For now, though, the two men were still outside beside the van, waiting for the signal to get aboard.

Another hour passed before there was more clanking and jolting as another engine connected to the wagons. It was only a matter of time before the men came back.

A minute passed, two, five, ten, then the shrill sound of the whistle of a steam engine, followed by the stretching of wagon joiners and the slow movement forward. The men had not returned, but, Mayer knew, they were aboard the train somewhere.

For the moment, it didn’t matter. With each passing minute, he was closer to his objective, Florence.

It was slow progress, with a stop nearly once an hour, shunted aside while a more important train raced by. People going about their business as if there was no war. Mayer had time to lament his foolishness of being swept up in the fervor of restoring the Reich to its rightful place in the world.

It had also sounded legitimate, but, as it wore on, the news that they were winning the war and it would all be over soon, turned to disenchantment. They could not have so many victories and not have won already.

Several of his friends had private said they believed the war was going badly, hence the pressure on his group to create better weapons so they could turn the tide. Of course, no one would openly say things were going bad, that would invite the Gestapo on your doorstep, but people were beginning to suspect.

Mayer was not the first to consider turning himself over to the other side before it was too late.

The sporadic stop-start motion of the train went on all day, and into the night, after passing through several large rail yards, and cities. He couldn’t be sure, but he believed they had passed through Verona, and then hours later, Bologna.

At Bologna, the stay was protracted, and once again the men came to the wagon, and this time, as he feared, they had a look around, rattled the door that he had barricaded, and at least they didn’t stay, one of them saying it had probably rusted with age.

Still, he didn’t breathe again until they left.

Nighttime, and very cold, he tried to get comfortable, and finally fell into a fitful sleep.

——-

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigations of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage, the police thought I had murdered my own wife, though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months, the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last time I saw Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months, I was barely functioning, to the extent that I had all but lost my job and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in that she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened became our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each other about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realise that all she had was her work; personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police, and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone, then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 45

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

The shrill ring tone of my phone woke me.

And, for a moment I was in a state of panic because I’d woken in unfamiliar surroundings. Until my eyes cleared and I realized I was still at Nadia’s.

And it was morning.

What the….

The phone was still ringing, and Nadia, lying on the bed beside me rolled over and said, sleepily, “Are you going to answer that?”

I picked up the phone off the bedside table and pressed the green button.

I already knew it was Boggs.

“Don’t you know what time it is?” It was nine, a respectable hour of the morning to call. It was just that I was tired.

“Where are you?”

I could lie, or I could tell the truth. I don’t think I should say at home because I suspect that was where Boggs was now. And my mother would be there, wondering what happened to me.

“Out and about. Nice day for some exercise. Why?”

“Your mother is not happy you didn’t come home. And I’m surprised. Where were you?”

Good question. One that needed time to consider, time I didn’t have.

“Surveillance. I’ve been watching Alex and his friends. It’s been a long night. What do you want?”

“I was going to head down towards Kentville, check on the other river. We need to drive down there.”

“Well, right now I’m busy, so it will have to wait until tomorrow morning. Sorry. I have a job to do, and then I have to get home before I go to work.”

“What was Alex up to?”

“Not over the phone. I’ll tell you when I see you. Come back home about lunchtime.”
I could tell by the silence he wasn’t happy.

“OK.” He hung up.

I glared at the phone and put it back on the table, then turned to look at Nadia. First thing I noted, we were both still in the clothes we were wearing the previous night.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” A momentary look of disappointment crossed her face. “You were tired and I told you to stay.”

“Nothing can happen, or I’ll become Vince fodder.”

“I wouldn’t tell him.”

“He’d find out. He has walls as spies.” I looked around the room looking for potential spy cameras or bug locations.

“He wouldn’t dare.”

I climbed off the bed and smoothed out my clothes. It didn’t make much difference to the crumpled look. “At least it looks like I’ve been on an all-night surveillance assignment.”

“What are you going to tell Boggs.”

“Nothing. There’s nothing concrete to tell him yet, just that Alex is, like the rest of us, running around in circles.

Nadia remained on the bed, and even though she looked as messy as I did, hers was a far more alluring messy. I could feel the pangs of a forbidden desire. Time to go.

“Come back tonight. We can go on a voyage of discovery, see the mall as you’ve never seen it before.”

“Sounds like a Discovery Channel documentary advert.”

She sat up then stood and teased the knots out of her hair. It was the first time I’d seen it out. It gave her a whole new, softer look.

“Is that a look of desire I see in your eyes, Smidge?”

And the whole moment was shot to pieces.

“Don’t call me that. I’ll see you tonight, though I’m not sure why.”

I let myself out, after carefully checking to see if the way out was clear. The last thing I wanted, or needed, was to tangle with Vince.

Or ending up letting the dream become reality.

The 2am Rant: It’s dark, it’s late, it’s raining…

Yes, it’s dark and late at night on this side of the world, and I’m guessing where you are, it’s probably winter, the sun’s disappeared, the day is freezing cold, and you’re having a hard time keeping warm.

Here, in the so-called land down under, which surprisingly a lot of people from the other side of the world do not know about, it is wet and cool, where it should be sunny and hot as well as humid.

Now, hang on, that can’t be true; others don’t know about us, because we all know the world is round and there has to be something or somewhere opposite. I know that north we have China, and Europe, and further away, the United States.

Been to China, Europe and the United States, so I know you’re all there, somewhere.

And, as you can see, the rain and the cold have amped up the boredom factor and pushed me to do anything other than writing. I have three jobs I’m supposed to be doing,

Editing the second Walthenson PI, a Private Detective novel
Writing two episodes of a serial story about surveillance going wrong, and
Finishing off some new travel blog posts

None of them is appealing to me at the moment.

Instead, I find myself looking at what is shown on Winter TV in the US, one of which is reruns of Snowpiercer and is suitably cold. It’s also complicated, and sometimes a little hard to follow, which means it takes two viewings to understand what’s going on. It will be interesting to see where series three leads us … and I’m hoping Melanie will be back

Fascinating.

Then there are several of my favourites, FBI, The Rookie, a show called The Equaliser, a new version of an old TV show I used to watch many years ago. Another will be the next series of Bridgerton, which was odd but interesting since we like those Jane Austen-like programs. Now, hopefully, there will be another series of Miss Scarlett and the Duke, set in Victorian England.

And as for the blacklist, since Liz left, it had gone downhill … let’s hope they find something to lift it, like Liz’s evil twin sister! Perhaps wisely, they wrapped it up, and it’s over.

There’s more, but I’d better get back to work.

What I learned about writing – Writing is my passion. Words are the way to know ecstasy. Without them, life is barren

Beyond the Blank Page: The Soul-Stirring Ecstasy of Words

There are some truths that reside so deeply within us, they become the very architecture of our being. For me, one such truth burns with an undeniable intensity: Writing is my passion. It’s not just a hobby, a job, or even a skill; it is an intrinsic part of who I am, a fundamental impulse as vital as breathing.

From the quiet hum of an idea taking root to the frantic dance of fingers across a keyboard, the act of shaping thoughts into tangible form is where I find my truest self. It’s the thrill of discovery, the meticulous craft, the joyous agony of chasing the perfect phrase. Each sentence is a step, each paragraph a journey, and the finished piece, a new world brought into existence. This isn’t merely an urge; it’s a calling, a constant whisper from the muse that demands to be heard and translated.

But it’s more than just the act of writing; it’s what words themselves represent. For me, words are the way to know ecstasy. They are not just symbols on a page; they are vessels of emotion, architects of understanding, and bridges between disparate souls. There’s an almost alchemical magic in finding the exact verb that electrifies a scene, the precise adjective that paints a vivid image, or the perfectly structured sentence that unlocks a complex idea.

That moment when the right words click into place, when a jumbled thought suddenly unfurls into crystalline clarity, is nothing short of pure bliss. It’s a connection to something larger than myself – a universal language of human experience, memory, and imagination. Through words, we can travel across centuries, inhabit different lives, understand profound sorrow and boundless joy. They are the keys to unlocking empathy, the tools for building dreams, and the threads that weave the rich tapestry of human history and culture. The sheer power and beauty contained within a carefully chosen lexicon can make my spirit soar.

Conversely, the thought of a life without words, a world where expression is stifled, where stories are unwritten, and ideas remain trapped and untranslated, fills me with a profound sense of despair. Without them, life is barren. Imagine a landscape devoid of colour, a symphony without sound, a conversation without meaning. That, to me, is a life without the richness that words provide.

It would be a silent, desolate existence, stripped bare of the nuances that define our humanity. How would we learn? How would we connect? How would we express love, grief, or triumph? Our history would be lost, our future unimaginable. The very essence of what makes us sentient, feeling beings would be muted, leaving behind only the hollow echo of what could have been.

So, yes, writing is my passion. But it’s because words are so much more than tools; they are the very lifeblood of meaning, connection, and transcendence. They are my anchors and my wings, the echoes of my soul, and the path to ecstasy. And for that, I am eternally grateful for every letter, every sentence, every story waiting to be told.

What about you? What are your words? What do they mean to you?

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – Beyond the second novel – 1

Who’d have thought …

…

Making the leap beyond the second novel is one of the most perilous tightrope walks in a writer’s career.

Publishing a debut is a milestone. Writing the second book proves you aren’t a one-hit wonder (though dealing with the dreaded “Sophomore Slump” is very real). But Book Three and beyond is where the real career begins. This is where you transition from writing isolated stories to building a sustainable literary business and a sprawling narrative universe.

Here is a breakdown of the challenges, the pitfalls, and the roadmap for successfully writing a long-running series.

PART 1: The Challenges

1. The Lore Mountain (Continuity)

In Book 1, you can keep track of eye colours, magic systems, and timelines in your head or on a few sticky notes. By Book 4, your internal hard drive will crash.

The Challenge: Readers have encyclopedic memories. If a character’s dead uncle is suddenly mentioned as being alive, or the geography of a fictional city shifts to suit a new plot point, your fans will notice and call you out in reviews.

2. The Middle-Book Sag

Books 1 and 2 usually have high energy: you are introducing the world, setting up the core conflict, and resolving the initial arc. Books 3 through $N$ often suffer from “bridge-building syndrome”—where the book exists merely to move pieces around the board for the finale.

The Challenge: Keeping every individual book structurally satisfying while it simultaneously serves a massive, overarching plot.

3. Character Stagnation vs. Distortion

How many times can your detective solve a murder, or your wizard save the world, without fundamentally changing?

The Challenge: If your characters don’t grow, they become boring. But if they change too much, they become unrecognisable from the person readers fell in love with in Book 1.

4. Creative Fatigue

Falling out of love with your own creation is a terrifying experience. When you’ve lived with the same fictional people, locations, and magic systems for half a decade, the urge to burn the world down and write something completely different becomes overwhelming.

PART 2: The Pitfalls

1. The “Reset Button” (Stasis)

The Pitfall: At the end of Book 3, your protagonist learns a massive lesson, heals their trauma, or finds peace. But you have a contract for Book 4, so you instantly undo their growth, break up their relationship, or create a brand-new trauma so they can start the book back at square one.

Why it fails: Readers feel cheated. Growth must be permanent, meaning the challenges must continually escalate.

2. Scope Creep (The “Marvel-ization” Trap)

The Pitfall: Starting with a grounded, intimate story (e.g., a local murder mystery) and slowly inflating the stakes until Book 5 involves stopping an intergalactic deity from destroying the multiverse.

Why it fails: Readers often care more about small, grounded stakes and character relationships than exploding planets. When everything is apocalyptic, nothing matters.

3. Info-Dumping to Catch Up New Readers

The Pitfall: Spending the first three chapters of Book 3 re-explaining the lore from Books 1 and 2 so that a stray new reader isn’t confused.

Why it fails: It bores your loyal existing fans to tears. You must trust your audience to either read the previous books or piece things together through context clues.

PART 3: Is It Possible to Write a Long Series?

Yes, absolutely. In fact, from a business and marketing perspective, series are the holy grail of modern publishing (especially in genres like Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Romance, and Thrillers).

Algorithms love series because they generate “read-through”—when a reader finishes Book 1 and immediately buys Books 2, 3, and 4.

However, writing a successful long series requires a shift in methodology:

How to Actually Pull It Off:

Build a “Bible”: Start treating your series like a franchise. Maintain a master document (or use software like Scrivener, Notion, or campfire.otg) tracking character bios, timelines, geography, magic/technology rules, and loose plot threads.
Design the Architecture Early: Know your ending—or at least the broad strokes of it. George R.R. Martin and Patrick Rothfuss are currently trapped by their own sprawling gardens because they didn’t map out the end before writing the middle. You don’t need every detail, but you must know the destination.
Mix Macro and Micro Arcs:
- The Micro Arc (The Book): Has its own beginning, middle, end, and emotional takeaway.
- The Macro Arc (The Series): A massive puzzle piece that advances slightly with every single book.
Give Secondary Characters Room to Breathe: If you get tired of your main protagonist, let a secondary or tertiary character take the spotlight for a chapter, a subplot, or even a spin-off novella. This breathes fresh air into the universe without derailing the main plot.
Accept That Your Audience Will Shrink (and That’s Okay): Series attrition is real. Book 2 will always sell fewer copies than Book 1, and Book 5 fewer than Book 2. Write for the die-hards who make the journey all the way to the end, rather than trying to optimise for casual readers who dropped off years ago.

The Bottom Line

Moving beyond the second novel is the moment you graduate from “aspiring novelist” to “professional storyteller.” It requires discipline over inspiration, organisation over intuition, and a willingness to respect the world you’ve built enough not to break it just to squeeze out one more sequel.

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Tallinn

Beyond the Old Town: 5 Road-Less-Travelled Things to Do in Tallinn

When most travellers think of Tallinn, the image that springs to mind is of cobbled streets, medieval towers, and the fairytale charm of its UNESCO-listed Old Town. It’s no wonder—Tallinn’s historic heart is enchanting, and rightly so. But venture just beyond the postcard-perfect walls, and you’ll discover a quieter, more authentic side of Estonia’s capital—one brimming with creativity, nature, and local spirit.

If you’ve already admired the view from Toompea Hill and sipped craft beer in Town Hall Square, it’s time to stray from the beaten path. Here are five unique and lesser-known experiences that reveal the soul of Tallinn beyond the tourist trail.

1. Explore the Abandoned Military Bunkers of Nahkakivi Nature Park

Tucked away in a pine forest just 30 minutes east of the city lies Nahkakivi Nature Park, a serene yet haunting reminder of Estonia’s Soviet past. Scattered throughout the woods are dozens of abandoned military bunkers—concrete relics hidden beneath moss and ferns, remnants of Cold War paranoia.

Hiking through this tranquil forest, you’ll stumble upon camouflaged tunnels, rusting artillery platforms, and watchtowers half-swallowed by nature. It’s an eerie, atmospheric exploration that doubles as a thought-provoking history lesson. Locals come here for peace, photography, and even forest yoga—making it a perfect escape for introspective travellers.

Pro Tip: Visit in autumn when golden leaves contrast with grey concrete, or summer for lush greenery. Bring a flashlight and a sense of adventure.

2. Sip Local Brews at a Pirate-Themed Microbrewery in Kopli

Tucked into Tallinn’s industrial Kopli district—once home to a bustling shipyard—Piraat Brewery offers a quirky, offbeat experience. More than just a pub, Piraat is a cultural institution with a pirate crew (yes, they dress the part), live folk music, and beers brewed using ancient Estonian recipes.

You won’t find many tourists here—just locals laughing over tankards of smoky koduõlu (home-brew) and hearty black bread soup. The taproom feels like stepping into a cozy nautical legend, complete with anchors, maps, and a fireplace surrounded by wooden barrels.

Try This: The flagship “Piraat” ale, dark and malty, or their seasonal herbal brews infused with juniper and wild berries.

3. Wander Through the Hidden Courtyards of Kalamaja

While most visitors flock to the pastel houses of Kalamaja for photos, few venture into its network of hidden courtyards. These intimate inner spaces, tucked behind unassuming doors, are pockets of bohemian soul—filled with street art, cat cafes, independent galleries, and tiny designer boutiques.

Kalamaja, a former working-class district, has transformed into a creative enclave. Spend an hour wandering alleys like Lühike jalg and Kopli, where vintage stores, ceramic workshops, and open studios reveal the city’s artistic pulse. Don’t miss the “Suur Rämba” house—a colourful, graffiti-covered community art project.

Local Insight: Time your visit with the Kalamaja Days festival (June) when courtyards fling open their doors for guided tours and live music.

4. Take a Ferry to Aegna Island for a Wild Nature Escape

Just an hour by public ferry from the city centre lies Aegna Island—a wild, forested escape with no cars, no hotels, and no crowds. Once a Soviet military zone, Aegna is now a protected nature reserve with hiking trails winding through pine forests, WWII ruins, and overgrown observation towers.

Birdwatchers, hikers, and solitude seekers flock here for the silence and the surreal feeling of undiscovered wilderness minutes from the capital. Bring a picnic, spot deer or rare woodpeckers, and climb the island’s highest point for panoramic views of the Gulf of Finland.

How to Go: Catch the seasonal ferry from Sitsi Harbour (spring to autumn), or rent a kayak from the mainland.

5. Uncover Street Art & Urban Gentrification in Balti Jaam Market District

Forget sterile shopping malls—Tallinn’s most vibrant shopping and dining scene unfolds at Balti Jaam Market. Located in a converted 19th-century train warehouse near the city’s central train station, this former grey-market hub has blossomed into a hipster haven.

Inside, you’ll find vintage clothing stalls, farm-to-table food trucks, local design pop-ups, and cozy cafés serving Baltic rye sourdough and third-wave coffee. Graffiti covers the outer walls, and the atmosphere hums with youthful energy.

But the real secret? The surrounding streets—Lühike, Väike, and Soo—are lined with street art murals, tucked-away galleries, and micro-theatres. It’s a neighbourhood reborn, where grassroots creativity thrives just beyond the tourist radar.

Must-Do: Grab a kohuke (Estonian curd snack) from a vendor and explore the back alleys—every corner holds a surprise.

Final Thoughts: Rediscover Tallinn Off the Map

Tallinn’s charm isn’t confined to its medieval ramparts. By stepping into forgotten forests, abandoned fortresses, and neighbourhood courtyards, you experience the city as locals do—dynamic, layered, and quietly poetic.

So next time you’re wandering the Old Town, remember: adventure waits just around the corner. Whether you’re chasing Soviet ghosts in the woods or sipping pirate ale under candlelight, the road less travelled in Tallinn always leads somewhere unforgettable.

Pack your curiosity—and maybe a flashlight. The real Tallinn is waiting.

In a word: Incline

When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.

I’ve been on a few of those in my time.

And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.

For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.

Did I say ‘Iron Horse’? Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.

It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast

But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay. I’m sure it’s happened more than once.

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.

An inclination, maybe, not to go four wheel driving?

There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation. Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.

But, you never know. Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.

In a word: Freeze

Yes, if the temperature was 20 degrees below zero and the forecast for the net week was the same, then that would be the big freeze.

In a more understandable way of putting it, to freeze something is to preserve it at a temperature below zero.

Some things don’t freeze, like petrol.

And you want to hope that you put antifreeze in your radiator otherwise you are going to have big problems with your car in winter.

It also means to stand still.

You can also isolate someone by freezing them out.

And freeze in fear, unable to move, like a deer in headlights.

But the worst example of a freeze is when your computer stops, and you forgot to save that 200-page novel, thereby being lost forever.

No. That would never happen, you had autosave on, didn’t you?

Didn’t you??????????

Freeze is not to be confused with a frieze which is a broad horizontal band of sculpted or painted decoration, especially on a wall near the ceiling.

Or frees, which in some countries type of football described multiple free kicks, in one sense, and, in another, what you do when you let them go, e.g. he frees the dog.

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance