Did John get reunited with his mother in the hospital?
What of Rupert and Isobel? Did she get to meet the elusive and enigmatic Tsar?
These are all questions that will be answered in due course.
There is also the matter of what happens when John and Zoe/Irina finally meet up after he learns that she regarded him as expendable, and, knowing her as he did, he didn’t doubt for a minute that she meant it.
Is it the folly of falling in love with an assassin?
Once again, we end up at the grandmother’s residence in Sorrento, languishing sans Zoe, contemplating a future that might not include Zoe.
His idea of setting up an investigation bureau is alive and well, run by Rupert, staffed by people who have the skills but not the confidence of others who had employed them. Rupert is the master of picking lame ducks and turning them into swans.
Isobel, on the other hand, does not improve with age or being in a somewhat iffy, long-range, possible romance thing.
Does Zoe return? Does she call? Can she drag herself away from her recently rediscovered father?
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.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
When we arrived back at the underground site Martina was waiting, and it was clear she was extremely annoyed. Word, somehow, had filtered back of what just happened.
“Are you totally mad?” she snarled. “You know what’s going to happen now?”
I had a good idea but chose not to speak.
“They got what they deserved,” Carlo said. “They found the missing man that you left on the side of the road, by the way, and it was lucky we were there when they found him. Whether they believed it was an accident or not, they were heading to Chiara’s, and we had to do something about that.”
“And you didn’t think that might have consequences?”
I think all of us had considered what would happen as a result of what could only be described as an ambush. And, while I thought, as no doubt the others had also, it might lead to retribution killings, it might not. Wallace could not afford to be seen acting like the Germans, who certainly would have lined up a dozen villagers and shot them and might not do anything.
But, when he realised I was involved, and that the so-called remnants of the resistance could and were willing to cause him trouble, he would have to do something about it. Especially with a high-value defector coming his way.
“Wallace certainly can’t do anything about it, other than come and ask questions. He can’t afford to be seen acting as anything but a British officer.”
“But he could get Leonardo and his men to do it for him.”
“Surely he wouldn’t kill the same people he’s lived with all his life.”
“Leonardo’s allegiance’s go to anyone who hands him a free meal ticket. Until the so-called British arrived at the castle, it was fine to be the resistance because he was being paid handsomely for his help. When the Germans left the castle, he considered his job was over, and we all went our different ways, hoping the war was over for us. Of course, that was only wishful thinking. Even when the British turned up at the castle, with the express intention of capturing and repatriating to England any Germans who wanted to defect, his advice was to let them do what they want.”
“What changed?”
“The man in charge, Wallace you call him, sent out a message for those who had been in the resistance to come up to the castle to talk. Leonardo thought it might be an opportunity to get back on the payroll. Carlo and I and several others didn’t go. There they were told they would be paid for each defector they collected and brought to the castle.”
“Didn’t he think that might be a little suspicious since it was just as easy for Wallace to send his own people to collect them, and not have to pay anything?”
“Now that we know they are Germans masquerading as British, it makes sense. But Leonardo is little more than a fool and greedy. He doesn’t care who pays so long as they pay. I suspect he has no idea who he’s working for, or what happens to the people he collects. Anyone who opted out of the new arrangement seems to have disappeared.”
“Many?”
“Three that we know of. They’re probably locked in the dungeons with the others you saw there.”
“How come he hasn’t come after you?”
“Too much trouble, and possibly because it’s a fight he can’t necessarily win.”
“He might not have a choice now. Wallace is going to have to do something about us, simply because he can’t let the defectors fall into our hands, and especially now that we know that’s why he’s here.”
“Then if it’s a fight he’s looking for, then we’ll have to give him one.”
“On that, I just had a thought on how we might be able to even up the odds a little, but I have to give it a bit more thought.”
An idea came to me, one that might just work because I was counting on the fact Wallace would have to do something and depending on… “In the meantime, we have to do something about the rest of the villagers, just in case I’m wrong about Wallace. How many people are left in the village?”
“About twenty. All the rest scattered when the Germans came the first time, and half of those that remained were killed for one reason or another. The previous commander of the castle frequently lost it when any of us refused to co-operate.”
“Then send Carlo out to round them up and put them somewhere safe.”
“There are no safe places anymore,” Carlo said, “None that they don’t know about.”
“What about here?”
“It’s the only place we have left that no one knows about.”
“Well, you don’t have much of a choice.”
Martina was not happy. Her isolated resistance effort was steadily becoming a large-scale attack, not the sort of operation she had intended. But I don’t think it would have stayed that way for very long, given Carlo’s actions.
She turned to Carlo. “Go and round them up and bring them here.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Then we’ve done all we can for them. But tell them that it’s a distinct possibility they will die if they stay where they are. Take Chiara, and hurry. I doubt it will be very long before the castle finds out what happened to their men.”
Carlo and Chiara grabbed a weapon each and left. When they returned, it would be to formulate a plan to take down Wallace and the others at the castle, hopefully before the defector arrived.
That plan that was evolving in my mind didn’t exactly involve the villagers, but the three or four remaining members I was now working. Leonardo might not know of all of them, or even if he did, one of them would be Wallace’s first calling point. It just depended on who he sent.
And if I was a betting man, and if he knew that one of his men was ‘seeing’ Chiara, then that’s where they would go.
The only question to be asked at this point, would we be too late to take advantage of an opportunity to reduce the odds?
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 instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
I was not sure what to make of Nadia. It would have been better if she hadn’t said she liked me. Perhaps she was just toying with my emotions.
Whatever she said, she was right about one thing, that it put a spoke in the works with my plan to get her the map and ease her problems with Alex. Of course, I knew that wouldn’t be the end of her issues with Alex, he was not the sort to let a fish off the hook.
And despite her protestations to the contrary, she looked very much at ease in his company. Had she told Alex what my plan was, and got Rico out of the way so he could set his sights on me?
Had Alex something to do with Rico’s current predicament? Based on the information that Nadia had given me, the proximity of his boat, and the divers, what were they for? I suspect it was not to remove fishing line from the propeller shaft.
No, this had the smell of the Benderby’s all over it.
I finished my drink and left. Once outside, I could see there was still activity on Rico’s boat, and two men from the coroner’s office were just removing the body from the cabin. I could see a group of white jump suit clad people waiting to board, the crime scene investigators.
I thought about going back to the boat, but there was a policeman standing on the start of the pier making sure only those with a legitimate reason were let through.
Enough excitement for one day. It was time to go to work. I had just enough time to get home, change, and get to the warehouse.
When I stepped into the office, Alex was waiting by my desk and that could only mean one thing, I was in some sort of trouble. Usually, he just ignored me, unless there was something no one else wanted to do like taking inventory.
“A few minutes in my office Smidge.”
Trouble it was. He only called me Smidge when he was annoyed with me.
I followed him in and closed the door. His office was the same as his father’s, in the main building, only smaller.
He didn’t invite me to sit down. He sat on the edge of his desk, facing me. It brought back bad memories of being in the principal’s office at school.
“What were you doing talking to Nadia?”
How could he know? Knowing Alex, he, or more to the point, his father, had spies everywhere.
“She came and sat next to me, Alex, not the other way around. She was reminding me of how insignificant I was, and then she was asking questions about Rico. I was there when they found a body on his boat, Alex. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
I watched his expression change for just a moment. He didn’t have the same set in granite features as his father, a man who could lie to your face and stab you in the back at the same time.
“Why would I? I was out testing Dad’s boat, and all I could see what police everywhere. I wouldn’t put anything past Rico.”
Then I had an idea that might rattle Alex’s cage a little.
“There’s a rumour going around that Rico had a copy of a more detailed treasure map. I mean, Boggs seems to think his father had a more detailed treasure map than the one doing the rounds, and maybe Rico had got his hands on it, and perhaps that man on the boat was a treasure hunter who was trying to buy it, or steal it, and got on the wrong side of an argument with someone, and not necessarily Rico. To be honest, Alex, I don’t think Rico is that stupid he would murder someone on his boat.”
There was a definite interest in his eyes, one that sparked whenever I mentioned the treasure map, and it was more than a passing phase.
“You and I both know that Boggs is little more than a brainless idiot who’s always trying to make out his father wasn’t the world’s worst treasure hunter. Those rumours are just that, Smidge, rumours. There is no treasure and there is no map. And it’s debatable whether Rico had anything other than a quick temper. If I were you, I’d go looking for a better class of friend, and forget about this so-called treasure.”
Put as casually as he could, the problem was Alex could not keep the veiled threat out of his tone. He was definitely telling me to back off. But, then I had another thought, just to stir the pot a little more.
“Funny thing Alex, that was what Nadia told me too. What if the Cossatino’s think the exact opposite, that the rumours are true. She could have been sizing me up as a potential source for the map, seeing how Boggs and I are such good friends.”
Mentioning the Cossatino’s made Alex uncomfortable. I could see it, and feel it. The tension in the room was rising.
“You should keep well away from the Cossatino’s, and particularly Nadia. They are very, very dangerous people. If she’s talking to you, then I’d been running away as fast as I could.”
“Because you’re interested in her?”
“Are you, I mean seriously Smidge, what would she see in you?”
That, of course, was a good question, and from his perspective, quite a valid point. I had nothing that he knew of to offer.
“Everyone has something someone else wants, Alex. I’ll admit, at the moment, I don’t have anything to offer a woman like that, and she is way above my pay grade, but if you like, I’ll try to find out what it is she does want. I work here, so perhaps she thinks I might be able to get some dirt on you unless you are good friends and she’s just trying to make my life more miserable than it already is.”
Yes, I could see the wheels turning, the Alex that didn’t trust anyone, no matter who they were.
“If she tries, you tell me.”
“Of course. Now I’d better get back to work. Your dad is supposed to be coming over for an inspection.”
It’s a long-standing joke that the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlight of an express train coming right at you.
Metaphorically speaking, this is quite often true if you are a pessimist, but since I’ve converted to being an optimist, a bit like changing religions, I believe I’ve seen the ‘light’. It’s a lot like coming up from the bottom of a deep pool, breaking the surface and taking that first long gulp of air.
Along with that elated feeling that you’re not going to drown.
What’s this got to do with anything, you ask?
Perhaps nothing.
As an allegory, it represents, to me, a time when I finally got over a period of self-doubt, a period where a series of events started to make me question why I wanted to be a writer.
I mean, why put yourself through rejections, sometimes scathing criticism, and then have the people whom you thought were your friends suddenly start questioning your choices after initially wholeheartedly supporting them?
Are we only successful or supportable if we are earning a sufficient wage? Or better still, a New York Times No. 1 bestselling author? Or, even better, having sold a million copies?
Is this why so many people don’t give up their day job and then find themselves plying the ‘other’ trade into the dark hours of the night, only to find themselves being criticised for other but no less disparaging reasons?
It seems like a no-win situation, the times when your mettle is tested severely. But, in the end, it is worth it when the book is finished and published, even if it is only on Amazon.
The Unbreakable Vow: How Accurate Must Non-Fiction Really Be?
The Ethical Tightrope Walk of the Storyteller
In an age where information is constantly challenged and fact-checking seems like a lost art, the role of the non-fiction writer has never been more vital—or more scrutinised. When a reader picks up a memoir, a history book, or a piece of investigative journalism, they enter into a sacred contract with the author.
That contract is simple: This is the truth.
But how absolute is that requirement? Writing, after all, is an art form, not a police report. Where does artistic license end, and fabrication begin? And what happens when a writer breaks the cardinal vow of non-fiction?
1. The Currency of Trust: Defining Accuracy
Non-fiction is built on trust. Unlike the novelist, whose power lies in invention, the non-fiction writer’s power rests entirely on verifiability.
The Standard is Rigour
For true accuracy, a writer must adhere to several key principles:
Verifiability: All key facts, dates, events, and quotes must be traceable to reliable sources (documents, interviews, established historical record).
Contextual Honesty: Presenting a fact accurately is not enough; it must be presented within its proper context. Omitting crucial context can turn a truth into a lie of implication.
Due Diligence: The writer has an ethical obligation to actively seek out and include information that might contradict their central thesis, rather than cherry-picking facts that bolster their argument.
The Grey Area: When Narrative Needs Taming
The truth is often messy, disorganised, and tedious. To shape a compelling narrative, even the most rigorous writer must perform certain operations that skirt the edges of pure objectivity:
Composite Characters: Combining minor, unnamed figures into one character for the sake of narrative flow (e.g., “a nurse” who represents three different nurses the author spoke to). Ethical Boundary: This is acceptable only if the composite character does not perform actions that never happened or fundamentally alter the setting or plot.
Dialogue Recreation: Human memory is imperfect. Few people remember the exact wording from conversations years ago. Writers often recreate dialogue based on notes, journals, or the known speaking style of the person. Ethical Boundary: The reconstructed dialogue must faithfully reflect the actual intent and meaning of the original exchange.
Compression of Time: Events that occurred over weeks may be described as happening over a day to maintain momentum. Ethical Boundary: This cannot mislead the reader about cause and effect.
In essence, the rule for navigating the grey area is this: You can compress, simplify, or rephrase, but you cannot introduce invention. If the event, the essential characters, or the core outcome did not happen or exist, you have crossed into fiction.
2. The Cardinal Sin: Fabrication and Lying
Fabricating material in non-fiction is not merely a mistake; it is an act of fraud.
A writer lies when they invent interviews, invent sources, invent data, or fundamentally alter the outcome of a factual event simply to make the story “better.”
The motivation for lying is almost always narrative convenience—the truth wasn’t exciting enough, complete enough, or emotionally satisfying. This choice, driven by desperation or arrogance, guarantees catastrophic consequences.
3. The Scorched-Earth Consequences of Lying
The consequences for writers who fabricate or lie about non-fiction material are swift, catastrophic, and often permanent. They touch every aspect of the writer’s professional and personal life.
A. Reputational Death
For a non-fiction writer, reputation is their lifeblood. Once fabrication is discovered, the writer is professionally toxic.
Loss of Credibility: A single lie taints every word the writer has ever published and ever will publish. The reader instantly wonders, “If they lied about this date, did they lie about the entire premise?”
Ostracization: Publishers, editors, journalists, and academic institutions will severely limit or cease association with the writer. The writer is no longer a professional peer; they are a liability.
The Loss of the Subject: If the work was a biography or history, the writer loses the ability to access primary sources or interview subjects, as no one will risk having their story distorted again.
B. Financial and Legal Ruin
Fabrication often leads to substantial financial and legal actions:
Book Recalls and Returns: Publishers are often forced to recall and pulp thousands of copies, costing millions. Royalties are stopped immediately, and the author may be required to pay back advances (a “clawback”) based on breach of contract.
Lawsuits: If the fabricated material slanders or libels a real person, or invades privacy, the author and publisher face costly civil lawsuits. This is especially true in memoirs, where the writer has misrepresented the actions or character of family members or acquaintances.
C. The Death of the Work
When fabrication is exposed, the work itself ceases to be viewed as literature or history; it becomes a footnote in the history of literary scandal.
Academic institutions remove the book from reading lists.
Awards won by the book are often revoked.
The work, no matter how engaging the fictional elements were, loses its cultural permanence because its foundation is rotten.
The Example of Literary Hoaxes
History is littered with examples of celebrated non-fiction—particularly memoirs—that were revealed to be frauds. These incidents rarely end with the writer receiving a slap on the wrist. They often involve public confession, professional exile, and a permanent asterisk next to their name in literary history. The narrative satisfaction gained by lying is never worth the loss of an entire career.
The Ultimate Responsibility
The job of the non-fiction writer is the challenging, often frustrating, task of wrestling the truth into a readable shape. It means accepting that sometimes, the real story is incomplete, ambiguous, or less dramatic than we might wish.
The commitment to accuracy is not just an ethical preference; it is the scaffolding upon which the entire genre is built. When we pick up a pen or open a keyboard to write non-fiction, we make an unbreakable vow to the reader to stay true to the facts, not because it’s easy, but because the alternative is professional and sometimes personal extinction.
The truth may be messy, but in non-fiction, it is the only story that matters.
Write Like a Pro: 3 Common Writing Pitfalls to Avoid
Great writing is like a good conversation: it should be clear, engaging, and easy to follow. However, even experienced writers sometimes fall into habits that obstruct the reader’s experience. To help you sharpen your prose, let’s look at three common mistakes—run-on sentences, overlong anecdotes, and unnecessary Latin phrases—and how to fix them.
1. Ditch the Run-On Sentences
A run-on sentence happens when two or more independent clauses are joined improperly, often without the necessary punctuation or conjunctions. They force the reader to hold their breath until they hit a period, which kills the rhythm of your content.
What NOT to write:
“I went to the store to buy groceries for the party but they were closed so I had to go to the neighbor’s house to ask for some sugar and then I realized I forgot my wallet at home anyway.”
How to do it properly:
Use a period: “I went to the store to buy groceries for the party, but it was closed. I had to go to my neighbour’s house for sugar, only to realise I’d left my wallet at home.”
Use a semicolon: “The store was closed; consequently, I had to ask my neighbour for sugar.”
2. Stop Cramming Stories into One Sentence
New writers often try to pack an entire narrative arc—the setting, the conflict, and the resolution—into a single, breathless sentence. If a story requires more than one sentence to explain, give it the space it needs. Breaking your thoughts into multiple sentences allows the reader to digest the information one piece at a time.
What NOT to write:
“When I was hiking in the Rockies last summer, I saw a massive grizzly bear standing just a few yards away from the trail, and my heart started racing as I slowly backed away, hoping it wouldn’t notice me while I reached for my bear spray, and eventually, I made it back to safety without a scratch.”
How to do it properly:
“While hiking in the Rockies last summer, I saw a massive grizzly bear standing just yards from the trail. My heart raced as I slowly backed away, praying it wouldn’t notice me reaching for my bear spray. Thankfully, I made it back to the trailhead without a scratch.”
3. Avoid Obscure Latin Phrases
Using Latin phrases like ad hoc, post hoc, or quid pro quo can make your writing feel pretentious or exclusionary. Unless you are writing for an academic, legal or medical journal, your goal should be clarity. If a simple English word does the job, use it.
What NOT to write:
“We formed the committee ad hoc to handle the budget crisis, but their efforts were ipso facto doomed from the start.”
How to do it properly:
“We formed a temporary committee to handle the budget crisis, but their efforts were inherently doomed from the start.”
Note: If you feel a specific Latin phrase is essential, ensure it is widely understood (like “et cetera” or “per se”), but even then, using plain English is almost always the more professional choice.
The Takeaway
Good writing isn’t about how many complex structures you can cram into a paragraph; it’s about how much value you can provide to the reader with the least amount of friction.
Remember:
Break up your clauses to avoid run-ons.
Give your stories the breathing room of multiple sentences.
Beyond Beethoven: Five Unique Experiences on Bonn’s Road Less Travelled
Bonn! The city of Beethoven’s birth, vibrant cherry blossoms, and a rich political past. Most visitors flock to the Beethoven-Haus, stroll along the Rhine, or admire the Münster. And rightly so – these are truly wonderful experiences!
But what if you’ve already “done” the main sights, or simply yearn for a deeper, more authentic connection with a place? What if you’re the kind of traveller who thrives on uncovering hidden gems, exploring local life, and stepping slightly off the well-trodden path?
If that sounds like you, then welcome to Bonn’s road less travelled! Here are five unique things to do that will give you a fresh perspective on this charming Rhineland city.
1. Scale the Petersberg & Soak in Panoramic History
While most tourists head for the Drachenfels for that iconic Siebengebirge view, the Petersberg offers an equally stunning, often quieter, and historically significant alternative. Perched majestically above the Rhine, this mountain is home to the Steigenberger Grandhotel & Spa Petersberg, a legendary venue that served as Germany’s state guesthouse for decades.
Why it’s unique: Imagine dining where world leaders once negotiated treaties, or simply enjoying a coffee with a view that inspired generations. You can hike up through lush forests (multiple trails offer varying difficulties), or take a scenic drive. The views over the Rhine valley, the city of Königswinter, and across to the Drachenfels are simply breathtaking, especially at sunset. It’s less about a specific attraction and more about the serene atmosphere and the weight of history in the air.
Do this: Choose a clear afternoon, pack some snacks, and hike up one of the quieter trails. Reward yourself with a drink on the hotel terrace, soaking in the panoramic vista. Explore the small chapel and reflect on the significant meetings that took place here.
2. Dive into Art & Herstory at the Frauenmuseum Bonn
Move beyond the grand national museums and discover a truly groundbreaking institution: the Frauenmuseum Bonn. Established in 1981, it was the world’s first museum dedicated to female artists and their cultural-historical contributions.
Why it’s unique: This isn’t just another art gallery. The Frauenmuseum is a vibrant, feminist space that constantly challenges perspectives through its diverse and thought-provoking exhibitions. It showcases contemporary art by women, presents historical themes from a female viewpoint, and fosters dialogue about gender roles and societal change. It’s a dynamic place that feels deeply relevant and often sparks lively discussion.
Do this: Check their current exhibition schedule before you go, as they change frequently. Allow yourself to be challenged, inspired, and educated. Don’t forget to browse their small but interesting gift shop for unique souvenirs.
3. Wander Through the Bonn University Botanical Gardens (Poppelsdorfer Gärten)
While the Poppelsdorf Palace is a known landmark, many visitors simply admire its facade without fully exploring its magnificent Botanical Gardens. These aren’t just any gardens; they are among the oldest and most species-rich botanical gardens in Germany, managed by the University of Bonn.
Why it’s unique: Tucked behind the ornate palace, these gardens are a tranquil oasis packed with scientific wonder. From ancient redwoods to tropical greenhouses brimming with exotic plants, you can travel the world’s flora in an afternoon. It’s a place of quiet contemplation, learning, and incredible beauty, often frequented more by students and local residents than tourists.
Do this: Dedicate a good hour or two. Explore the different sections, marvel at the giant water lilies in summer, and step into the warm, humid greenhouses to discover rare orchids and carnivorous plants. It’s especially beautiful in spring and early summer.
4. Get Lost in the Architectural Charm of the Südstadt
Forget the central hubbub for a moment and take a leisurely stroll through Bonn’s Südstadt (South Town). This district is one of Germany’s largest and best-preserved Gründerzeit (late 19th-century) residential areas, boasting stunning historical architecture around every corner.
Why it’s unique: It’s a living, breathing neighbourhood, not a museum district. The Südstadt’s streets are lined with beautifully ornate Wilhelminian-era buildings, each with unique facades, intricate balconies, and charming details. There are no major “attractions” here, just pure aesthetic pleasure and a glimpse into Bonn’s elegant past and present-day local life. You’ll find quiet cafes, small boutiques, and a sense of calm distinct from the city centre.
Do this: Start near Poppelsdorfer Allee and simply wander the side streets like Argelanderstraße, Kaiserstraße, and Bonner Talweg. Look up and admire the architectural details. Stop at a local cafe for Kaffee und Kuchen (coffee and cake) and soak in the atmosphere.
5. Savor Authentic “Bönnsch” at a Traditional Brauhaus
While Bonn isn’t as famous for beer as Cologne, it has its own unique brew and a strong pub culture. Seek out a traditional Bönnsch Brauhaus for an authentic taste of local life and regional cuisine.
Why it’s unique: “Bönnsch” is a specific top-fermented beer brewed only in Bonn, similar to Cologne’s Kölsch but with its own distinct character. These Brauhäuser are more than just pubs; they’re social hubs where locals gather. You’ll find a lively, unpretentious atmosphere, hearty German dishes, and endlessly refilled small glasses (Stangen) of the refreshing local brew. It’s an immersive cultural experience that connects you directly with Bonn’s everyday rhythm.
Do this: Head to a well-regarded local brewery-pub. Order a “Bönnsch” (or just wait for the Köbes/waiter to bring one) and a traditional dish like “Sauerbraten Rheinische Art” (Rhenish pot roast) or “Himmel un Ääd” (Heaven and Earth – blood sausage with mashed potatoes and apple sauce). Don’t be shy; strike up a conversation with a local if the opportunity arises!
Bonn is a city that rewards those willing to peel back its layers. So, next time you’re in this beautiful city, dare to wander a little further, look a little closer, and discover the unique spirit that truly makes Bonn special. Happy travels on the road less travelled!
Have you discovered any other hidden gems in Bonn? Share your finds in the comments below!
So, I wonder if it’s true, any port in a storm, except perhaps Marseilles.
Or, if you are a lothario-type sailor, you would have a girl in every port.
Yes, the most common definition of a port is a place where ships dock.
And, while talking of ships we don’t call the sides left and right, we call them port and starboard. Just in case you didn’t know, port is on the left side of the ship when facing forward.
And of course, ships have portholes, i.e. windows, traditionally round and rather small.
It could be an alcoholic drink, imbibed mostly after dinner with coffee and cigars, though no one seems to smoke cigars anymore.
There is still coffee, for now. No doubt sometime in the future someone will link it to death and dying, and it will fall out of favour, like sugar, weedkillers and asbestos.
The best port seems to come from Portugal, strange about that.
You can port a program (app in phone speak) from one platform to another, which basically means from Android to Apple IOS, but not without a reasonable amount of work.
It can also be an outlet plug on a computer that accepts cables from other devices (USB) and many years ago, a printer port, and a serial port.
In certain places in the world a port is a child’s schoolbag, a definition I was not aware of until we moved to a different state.
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.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 