Category: Book

Writing a book in 365 days – 350

Day 350 – Writing exercise

He had never liked the desert, or anywhere hot, if he was telling the truth.

…

It started out as a joke and ended up as the reason for defunding my project, but irrespective of the reason given, it was not unexpected because of the lack of progress and cost overruns.

And the fact that I had suffered a minor breakdown, having laboured day and night, in very hot, dusty, trying conditions for longer than I expected.

Of course, the fact that I had assured the Management team that I would be available 24/7, and was forced to go on indefinite sick leave, was probably the final nail in the coffin.

That, and the fact that I had participated in an interview where I had confessed, in a moment of reflection, that I preferred to live in the cooler climate of the mountains than in the middle of the desert, the place where I had been running a major investigation into underground rivers.

Or, as my hard-working and cynical assistant project manager had put it, they didn’t want a woman taking my place, and worse, they didn’t want anyone to know they had run out of funding.

In the end, none of it mattered.  They shut down the site.

…

Melanie, Acting Project Manager, resident cynic, and all-around conspiracy theorist, had dropped in on her way home, or as she put it, a welcome deviation before returning to a ‘rat hole’ at her sister’s residence while in transit between jobs.

I had just left the hospital, and arrived at my ‘Shangrila’ the day before.  She had just wrapped up the operation in Mexico.  She looked as exhausted as I still felt.

When Melanie watched the replay of the post-project interview, curious to see what had been said, she realised one very important point.  “You were led. The interviewer had a definite plan to lead you down a particular path and then took a run with it.”

“I was tired and wanted to get it over with.”

“You didn’t ask for the slate of questions ahead of time?”

“I did and was given a folder.  There was nothing about climate preferences, or the possibility of exhaustion, in them.”

“There you are.  It was nothing less than a set-up, clearly designed to derail your project.”

Melanie always suspected the organisation that funded the projects to be exactly the sort of people they portrayed to the outside world, and she had been very vocal at the first meeting, and several since, citing the world needed water, not geothermal energy.

In the beginning, it had been a hard sell.  Until suddenly they changed their minds from a hard no to a three-year deal.

That was until the two board members who agreed with her had retired in the last six months.

“If they hadn’t retired, we wouldn’t be here.”

Actually, we would.  We had not found irrefutable evidence that there was water under the impenetrable rock.  It was somewhere near there, I just wasn’t sure exactly where, and drilling bores wasn’t cheap.

I had been assured they’d come back to it later.

Meanwhile…

I was on administrative leave.  Melanie was supposed to go to Peru or Chile.  Instead ,she stayed with me.

…

Melanie had also suspected the Project Management organisation of having ulterior motives.  I had also heard the rumours that somewhere of the projects had two purposes.

The most recent, an archaeological dig turned into a search for oil, in a place where the local government had been prevented from prospecting.

Our project had the security team ‘enhanced’ because of ‘perceived’ threats to our safety, which, in the end, didn’t materialise.

Just before the funding dried up.

It was not as if they didn’t have a reason.  Suddenly, we found it difficult to bore through the hard rock to get down to the suspected cavern where an underground river ran from the Arctic to the north to the equator.

We had found what was believed to be the entrance in northern Scandinavia, but not the outlet, other than ancient evidence of water feeding a flourishing Aztec city, not just dry dusty ruins.   It had been paradise.

And as much as I would like to also give my archaeological skills a run, that hadn’t been our focus.  We just had to work around the archaeological aspects of the site.

Even so, I had a feeling someone was poking around the ruins, with people going missing, and strange noises at night.

Melanie was adamant that the ghosts of the city’s once-inhabitants were rising up to protect their final resting place from us invaders.

It became the subject of a conversation one morning, after about a week, the amount of time it took for Melanie doing nothing to start getting bored.

She had just latched onto the archaeological aspects of the site, just arriving at a conclusion I had considered a possibility, but unlikely given the local government’s stand on exploration of the ruins.

“It’s an unjustified cost to bore through impassable rock, especially when we cannot prove an outcome.”

“What if it wasn’t and they’re just telling you that?”

I looked at her over the conference table with surprise.  Melanie was my guru for superstitions and conspiracy theories and was often closer to the bone than most.

She had said once after a few too many margaritas that the site we were working at had been an old Aztec temple and place of worship and sacrifice, and more than one ghost had been seen at night.

I thought I had seen one myself, but I didn’t believe in such things.  But I did suspect that there might be an element of truth in another myth she had uncovered, that somewhere within the boundaries of the site was a reputed entrance to a network of caverns and tunnels, where artifacts had been hidden from the Spanish conquerors, and which several items had been found nearby.

It would make more sense to think we had been shut down so that another clandestine expedition was being funded to locate the entrance or determine whether there was any truth to the supposition that gold and or artifacts were hidden there.  That would make more money than finding underground watercourses.

“Then what are you telling me?”

“Those extra security staff sent to save us from the revolting masses would know one end of a gun from the other.  Did they look like mercenaries?”

After a few more margaritas, she confessed her ideal man was that Hollywood stereotype mercenary. This stereotype was not supported by the members of the security team or the additional people sent.

“Not really, but do we really know that security people have a ‘type’?”

“Girls who look like they just came from a fashion show in Milan.  You remember Joanne and Louisa?”

I don’t think anyone could forget them.  She had a point, but by that time, I was almost overcome by exhaustion.

“You think they were archaeology students?”

“Isn’t that how digs work?  One or two experts and a dozen students are working towards their degrees.  You went through that process.”

I had, though, not been so lucky to find a dig so rich in history.  “We were strictly forbidden from any archaeological exploration.”

“And Management knew you’d assure them that nothing like that was going on.  They relied on your reputation, one of the main reasons the local government allowed the project.  That you’d run it and you’d find water.  Especially if you found water.  When I stopped by the mayor’s office to give him the keys, half a dozen of the newbies, including the girls, were still there.  They were supposed to be on a plane a week ago.”

“They don’t have permission to conduct archaeological exploration of the ruins.”

“Who needs permission to do anything, other than us good guys.  We’ve been running a distraction.  I think they’ve discovered the tunnels and caverns.  And they, more than anything else, might lead us to the water.  We were looking in the wrong place.  I think the city was built on top of the water outlet, and the Aztecs destroyed it themselves to spite the Spanish”

“But we were not in the business of treasure hunting.”

Or were we?

“Why don’t we go and find out?”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Lucerne

The Untouched Side of Lucerne: 5 Off‑the‑Beaten‑Path Experiences Worth Your Time

When most travellers think of Lucerne, the mind instantly jumps to its iconic Chapel Bridge, the towering Lion Monument, and the glittering waters of Lake Lucerne. Those are, of course, must‑see sights—but after you’ve snapped a photo of the medieval wooden bridge, you’ll probably crave something a little more intimate, a little more local.

Below is a curated list of five experiences that sit just beyond the typical tourist trail. They’re perfect for curious explorers who want to feel the pulse of Lucerne’s culture, nature, and history without the crowds.

1. Hike the Seeboden Alp – A Quiet Alpine Meadow With Panoramic Views

Why it’s special: While the classic Rigi‑Panorama trail draws hundreds of hikers each day, the Seeboden Alp route (also called the “Hidden Alpine Meadow”) remains a serene escape. Beginning at the Kreuzlingen train station (a short 10‑minute ride from Lucerne’s main station), the trail winds through pine forests, past crystal‑clear streams, and finally opens onto a broad alpine pasture that offers unobstructed 360° views of the Rigi, Pilatus, and the Central Swiss Alps.

What to expect:

ItemDetails
DifficultyModerate – steady ascent (≈ 400 m elevation gain) over 3 km (round‑trip).
Time needed1.5–2 hours (including photo stops).
Best seasonLate June to early October – wildflowers in full bloom, snow‑free paths.
What to bringSturdy hiking shoes, water bottle, a light jacket (weather changes quickly at altitude).
Hidden gemNear the meadow’s highest point lies a small, centuries‑old shepherd’s hut that still hosts occasional cheese‑making demonstrations on weekends.

Tip: Grab a Bündner cheese platter from the nearby Kreuzlingen Café before you set off – the fresh alpine cheese pairs perfectly with the panoramic vista.

2. Discover the Münsterplatz Secret Garden – A Verdant Oasis Behind the Cathedral

Why it’s special: Tucked behind the St. Leodegar’s Cathedral (the “Münster”) is a modest, privately‑maintained garden that most visitors never notice. The garden was originally created in the 19th century by a local merchant’s family as a private retreat and was opened to the public only a few years ago.

What you’ll love:

  • Botanical variety: Over 60 species of Alpine roses, lavender, and wild herbs flourish here, creating a fragrant scent trail that drifts out onto the square.
  • Historical whispers: A marble bench inscribed with a 1902 dedication reads, “Für die Ruhe der Seele” (“For the peace of the soul”). The bench has become a favoured spot for local poets and book clubs.
  • Artistic surprises: Every summer, a local artist collective installs rotating sculptures made from reclaimed wood and stone—perfect for Instagram‑ready shots without the crowds.

How to visit:

  • Access: Walk straight through the cathedral’s side entrance onto Kleinbaslertrasse; a discreet wooden gate leads into the garden.
  • Opening hours: 9 am–6 pm (closed on Mondays).
  • Cost: Free – donations are welcome at a small, tastefully designed donation box.

Tip: Pair your visit with a quick stop at the Café du Lac just across the square for a slice of Zuger Roggenbrot and a steaming cup of locally roasted coffee.

3. Board a Traditional Schiff to Ufenau Island – Switzerland’s Smallest Inhabited Island

Why it’s special: While most lake tours circle the main harbours, a morning “Ufenau Express” departs from the Kornmarkt dock and takes you to the tiny island of Ufenau, situated just a few kilometres downstream from Lucerne. The island hosts an 11th‑century Benedictine chapel, a modest vineyard, and a tranquil walking trail that circles the perimeter.

Highlights:

  • Historical depth: The chapel, St. Peter & St. Paul, survived the Reformation and still hosts occasional organ concerts in the summer.
  • Wine tasting: A small family‑run winery produces a crisp Riviera Pinot Noir that you can sample right on the island’s sun‑warmed terrace.
  • Birdwatching: Ufenau is a protected nesting ground for white‑tailed eagles and golden plovers—bring binoculars for a rewarding encounter.

Practicalities:

ItemDetails
Departure9:15 am and 2:30 pm daily (July–September).
Duration45 minutes each way, plus 1‑hour island stay.
Ticket priceCHF 12 return (includes a brief guided tour).
What to packComfortable shoes, a light windbreaker, and a reusable water bottle.
AccessibilitySmall ramp available for wheelchair users; however, the island’s paths are uneven, so assistance may be needed.

Tip: Combine this trip with a lunch at the Lakeside Restaurant “Seespitz” in nearby Weggis—order the fresh‑caught perch with a side of herb‑infused potatoes for an authentic lakeside feast.

4. Explore the Musegg Wall’s Hidden Courtyards – Medieval Fortifications With a Modern Twist

Why it’s special: The iconic Musegg Wall—the well‑preserved part of Lucerne’s old city fortifications—features six towers (including the famous Zytturm). While most tourists climb the Zytturm for its city views, the inner courtyards behind the lesser‑known towers, especially the Löwendenkmal Tower (Lion Tower), remain quiet and surprisingly artistic.

What you’ll find:

  • Secret exhibitions: Each courtyard hosts rotating pop‑up galleries showcasing works by emerging Swiss photographers and sculptors.
  • Interactive history: QR codes installed on stone walls lead to short augmented‑reality videos that reconstruct medieval daily life—watch a blacksmith at work or a merchant’s stall bustling with trade.
  • Rooftop café: The “Turmlounge” atop the Schaulaufen Tower (open only on Saturdays) serves a selection of local pastries, honey‑infused tea, and a spectacular view of the Reuss River in a peaceful setting.

How to make the most of it:

  1. Start at the Schnürschlösschen Gate—enter the wall’s pathway and follow the wooden signposts labelled “Kunst & Geschichte”.
  2. Take your time in each courtyard; the installations are designed for contemplation, not rush.
  3. Check the calendar on the city’s tourism website for the “Musegg Night” event, where the courtyards are lit by candlelight and local musicians perform acoustic sets.

Tip: Bring a small sketchbook. The quiet corners are perfect for drawing, and you might catch a street performer impromptu sketching session.

5. Ride the Historic Pilatus Bahn to Kriens‑Imfeld – A Scenic Railway Journey With a Surprise Picnic Spot

Why it’s special: Everyone knows about the Pilatus Railway (the world’s steepest cogwheel line) that rockets tourists up to the summit of Mount Pilatus. However, the first leg of the line, from Alpnachstad to Kriens‑Imfeld, is a gorgeous, lesser‑known ride that offers sweeping views of Lake Lucerne, the surrounding alpine ridges, and quaint farming villages—all without the crowds that flood the summit during peak season.

What makes it unique:

  • Historic carriages: The early‑20th‑century wooden carriages retain their original brass fittings and plush leather seats, creating a nostalgic travel experience.
  • Picnic paradise: At the Imfeld Station, a small meadow opens up beside the railway, dotted with wild strawberries in early summer. A traditional “Bürli”—a wooden table with benches—invites you to lay out a picnic while enjoying the gentle hum of the passing train.
  • Local flavours: The nearby Imfeld Bakery sells freshly baked “Saffron‑Rosinen‑Brot” (saffron raisin bread) and a selection of homemade jams made from locally harvested berries.

Logistics:

ItemDetails
DepartureTrains run every hour from Alpnachstad between 8 am–5 pm (May–September).
TicketCHF 7 one‑way (discounted day‑pass available).
Duration15 minutes to Imfeld; optional onward hike of 2 km to the Bergsee (mountain lake).
Best time to visitEarly morning (8–10 am) for tranquil light and fewer passengers.
AccessibilityCarriages are wheelchair‑compatible, but the meadow has uneven ground.

Tip: Purchase a “Picnic Pass” at the Imfeld ticket window – it includes a voucher for a slice of Alpine cheese tart from the station café, plus a reusable wooden cutlery set (eco‑friendly and perfect for your spontaneous snack).

Bonus: How to Blend These Experiences Into One Perfect Day

If you’re staying in Lucerne for a short visit and want to sample a slice of each hidden gem, here’s a suggested itinerary:

TimeActivity
08:00Grab a quick croissant at Café Heini and head to Alpnachstad for the Pilatus Bahn ride.
09:00Arrive at Kriens‑Imfeld, enjoy the meadow picnic and stroll to the Bergsee.
11:30Take the train back to Lucerne, then hop on the Ufenau Express from Kornmarkt.
13:00Disembark on Ufenau Island, explore the chapel, and sip wine on the terrace.
14:30Return to Lucerne; walk through the Münsterplatz Secret Garden for a quiet afternoon tea.
16:00Head to Musegg Wall – wander the hidden courtyards and perhaps catch a pop‑up gallery.
18:00Finish the day with a gentle hike to Seeboden Alp for sunset views over the lakes and mountains.
20:00Dinner at Restaurant Nidelgau (book a table with lake view).

Adjust the timing according to the season and your personal pace—each stop can easily become a half‑day adventure if you wish!

Final Thoughts

Lucerne’s charm isn’t confined to its postcard‑perfect bridges and bustling promenades. By stepping off the well‑trodden path, you’ll discover serene alpine meadows, hidden gardens, intimate islands, and living pieces of history that reveal the city’s authentic soul.

Whether you’re a seasoned backpacker, a history buff, or simply a curious traveller seeking a quieter connection with Switzerland’s heart, these five hidden gems promise unforgettable moments—far from the crowds but close to the spirit of Lucerne.

Pack your camera, bring an open mind, and let the road less travelled become your favourite story to tell.

What I learned about writing – That first interview is not that scary

I was sitting down discussing with my granddaughter how we’re going to approach what will become an author interview.

We were talking about how old I was when it was, I first authored a story, and what was that story about.

OK, that sent me back a long way into the distant past.

There was also a trick question; “What was the first story you read that put you on the path to wanting to become a writer”.

That was easy, Alistair Maclean’s HMS Ulysses.  I showed her a copy of the book.

But, back to the main question.

Grandparents are old, I said, older than your parents, so that should give you some idea.

When did I start writing, that required a little thought, and several triggers gave me a date, where we lived at the time, the fact I used my mother’s old portable typewriter, and the fact I had not been long out of school.  I was, in fact, about 17, the wrong side of half a century ago.

What was it about; that I couldn’t tell her, but I said I had rescued a lot of old scribbling of mine and put them in a box to look at later when I had the time.

I guess that time had arrived.

And, yes, there was the book, the individually typed pages, some with corrections, unfinished.

The pages were brown with age.

The story, well, I read the first few pages, and I’d started down the thriller path then, the story so far, an agent comes ashore from a trawler to a bleak and isolated village, perhaps on the Scottish coast,

The next question, understandably; “What was the first book you ever finished?”  That was The Starburst Conspiracy, soon to be published on Amazon.

It also led to a few more discoveries, including a book I had forgotten I’d written. And all of the short stories I’d written when at university.

The interview is proceeding.

The memories it is bringing about my earliest forays into the world of writing are priceless.

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.

I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Vaduz

The Road‑Less‑Travelled in Vaduz: 5 Hidden Gems Worth Exploring

Vaduz may be tiny, but it’s brimming with surprises for the curious traveller. While most visitors gravitate toward the iconic castle, the state museum, and the glittering shopping street, the capital of Liechtenstein has a quieter side that rewards those who wander off the main postcard route. Below are my five favourite “off‑the‑beaten‑path” experiences – perfect for a day (or a few hours) when you crave something a little different.

1. Stroll the “Kunstweg” – Vaduz’s Secret Art Trail

Why it’s special

Tucked between the historic centre and the foothills of the Alps, a short footpath leads you past a series of contemporary sculptures and mural‑covered walls that most guidebooks skip. Each piece is curated by the tiny but vibrant Kunstverein Liechtenstein (Art Association) and changes seasonally, so you’ll never see the same lineup twice.

What to look for

  • The “Glass Feather” – a translucent installation that refracts sunlight into a rainbow on the riverbank.
  • “Echoes of the Alps” – a series of bronze panels that play faint Alpine wind sounds when you step close.
  • Hidden mural on a back‑alley building, painted by a local graffiti collective, depicting a mythic Liechtensteinic dragon.

Tips

  • Bring a small notebook – the artists love hearing visitors’ thoughts, and a quick sketch can become a souvenir.
  • Go early in the morning; the light makes the glass installations sparkle like gems.

2. Taste the “Heidi‑Style” Alpine Farmstead Café

Why it’s special

While the capital’s cafés cater to tourists, a family‑run farmstead just outside the city gates (about a 10‑minute walk) serves authentic, farm‑to‑table dishes in a rustic barn setting. Think cheese‑fondue made from the farm’s own alps‑milk, freshly baked “Vaterspaß” rye rolls, and a secret herb‑infused jam that locals swear is the best thing since the invention of the internet.

What to order

  • Schlössli Cheese Fondue – a blend of Gruyère, Emmental, and a pinch of local mountain herbs.
  • Kaiserschmarrn à la Vaduz – fluffy shredded pancake served with apple‑compote made from the orchard behind the café.
  • “Alpine Whisper” Liqueur – a house‑made apricot spirit you can sip on the terrace while watching the goats graze.

Tips

  • Sit on the hay‑straw benches for the full farm‑feeling experience.
  • Ask the owner, Marta, for a quick tour of the cheese‑aging cellar – it’s a 5‑minute walk in the back, and she loves sharing the process.

3. Explore the “Mysterious Underground Vaults” of the Old Customs House

Why it’s special

Behind the sleek, modern façade of the customs office lies a network of vaulted stone chambers built in the 18th century to store smuggled goods and precious metals. The city council now opens them for guided “Night‑Whisper” tours, featuring low‑light lanterns, storytelling, and a taste of historic Liechtensteinian spirits.

Highlights

  • The “Silversmith’s Chamber” – where clandestine metalwork took place.
  • The “Map Room” – a dusty wall of hand‑drawn cartography showing secret Alpine passes used by traders.
  • The “Wine Cellar of the Count” – still contains a few bottles of 1913 Riesling, preserved in perfect condition.

Tips

  • Book at least 48 hours in advance; the tours are limited to ten participants.
  • Wear comfortable shoes – the stone steps can be slippery when the lanterns are lit.

4. Bike the “Rheintal Loop” – A Scenic Ride the Locals Call “The Green Ribbon”

Why it’s special

Most visitors see Vaduz from a car window or a train seat, but the Rheintal Loop offers a 25‑km bicycle circuit that winds along the calm banks of the Rhine, climbs through pine‑scented hills, and passes tiny hamlets where children still wave from their doorsteps. It’s a perfect blend of nature, history, and quiet village life.

Must‑see stops

  • The ancient Roman bridge in Nendeln – a stone arch spanning the river, still in use today.
  • Kleinwalsertal viewpoint – a small plateau with a panoramic bench offering a 180° view of the Alps and the valley below.
  • The “Butterfly Meadow” near Schaan – a meadow packed with native wildflowers, especially vibrant in late June.

Tips

  • Rent a hybrid bike from the “Alpine Cycle Co.” on Helvetiaplatz – they provide helmets, a waterproof map, and a complimentary energy bar.
  • Pack a lightweight rain jacket; weather in the Alps can shift in a heartbeat.

5. Attend a “Silent Film Night” at the Old Town Cinema (Kinemathek)

Why it’s special

The tiny, Art‑Deco cinema on the corner of Gassnerstrasse shows an eclectic mix of classic silent movies, local experimental shorts, and occasional live piano accompaniment. The venue is intimate (just 50 seats), and the décor retains its 1920s charm: velvet curtains, brass sconces, and a historic popcorn machine that still whirs like a miniature steam engine.

Upcoming shows (as of 2025)

  • “The Prince of the Valley” – a 1923 Liechtensteinic drama about a young aristocrat who renounces his title to become a shepherd.
  • “Alpine Echoes” – a modern short film series filmed entirely on a smartphone by local students, depicting the lives of mountain rescue dogs.
  • “Live Piano Night” – a concert where pianist Miriam Keller plays original scores while the audience watches classic Buster Keaton reels.

Tips

  • Arrive early to snag a seat by the wall; the acoustics are best there.
  • Grab a cup of “Müesli Latte” from the café downstairs – it’s a warm milk drink with toasted oat flakes and a dash of cinnamon.

Bonus: How to Weave These Gems Into a Perfect Day

TimeActivityReason
08:00Breakfast at the Alpine Farmstead CaféFresh, local fare to fuel your adventure
09:30Walk the KunstwegGentle warm‑up while soaking in art & light
11:00Bike the Rheintal Loop (first half)Scenic ride & gentle hill climbs
13:00Picnic lunch (grab a cheese platter from the farmstead)Picnic by the river – pure bliss
14:30Underground Vaults tourDive into Vaduz’s secret past
16:30Continue the Loop (second half)Return via a different side, spotting hidden villages
18:30Evening coffee at the Old Town Cinema caféRelax before the film
19:30Silent Film NightEnd the day with nostalgic magic

Final Thoughts

Vaduz may wear a crown of polished tourism, but underneath lies a tapestry of quiet corners, local traditions, and hidden stories waiting for the inquisitive traveller. Whether you’re an art lover, a foodie, a history buff, a cyclist, or a cinephile, these five off‑the‑beaten‑path experiences will let you see a side of the capital that most guidebooks overlook.

So next time you wander into this Alpine jewel, stray from the usual map, ask a local for a secret, and let Vaduz’s quieter rhythms surprise you.

Ready to explore? Pack your walking shoes, a sense of adventure, and maybe a notebook for those spontaneous sketches – Vaduz’s hidden treasures are just a few steps away.

Happy travels!

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers.  Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier.  I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village.  I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed.  In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passenger’s attention.  Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back.  He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury.  He looked at her ticket then nodded dismissively, and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway.  I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see there was something about her.  It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile.  I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone.  Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model.  I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris.  The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on.  I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me.  I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin.  My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast.  With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination.  It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight.  It would give me enough time to sample the local fare, and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch.  After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward.  I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and let the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked, and what part I played in it.  And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out.  What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land.  There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would need to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later a keen military mind.  If nothing else I could ride a horse, and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no-one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared.  I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue and I had an aptitude for programming.  I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which although I hated the subject, I excelled in.  Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.  There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks.  It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer simply because of who I was.  In that time I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist, and through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues.  I knew that in building a relationship compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing.  There was a certain expectation I had to fulfill, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented.  The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged.  Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian.  He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties.  He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns.  He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa.  From that moment, my obscurity disappeared.  It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses.  He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door.  There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa?  For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her when she had a certain air of unpredictability.  That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future.  She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her.  It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move.  The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red.  It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific.  In fact, her sublime beauty was the one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact her hair was short, rather than long, and jet black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid.  I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes, before retracing my steps to the front of the ship and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water.  It was almost mesmerizing.  There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa, and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned.  The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close me without my realizing it.  How did she do that?  I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping.  I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck.  There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her particularly around the eyes, and of her hair which was jet black.  An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtle, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory.  The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent, and fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate.  Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes.  My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No.  Not yet.”  I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak.  And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanor as a little warmth reached her eyes.  “So that’s a maybe.  Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away.  Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped she turned to face me again.  She did not move closer.

I realized then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket.  “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe.  By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease.  “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side then the other, looking intently at me.  “You seem to be familiar.  Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings.  If she was, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me.  Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.”  I also didn’t mention the fact she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realized who I was.  “Yes, I remember now.  You made the front cover of the Economist.  You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course.  She was not the first who had recognized me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not the Sternhaven’s.  That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family.  I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.”  Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky.  It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.”  She smiled again.  “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts.  I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me.  It had been Sebastian on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money.  He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right.  I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around.  “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head.  Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit.  “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised, or amused.  “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment.  “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave.  Instead she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot.  To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true.  Aside from the fact this excursion was probably a bad idea.  And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignoring their natural instinct.  I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing.  I was supposed to be traveling with my prospective bride.  I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?”  Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment then came back to me.  She seemed surprised I might be traveling with someone.

“No.  She is back in England, and the wedding is off.  So is the relationship.  She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her?  I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge.  No walking the plank today.  She moved towards it and sat down.  She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair.  Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds if she used this approach with anyone else.  I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us.  After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message.  It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.”  She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her.  “But it is done, and I moved on.  Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry.  Sometimes I ask personal questions without realizing what I’m doing.  It is none of my business.”  She shivered.  “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood, and held out her hand.  Should I take it and be drawn into her web?  I thought of Sebastian.  What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet.  “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

newdevilcvr6

Writing a book in 365 days – 350

Day 350 – Writing exercise

He had never liked the desert, or anywhere hot, if he was telling the truth.

…

It started out as a joke and ended up as the reason for defunding my project, but irrespective of the reason given, it was not unexpected because of the lack of progress and cost overruns.

And the fact that I had suffered a minor breakdown, having laboured day and night, in very hot, dusty, trying conditions for longer than I expected.

Of course, the fact that I had assured the Management team that I would be available 24/7, and was forced to go on indefinite sick leave, was probably the final nail in the coffin.

That, and the fact that I had participated in an interview where I had confessed, in a moment of reflection, that I preferred to live in the cooler climate of the mountains than in the middle of the desert, the place where I had been running a major investigation into underground rivers.

Or, as my hard-working and cynical assistant project manager had put it, they didn’t want a woman taking my place, and worse, they didn’t want anyone to know they had run out of funding.

In the end, none of it mattered.  They shut down the site.

…

Melanie, Acting Project Manager, resident cynic, and all-around conspiracy theorist, had dropped in on her way home, or as she put it, a welcome deviation before returning to a ‘rat hole’ at her sister’s residence while in transit between jobs.

I had just left the hospital, and arrived at my ‘Shangrila’ the day before.  She had just wrapped up the operation in Mexico.  She looked as exhausted as I still felt.

When Melanie watched the replay of the post-project interview, curious to see what had been said, she realised one very important point.  “You were led. The interviewer had a definite plan to lead you down a particular path and then took a run with it.”

“I was tired and wanted to get it over with.”

“You didn’t ask for the slate of questions ahead of time?”

“I did and was given a folder.  There was nothing about climate preferences, or the possibility of exhaustion, in them.”

“There you are.  It was nothing less than a set-up, clearly designed to derail your project.”

Melanie always suspected the organisation that funded the projects to be exactly the sort of people they portrayed to the outside world, and she had been very vocal at the first meeting, and several since, citing the world needed water, not geothermal energy.

In the beginning, it had been a hard sell.  Until suddenly they changed their minds from a hard no to a three-year deal.

That was until the two board members who agreed with her had retired in the last six months.

“If they hadn’t retired, we wouldn’t be here.”

Actually, we would.  We had not found irrefutable evidence that there was water under the impenetrable rock.  It was somewhere near there, I just wasn’t sure exactly where, and drilling bores wasn’t cheap.

I had been assured they’d come back to it later.

Meanwhile…

I was on administrative leave.  Melanie was supposed to go to Peru or Chile.  Instead ,she stayed with me.

…

Melanie had also suspected the Project Management organisation of having ulterior motives.  I had also heard the rumours that somewhere of the projects had two purposes.

The most recent, an archaeological dig turned into a search for oil, in a place where the local government had been prevented from prospecting.

Our project had the security team ‘enhanced’ because of ‘perceived’ threats to our safety, which, in the end, didn’t materialise.

Just before the funding dried up.

It was not as if they didn’t have a reason.  Suddenly, we found it difficult to bore through the hard rock to get down to the suspected cavern where an underground river ran from the Arctic to the north to the equator.

We had found what was believed to be the entrance in northern Scandinavia, but not the outlet, other than ancient evidence of water feeding a flourishing Aztec city, not just dry dusty ruins.   It had been paradise.

And as much as I would like to also give my archaeological skills a run, that hadn’t been our focus.  We just had to work around the archaeological aspects of the site.

Even so, I had a feeling someone was poking around the ruins, with people going missing, and strange noises at night.

Melanie was adamant that the ghosts of the city’s once-inhabitants were rising up to protect their final resting place from us invaders.

It became the subject of a conversation one morning, after about a week, the amount of time it took for Melanie doing nothing to start getting bored.

She had just latched onto the archaeological aspects of the site, just arriving at a conclusion I had considered a possibility, but unlikely given the local government’s stand on exploration of the ruins.

“It’s an unjustified cost to bore through impassable rock, especially when we cannot prove an outcome.”

“What if it wasn’t and they’re just telling you that?”

I looked at her over the conference table with surprise.  Melanie was my guru for superstitions and conspiracy theories and was often closer to the bone than most.

She had said once after a few too many margaritas that the site we were working at had been an old Aztec temple and place of worship and sacrifice, and more than one ghost had been seen at night.

I thought I had seen one myself, but I didn’t believe in such things.  But I did suspect that there might be an element of truth in another myth she had uncovered, that somewhere within the boundaries of the site was a reputed entrance to a network of caverns and tunnels, where artifacts had been hidden from the Spanish conquerors, and which several items had been found nearby.

It would make more sense to think we had been shut down so that another clandestine expedition was being funded to locate the entrance or determine whether there was any truth to the supposition that gold and or artifacts were hidden there.  That would make more money than finding underground watercourses.

“Then what are you telling me?”

“Those extra security staff sent to save us from the revolting masses would know one end of a gun from the other.  Did they look like mercenaries?”

After a few more margaritas, she confessed her ideal man was that Hollywood stereotype mercenary. This stereotype was not supported by the members of the security team or the additional people sent.

“Not really, but do we really know that security people have a ‘type’?”

“Girls who look like they just came from a fashion show in Milan.  You remember Joanne and Louisa?”

I don’t think anyone could forget them.  She had a point, but by that time, I was almost overcome by exhaustion.

“You think they were archaeology students?”

“Isn’t that how digs work?  One or two experts and a dozen students are working towards their degrees.  You went through that process.”

I had, though, not been so lucky to find a dig so rich in history.  “We were strictly forbidden from any archaeological exploration.”

“And Management knew you’d assure them that nothing like that was going on.  They relied on your reputation, one of the main reasons the local government allowed the project.  That you’d run it and you’d find water.  Especially if you found water.  When I stopped by the mayor’s office to give him the keys, half a dozen of the newbies, including the girls, were still there.  They were supposed to be on a plane a week ago.”

“They don’t have permission to conduct archaeological exploration of the ruins.”

“Who needs permission to do anything, other than us good guys.  We’ve been running a distraction.  I think they’ve discovered the tunnels and caverns.  And they, more than anything else, might lead us to the water.  We were looking in the wrong place.  I think the city was built on top of the water outlet, and the Aztecs destroyed it themselves to spite the Spanish”

“But we were not in the business of treasure hunting.”

Or were we?

“Why don’t we go and find out?”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

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

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

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

In a word: Clip

It was in the news, and seemed odd to me, that a word such as clip would have any significance beyond that of having a haircut, but apparently, it does.

Maybe they’re referring to the clip of ammunition for a gun?

But for us, a clip can be part of a haircut, letting the scissors loose.

And for those children who had a father who was a hard taskmaster, you would be familiar with a clip around the ears.  It can just as easily be used, say when a car clips another car when the driver loses control.

There’s a horse that runs at a fast clip, and can be anything for that matter that moves quickly.

It can be a spring-loaded device that holds all your papers together.  Or just about anything else for that matter.

You can clip an item from a newspaper, aptly known as a news clipping.

it can be a portion of a larger film or television programme, but to me, sometimes, when a series has a clip show, an episode where someone reminisces and we see clips from previous episodes.

And last but not least, clip the wings of those so-called high flyers at the office.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.  That wasn’t possible.

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

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

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

At least we agree on that, she thought.

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

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

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

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

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

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

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

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

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

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

Was that what she was expecting?

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

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

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

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

Rebellion was written all over him.

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

“Mr Henshaw?”

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

“Then my name is Michelle.”

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

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, so do I.”

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

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

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

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

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

“After a fashion.”

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

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

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

“Whatever for?”

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

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

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

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

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

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

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

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

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

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

Dinner over, they separated.

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

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

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