Category: blogging

What I learned about writing – What Lessons Ernest Hemingway Can Teach a New Writer

What Lessons Ernest Hemingway Can Teach a New Writer Looking for Advice

When you hear the name Ernest Hemingway, most people picture a rugged man with a battered typewriter, a love of big-game hunting, and a penchant for whiskey. What’s less obvious is that behind that larger‑than‑life persona lies a set of writing principles so clear and disciplined that they still feel fresh to anyone just starting out on the page.

If you’re a fledgling writer wondering how to turn vague ideas into tight, compelling prose, Hemingway’s habits and philosophies offer a practical roadmap. Below, I’ve distilled the most useful lessons from his life and work into bite‑size, actionable advice you can start applying today.

1. Embrace the “Iceberg Theory” – Show, Don’t Tell

“If a man doesn’t have the courage to tell his story in its entirety, then it’s not worth telling at all.” – Ernest Hemingway (paraphrased)

Hemingway’s famous “Iceberg Theory” (or theory of omission) teaches us to trust the reader. Only the tip of the story—dialogue, action, a vivid image—needs to appear on the page. The deeper emotions and backstory remain hidden, like an iceberg beneath the water’s surface.

How to use it:

  • Write a scene with only dialogue and action. Resist the urge to add explanatory sentences.
  • Ask yourself, “What’s the subtext?” Let the reader infer the stakes through what’s left unsaid.
  • Practice the “five‑sentence rule.” Summarise a scene in five sentences, then strip away any that merely explain rather than show.

2. Keep Sentences Short, Yet Powerful

Hemingway’s prose is notorious for its brevity. He believed a sentence should be as short as possible—but no shorter. This forces you to choose the most precise words and eliminates needless fluff.

Practical steps:

Bad ExampleHemingway‑Style Revision
“He walked slowly across the hallway, his steps echoing in the empty, dimly lit corridor.”“He walked. His steps echoed.”
“She felt an overwhelming sense of sadness that she could not quite explain.”“She felt sad.”
  • Read your work aloud. If a sentence trips you up, cut or re‑phrase.
  • Aim for an average of 12–15 words per sentence in early drafts; later, trim aggressively.

3. Write Like You Speak

Hemingway once said he wanted his prose to be as “simple as a newspaper article.” He modelled his diction on everyday speech, which makes his stories feel immediate and authentic.

Try this exercise:

  1. Record a conversation (with consent) about a topic you care about.
  2. Transcribe it and note the most natural phrases.
  3. Insert those phrases into a paragraph of your own writing, ensuring the rhythm feels conversational yet purposeful.

4. Revise Relentlessly – The “Two‑Draft” Method

Hemingway famously rewrote his stories over 30 times. He believed the first draft was just the “bone,” and the real work happened in the edits.

Two‑Draft System:

  • Draft 1 – “Skeleton.” Write without worrying about style or perfection; focus on getting the plot down.
  • Draft 2 – “Polish.” Cut every adverb, replace weak verbs, and apply the Iceberg Theory.

After the second pass, give the piece a 48‑hour cooling period before a final, “laser‑focused” edit. This distance sharpens your eye for leftover cruft.

5. Live a Life Worth Writing About

Hemingway’s most vivid stories came from his personal experiences—war, fishing, bullfighting, travel. He didn’t merely write about these things; he lived them, then stripped away the excess to reveal the universal truth.

What this means for you:

  • Seek experiences outside your comfort zone. Even a short hike can provide sensory details that make a scene pop.
  • Keep a “sensory notebook.” Jot down sounds, smells, textures, and emotions you encounter daily.
  • Translate real moments into fiction by focusing on the emotional core, not the exact event.

6. Discipline Over Inspiration

Hemingway’s daily routine was brutally regimented: a set number of words, a specific writing time, and a habit of writing standing up to keep his posture—and mind—alert. He believed that discipline creates the space for inspiration.

Implement a Hemingway‑style habit:

StepAction
1. Set a word goal500–1,000 words per day (adjust to your schedule).
2. Choose a time blockEarly morning, after dinner, or any slot you can protect.
3. Create a ritualLight a candle, brew a cup of coffee, or stand at a desk.
4. Write, regardless of “feeling”If the words feel forced, keep typing—most drafts are rough.
5. End with a “stop”Knowing when to close a session prevents burnout.

7. Read Like a Writer, Not Just a Reader

Hemingway devoured the works of Gertrude Stein, James Joyce, and Mark Twain—writers whose styles were wildly different from his own. He dissected their sentences, noting what worked, what didn’t, and why.

Your reading plan:

  • Pick three diverse authors each month.
  • Underline passages that evoke strong feeling.
  • Write a short analysis: What makes this line effective? How could I adapt this technique?

This active reading trains you to recognise craft, not just story.

8. Accept Failure as Part of the Process

Hemingford’s first manuscript, The Sun Also Rises, was rejected several times before finally being published. He used those rejections as fuel, not as proof of inadequacy.

To internalise this mindset:

  • Create a “Rejection Log.” List every “no” you receive, then note one concrete lesson you learned from each.
  • Set a “failure quota.” Aim for a certain number of “bad drafts” each month—knowing you’re moving forward.

9. Write About What You Know… And Then Some

Hemingway’s iconic line, “All you have to do is write one true sentence,” stresses authenticity. He often wrote about familiar subjects—fishing, war, love—yet he expanded these experiences into universal truths.

Action tip:

  • Identify a “core truth” in your life (e.g., “I feel most alive when I’m racing against time”).
  • Build a story that uses that truth as the emotional spine, even if the plot seems unrelated.

10. Keep the End in Mind—But Don’t Stifle the Journey

Hemingway once told a young writer: “You start with the ending in mind, but you must let the characters discover it.” In practice, this means knowing your story’s destination while allowing the narrative to breathe.

How to balance the two:

  1. Write a one‑sentence synopsis of your story’s ending.
  2. Outline only the major beats—don’t lock every scene in stone.
  3. Write the middle sections organically, listening to where the characters naturally head.
  4. Re‑align at the revision stage if the ending no longer fits.

TL;DR – Hemingway’s 5‑Point Checklist for New Writers

✔️LessonQuick Action
1Iceberg TheoryShow, don’t explain.
2Short SentencesAim ≤15 words per sentence.
3Speak the LanguageUse conversational diction.
4Relentless RevisionTwo‑draft system + 48‑hour break.
5Discipline > InspirationSet a daily word goal & ritual.

Final Thought

Ernest Hemingway’s legacy isn’t about mimicking his staccato style or his macho mythos; it’s about adopting a mindset of clarity, honesty, and relentless work ethic. By internalising the lessons above, you’ll not only write tighter prose but also cultivate the stamina needed to finish the stories you start.

So, the next time you sit down with a blank page, remember: the sea may be vast, but the iceberg you’re building is yours alone. Write, cut, live, and keep the pen moving—just as Hemingway did, one deliberate sentence at a time.

Ready to put these lessons into practice? Grab a notebook, set a timer for 20 minutes, and write a scene using only dialogue and action. Then, edit it down until you’ve removed every word that isn’t absolutely necessary. Share your results in the comments below; I’d love to see how Hemingway’s shadow guides your own voice!

Happy writing.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 185/186

Days 185 and 186 – Writing exercise

…

Investigating death was a ‘thing” that some people took seriously, and others took as a challenge.

For them, it was about the numbers, the appearance of solving crimes, so the public could feel safe, to win that imaginary contest of who could solve the most crimes, and celebrate it on Friday night at the pub.

For others, like me, it was about justice.  It was about finding that person who committed the crime, not the most likely candidate buried under a trove of circumstantial evidence.

The pity of it was that our helicopter Detective Chief Superintendent was a numbers man, temporarily stopping in at our station on his way to bigger and better things.

He didn’t like to be thorough and methodical, and he definitely didn’t like me.  That’s why when he put his head out the door and saw that I was the only detective in the room, I could feel rather than see the sigh.

Or maybe that was because he should be down the pub with the rest of the team celebrating the extraordinary closure rate for this month.

“Burgess.”

I looked up.  “Sir.”

“Sending you a straightforward case.  The old man had apparently died in his sleep.  One of us to look in, dot the i’s.  I’ll send you the file.”

When the Chief Inspector says straightforward, there’s always an underlying suggestion not to make more out of it than there was.

The problem was that nothing in our line of work was straightforward.  Not if justice was to be served.

…

People die in their sleep all the time.  What’s unusual is that most of those who did were discovered in the morning, not at 5 pm.

I arrived at the house, one of twelve similar terrace houses, in a street of a hundred or so.  Most had been updated, and small manicured gardens.

Darkness had arrived on a cold, wet, wintry night where everyone would have preferred to be somewhere else, preferably warm.

The street seemed to be full of blue flashing lights and panda cars, but it was deceptive.  The house was cordoned off, and the crime scene crew were ready to go.

First responders had arrived at or near five, and checked the building, pulled the girl who discovered the body and the doctor she had called before she called the police.

Those were the people I would speak to first. 

The co-ordinator was at the door, an officer who had been doing the job for as long as I had been at the station, and was good at it.  He would have secured the scene and ensured that nothing had been touched since the first responder had arrived.

“Larry.”

He just finished the call and swivelled sideways.

“Detective Inspector Burgess.  If you’re here, your boss doesn’t think it’s open and shut.”

“The other detectives are busy, and I’m hoping it is.  Is it?”

“On appearances, yes, but we both know how it usually goes, winter, rain, freezing cold, and wanting to get out of it.”

“Privileges of rank, I’m afraid.  They’re off celebrating the crime numbers.”

Larry was as thrilled about it as I am.  “Hello, your assistant has arrived.”

I turned to look back the way I came.  It was not the Detective Sergeant I was expecting, but one of the Chief Superintendent’s ‘modern methods’ detectives, fast-tracking a new system.

It was the ‘achievement-based’ Superintendent’s way of keeping me on the straight and narrow.

“Buchanan.”

“Sir, Chief Super just gave me the highlights.  You’d think people would be more considerate.”

Yes, you would, but it was not something I would say within earshot of the girl who found him.  It was a typical Buchanan comment.

“I’m sure it wasn’t done to inconvenience you.”  I went back to Larry.  “What can you tell us?”

“The deceased is a man named Devlin McConnaughy, aged 75, living alone, and according to the doctor, was dead when the girl arrived.  The girl is Mr McConnaughy’s granddaughter.  She arrived about 5 pm, a routine stop by on her way out to meet her friends for dinner.  She had a key and visited three or four times a week.  When she found him and couldn’t rouse him, she called the doctor, then the police, when he said McConnaught was dead, about 5:15 pm.  The first responders got her about 5:29.   The teams have been notified and are standing by.”

“We can look at the scene?”

“Just about.  Just waiting on word that we won’t be trooping in like a herd of elephants.”

I’d heard about crime scenes being contaminated by people who were either not trained properly or didn’t care.  We still didn’t know if this was a crime scene.  The crime scene investigators’ preliminary run-through would determine that.  I’d seen a few getting dressed.  I’d be going in in one of those white suits myself.

Buchanan took that as a cue to get suits for us, and hopefully, there was a spot inside to put them on.  Outside was wet, and we didn’t need wet boots plodding through the house.”

“Your thoughts?  You’ve seen the body.”

“And the state of the house, but you’ll see what I mean soon enough.  It looks like he died in his sleep.  The girl had to move him slightly to check if he was still alive, but it looked to be a reasonable assumption based on appearances.  He’s very heavy, and she couldn’t move him far.  I’m hoping there’s nothing sinister otherwise; this is going to be a long night.”

A long night indeed.

….

We got the OK to go in, and the forensic teams followed us in.

This house was old, decrepit and overgrown.  The owner hadn’t bothered, or couldn’t maintain the place, and the outside gave an indication of the state of the inside.

A lifetime of hoarding.

It was difficult to get from the front door to the bedroom, trying not to knock over piles of books, boxes and newspapers.

The preliminary team had set a path to follow that would least impact on the scene.

Further into the house, at the end of the passage, was a kitchen and a rear exit.  On each side, there were rooms, a sitting room, bedrooms, a bathroom, and the old man’s room.

In the bedroom, equally piled up with books and boxes, there was a body on the bed and a paramedic standing to one side.

I looked at the body, scrunched up as though his last moments alive were very painful.  Death was never pretty. 

Larry nodded to the paramedics.

“Visually, there is no evidence of foul play.  There was a doctor in attendance when we arrived.  He advised us that the man was deceased, but did not have an explanation as to what killed him, other than it had been quick.  We sent him out after a short discussion about his actions on arrival.  The man’s granddaughter is with the doctor outside. She is the person who first discovered the body, called the doctor, then the emergency services.”

Larry looked at me.  “Any further questions?”

“No.  We’ll have to wait for the coroner and a post-mortem.”

“They should be here any moment.  It’s a busy night.”

“Good.  It’ll give me time to talk to the doctor and the granddaughter.”

I looked around the room, looking for obvious signs that someone else had been in the room, or that the killer, if there was one, had broken in to get to the man. 

It was beginning to look like a very big if.  The Superintendent might get his wish, that it was an open and shut case.

No obvious clues were lying around, and I was not seeing any obvious signs of murder, bruising, blunt force trauma or anything suspicious.  There were no bullet or knife wounds.

There was careless discarded pill sheets and a nasal spray on the bedside table, all of which forensics would sweep up and test.

Similarly, in the bathroom cabinet, there were more pills, about six different types, including one I knew to be heart medication.  He had high blood pressure.  A heart attack then might not be unexpected.  He also had other cold and influenza medications.  Perhaps he had recently been ill.  It was cold and miserable.

The coroner would have more to say on that.

I think I was disappointed.

There was just a contorted body with a lifeless expression and dead eyes.  It was rather creepy.

…

Dotting the i’s, Buchanan and I went outside and found the doctor and granddaughter waiting patiently. 

That was a first; most of the people detained by the first responders were very vocal about having to wait around, and in this weather, these two should have been more annoyed.

I know I would be.

Coming out the front door, I looked around at the few neighbours who had gathered to see what was happening.  The uniformed officers would have got statements from all of them.

Sometimes it is said that the killer would hang around after the murder as a bystander waiting for the police.  My assessment of everyone in the small groups was that none of them fitted the profile.

At the moment, it was a motiveless murder.  The only two with a possible opportunity were the granddaughter and the doctor.  An old man, living alone?  What did he have that others might covet?

The house.  Even in its current state in this neighbourhood, it had to be worth a lot.  Was there anything in the house?  If there was a will lying around, the forensic teams would find it.

But there was the granddaughter and the doctor. 

They were standing just up from the door, sheltering under a small verandah roof.  In that spot, there was protection from the elements, except the cold.

The rain had turned into a steady drizzle.

I shivered.  The ghost of the old man is finally leaving?

The two were expecting me.  I sent Buchanan off with the doctor.  I stayed with the girl.  The granddaughter was about 20ish and more conservative than a lot of 20-year-olds I’d seen, especially the daughters of my sister.

She had been crying, so it was safe to assume she had cared about the old man.

I introduced myself, “Detective Inspector Burgess.  You are?”

“Christine Davies, the man’s granddaughter.  I was looking in on my grandfather as I do most Fridays, and found him like that.  Dead.  It’s horrible.”

More tears flowed, and her grief was genuine.

It was horrible and for most a frightening experience.  I could imagine how she felt, and even having seen more than my share of dead people, it doesn’t make you immune to the horror of it.

“I’m sorry for your loss.  Just a couple of questions.  You have a key to the door?”

“Yes.  I come on average three times a week, sometimes more, to check on him.  No one else does, nor does it seem they care.  He was recently in the hospital for a few days, had his appendix removed.”

“The last time?”

“Two days ago.  He called and asked if I could drop in.  He said he misplaced a card and asked me to look for it.”

“A card?”

“Those cards the bank gives you to use rather than go to the branch.  He asked me to set up his internet banking account. He didn’t like the idea of a card replacing his money or the idea that he didn’t have to go to the bank, but I convinced him that the world was moving on and he had to catch up.  He reckoned it was the first step in them stealing your money.”

Or someone else, like a craft granddaughter. Ostensibly, she had access to his accounts if she set them up.  We had the computer and phone and would find out.

“Did you find the card?”

“No.  He got me to go back to the bank and sort them out.  He was feeling a little tired.  He didn’t look well, and I said I’d get the doctor to call.”

She gave me the details so I could check.

“Did you call the doctor?”

“Yes, but he was busy and couldn’t get here until today.  I called him first to make sure he was not still alive because I tried what they do on TV, you know, the pulse in the neck thing, but I got nothing.  He came quickly and confirmed he was dead.  That’s when I called the emergency services.”

“Did you check to see if anyone else had been there, or was there any sign of a break-in?”

“Everything looked the same, though, as you’ve no doubt seen, the place is a bit of a mess, but I’ve been trying to clean it up a bit.  I just went in the usual way, the front door, called out that it was me, and when he didn’t answer, went down the passage to his room.”

“Did anyone else have a key?”

“Just about everyone, I mean, his children.  There are five, including my mother.  Once my grandmother died, they all lost interest in visiting.  Or should I say when they realised there was no money in her will for any of them?  Not that there was much anyway.  He’s not rich.”

“He owns this house?”

“It’s a dump.  It can’t be worth that much.  I tried to convince him that he would be better off in an old folks home with other people and be cared for, but he said it would be like being in jail.”

“Did he tell you you might benefit from a will?”

She made a face when she realised the implications of that seemingly innocent question.

“Or did I coerce him into leaving me this place, and then kill him for it?  I mean, seriously.  I was the only one who cared what happened to him. You think I wanted it for the so-called pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?  I told him to leave whatever he had for cancer research.  A couple of years back, he was diagnosed with cancer, but they got it in time, and he has been free of it, although I feared it might have come back.  He said he was fine, but you can’t tell.”

I didn’t know much about it.  She seemed honest, but then, in my experience, some people have that knack of coming across exactly the opposite of what they are.  Perhaps the cancer had come back and killed him.

She gave her details on how to contact her for any follow-up questions and then let her go.

By that time, Buchanan had finished with the doctor and confirmed the recent cancer diagnosis, the coroner had arrived and could not shed any more light on the body until after the post-mortem, and I  left, leaving Buchanan to clean up.

At that point, it was the proverbial open and shut case.

…

The call from the Chief Superintendent was not unexpected because Buchanan would have reported to him the moment I left the scene.

He asked, and I told him that it seemed like a death by natural causes, because no one at the scene had made a different determination.

That would only come after a post-mortem and blood work. That would be available the next day.  He did question whether either was necessary in such circumstances, and I said we were dotting the i’s just as had requested.

It did not earn me any brownie points.

The fact that the granddaughter said that any of his family members might have killed him for his money was a very familiar story.  Sex and money were the two most popular reasons for killing someone, and neither seemed likely.

Unless the will and he’d been secreting millions away somewhere.  The granddaughter did think he had, but she would not be the first person, seemingly innocent, to lie to me

At the moment, it was sitting on the benefit of the doubt.  That might change in the next day or so.

Until then, rest was not going to come easily.  Something was nagging at the back of my neck.  A detail I should know and couldn’t remember. Perhaps I was making more of it than I should.

I went back to the office and did an internet dive into all things Devlin McConnaughy, and found very little.  It could wait until the next day.

….

Buchanan was in before I was, which to me was unusual.  I could smell the hand of the Superintendent’s in this new work ethic.

The other detectives followed me in slowly, some of them worse for wear.  None bothered to ask me why I hadn’t turned up; I had ceased talking to most of them over the last six months.

The feeling of hatred was mutual.

My desk had an analysis of Devlin’s phone and computer.  The sum total of nothing except a portal to the bank, and internet searches for holidays.

Given the nature of the holidays, it seemed they were more likely made by the granddaughter. 

We agreed to disagree

The interviews were typed up and put in a file sitting on mt desk.  Still no autopsy report or of the blood work, so we were still waiting for results.

…

Real policing was not a nine-to-five job, and there was no such thing as weekends.  Truth be told, you really couldn’t have a life, not in the early years of a detective’s career.

I had devoted early on that it wouldn’t be fair to subject someone else to the sacrifices that had to be made.  It was why my older comrades found it difficult to get a decent work-life balance, and the divorce rate was much higher than for any other occupation.

Or at least it seemed that way to me.

But, given my choices, it was not unusual to find me in at the office or volunteering on workdays when others wished to be at home with their families.

This day was no exception.

There was a report on the laptop? The phone, the neighbourhood interviews and I had the notes to write up the one I had conducted.

There was no post-mortem yet, which would arrive soon. 

Was I expecting anything?

There was very little evidence collected at the house.  They had found a copy of the will, and I was going to check with the solicitor.  It left a substantial amount to the granddaughter and reasonable amounts to the children.  A clause said that if any of them contested it, it would be held over until it was adjudicated by the courts.

The value of the house as an inheritance was a viable motive.  If it were a suspicious death. 

I had copies of his bank accounts, three, one a working account, one a savings account and one an investment account.  There was not enough in any of them to warrant killing the man for his money.

The house was owned by him, and we would have to talk to a real estate agent to get an approximate value.

I looked in my email and found a preliminary toxicology report with nothing unusual.  So, no drug overdosing, self-inflicted or otherwise.  Suicide was always on the list, and had to be ticked off.

An hour later, the post mortem came in, and it confirmed that Devlin had a heart attack and had been on painkiller medication for what looked to be a recent accident that scarred his leg.

It had nothing to do with his death.

The phone rang. 

Burgess.  “The body last night.  Verdict?”

There was only one verdict he wanted to hear.

“Nothing points to murder.  Heart attack and died.”

“Good.  Wrap it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

End of the discussion.  I put all the papers back in the file and left it in my in tray.  It could wait until Monday morning.  I would interview the solicitor, meet the granddaughter’s parents, and talk to the granddaughter again.

There was something not right.  Something about this case resonated with something I had read about, a few years ago, on the tail end of the COVID pandemic.

I was going for a walk in the park to clear my head.  I had a lot of searching and reading to do.

…

The trouble with quick clearance rates is that sometimes justice is not served.  The Devlin McCannaughy case was one.

But over the next few days, listening to all of the members of that family argue and squabble over the spoils, and furious that the granddaughter got nearly everything, the accusations were just that, accusations.

The lawyer knew all about the will and the reasons behind it.  So apparently did all those in line time inherit.  There was no motive for any of them other than the main beneficiary.

The trouble was, I could find no evidence to support my theory, and solid evidence was required before there would be any prosecution.

Did I think the granddaughter was guilty of murdering her grandfather for the money?  She didn’t steal from him, not like the children did; it was her mother who had stolen her father’s card and taken money out of the account.

We could prosecute her for theft, but the amount was almost irrelevant and not worth the court’s time.

How did the granddaughter do it?

By the nasal spray.  I had read about a case, one I had used in a paper I wrote about the perfect murder.  The thing is, she would need medical knowledge of what toxin to use and not leave a trace.  I had ordered another tox screen, but we didn’t know what we were looking for.

Motive and opportunity, but not the means.  Even though it was only her prints on the nasal spray beside the bed, one taken from the bathroom cabinet, there was a simple explanation, one given freely when I interviewed her.

She collected and gave him his medication. Yes, he had high blood pressure, and yes, he had minor heart problems, but nothing that would kill him.

When I gave the report to the Chief Superintendent, he just laughed and told me I was not working for MI5 and I should keep my conspiracy theories to myself.

Of course I did, but fate eventually intervened.  The Chief Superintendent was found dead in a sleazy motel, dead because of a heart attack.

Everyone drew the same conclusion.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Rhodes

That’s a great question! While Rhodes is famous for its Colossus and the Old Town, the island is large enough to hide numerous quieter corners.

Here are five places or activities to explore on a road less travelled in Rhodes:

1. The Medieval Fortress of Monolithos

  • What it is: A picturesque, ruined 15th-century castle built by the Knights of St. John, perched atop a massive, isolated rock overlooking the sea on the southwest coast.
  • Why it’s less travelled: It’s located far from the main resort towns and requires a dedicated drive. The destination itself is just the ruin and a small, functional chapel (Agios Panteleimonas), offering a quiet, reflective experience.
  • Activity: Climb the stone steps to the top for incredible panoramic views of the rugged coastline, the sea, and the nearby small island of Halki, especially beautiful at sunset.

2. Exploring the South Coast Beaches (e.g., Agathi or Prasonisi)

While the northern beaches are packed, the southern tip of the island offers wilder, quieter, and more remote stretches of sand.

  • Prasonisi: This is a small peninsula connected to Rhodes by a narrow strip of sand, creating two bays. It’s a spectacular natural spot.
    • Activity: It’s famous for windsurfing and kitesurfing due to the strong winds, offering an active alternative to sunbathing. One side is calm, and the other is wavy.
  • Agathi Beach (Golden Sand Beach): Though not completely unknown, it is significantly quieter than Faliraki or Tsambika, featuring fine golden sand and shallow, crystal-clear water.

3. The Seven Springs (Epta Piges) Tunnel Walk

Located inland, this is a cool, forested area offering a unique, slightly adventurous activity away from the beaches.

  • What it is: A lush oasis where seven natural springs converge to feed a river. The water is channelled through a dark, narrow, man-made tunnel built in 1931.
  • Activity: Walk the 186-meter-long tunnel! The water is shallow, but it’s pitch black, cold, and narrow, making it an adventurous and refreshing walk (if you prefer to stay dry, there is a path overground). It leads to a small lake where you can relax.

4. The Petaloudes Valley (Valley of the Butterflies)

While it attracts visitors, the Valley of the Butterflies offers a unique natural experience that takes you away from the coastal towns and focuses on nature conservation.

  • What it is: A unique habitat and one of the only places in Europe where the Panaxia Quadripunctaria (Jersey Tiger Moth) gathers in large numbers during the summer months (usually July and August).
  • Activity: Follow the gentle hiking path that winds through the cool, shaded valley, crossing small wooden bridges and waterfalls. It’s less about beach time and more about appreciating the island’s biodiversity and unique microclimate.

5. The Kamiros Ruins and Traditional Village of Embona

Kamiros and Embona offer a deep dive into the island’s history and local life, away from the bustling tourist centres.

  • Kamiros: Located on the west coast, this is one of the three ancient cities of Rhodes (alongside Lindos and Ialysos). It is a quieter, less-visited archaeological site.
    • Activity: Explore the well-preserved ruins of the Hellenistic city, which was abandoned centuries ago, giving you a sense of a genuine, unearthed ancient town without the crowds of a major landmark.
  • Embona: A traditional, mountainous village located on the slopes of Mount Attavyros (the island’s highest peak).
    • Activity: Embona is the centre of the island’s wine production. Visit a local winery, taste the indigenous varieties, and enjoy a traditional Greek lunch far from the tourist tavernas.

In a word: Arm

Like leg, arm is a word that is mostly associated with a body part.

Like being legless, another description for being drunk, being rendered ‘armless’ means you are no threat, in a rather awful but funny way by saying it.

I guess we all have a dash of ‘sick’ humour in all of us.

However, arm can also be used to describe a part of a structure too.

It could also describe the arm of an ‘armchair’.

But…

Arm also means to give people weapons like guns, usually from an armoury.

I’m guessing that a whole lot of people with arms is an army!

You can also say that taking those weapons away would be to disarm them.

It might take the long arm of the law to do it, too.

And to disarm someone doesn’t necessarily mean to take away their arms, but to ‘charm’ them with your wit and humour.

An arm can also be a river or streams tributary, so I could say instead of staying on the main river, I’ll take the ‘named’ arm, but just remember, sometimes this can be dangerous, getting off the main route.

On a boat, there is a yardarm, and this was once used to hang seamen who committed serious crimes such as mutiny.

A call to arms was to declare war,

And lastly, an arm of the defence services could be any one of Army, Navy, Marines or Airforce.

Just steer clear of the Navy for the aforementioned reasons.

 

“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment, Will’s life slowly starts to unravel, and it’s obvious to him that it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule: don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved, there are going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

…

https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

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Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Crete

Crete is a large island with many stunning locations that are far from the main tourist crowds. To help you on your road less travelled, here are five “next best” places and activities offering unique and authentic Cretan experiences.

1. Loutro: The Car-Free Seaside Village

Loutro is one of Crete’s most idyllic hidden gems, tucked away on the southwest coast. It is famously accessible only by boat or on foot, ensuring its protected, tranquil, and car-free atmosphere.

  • What makes it “Road Less Travelled”: The inability to drive directly to the village makes it a natural barrier to mass tourism. It feels like a remote, car-free island escape.
  • Activity: Relax on the small pebble beach, swim in the turquoise waters of the Libyan Sea, or use it as a base to hike to nearby coastal attractions.

2. Sarakina Gorge: The Hidden Canyon

While Samaria Gorge is famous and crowded, the Sarakina Gorge (sometimes called Sarantapichos Gorge) offers a shorter, equally stunning, and much less-trafficked hiking adventure in southeastern Crete, near the village of Mithi.

  • What makes it “Road Less Travelled”: It’s often overlooked by tourists heading to the larger, better-known gorges, offering a raw, untouched hiking experience.
  • Activity: Hike through the narrow canyon. Be prepared for a challenging trek that involves crossing the riverbed and may require wading through water in some sections, depending on the season.

3. Xerokampos: The Unspoilt Beaches of the East

Located on the far eastern coast of Crete, Xerokampos is a small, quiet settlement known for its collection of unspoilt, undeveloped beaches. The drive there is winding and remote, contributing to its solitude.

  • What makes it “Road Less Travelled”: Its remote location requires a dedicated drive on mountain roads, meaning few constructions and a distinct lack of crowds, even during high season.
  • Activity: Enjoy pristine sand and crystal-clear waters on a truly secluded beach day. The landscape is unique, with mountains dropping down to the sea.

4. The Abandoned Village of Aradaina: An Atmospheric Ghost Town

Near the Sfakia region in western Crete, the village of Aradaina was deserted in 1948 following a tragic family vendetta. Today, it stands as an atmospheric ghost town overlooking the dramatic Aradena Gorge.

  • What makes it “Road Less Travelled”: It is a haunting historical site, not a resort or commercial centre, offering a quiet, slightly eerie, and historically rich stop.
  • Activity: Stroll through the narrow paths and empty stone houses to experience the region’s complex history. You can access it via a long metal bridge that spans the canyon.

5. Agrotouristic Village of Vamos: Authentic Cultural Immersion

The traditional village of Vamos, 25km southeast of Chania, is a pioneer in eco-tourism. A collective of locals has committed to preserving its authentic character and offering traditional experiences.

  • What makes it “Road Less Travelled”: This is a chance to move beyond sightseeing and participate in the local, daily life of the island.
  • Activity: Stay in a preserved old mansion, take part in local activities like making bread in a wood-fired oven, picking olives, or learning to prepare raki, the local pomace brandy.

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta reader’s view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 185/186

Days 185 and 186 – Writing exercise

…

Investigating death was a ‘thing” that some people took seriously, and others took as a challenge.

For them, it was about the numbers, the appearance of solving crimes, so the public could feel safe, to win that imaginary contest of who could solve the most crimes, and celebrate it on Friday night at the pub.

For others, like me, it was about justice.  It was about finding that person who committed the crime, not the most likely candidate buried under a trove of circumstantial evidence.

The pity of it was that our helicopter Detective Chief Superintendent was a numbers man, temporarily stopping in at our station on his way to bigger and better things.

He didn’t like to be thorough and methodical, and he definitely didn’t like me.  That’s why when he put his head out the door and saw that I was the only detective in the room, I could feel rather than see the sigh.

Or maybe that was because he should be down the pub with the rest of the team celebrating the extraordinary closure rate for this month.

“Burgess.”

I looked up.  “Sir.”

“Sending you a straightforward case.  The old man had apparently died in his sleep.  One of us to look in, dot the i’s.  I’ll send you the file.”

When the Chief Inspector says straightforward, there’s always an underlying suggestion not to make more out of it than there was.

The problem was that nothing in our line of work was straightforward.  Not if justice was to be served.

…

People die in their sleep all the time.  What’s unusual is that most of those who did were discovered in the morning, not at 5 pm.

I arrived at the house, one of twelve similar terrace houses, in a street of a hundred or so.  Most had been updated, and small manicured gardens.

Darkness had arrived on a cold, wet, wintry night where everyone would have preferred to be somewhere else, preferably warm.

The street seemed to be full of blue flashing lights and panda cars, but it was deceptive.  The house was cordoned off, and the crime scene crew were ready to go.

First responders had arrived at or near five, and checked the building, pulled the girl who discovered the body and the doctor she had called before she called the police.

Those were the people I would speak to first. 

The co-ordinator was at the door, an officer who had been doing the job for as long as I had been at the station, and was good at it.  He would have secured the scene and ensured that nothing had been touched since the first responder had arrived.

“Larry.”

He just finished the call and swivelled sideways.

“Detective Inspector Burgess.  If you’re here, your boss doesn’t think it’s open and shut.”

“The other detectives are busy, and I’m hoping it is.  Is it?”

“On appearances, yes, but we both know how it usually goes, winter, rain, freezing cold, and wanting to get out of it.”

“Privileges of rank, I’m afraid.  They’re off celebrating the crime numbers.”

Larry was as thrilled about it as I am.  “Hello, your assistant has arrived.”

I turned to look back the way I came.  It was not the Detective Sergeant I was expecting, but one of the Chief Superintendent’s ‘modern methods’ detectives, fast-tracking a new system.

It was the ‘achievement-based’ Superintendent’s way of keeping me on the straight and narrow.

“Buchanan.”

“Sir, Chief Super just gave me the highlights.  You’d think people would be more considerate.”

Yes, you would, but it was not something I would say within earshot of the girl who found him.  It was a typical Buchanan comment.

“I’m sure it wasn’t done to inconvenience you.”  I went back to Larry.  “What can you tell us?”

“The deceased is a man named Devlin McConnaughy, aged 75, living alone, and according to the doctor, was dead when the girl arrived.  The girl is Mr McConnaughy’s granddaughter.  She arrived about 5 pm, a routine stop by on her way out to meet her friends for dinner.  She had a key and visited three or four times a week.  When she found him and couldn’t rouse him, she called the doctor, then the police, when he said McConnaught was dead, about 5:15 pm.  The first responders got her about 5:29.   The teams have been notified and are standing by.”

“We can look at the scene?”

“Just about.  Just waiting on word that we won’t be trooping in like a herd of elephants.”

I’d heard about crime scenes being contaminated by people who were either not trained properly or didn’t care.  We still didn’t know if this was a crime scene.  The crime scene investigators’ preliminary run-through would determine that.  I’d seen a few getting dressed.  I’d be going in in one of those white suits myself.

Buchanan took that as a cue to get suits for us, and hopefully, there was a spot inside to put them on.  Outside was wet, and we didn’t need wet boots plodding through the house.”

“Your thoughts?  You’ve seen the body.”

“And the state of the house, but you’ll see what I mean soon enough.  It looks like he died in his sleep.  The girl had to move him slightly to check if he was still alive, but it looked to be a reasonable assumption based on appearances.  He’s very heavy, and she couldn’t move him far.  I’m hoping there’s nothing sinister otherwise; this is going to be a long night.”

A long night indeed.

….

We got the OK to go in, and the forensic teams followed us in.

This house was old, decrepit and overgrown.  The owner hadn’t bothered, or couldn’t maintain the place, and the outside gave an indication of the state of the inside.

A lifetime of hoarding.

It was difficult to get from the front door to the bedroom, trying not to knock over piles of books, boxes and newspapers.

The preliminary team had set a path to follow that would least impact on the scene.

Further into the house, at the end of the passage, was a kitchen and a rear exit.  On each side, there were rooms, a sitting room, bedrooms, a bathroom, and the old man’s room.

In the bedroom, equally piled up with books and boxes, there was a body on the bed and a paramedic standing to one side.

I looked at the body, scrunched up as though his last moments alive were very painful.  Death was never pretty. 

Larry nodded to the paramedics.

“Visually, there is no evidence of foul play.  There was a doctor in attendance when we arrived.  He advised us that the man was deceased, but did not have an explanation as to what killed him, other than it had been quick.  We sent him out after a short discussion about his actions on arrival.  The man’s granddaughter is with the doctor outside. She is the person who first discovered the body, called the doctor, then the emergency services.”

Larry looked at me.  “Any further questions?”

“No.  We’ll have to wait for the coroner and a post-mortem.”

“They should be here any moment.  It’s a busy night.”

“Good.  It’ll give me time to talk to the doctor and the granddaughter.”

I looked around the room, looking for obvious signs that someone else had been in the room, or that the killer, if there was one, had broken in to get to the man. 

It was beginning to look like a very big if.  The Superintendent might get his wish, that it was an open and shut case.

No obvious clues were lying around, and I was not seeing any obvious signs of murder, bruising, blunt force trauma or anything suspicious.  There were no bullet or knife wounds.

There was careless discarded pill sheets and a nasal spray on the bedside table, all of which forensics would sweep up and test.

Similarly, in the bathroom cabinet, there were more pills, about six different types, including one I knew to be heart medication.  He had high blood pressure.  A heart attack then might not be unexpected.  He also had other cold and influenza medications.  Perhaps he had recently been ill.  It was cold and miserable.

The coroner would have more to say on that.

I think I was disappointed.

There was just a contorted body with a lifeless expression and dead eyes.  It was rather creepy.

…

Dotting the i’s, Buchanan and I went outside and found the doctor and granddaughter waiting patiently. 

That was a first; most of the people detained by the first responders were very vocal about having to wait around, and in this weather, these two should have been more annoyed.

I know I would be.

Coming out the front door, I looked around at the few neighbours who had gathered to see what was happening.  The uniformed officers would have got statements from all of them.

Sometimes it is said that the killer would hang around after the murder as a bystander waiting for the police.  My assessment of everyone in the small groups was that none of them fitted the profile.

At the moment, it was a motiveless murder.  The only two with a possible opportunity were the granddaughter and the doctor.  An old man, living alone?  What did he have that others might covet?

The house.  Even in its current state in this neighbourhood, it had to be worth a lot.  Was there anything in the house?  If there was a will lying around, the forensic teams would find it.

But there was the granddaughter and the doctor. 

They were standing just up from the door, sheltering under a small verandah roof.  In that spot, there was protection from the elements, except the cold.

The rain had turned into a steady drizzle.

I shivered.  The ghost of the old man is finally leaving?

The two were expecting me.  I sent Buchanan off with the doctor.  I stayed with the girl.  The granddaughter was about 20ish and more conservative than a lot of 20-year-olds I’d seen, especially the daughters of my sister.

She had been crying, so it was safe to assume she had cared about the old man.

I introduced myself, “Detective Inspector Burgess.  You are?”

“Christine Davies, the man’s granddaughter.  I was looking in on my grandfather as I do most Fridays, and found him like that.  Dead.  It’s horrible.”

More tears flowed, and her grief was genuine.

It was horrible and for most a frightening experience.  I could imagine how she felt, and even having seen more than my share of dead people, it doesn’t make you immune to the horror of it.

“I’m sorry for your loss.  Just a couple of questions.  You have a key to the door?”

“Yes.  I come on average three times a week, sometimes more, to check on him.  No one else does, nor does it seem they care.  He was recently in the hospital for a few days, had his appendix removed.”

“The last time?”

“Two days ago.  He called and asked if I could drop in.  He said he misplaced a card and asked me to look for it.”

“A card?”

“Those cards the bank gives you to use rather than go to the branch.  He asked me to set up his internet banking account. He didn’t like the idea of a card replacing his money or the idea that he didn’t have to go to the bank, but I convinced him that the world was moving on and he had to catch up.  He reckoned it was the first step in them stealing your money.”

Or someone else, like a craft granddaughter. Ostensibly, she had access to his accounts if she set them up.  We had the computer and phone and would find out.

“Did you find the card?”

“No.  He got me to go back to the bank and sort them out.  He was feeling a little tired.  He didn’t look well, and I said I’d get the doctor to call.”

She gave me the details so I could check.

“Did you call the doctor?”

“Yes, but he was busy and couldn’t get here until today.  I called him first to make sure he was not still alive because I tried what they do on TV, you know, the pulse in the neck thing, but I got nothing.  He came quickly and confirmed he was dead.  That’s when I called the emergency services.”

“Did you check to see if anyone else had been there, or was there any sign of a break-in?”

“Everything looked the same, though, as you’ve no doubt seen, the place is a bit of a mess, but I’ve been trying to clean it up a bit.  I just went in the usual way, the front door, called out that it was me, and when he didn’t answer, went down the passage to his room.”

“Did anyone else have a key?”

“Just about everyone, I mean, his children.  There are five, including my mother.  Once my grandmother died, they all lost interest in visiting.  Or should I say when they realised there was no money in her will for any of them?  Not that there was much anyway.  He’s not rich.”

“He owns this house?”

“It’s a dump.  It can’t be worth that much.  I tried to convince him that he would be better off in an old folks home with other people and be cared for, but he said it would be like being in jail.”

“Did he tell you you might benefit from a will?”

She made a face when she realised the implications of that seemingly innocent question.

“Or did I coerce him into leaving me this place, and then kill him for it?  I mean, seriously.  I was the only one who cared what happened to him. You think I wanted it for the so-called pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?  I told him to leave whatever he had for cancer research.  A couple of years back, he was diagnosed with cancer, but they got it in time, and he has been free of it, although I feared it might have come back.  He said he was fine, but you can’t tell.”

I didn’t know much about it.  She seemed honest, but then, in my experience, some people have that knack of coming across exactly the opposite of what they are.  Perhaps the cancer had come back and killed him.

She gave her details on how to contact her for any follow-up questions and then let her go.

By that time, Buchanan had finished with the doctor and confirmed the recent cancer diagnosis, the coroner had arrived and could not shed any more light on the body until after the post-mortem, and I  left, leaving Buchanan to clean up.

At that point, it was the proverbial open and shut case.

…

The call from the Chief Superintendent was not unexpected because Buchanan would have reported to him the moment I left the scene.

He asked, and I told him that it seemed like a death by natural causes, because no one at the scene had made a different determination.

That would only come after a post-mortem and blood work. That would be available the next day.  He did question whether either was necessary in such circumstances, and I said we were dotting the i’s just as had requested.

It did not earn me any brownie points.

The fact that the granddaughter said that any of his family members might have killed him for his money was a very familiar story.  Sex and money were the two most popular reasons for killing someone, and neither seemed likely.

Unless the will and he’d been secreting millions away somewhere.  The granddaughter did think he had, but she would not be the first person, seemingly innocent, to lie to me

At the moment, it was sitting on the benefit of the doubt.  That might change in the next day or so.

Until then, rest was not going to come easily.  Something was nagging at the back of my neck.  A detail I should know and couldn’t remember. Perhaps I was making more of it than I should.

I went back to the office and did an internet dive into all things Devlin McConnaughy, and found very little.  It could wait until the next day.

….

Buchanan was in before I was, which to me was unusual.  I could smell the hand of the Superintendent’s in this new work ethic.

The other detectives followed me in slowly, some of them worse for wear.  None bothered to ask me why I hadn’t turned up; I had ceased talking to most of them over the last six months.

The feeling of hatred was mutual.

My desk had an analysis of Devlin’s phone and computer.  The sum total of nothing except a portal to the bank, and internet searches for holidays.

Given the nature of the holidays, it seemed they were more likely made by the granddaughter. 

We agreed to disagree

The interviews were typed up and put in a file sitting on mt desk.  Still no autopsy report or of the blood work, so we were still waiting for results.

…

Real policing was not a nine-to-five job, and there was no such thing as weekends.  Truth be told, you really couldn’t have a life, not in the early years of a detective’s career.

I had devoted early on that it wouldn’t be fair to subject someone else to the sacrifices that had to be made.  It was why my older comrades found it difficult to get a decent work-life balance, and the divorce rate was much higher than for any other occupation.

Or at least it seemed that way to me.

But, given my choices, it was not unusual to find me in at the office or volunteering on workdays when others wished to be at home with their families.

This day was no exception.

There was a report on the laptop? The phone, the neighbourhood interviews and I had the notes to write up the one I had conducted.

There was no post-mortem yet, which would arrive soon. 

Was I expecting anything?

There was very little evidence collected at the house.  They had found a copy of the will, and I was going to check with the solicitor.  It left a substantial amount to the granddaughter and reasonable amounts to the children.  A clause said that if any of them contested it, it would be held over until it was adjudicated by the courts.

The value of the house as an inheritance was a viable motive.  If it were a suspicious death. 

I had copies of his bank accounts, three, one a working account, one a savings account and one an investment account.  There was not enough in any of them to warrant killing the man for his money.

The house was owned by him, and we would have to talk to a real estate agent to get an approximate value.

I looked in my email and found a preliminary toxicology report with nothing unusual.  So, no drug overdosing, self-inflicted or otherwise.  Suicide was always on the list, and had to be ticked off.

An hour later, the post mortem came in, and it confirmed that Devlin had a heart attack and had been on painkiller medication for what looked to be a recent accident that scarred his leg.

It had nothing to do with his death.

The phone rang. 

Burgess.  “The body last night.  Verdict?”

There was only one verdict he wanted to hear.

“Nothing points to murder.  Heart attack and died.”

“Good.  Wrap it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

End of the discussion.  I put all the papers back in the file and left it in my in tray.  It could wait until Monday morning.  I would interview the solicitor, meet the granddaughter’s parents, and talk to the granddaughter again.

There was something not right.  Something about this case resonated with something I had read about, a few years ago, on the tail end of the COVID pandemic.

I was going for a walk in the park to clear my head.  I had a lot of searching and reading to do.

…

The trouble with quick clearance rates is that sometimes justice is not served.  The Devlin McCannaughy case was one.

But over the next few days, listening to all of the members of that family argue and squabble over the spoils, and furious that the granddaughter got nearly everything, the accusations were just that, accusations.

The lawyer knew all about the will and the reasons behind it.  So apparently did all those in line time inherit.  There was no motive for any of them other than the main beneficiary.

The trouble was, I could find no evidence to support my theory, and solid evidence was required before there would be any prosecution.

Did I think the granddaughter was guilty of murdering her grandfather for the money?  She didn’t steal from him, not like the children did; it was her mother who had stolen her father’s card and taken money out of the account.

We could prosecute her for theft, but the amount was almost irrelevant and not worth the court’s time.

How did the granddaughter do it?

By the nasal spray.  I had read about a case, one I had used in a paper I wrote about the perfect murder.  The thing is, she would need medical knowledge of what toxin to use and not leave a trace.  I had ordered another tox screen, but we didn’t know what we were looking for.

Motive and opportunity, but not the means.  Even though it was only her prints on the nasal spray beside the bed, one taken from the bathroom cabinet, there was a simple explanation, one given freely when I interviewed her.

She collected and gave him his medication. Yes, he had high blood pressure, and yes, he had minor heart problems, but nothing that would kill him.

When I gave the report to the Chief Superintendent, he just laughed and told me I was not working for MI5 and I should keep my conspiracy theories to myself.

Of course I did, but fate eventually intervened.  The Chief Superintendent was found dead in a sleazy motel, dead because of a heart attack.

Everyone drew the same conclusion.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 30

It was a good plan.

Wallace, once he discovered his search team had gone missing would send another group to find them, and we would dispatch them in the same manner.

Each foray would reduce his group at the castle until it became, for us, a manageable size.  Currently, it was 35, with four already killed.  There was also the Leonardo factor, and his men, according to Martina, numbered seven.

If I was Wallace, who would realize once he discovered the body on the road to Chiara’s, that sending his own men out to be picked off was a bad idea, would eventually send Leonardo and his men as the first foray to resolve the problem.  

That, of course, would present the same problem as Wallace’s men, there would be deadly retribution.  The villages had all hated Leonardo, and he had dislike them for not selecting him as the local head of the resistance.  That had fallen to Martina, a more popular person, and one more capable.

It seemed to me, from what she had told me, Leonardo was more a mercenary, one who would work for the highest bidder, and that was the sort of man Wallace would have no trouble employing.

Martina was right to round up the villagers to keep them safe

But, for Carlo and I, we needed to pre-emp their strike, and the safest assumption was that they would return to Chiara’s, looking for her, and for answers.  

There was some discussion as to who would be in the attack group, and I agreed that the more we had the better chances we had of beating them, but in the end, we also needed people with the villagers, just in case the worst-case scenario happened, Leonardo knew of the underground wine storage facility and came there instead.

As far as Martina was concerned, he didn’t.  Very few people knew of its existence. 

In the end, it was decided that Carlo and I should go.  He had no doubt he could take Leonardo’s seven by himself, and I didn’t doubt him, so I went along just in case he needed some help.

I took the distant ground with the sniper rifle, and when I saw them, I was not to hesitate to shoot them.  Carlo would be closer and clean up what I missed.  We had enough ammunition to take out at least twenty.

And that’s where we were, from dusk until the following morning, waiting for the search team to arrive.  It did not occur to Carlo, or me, that there was a possibility they might not come, or that Leonardo might have something else in mind.


Alone, in the dark, and surrounded by what could only be described as an eerie stillness, it was hard to imagine that a deadly war was being waged.

In this part of the world, it was not so intense, that according to our intelligence, the Germans were getting stretched very thin on the ground, and were withdrawing soldiers from the extremities of Europe to bolster the fighting closer to home, and the imminent attack in France by the allies.

Of course, there was no way the Germans could know where and when, even I didn’t know that, but it was coming.  It seemed odd to me, by way of contrast, that the Germans high command had basically wasted a formidable and hitherto undetected group of double agents to rescue a rocket scientist which, in my mind, was hardly going to save or lose the war for them.

Perhaps that’s why it had not been up to me, and I hoped that our people knew exactly what they were doing.  Those that had been filtering through the castle were not exactly the sort of people Thompson had been expecting to defect, but once he learned of Meyer’s desire to leave, that assessment had changed.

It also caused a reassessment of the operation at the castle, which led to the discovery people were not making it beyond that point and became the reason for my mission.  The fact I’d been attacked before I reached my objective was coincidental, but it didn’t take long to realize why.

From that to here had been the proverbial hop, step, and jump.

I had not anticipated having to join the resistance, not be involved in becoming a guerrilla.

Not had I expected a dog for a companion.  Jack was lying on the ground next to me, and it looked like he was getting a well-earned rest.

Then he heard something, and lifted his head, ears pricked up.

Then I heard it.

The sound of an airplane passing overhead, but some distance away.

It was not the clearest night so all we could do was hear it, not see it.  A patrol?  A plane that had lost its way.  It was a bit south of where the action was, or where I’d expect the Germans to have either fighters or bombers.

Perhaps the allies then, but late at night surrounded by darkness, there would be little to see.

A minute later, nothing.

Jack put his head down, and I was struggling to keep my eyes open.  Something had better happen soon, or I would miss it.

© Charles Heath 2020

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

And, the story:

Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply fly away?

Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, I came to the airport to see the plane leave.  Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.

But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision.  She needed the opportunity to spread her wings.  It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.

She was in a rut.  Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level that she, the youngest of the group, would get the position.

It was something that had been weighing her down for the last three months, and if she noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper.  I knew she had one; no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.

And then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere.  Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication.  It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact that she had to entertain more, and frankly, I felt like an embarrassment to her.

So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock.  We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.

It was then that she said she had quit her job and found a new one.  Starting the following Monday.

Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it was something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.

I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.

What surprised her was my reaction.  None.

I simply asked who, where, and when.

A world-class newspaper in New York, and she had to be there in a week.

A week.

It was all the time I had left with her.

I remember just shrugging and asking if the planned weekend away was off.

She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.

Is that all you want to know?

I did, yes, but we had lost the intimacy we used to have, where she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker, but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.

There’s not much to ask, I said.  You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place,  and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.

Her immediate superior was instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position, he had not taken advantage of the situation like some might.  And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.

One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.

So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.

Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology.  It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you.  I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.

Yes, our relationship had a use-by date, and it was in the next few days.

I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me; you can make cabinets anywhere.

I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job.  It was everything around her and going with her that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.

Then the only question left was, what do we do now?

Go shopping for suitcases.  Bags to pack, and places to go.

Getting on the roller coaster is easy.  At the beginning, it’s a slow, easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top.  It’s much like some relationships; they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, followed by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.

What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.

Our roller coaster had just come out of the final turn, and we were braking so that it would stop at the station.

There was no question of going with her to New York.  Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back.  After a few months in the new job, the last thing she’d want was a reminder of what she left behind.  New friends, new life.

We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a free trip to the op shop with stuff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.

Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming; that moment, the taxi arrived to take her away forever.  I remember standing there, watching the taxi go.  It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.

So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.

Already that morning, there had been 6 different types of planes departing, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.

People coming, people going.

Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just to see what the attraction was.  Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.

As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.

Perhaps it was.

© Charles Heath 2020-2026

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