Category: blogging

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 43

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.

 

For a thug like Alex to actually have something that resembled a good idea, perhaps it was more the people he surrounded himself with that made him look clever.

Boggs had not mentioned anything about the people who owned the land before the Naval yard had been constructed. Perhaps he had maps dating back to then, or maybe he didn’t. Boggs didn’t exactly confide in me everything he knew.

Maybe he didn’t trust me.

But there was a new lead now, courtesy of Alex, and it was one that I was going to chase down and bring it to Boggs at the appropriate time.

I need to find information about the Ormiston family, and whether or not there were any descendants in the area. But first, I would have to go to the library and talk to the ‘old biddy’, Gwendoline Frobisher, Gwen to her friends. Fortunately, I knew her well from the days of studying in the library.

And on some of my free days, helped her out with cataloging and returning books to their shelf positions. She only had one helper then, and she was older the Gwen, and not a lot of help putting books back on the higher shelves.

The rest of my shift was uneventful, and I closed and locked the door at precisely 11 pm. On the way to where I left my bicycle, my cell phone rang. Boggs? He knew when I finished, and how punctual I was when leaving.

I looked at the screen. Private Number.

I was going to ignore it, but, in the end, curiosity got the better of me.

“Yes?”

“Smidge?”

Nadia. What was she calling me for at this hour of the night?

“I told you not to call me Smidge.”

“Sorry, a force of habit. It sort of suits you though.”

“Then I’m hanging up.”

I went to press the disconnect button, but I could hear her saying, ‘don’t do that, I have some news.”

I waited a few seconds before I answered, “What news.”

“Not the sort you talk of over the phone.”

But it is the sort of hook someone would use to lure you to a place where Vince could beat you up. She had done it before.

“Not if it’s a trap. Sorry, but too many bad memories of your treachery, Nadia.”

“It’s not like that, now. You know what I think of Vince these days.”

“I know how you’d like me to think you think of Vince, but that could be all show. You are, after all, a Cossatino, and you can’t change those spots.”

“I can, and I have. Promise. Meet me at the hotel.”

“Now?”

“It’s not as if anyone’s going to notice, and, if they do, you can guess what they’ll be thinking.”

I sighed. It was giving me a headache. “Half an hour,” I said, and disconnected the call.

Half of me was saying not to go, the other half was intrigued, not so much for the news, but visiting Nadia in the middle of the night. Many years ago, I used have dreams about Nadia, not ones that were spoken of out loud. Now I had the chance to fulfill one; not so sure.

Near to midnight, everyone should be in bed, everyone except those staying at the hotel. Lights we on in several of the rooms, and a customer was in the office.

I parked the bike near the office and walked quickly to her room, knocked on the door lightly, and braced myself for the ‘surprise’, Vince waiting for me.

She opened the door and I looked over her shoulder. It looked empty but there was a lot of space I couldn’t see from that position.

“There’s no one here.” She grabbed me by the shoulder and dragged me in, looked up and down the corridor, then closed the door.

I quickly checked the bathroom. Clothes hanging from the shower rail, a very messy room. My impression of her was shattered.

“You see anything interesting in there?”

I assumed she was referring to the underwear. There might have been a momentary stray thought, but it was not one I’d admit to.

And in her dressing gown, it was hard to suppress the shive down my spine.

I sat on the end of the unmade bed. An odd thought, didn’t she let the housemaids in to tidy up, or, had she spent all day in bed? Scrub those thoughts.

“What is this news?”

“What were you doing at the mall?”

Was that Nadia in the yellow? I glanced around her room and then my eyes rested for a second on a yellow jacked tossed in a corner on the floor. Damn.

“What mall? I tried to sound convincingly surprised.

“You know what mall. You were with Boggs. What were you two up to?”

“I thought you had news for me?”

“I have. Stay away from that place. Otherwise, you might get buried there. That’s the Benderby’s torture chamber, and where they bury the evidence of their crimes.”

“Those are only rumors.”

“Not according to Vince. He reckons he’s seen a body there.”

“Perhaps he was mistaking it for a dressed mannequin. Even I’ve seen that.”

“You’re a fool. Don’t keep following that Boggs around like his little lap dog. He’s eventually going to get you into a mess you can’t get out of. There’s a lot of his father in him. Doesn’t know when to let it go.”

“This coming from Vince or you, because it sure sounds like Vince trying to put us of the scent.”

“What do you think happened to that archaeologist they found on Rico’s boat?”

“Well, my first thought was the Benderby’s did for him. As far as I can tell, the Benderby’s got him to verify the provenance of the gold coins they found on the ocean bed.”

“You mean the two surfers?”

“The Benderby’s bought them off them.”

“You mean the Benderby’s paid them, then two days later they turn up in a dive hotel having overdosed on heroin and not a cent to their names? That event was not widely known because Benderby bought off the reporter for the local paper.

“If you know about it, why did the Cossatino’s make some noise?”

“Because it was their heroin.”

This was terrifying, to be caught between a turf war with either side willing to stitch up the other, for points, or for their silence. Boggs and I were two small fish in a very smelly pond, with no chance at outwitting these two.

“Life’s complicated,” I said.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020

The 2am Rant: If it’s Tuesday, it must be Belgium

And probably would be, if I was away on holidays in Europe, simply because I’ve always wanted to be in Belgium on a Tuesday just so I could use that line.

By the way, it’s out of a movie, but I’m not sure which one.  Obviously, it wasn’t that great if I can’t remember it.

But…

Searching for locations for my stories takes a lot of time and effort, using Google Earth and other means, like street view.  Finding houses or apartments required a great deal of real estate research, almost to the point of buying a property.

Is there any better way to see the street it’s in, the neighbours, the neighbourhood, and inside the house and gardens?  Almost as if you lived there, which of course you do in the story.

In reality, I’m in Canada on the Trans-Canada Highway heading towards Banff, on icy roads in winter.  Yes, that’s where we were this year in early January, getting a feel for the place, the roads, the weather, the people, and the places.

Cold, yes.  Atmospheric, yes, exciting, double yes.  Sometimes research is really fun, well, I don’t call it that, otherwise everyone else will think it was not the birthday treat that it was meant to be.

And was.

My wife’s 65th birthday will be one she certainly will never forget.

So..,

Writing is proceeding better now that I’ve knuckled down.  The Trans-Canada experience has been translated into a story attached to a photo and will be posted soon

The treasure hunt has taken shape, now that it’s moved beyond the initial two episodes, and we’re digging in for the long haul.  New players and contingency plans.  Evil will be lurking behind and under every rock.

And as for the helicopter crash and its aftermath, this morning, a new idea and direction came to me, and this saw frantic scribble notes before I lost it.  At least, I was not in the shower this time.

It’s going to have three parts, the first is nearly done, the second, clearly formed in my mind, the third, well, isn’t that always about retribution or revenge?

We shall see.

And the Being Inspired series just got 39 and 40 written, and ready to be published.

What I learned about writing: What will happen to the hero?

The Novelist’s Secret: We’re Just As Curious As You Are

We all know the feeling. It’s midnight, the house is dark, and you are gripping the latest thriller, utterly unable to put it down. Your heart pounds, palms sweat, and the only certainty in the universe is the desperate need to know: Will the hero survive?

This is the glorious, undeniable suspense of the reader. We assume this thrill is exclusive to us—the consumers of the story.

But what if I told you that, sitting across the desk, hunched over a lukewarm cup of coffee and a blinking cursor, the person crafting the plot is often experiencing the very same, stomach-dropping curiosity?

The prevailing image of the novelist is that of an omniscient deity, a master architect meticulously placing every brick, knowing how the structure must inevitably fall. While some writers certainly embody this role—the celebrated “plotters”—the deepest, most resonant stories often emerge when the creator surrenders control and becomes, quite simply, the hero’s most dedicated and most anxious first reader.

The suspense of a novel is not only in the reader but also in the novelist, who is equally curious about what will happen to the hero. This is the great secret of discovery writing: The story is not written; it is uncovered.

The Myth of the Master Plan

For those who write by “discovery” (often affectionately termed “pantsers,” because they write by the seat of their pants), the process is less like following a blueprint and more like exploring a vast, uncharted cave. You have a flashlight (your protagonist’s core motivation) and a general direction, but you have no idea if the path ahead leads to a treasure chamber or a sudden, terrifying drop.

When a writer starts a story this way, the suspense is inherent in every word. Every time the protagonist is confronted with a choice, the author holds their breath, asking:

Will he take the risk, or play it safe?
Will she finally tell the truth, even though it ruins everything?
Is this conflict a dead end, or a pivot point?
This is not simple intellectual curiosity; it is a genuine, existential stake in the outcome. The novelist is betting their time, their craft, and the integrity of the entire manuscript on the hero making an organic, believable next move—a move the novelist themselves must wait to witness.

When Characters Take the Wheel

The moment a character truly comes alive is the moment they cease being a puppet for the writer’s agenda and become an autonomous force.

This is the thrilling, terrifying point of no return for the author. The character stops doing what the outline demands and starts doing what they would logically do, given their history, flaws, and desires.

Many authors describe this sensation. Characters rebel. They refuse to fall in love with the intended partner. They walked out of the room when they were supposed to deliver a crucial monologue. They exhibit an inconvenient, but utterly truthful, streak of self-sabotage that the author never planned.

When this happens, the novelist’s job shifts from creator to witness. We are no longer designing the journey; we are scrambling to keep up, racing down the page just to see how our heroes will resolve the mess they’ve just made.

This is the purest form of writerly suspense. We are tied to the narrative not just by obligation, but by a sudden, intense fear for our creation. Will this impulsive decision ruin the story? Or will it, astonishingly, unlock the one perfect plot twist we never saw coming?

The Unique Burden of the Author’s Suspense

The reader’s suspense is passive; it is the anticipation of consumption. The author’s suspense, however, is active; it is the anxiety of creation and execution.

An author’s curiosity isn’t just about what happens, but about how they are going to manage to write it convincingly.

If the hero is trapped in a burning building, the reader wonders: How will he get out?

The novelist wonders: How will he get out, and can I write that scene with enough detail, tension, and structural integrity that the whole book doesn’t collapse at this crucial moment?

The novelist’s curiosity is perpetually interwoven with the demands of craft. We are curious about the outcome, but we are also desperately curious about our own ability to deliver that outcome flawlessly. We are thrilled by the uncertainty, but burdened by the knowledge that we are responsible for making that uncertainty pay off.

The Beautiful Surrender

To create genuine suspense for the reader, the writer must first allow themselves to feel it. The greatest narratives are not those where the author is in total control, but those where the author has surrendered enough control to be genuinely surprised.

If the author already knows every character beat, every twist, and every final line, the writing process can become mechanical and stale—and that flatness will invariably translate to the finished page.

The writer who is slightly nervous, slightly unsure, and deeply invested in the fate of their protagonist is the writer who is pouring genuine, fresh energy into the text.

So the next time you are lost in a book, turning pages in a fever pitch of excitement, remember the person who wrote it. They may have been turning those internal pages just as quickly, hoping, fearing, and discovering the story right alongside you.

This shared curiosity—this simultaneous suspense binding creator and consumer—is perhaps the purest magic of the human-authored novel. It is the moment we realise that writing is not the act of manufacturing an inevitability, but the wondrous challenge of documenting a life that insists on being lived.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 197

Day 197 – Being Free to Choose

…

Fearless Creation: Decoding Langston Hughes on Artistic Freedom and Courage

“An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.” — Langston Hughes

Art is often romanticised as a peaceful sanctuary of self-expression. We picture the painter in a sunlit studio, the writer with a blank page waiting for inspiration, or the musician plucking chords in quiet solitude. But true art has never really been about comfort. It has always been about courage.

Few literary figures understood the dual burden of freedom and fear better than Langston Hughes. As a leading voice of the Harlem Renaissance, Hughes used his poetry, plays, and prose to capture the rhythm of jazz, the pain of segregation, and the enduring resilience of Black America. He didn’t just write about freedom; he practised it on the page.

In this powerful quote, Hughes separates the concept of artistic freedom from the courage required to execute it. Let’s dive deep into what this means for creators, innovators, and anyone trying to live an authentic life.

Part 1: “An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly…”

The first half of Hughes’s statement champions autonomy. On paper, freedom of choice sounds simple. As an artist, you decide your medium, your subject matter, your tone, and your audience. You hold the brush, the pen, or the microphone.

However, true artistic choice is constantly under siege. Creators face immense external pressures:

  • Market Demands: Algorithms, publishers, and galleries often reward what is familiar, marketable, and safe.
  • Societal Expectations: Audiences and critics often want artists to stay in their lane, repeating past successes rather than evolving.
  • Censorship: Throughout history—and continuing today—authorities and cultural gatekeepers actively attempt to restrict what artists are allowed to explore.

Hughes knew firsthand the pressure to conform. Writing in the mid-20th century, he was often told by critics (both white and Black) how a Black writer “should” portray the African American experience. Some wanted him to write respectable, uplifting propaganda; others wanted him to cater to white voyeurism.

Hughes rejected these boxes. He chose to write about the blues, the working class, the marginalised, and the joyful. He insisted on his right to choose his own canvas. But as he reminds us in the second half of his quote, having the right to choose is only half the battle.

Part 2: “…but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.”

Here is where the quote transforms from a statement on liberty into a challenge on bravery.

You can have all the freedom in the world, but if you are paralysed by the fear of the consequences, that freedom is useless. Hughes suggests that the scariest part of being an artist isn’t the blank page—it’s the realisation of where your own creative instincts might lead you.

What happens when your choices lead you to:

  • Expose uncomfortable truths? (About society, politics, or your own family?)
  • Risk failure or ridicule? (Putting out a piece of work that completely misses the mark?)
  • Alienate your audience? (Challenging the very people who supported your previous work?)
  • Discover something dark within yourself? (Honest art requires confronting our own flaws, biases, and sorrows.)

Fear is the silent killer of originality. It whispers, “What will they think?” or “You’re going to get cancelled, mocked, or ignored.” To combat this, Hughes argues that an artist must cultivate a radical lack of fear toward their own potential. You must be willing to follow your muse down dark alleys, into political firestorms, or through experimental phases that defy logic.

Why This Quote Matters Beyond the Art World

You don’t have to be a published poet or a gallery-represented painter to live by Langston Hughes’s words. In a broader sense, we are all artists of our own lives.

Every day, we make choices about our careers, our relationships, our values, and our voices. We might have the theoretical freedom to change jobs, speak truth to power, or pursue an unconventional path, but we often hold ourselves back because we are terrified of what we might discover—or what others might say—if we actually follow through.

Hughes’s quote is a call to action for anyone feeling stuck:

  1. Claim your autonomy: Stop waiting for permission to pursue what matters to you.
  2. Face your internal resistance: Acknowledge that the fear of judgment or failure is normal, but refuse to let it dictate your output.
  3. Trust your instincts: Be brave enough to execute the ideas that scare you just a little bit. Usually, that’s where the magic is.

Final Thoughts

Langston Hughes lived his art fearlessly. He wrote about race in America with an unflinching honesty that infuriated bigots and challenged the status quo. He didn’t shy away from the difficult choices, and because of that, his voice echoes powerfully across generations.

Artistic freedom is a fragile gift, but it is powerless without courage. As you create, build, or simply try to navigate your own path today, remember Hughes’s wisdom. Choose what you want to do—and then, with zero hesitation, have the courage to actually do it.

What creative choices have you been hesitating to make out of fear? How do you overcome the pressure to conform in your work? Let us know in the comments below!

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Copenhagen

Beyond Nyhavn: 5 Off‑the‑Beaten‑Path Adventures in Copenhagen

Copenhagen is famous for its pastel‑colored houses along Nyhavn, the Tivoli Gardens roller–coaster thrills, and the iconic Little Mermaid statue. But the Danish capital hides a treasure trove of quieter, quirkier experiences that most guidebooks overlook. If you’ve already checked the “must‑see” boxes and crave something a little more intimate, here are five low‑key activities that will make you feel like a true Copenhagen insider.

1. Wander the Secret Gardens of Kongens Have’s Hidden Corners

Why it’s special

Kongens Have (the King’s Garden) is the city’s oldest royal park, but most visitors stick to the manicured lawns and the open‑air museum of the Rosenborg Castle. Slip away into the lesser‑known north‑west quadrant—near the Kongens Nytorv entrance—where you’ll discover:

  • The “Rose Path” – a winding lane lined with centuries‑old climbing roses that burst into fragrance every June.
  • The Sculpted Herb Garden – a quiet patch of rosemary, thyme, and sage that once supplied the royal kitchen.
  • The 17th‑century Baroque Maze – a tiny, partially hidden maze that is rarely mentioned in tourist maps.

How to get there

Enter through the Nørreport side of the park (just a 2‑minute walk from the metro station). Follow the stone wall toward the old oak tree—look for a discreet wooden gate marked “Privat” (it’s actually public).

Insider tip

Bring a small picnic and a blanket. The garden’s north‑west nook is shaded by a canopy of linden trees, perfect for an impromptu lunch away from the crowds.

2. Sip Coffee in Kødbyen’s Underground Roasters

Why it’s special

Kødbyen (the Meatpacking District) is now a buzzing hub for nightlife, but beneath the industrial lofts lies a subterranean coffee scene that most tourists miss.

  • Coffee Collective’s “Basement Lab” – a speakeasy‑style tasting room that roasts beans on site and offers cupping sessions with the master roaster.
  • Brew Lab – an experimental bar where baristas play with Nordic‑foraged herbs, creating latte art that smells like birch and juniper.

How to get there

Take the København metro to Kongens Nytorv and walk 5 minutes east to the alleys behind the meatpacking warehouses. Look for the discreet black door with a minimalist “C” logo.

Insider tip

Book a 30‑minute “Coffee Journey” in advance (they only have a handful of slots each day). You’ll leave with a small bag of your favourite single‑origin beans, freshly sealed with the roastery’s stamp.

3. Explore the Abandoned Railway Tunnel of Vestamager

Why it’s special

The city’s modern architecture gets most of the applause, but an old freight tunnel underneath the Ørestad district remains untouched by tourists. This 1‑km stretch of rust‑colored steel and graffiti‑covered walls offers:

  • Street‑art murals by local collectives, ever‑changing and never photographed.
  • Echoes of the past – the tunnel once carried coal to the harbour; now it’s a quiet, echoey corridor perfect for urban photography.

How to get there

Take the M2 metro to Ørestad and follow the signs to “Vestre Fælled”. The tunnel entrance is a metal gate hidden behind a row of shipping containers.

Insider tip

Wear sturdy shoes and bring a flashlight. The tunnel is dim, and the floor can be uneven. The best time to visit is early morning, before the occasional joggers pass through.

4. Attend a Live‑Action Role‑Playing (LARP) Session at Dyrehaven

Why it’s special

Dyrehaven (the Deer Park) is a sprawling forest north of the city, famous for its majestic stags. Every summer, a group of dedicated Danes sets up an immersive LARP event that blends medieval fantasy with Danish folklore.

  • Costumed battles in the clearing near the historic Jægersborg palace.
  • Story‑driven quests that involve riddles hidden in ancient oak trees.
  • A chance to join at any skill level—no prior experience required.

How to get there

Take the S‑train to Klampenborg and walk 15 minutes through the park’s western side. Look for a large, red‑and‑black banner near the “Kongens Nærhed” clearing.

Insider tip

Bring a simple costume (a cloak or a tunic works fine) and a reusable water bottle. The events run from 2 pm to sunset, and there’s always a community potluck afterwards where you can sample traditional Danish fare like rye bread with smoked fish.

5. Dive into the Micro‑Museum of Danish Design at Købmagergade 45

Why it’s special

While the Design Museum and the National Museum attract crowds, a tiny, hardly‑noticed space tucked behind a boutique on Købmagergade showcases rotating exhibitions of obscure Danish designers—think avant‑garde furniture from the 1920s, experimental ceramics, and even a collection of vintage bike accessories.

  • “The Lost Chairs” – a series of handcrafted stools made from reclaimed ship timber.
  • “Light in the Dark” – an interactive exhibit where you can rewire vintage lamps to create new lighting moods.

How to get there

Enter the building through the glass storefront; the entrance is a narrow hallway marked “Kunst & Håndværk”. Admission is free, but donations are welcome.

Insider tip

Ask the curator (usually a friendly design student) for a short, behind‑the‑scenes tour. They love sharing the stories behind each piece, many of which involve collaborations with local artisans still active today.

Bonus: Make Your Own Copenhagen Map

If you’re the type who loves charting hidden gems, grab a blank A4 sheet and plot the five spots above with a different colour for each activity. Add a tiny icon (a rose for Kongens Have, a coffee cup for Kødbyen, etc.) and you’ll have a personalised guide that no one else in the city will have.

Wrap‑Up: Why “Road‑Less‑Travelled” Matters

Travel is more than ticking boxes; it’s about the moments that surprise you—when you stumble into a secret garden, sip a coffee brewed in a basement, or hear the echo of trains long gone. Copenhagen’s polished tourist veneer makes it easy to overlook these pockets of authenticity, but with a little curiosity (and a willingness to wander off the main streets), the capital reveals a softer, more intimate side.

So next time you’re packing for a trip to Denmark’s capital, leave a few hours open on your itinerary. Follow these five off‑beat suggestions, and you’ll return home with stories that go beyond the postcard—stories that only a true Copenhagen explorer could tell.

Ready to roam the hidden corners? Share your own secret spots in the comments below, and let’s build a community of curious travellers who love the road less travelled. Happy exploring!

In a word: Idle

It can relate to an object such as an engine in a car when sitting at traffic lights. Then the engine is not in gear or under any load, therefore it is idle.

That he is idle might mean he is currently not working or refuses to work. Then it could be said he is bone idle, which is to say he is any or all of lazy, or shiftless, even indolent

It could refer to the time when nothing is happening.

It could also refer to money in accounts not earning any interest

How many of us indulge in idle chatter, which is meaningless?

And how many of us have made an idle threat, especially to a child who refuses to go to bed, or sleep?

 

This is not to be confused with idol

An idol is generally thought of as a representation of a god, one used as an object of worship.

An idol can also be a person who is greatly admired, like a celebrity or superstar or a hero.

It could also be a figment of the imagination.

 

Then there is idyll, which could be an extremely happy place, or a picturesque period or situation, one that is unsustainable

It could also be a short verse about rustic life.

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet them or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except, of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact that, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street who look like someone we knew and make the mistake of approaching them like a long-lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away from what they perceive as a stalker, or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then, according to the circumstances and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me, one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognise was murder. The photo of the man on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated by what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer, the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room. I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realise what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low-profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, had no children, and, according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company; I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably, more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with several other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with several other delegates at the pre-conference get-together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bulletproof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me? I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain-killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes and took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I would still be considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try to explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. A nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told me what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have another visitor. He is from the British Embassy, I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realised then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit, the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old, which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome, and he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently, for them, it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact that you were shot had made it an all-around embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologising?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted on speaking with you first.  I have come, basically, to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document, which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter that could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush-hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that?  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible, so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man, Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri or Sorrento, if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, who had announced herself as the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it: “The patient has recovered excellently, and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed, so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long, wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful, though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him. She checked the door and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then that I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have several witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed-circuit TV, we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her notebook back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti, and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologise for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you, it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest, one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger-happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realised if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry, but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest, he escaped. Once we realised we had made a mistake and reviewed the closed-circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough, no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officers’ weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you, Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrongdoing?”

“I have apologised. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank you for your time and cooperation, Mr Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – San Marino

Discovering the Hidden Gems of San Marino: 5 Off-the-Beaten-Path Experiences

Tucked away in the Apennine Mountains, San Marino is a tiny, independent republic that’s often overlooked by travellers flocking to more popular Italian destinations. However, this charming microstate has a wealth of secrets waiting to be uncovered by intrepid explorers. While many visitors flock to the capital city’s historic centre and the iconic Three Towers, there’s a world of adventure and discovery to be had on the road less travelled. In this blog post, we’ll delve into the top five alternative things to do in San Marino, taking you off the beaten path and into the heart of this enchanting country.

1. Explore the scenic trails of Monte Titano

San Marino’s rugged landscape is perfect for hiking and trekking, with numerous trails that crisscross the country. One of the most breathtaking routes is the Sentiero delle Panoremi, which winds its way around the base of Monte Titano, the country’s highest peak. This moderately challenging hike offers stunning views of the surrounding countryside, as well as the chance to spot local wildlife, such as deer and wild boar. For a more leisurely stroll, try the Sentiero della Rocca, which takes you through a picturesque valley and offers breathtaking vistas of the valley below.

2. Visit the quirky Museum of Curiosities

Tucked away in a quiet alleyway in the capital city, the Museum of Curiosities (Museo delle Cere) is a bizarre and fascinating attraction that’s sure to delight. This quirky museum is home to a vast collection of wax sculptures, including historical figures, mythical creatures, and even a few San Marino legends. With its eclectic mix of art, history, and humour, the Museum of Curiosities is a must-visit for anyone looking to experience the unique culture of San Marino.

3. Sample local wines at a family-run vineyard

San Marino is renowned for its excellent wines, particularly its white wines, which are made from the Verdicchio grape. To experience the best of San Marino’s viticulture, head to a family-run vineyard, such as the Azienda Agricola Sassina or the Cantina di San Marino. Here, you can take a guided tour of the vineyards, learn about the wine-making process, and sample some of the region’s finest vintages. Many vineyards also offer delicious local cuisine, including cheese, cured meats, and homemade pasta.

4. Discover the medieval charm of Fiorentino

Just a short drive from the capital city, the medieval town of Fiorentino is a hidden gem waiting to be discovered. This picturesque village is filled with narrow cobblestone streets, quaint piazzas, and historic buildings, including a stunning 14th-century church. Visitors can explore the town’s charming centre, visit the local museum, and enjoy a leisurely lunch at one of the town’s family-run trattorias. For a truly immersive experience, try visiting Fiorentino during one of its many festivals, such as the Festa della Madonna della Pietà in September.

5. Take a scenic drive along the Strada del Castello

For a truly unique perspective on San Marino, take a drive along the Strada del Castello, a scenic road that winds its way along the country’s rugged coastline. This stunning route offers breathtaking views of the Adriatic Sea, as well as the chance to explore some of San Marino’s most picturesque towns and villages. Along the way, be sure to stop at the Castello di Fiorentino, a medieval fortress that offers panoramic views of the surrounding countryside. For a thrilling experience, try driving the Strada del Castello at sunset, when the sky is painted with hues of pink and gold.

In conclusion, San Marino is a country that’s full of surprises, from its stunning natural beauty to its quirky cultural attractions. By venturing off the beaten path, you can discover a world of hidden gems and unique experiences that will leave you with unforgettable memories of this enchanting microstate. So why not take the road less travelled and explore the secrets of San Marino? You never know what wonders you might discover.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 197

Day 197 – Being Free to Choose

…

Fearless Creation: Decoding Langston Hughes on Artistic Freedom and Courage

“An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.” — Langston Hughes

Art is often romanticised as a peaceful sanctuary of self-expression. We picture the painter in a sunlit studio, the writer with a blank page waiting for inspiration, or the musician plucking chords in quiet solitude. But true art has never really been about comfort. It has always been about courage.

Few literary figures understood the dual burden of freedom and fear better than Langston Hughes. As a leading voice of the Harlem Renaissance, Hughes used his poetry, plays, and prose to capture the rhythm of jazz, the pain of segregation, and the enduring resilience of Black America. He didn’t just write about freedom; he practised it on the page.

In this powerful quote, Hughes separates the concept of artistic freedom from the courage required to execute it. Let’s dive deep into what this means for creators, innovators, and anyone trying to live an authentic life.

Part 1: “An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly…”

The first half of Hughes’s statement champions autonomy. On paper, freedom of choice sounds simple. As an artist, you decide your medium, your subject matter, your tone, and your audience. You hold the brush, the pen, or the microphone.

However, true artistic choice is constantly under siege. Creators face immense external pressures:

  • Market Demands: Algorithms, publishers, and galleries often reward what is familiar, marketable, and safe.
  • Societal Expectations: Audiences and critics often want artists to stay in their lane, repeating past successes rather than evolving.
  • Censorship: Throughout history—and continuing today—authorities and cultural gatekeepers actively attempt to restrict what artists are allowed to explore.

Hughes knew firsthand the pressure to conform. Writing in the mid-20th century, he was often told by critics (both white and Black) how a Black writer “should” portray the African American experience. Some wanted him to write respectable, uplifting propaganda; others wanted him to cater to white voyeurism.

Hughes rejected these boxes. He chose to write about the blues, the working class, the marginalised, and the joyful. He insisted on his right to choose his own canvas. But as he reminds us in the second half of his quote, having the right to choose is only half the battle.

Part 2: “…but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose.”

Here is where the quote transforms from a statement on liberty into a challenge on bravery.

You can have all the freedom in the world, but if you are paralysed by the fear of the consequences, that freedom is useless. Hughes suggests that the scariest part of being an artist isn’t the blank page—it’s the realisation of where your own creative instincts might lead you.

What happens when your choices lead you to:

  • Expose uncomfortable truths? (About society, politics, or your own family?)
  • Risk failure or ridicule? (Putting out a piece of work that completely misses the mark?)
  • Alienate your audience? (Challenging the very people who supported your previous work?)
  • Discover something dark within yourself? (Honest art requires confronting our own flaws, biases, and sorrows.)

Fear is the silent killer of originality. It whispers, “What will they think?” or “You’re going to get cancelled, mocked, or ignored.” To combat this, Hughes argues that an artist must cultivate a radical lack of fear toward their own potential. You must be willing to follow your muse down dark alleys, into political firestorms, or through experimental phases that defy logic.

Why This Quote Matters Beyond the Art World

You don’t have to be a published poet or a gallery-represented painter to live by Langston Hughes’s words. In a broader sense, we are all artists of our own lives.

Every day, we make choices about our careers, our relationships, our values, and our voices. We might have the theoretical freedom to change jobs, speak truth to power, or pursue an unconventional path, but we often hold ourselves back because we are terrified of what we might discover—or what others might say—if we actually follow through.

Hughes’s quote is a call to action for anyone feeling stuck:

  1. Claim your autonomy: Stop waiting for permission to pursue what matters to you.
  2. Face your internal resistance: Acknowledge that the fear of judgment or failure is normal, but refuse to let it dictate your output.
  3. Trust your instincts: Be brave enough to execute the ideas that scare you just a little bit. Usually, that’s where the magic is.

Final Thoughts

Langston Hughes lived his art fearlessly. He wrote about race in America with an unflinching honesty that infuriated bigots and challenged the status quo. He didn’t shy away from the difficult choices, and because of that, his voice echoes powerfully across generations.

Artistic freedom is a fragile gift, but it is powerless without courage. As you create, build, or simply try to navigate your own path today, remember Hughes’s wisdom. Choose what you want to do—and then, with zero hesitation, have the courage to actually do it.

What creative choices have you been hesitating to make out of fear? How do you overcome the pressure to conform in your work? Let us know in the comments below!

…

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the Past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The Birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus, the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all rewrites, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally, it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Year’s, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening, we were out late and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow; it was cold and wet, and apartment buildings were shimmering in the street light, and I thought, “This is the place where my main character will live”.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went, so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller Centre is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy man with few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

…

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs