Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 8

All stories require some form of research, quite often to place a character in a place at a particular time, especially if it is in a historical context. This series will take you through what it was like in 1914 through 1916.

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Soldiers cycled in the trenches of WW1

The Chronological Duty Cycle of a British Enlisted Soldier on the Western Front: April 1915 to Demobilisation

The service trajectory of a British enlisted soldier who volunteered in April 1915 was defined by the transition from enthusiastic volunteerism to the grinding attrition of static warfare, followed by the complex administrative challenge of post-Armistice demobilisation. This analysis follows the soldier’s duty cycle through initial training, deployment, the structured reality of front-line rotation, infrequent periods of leave, and the priority systems governing his return to civilian life four and a half years later.

I. Enlistment and Preparation: The Kitchener Volunteer (April 1915)

The individual enlisting in April 1915 was part of the colossal wave of manpower raised by Lord Kitchener, the Secretary of State for War. Although the initial enthusiasm of August 1914 had peaked, volunteers continued to surge forward throughout 1915, prior to the implementation of conscription in January 1916.¹ This soldier became part of the “New Army,” likely belonging to the K4 or K5 cohort, designed to replace the devastating losses suffered by the original British Expeditionary Force (BEF).³

I.A. The Recruitment and Administrative Context

The process of becoming a soldier began with immediate registration and a mandatory series of medical and fitness tests.⁵ While these examinations were intended to ensure recruits met the physical demands of war, the sheer “stampede of volunteers” wanting to fight meant that the official process was often rushed.⁵ Recruitment offices utilised public buildings, and staff struggled to process the thousands of eager men.⁵ The identity of this cohort, men who volunteered well before being compelled to serve, would later grant them a specific priority during demobilisation.⁶

I.B. Initial Training Phase: Acceleration and Deployment

The duration and quality of training were dictated entirely by the urgent demands of the front. Pre-war training for a regular infantry recruit lasted three months, and a Special Reservist received five months of preliminary full-time training.⁷ For the Kitchener volunteer of 1915, this schedule was significantly compressed. The goal articulated by Kitchener was to have these New Army divisions fully trained and ready for a decisive blow in mid-1916.³ However, the reality of attrition forced the British Army to accelerate deployment. The first major actions involving Kitchener’s Army units occurred prematurely at the Battle of Loos in September–October 1915.³

Given an April 1915 enlistment date, the soldier’s basic training would have been condensed, lasting approximately five to seven months, primarily conducted in large camps across the United Kingdom.⁵ These conditions were often rudimentary, and critical equipment supplies (such as uniforms and rifles) were initially limited due to the Army’s struggle to kit out the millions of new recruits.⁵ By late 1915, potentially December, this soldier would have been considered ready for combat and deployment to France.

This acceleration of the training schedule, driven by high casualty rates, necessitated a critical compromise in battlefield readiness. Kitchener’s original planning for exhaustive training was overridden by the strategic necessity of providing immediate reinforcements. Consequently, the April 1915 volunteer, upon arriving at the Western Front, possessed a level of preparation that was inherently inadequate for the highly technical and specialised nature of industrialised trench warfare, potentially increasing his vulnerability during his initial introduction to the fighting.

Estimated Pre-Deployment Timeline: April 1915 Volunteer

Phase	Start Date	Estimated Duration	End Date
Recruitment/Attestation	April 1915	1–3 Weeks	April/May 1915
Basic Training (Infantry)	May 1915	5–7 Months	Oct/Nov 1915
Deployment to France (BEF)	Dec 1915	1–3 Weeks	Early Jan 1916

II. Transit and Logistical Deployment to the BEF (Late 1915/Early 1916)

The movement of the newly trained soldier from the UK to the Western Front constituted a major logistical undertaking, demonstrating the pivotal role of transport and supply in modern warfare.⁹

II.A. The Logistical Journey

The deployment necessitated a sea passage across the English Channel, relying on ports and harbours that linked the British and French railway systems.¹⁰ While specialised personnel, such as drivers for the Army Service Corps (ASC), could be kitted out and dispatched to France in as little as three weeks ¹¹, the movement of an entire infantry battalion was integrated into broader logistical schedules.

Upon arrival in France, the soldier would pass through an Infantry Base Depot (IBD) near the coast. From there, troop trains moved men and material toward the active front line.⁹ The BEF had grown exponentially, expanding from six divisions in 1914 to nearly a million men by the close of 1915.⁴ The logistical infrastructure struggled severely to cope with this rapid scale-up.

II.B. Entering a Strained System

The volunteer arrived at the continent just as the British supply system was experiencing acute operational stress. During 1915, the initial, sometimes clumsy, methods of supplying the rapidly growing BEF—often characterized by a tradition of “muddle through”—began to fail, culminating in the “shell crisis”.¹² Though later streamlined by specialists like Sir Eric Geddes, who rationalized transport into five key components (docks, railways, canals, light railways, and roads) ¹², the soldier’s initial exposure to operational life was defined by the strain of this system.

The consequence of this infrastructural struggle was profound for the morale of the arriving volunteer. Men who had enlisted with high ideals encountered a system marred by systemic deficiency, where supplies—from ammunition and rations to basic material for trenches—were often poorly managed and delivered.¹² This environment of logistical friction and material shortages rapidly dispelled the initial idealistic fervour, shifting the soldier’s focus from achieving a rapid victory to surviving the brutal, poorly provisioned reality of continuous endurance.

III. The Standard Operational Cycle (1916–1918)

Once deployed to a divisional sector in early 1916, the soldier became integrated into the mandatory rotation system essential for maintaining unit cohesion and managing psychological stress under the continuous danger of trench warfare.¹⁴

III.A. The Necessity of the Rotation System

Trench warfare was a gruelling form of conflict marked by perpetual stalemate and mutual artillery bombardment, ensuring hundreds of casualties occurred daily even when no major attacks were underway.¹⁶ To prevent complete physical and psychological collapse, battalions were continuously cycled through various positions behind the front. The standard timetable for an infantry soldier in the British Army on the Western Front was approximately a 16-day cycle.¹⁶

III.B. The 16-Day Rotation Breakdown

This cycle ensured that units spent only short periods in the most hazardous zones before being withdrawn for rest and reorganisation:

Front Line: The most dangerous phase, typically lasting 4 days.¹⁸ Duties included sentry duty, aggressive patrolling (raids into no man’s land), repairing parapets, and preparing for defence. This exposed the soldier directly to snipers, machine gun fire, and immediate artillery barrages.
Support Line/Reserve Trenches: Lasting approximately 4 days.¹⁶ While slightly sheltered, this position was still well within the range of enemy artillery. This period was dominated by fatigue duties—the back-breaking labour of carrying vital supplies (ammunition, rations, wire, construction materials) forward to the front line, maintaining communication wires, and undertaking extensive trench repair work, often under cover of darkness.¹⁹
Rest Camps/Training Areas: The final phase, lasting approximately 8 days (often divided into 4 days in brigade reserve and 4 days at rest camps).¹⁶ Located several miles behind the line, often far enough back to be out of the range of most heavy artillery, this was the critical period for recovery, cleaning uniforms, delousing, receiving medical checks, and conducting essential physical training.²⁰

It is important to recognize that the image of the soldier spending endless weeks on the fire step is a misconception. The high rate of rotation meant that the average soldier spent the majority of his time—roughly 75% of his service—in support, reserve, or rest areas, rather than in the immediate front line trench.²¹

Standard Western Front Trench Rotation Cycle (BEF Infantry)

Location	Typical Duration	Risk Profile	Primary Duties
Front Line (Parapet)	4 Days	Maximum (Direct contact, Sniping, Raids)	Active defense, observation, wiring, fighting.
Support Line/Reserve Trenches	4 Days	High (Targeted Artillery, Logistics)	Fatigue duties, carrying parties, rapid response reserve.
Reserve/Training Area	8 Days	Medium-Low (Rear Area Shelling/Labor)	Training, large work details, cleaning, administrative tasks, rest.

III.C. The Operational Reality Versus Regulation

The standard 16-day cycle was an ideal structure implemented to manage manpower and sustain readiness. However, during periods of sustained offensive action—which dominated the soldier’s experience from 1916 onward, including the Battles of the Somme (1916) and Third Ypres (1917) ⁴—the rotation system often collapsed. When the army experienced severe manpower shortages or during the intensity of a major engagement, units were frequently forced to remain continuously “in the line” for periods exceeding thirty days.¹⁶ There are recorded instances, such as the 13th Yorkshire and Lancashire Regiment, enduring fifty-one consecutive days in the line.¹⁶

Furthermore, the act of moving away from the front line did not guarantee safety. While the four-day rotation in the forward trench was designed to prevent psychological breakdown, the continuous nature of warfare ensured that danger permeated all layers of the duty cycle. One study determined that one-third of all casualties on the Western Front were killed or wounded while in the relatively protected trenches, typically due to the relentless and indiscriminate shelling from enemy artillery.¹⁶ Thus, for the combatant, rotational movement merely exchanged the immediate, intense risk of small arms fire for the pervasive, random threat of heavy ordnance, demonstrating that the battle environment constituted an ever-present zone of attrition rather than a definable line of contact.

IV. Interruption of Service: Leave, Wounds, and Recovery

The long service term (1916–1918) for the April 1915 volunteer ensured that his continuous duty cycle would inevitably be broken, either by scheduled leave or by the high probability of wounding.

IV.A. Home Leave Policy and Disparity

Recognising the strain of continuous combat, the British Army, starting in 1915, gradually implemented leave periods to sustain troop morale.22 However, the policy was characterised by profound disparity and unpredictability. The granting of leave was explicitly stated as being “entirely at the discretion” of the Commander-in-Chief, meaning it was constantly subject to operational demands and military conditions at various parts of the line.²³

For the enlisted soldier, leave was a rare occurrence. Historical records indicate that while officers often received leave approximately every three months, the average enlisted soldier was permitted home leave only once every fifteen months.²⁴ Early leave periods were short—for example, four days plus travel time in 1915 ²⁵—but were later extended, typically to ten days, plus the time required for travel between the front and the UK.²⁵ The infrequent nature of this connection to civilian life meant that the soldier relied heavily on correspondence for communication, making the short, sparse home visits emotionally disruptive, as many soldiers reported feeling indifferent or alienated upon returning to civilian society.²²

IV.B. The Recovery Path: Wounds as Involuntary Respite

Given the brutal average attrition rate, which saw hundreds of casualties daily ²⁶, a combat veteran serving multiple years on the Western Front had a high statistical likelihood of being wounded. Wounds offered the most assured pathway to a sustained, involuntary removal from the front.

The immediate goal upon injury was rapid evacuation from the trenches to clearing stations, located 500 to 1,000 yards behind the line, and then onward to base hospitals in France or England.²⁷ Innovations during the war, such as the widespread adoption of the Thomas splint by 1915, significantly reduced the mortality rate from battlefield fractures ²⁸

For a non-fatal, but serious injury (e.g., bone fracture or severe soft tissue damage), the recuperation and rehabilitation process required months. A realistic assessment places the recovery and convalescence period, before a soldier could be medically reclassified and returned to his unit as a reinforcement, at at least three months.²⁹ Once deemed fit, the veteran would return via the Base Depots to the front, resuming the operational rotation cycle, often with a new unit if his original battalion had suffered heavy losses.

The extremely wide gap between officer and enlisted leave frequency (three months versus fifteen months) meant that for the rank-and-file soldier, a survivable wound functioned as the only predictable method of obtaining extended, systematic relief from continuous duty on the front lines. This operational reality underscored a systemic inadequacy in soldier welfare, whereby the most reliable form of rest was contingent upon experiencing physical trauma.

V. Demobilisation and Return to Civilian Life (1918–1919)

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The cessation of hostilities on November 11, 1918, did not equate to an immediate end of service. The government faced the immense task of demobilising over three million men.³⁰ An immediate, chaotic release was deemed unfeasible, threatening social disorder, massive unemployment, and jeopardising ongoing military commitments in occupied Germany, Russia, and the Empire.⁶

V.A. The Demobilisation Scheme and Priority Conflict

The British military implemented a complex, phased demobilisation scheme, initially comprising fourteen phases and organised into various groups.³¹ Crucially, the initial priority structure was based on civilian utility rather than length of military service or combat exposure.

Immediate Release Priority: This group consisted of “Demobilisers” (personnel in administrative corps like the RASC and RAMC required to run the process) and “Pivotal Men”.³³ Pivotal Men were those with essential industrial skills (Group 1: miners, agricultural workers, banking staff) whose immediate return was vital for national economic reconstruction.³¹ These men were entitled to immediate release irrespective of their war service duration.³³
The Veteran’s Status: The April 1915 volunteer, unless he happened to possess a rare industrial skill qualifying him as a Pivotal Man, fell into the general service categories. However, his status as an early volunteer entitled him to priority treatment over the later cohorts, particularly the conscripts raised in 1916 or the eighteen-year-olds drafted in 1918.⁶

V.B. The Timeline of Release

The prioritisation of economic expediency over military seniority led to widespread discontent among long-serving combat troops who saw late-enlisted pivotal men released first.³⁰ This structural imbalance ultimately required policy adjustments (later factoring in length of service and wounds), but the initial delay was unavoidable for many.

For the general infantry soldier who enlisted in April 1915, and who was not released early as a Pivotal Man or through a contract with a pre-war employer ³¹, his demobilisation draft would likely be processed in early to mid-1919, once the essential industrial groups were back in the labour market. The official procedure ensured that most men who had volunteered for war service were back in civilian life by the end of 1919.⁶

V.C. The Final Administrative Process

Before leaving his unit, the soldier would report to a transit camp (IBD) for medical and administrative closure.⁶ He received several crucial forms designed to facilitate his transition:

Army Form Z22: This document allowed the soldier to make a claim for any disability arising from his military service.⁶
Army Form Z44 (Plain Clothes Form): This authorised him to obtain civilian attire.⁶
Army Form Z18 (Certificate of Employment): A key document detailing his service and military occupation, intended to assist him in securing civilian employment.⁶

The soldier was then dispatched to a Dispersal Draft centre in the UK for final discharge, concluding his duty cycle that spanned four and a half years of service to the BEF.⁶

Conclusion

The full cycle of duty for the enlisted British soldier who volunteered in April 1915 was marked by intense chronological compressions and subsequent bureaucratic delays. His journey began with accelerated training, forced by operational necessity, which resulted in a compromised state of readiness upon deployment in late 1915/early 1916. His experience on the Western Front was characterised not by perpetual time on the fire step, but by a 16-day rotational rhythm dominated by essential, exhaustive labour and logistics, all conducted under the ubiquitous threat of artillery fire. The mechanisms of relief were deeply unequal, forcing the enlisted man to endure fifteen months between authorised leaves, where a serious, survivable wound inadvertently became the most reliable source of sustained rest. Finally, his post-war service was extended into 1919, as the prioritisation of national economic recovery over the rewarding of combat seniority delayed the return of the long-serving volunteer to civilian life. This trajectory reveals a complex system that, while functional in its capacity for mass mobilisation and logistical management, imposed disproportionate physical and emotional strain on the frontline enlisted veteran.

“Do you believe in g..g..ghosts…?”, a short story

Inside the old building, it was very quiet and almost cold.

Strange, perhaps, because outside the temperature was bordering on the record hottest day ever, nearly 45 degrees centigrade.

The people who’d built this building nearly a hundred years before must have known how to keep that heat at bay, using sandstone.

Back then, the sandstone would have looked very impressive, but now after many years of being closed off and left abandoned, the outside was stained by modern-day pollutants giving it a black streaky look, and inside layers of dust, easily stirred up as we walked slowly into the main foyer.

It was huge, the roof, ornate, with four huge chandelier lights hanging down, and wood paneling, giving way to a long counter with brass serving cages highlighting its former use; a bank.

In its day it would have conveyed the power and wealth so that its customers could trust the money to. Of course, that was before the global economy, online banking, and a raft of the new and different institutions all vying for that same money.

Then it was a simple choice of a few, now it was a few thousand.

“How many years had this been closed up?” I asked.

“Close to twenty, maybe twenty-five. It was supposed to be pulled down, but someone got it on the heritage list, and that put an end to it. “

Phil was the history nut. He’s spent a month looking into the building, finding construction plans, and correspondence dating back to before and during the construction.

Building methods, he said, that didn’t exist today and were far in advance of anything of its type for the period. It was the reason we were standing in the foyer now.

We were budding civil engineers, and the university had managed to organize a visit, at our own risk. The owner of the building had made sure we’d signed a health and safety waiver before granting access.

And the caretaker only took us as far as the front door. He gave us his cell number to call when we were finished. When we asked him why he didn’t want to come in with us, he didn’t say but it was clear to me he was afraid of something.

But neither of us believed in ghosts.

“You can see aspects of cathedrals in the design,” Phil said. ” You could quite easily turn this space into a church.”

“Or a very large wine cellar.” I brought a thermometer with me, and inside where we were standing it was the ideal temperature to store wine.

Behind the teller cages were four large iron doors to the vaults. They were huge, and once contained a large amount of cash, gold, and whatever else was deemed valuable.

They were all empty now, the shelves and floor had scattered pieces of bank stationery, and in a corner, several cardboard boxes, covered in even more dust.

Behind the vaults were offices, half-height with glass dividers, the desks and chairs still in place, and some with wooden filing cabinets drawers half-open.

Others had benches, and one, set in the corner, very large, and looked like the manager’s office. Unlike the other office which had linoleum tiles, this one had carpet. In a corner was a large mirror backed cabinet, with several half-empty bottles on it.

“Adds a whole new meaning to aged whiskey, don’t you think.” Phil looked at it but didn’t pick it up.

“I wonder why they left it,” I muttered. The place had the feel of having been left in a hurry, not taking everything with them.

I shivered, but it was not from the cold.

We went back to the foyer and the elevator lobby. They were fine examples of the sort of caged elevators that belonged in that time, and which there were very few working examples these days.

The elevators would have a driver, he would pull back an inner and outer door when the car arrived on a floor, and close both again when everyone was aboard.

Both cars were on the ground floor, with the shutter doors closed, and when I tried to open one, I found it had been welded shut. The other car was not sitting level with the floor and the reason for that, the cable that raised and lowered it was broken.

Restoring them would be a huge job and would not be in their original condition due to occupational health and safety issues.

The staircase wound around the elevator cage, going up to the mezzanine floor or down to the basement.

“Up or down?” He asked.

“Where do you want to go first?”

“Down. There’s supposed to be a large vault, probably where the safety deposit boxes are.”

And the restrooms I thought. Not that I was thinking of going.

As we descended the stairs it was like going down into a mine shaft, getting darker, and the rising odor of damp, and mustiness. I suspect it would have been the same back when it was first built being so close to the shoreline of the bay, not more than half a mile away.

The land this building and a number of others in a similar style, was built on was originally a swamp, and it was thought that the seawater still found its way this far inshore. But the foundations were incredibly strong and extensive which was why there’d been no shifting or cracking anywhere in the ten-story structure.

At the bottom, there was a huge arch, with built-in brass caging with two huge gates, both open. It was like the entrance to a mythical Aladdin’s cave.

There was also an indefinable aura coming from the depths of that room. That, and a movement of cold air. Curiously, the air down there was not musty but had a tinge of saltiness to it.

Was there a natural air freshener effect coming from somewhere within that vault.

“Are we going in?”

I checked my torch beam, still very bright. I pointed it into the blackness and after a minute checking, I said, “We’re here, so why not.”

We had to walk down a dozen steps then pass under through the open gates into the room. There was a second set of gates, the same as the first, about thirty feet from the first, and, in between, a number of cubicles where customers collected their boxes.

Beyond the second set of gates was a large circular reinforced safe door high enough for us to walk through.

This cavernous space stretched back quite a distance, and along the walls, rows, and rows of safety deposit boxes, some half hanging out of their housing, and a lot more stacked haphazardly on the floor.

I checked a few but they were all empty.

I shivered again. It felt like there was a presence in the room. I turned to ask Phil, but he wasn’t there. I hadn’t heard him walk away, and there were only two sets of footprints on the floor, his and mine, and both ended where I was standing.

It was as if he had disappeared into thin air.

I called out his name, and it echoed off the walls in the confined space. No answer from him.

I went further into the room, thinking he might have ventured towards the end while my back was turned, but he hadn’t. Nor had he left because there were only footprints coming in, not going out.

I turned to retrace my steps and stopped suddenly. An old man, in clothes that didn’t belong to this era, was standing where Phil had last been.

He was looking at me, but not inclined to talk.

“Hello. I didn’t see you come down.”

Seconds later the figure dissolved in front of me and there was no one but me standing in the room.

“Joe.”

Phil, from behind me. I turned and there he was large as life.

“Where were you?”

“I’ve been here all the time. Who were you just talking to?”

“There was an old man, standing just over there,” I said pointing to somewhere between Phil and the entrance.

“I didn’t see anyone. Are you sure you’re not having me on?”

“No. He’s right behind you.” The old man had reappeared.

Phil shook his head, believing I was trying to fool him.

That changed when the man touched his shoulder, and Phil shrieked.

And almost ran out of the room. It took a few minutes for him to catch his breath and steady the palpitating heart.

“Are you real?” I asked, not quite sure what to say.

“To me, I am. To anyone else, let’s just say you are the first not got faint, or run away.”

“Are you a ghost?” Phil wasn’t exactly sure what he was saying.

“Apparently I am and will be until you find out who killed me “

Ok, so what was it called, stuck in the afterlife or limbo until closure?

“When?”

“25 years ago, just before the bank closed. It’s the reason why it’s empty now.”

“And you’re saying we find the killer and you get to leave?”

“Exactly. Now shoo. Go and find him.”

We looked at each other in surprise, or more like shock, then back to the man. Only he was no longer there.

“What the…” Phil sail. “It’s time to go.”

“What about the man and finding his killer?”

“What man? We saw nothing. We’re done here.”

I shrugged. Phil turned to leave, but only managed to take three steps before the gates at the entrance closed with a loud clang.

When he crossed the room to stand in front, he tried pulling them open.

“Locked,” he said. Flat, and without panic, he added, “I guess it looks like we have a murder to solve.”

Writing a book in 365 days – 325

Day 325

The Zero Draft – that old devil in the ointment, Writer’s block

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The Tricksy Zero Draft: Taming the Beast of Writer’s Block

Writer’s block – that mythical monster that lurks in the deepest recesses of our minds, waiting to pounce and paralyse our creative output. Many a writer has fallen prey to its insidious grasp, staring blankly at a blinking cursor or a stack of pristine paper, unable to conjure even a single inspired sentence.

Among the most formidable foes in this battle is the Zero Draft. This elusive entity is the antithesis of progress, a paltry, unformed mass that masquerades as a first draft. It’s the when-in-Rome, throw-every-idea-against-the-wall, see-what-sticks approach that can leave even the most seasoned writers floundering in a sea of confusion and self-doubt.

So, how do you vanquish this devious demon and finally break free from its stranglehold on your writing muse? Here are a few battle-tested strategies to help you rise triumphant over the Zero Draft:

Lower Your Expectations: Recognise that your first pass at a piece of writing will rarely, if ever, be perfect. It’s the rough blueprint, the scaffolding upon which you’ll build something more substantial later on. Don’t expect to craft a masterpiece in a single, inspired burst; instead, focus on getting words on the page, no matter how messy or imperfect they may be.
Set a Timer and Write Drunk: Inspired by the famous Ernest Hemingway anecdote, this technique involves setting a timer for a fixed interval (20-30 minutes works well) and writing as freely and uninhibitedly as possible during that time. The resulting output may be chaotic, but it’s often a rich source of raw material to mine for later polishing and refinement.
Change Your Environment: Sometimes, a change of scenery can work wonders for sparking creativity and banishing the Zero Draft. Try writing in a different location, or at a different time of day. Even a simple rearrangement of your usual writing space can help jumpstart your imagination.
Collaborate with a Writing Buddy: The old adage “misery loves company” holds true when it comes to writer’s block. Having a fellow writer to share the struggle with can provide a much-needed motivational boost. Set a regular writing schedule with your partner and hold each other accountable for making progress, no matter how small.
Reward Progress, Not Perfection: Give yourself small rewards for reaching certain milestones, even if your writing is still far from polished. This could be something as simple as a favourite meal, a walk in the park, or an extra hour of reading time. By focusing on the journey rather than the destination, you can maintain a sense of momentum and purpose even when the words aren’t flowing as freely as you’d like.

In the end, the Zero Draft is merely a challenge to be overcome, a hurdle on the path to crafting something truly remarkable. By adopting these strategies and maintaining a stubborn commitment to the writing process, even the most intractable blocks can be breached, and the creative floodgates can finally be unleashed. So steel yourself, grab your pen (or keyboard), and march forth into the fray – your inner author is waiting to emerge, Zero Draft be damned.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Seoul

Beyond the Palaces: 5 Unexpected Seoul Delights Off the Beaten Path

Seoul. The name itself conjures images of shimmering skyscrapers, ancient palaces, and the pulsating energy of K-Pop. And while those iconic sights are undeniably breathtaking, what if you’re looking for something a little… different? What if you’ve already ticked off Gyeongbokgung and conquered the Namsan Tower, and your wanderlust craves a Seoul that whispers secrets rather than shouts them?

Fear not, intrepid traveller! Seoul’s magic extends far beyond the well-trodden tourist trails. If you’re ready to immerse yourself in the city’s multifaceted soul, here are five alternative experiences that will leave you with unique memories and a deeper appreciation for this dynamic metropolis.

1. Get Lost (and Found) in a Local Market’s Labyrinth

While Namdaemun and Gwangjang are famous for good reason, venture into one of Seoul’s lesser-known Dongdaemun (east gate) markets for a truly authentic adventure. Think Migun-dong Electronics Market or the sprawling Tongin Market (though it’s gaining popularity, it still offers a more intimate feel than its mega-market counterparts).

Here, you won’t just find souvenirs. You’ll witness the daily rhythm of Seoul locals. Wander through aisles overflowing with everything from vintage cameras and artisanal crafts to the freshest produce and sizzling street food. Engage with vendors, practice your basic Korean greetings, and savor the thrill of discovering treasures you never knew you needed. The vibrant chaos, the cacophony of sounds, and the intoxicating aromas are an experience in themselves.

2. Step Back in Time at a Traditional Tea House in Seongbuk-dong

While Insadong offers a taste of traditional Korea, the charming Seongbuk-dong neighbourhood offers a more serene and authentic tea house experience. Tucked away in its hilly streets are hidden gems like Moonbird Porcelain or O’Sulloc Tea House (Seongbuk Branch).

Imagine this: stepping out of the bustling city into a tranquil haven adorned with traditional Korean architecture. You’ll be presented with delicate porcelain cups, fragrant teas like omija (five-flavour berry) or barley tea, and perhaps a plate of traditional Korean sweets (hangwa). It’s an opportunity to slow down, disconnect, and engage in a centuries-old ritual of mindfulness and conversation. The quiet elegance of these spaces is a welcome antidote to the urban rush.

3. Ascend the Less-Climbed Peaks for Panoramic Views

When most people think of Seoul views, Namsan Tower comes to mind. But for a more rewarding and less crowded panoramic experience, consider hiking some of Seoul’s other magnificent peaks. Bukhansan National Park is a hiker’s paradise, but for a slightly more accessible yet equally stunning vista, try Achasan Mountain.

The trail to Achasan is relatively moderate, and the reward at the summit is immense. You’ll be greeted with breathtaking views of the Han River snaking through the city, with the iconic buildings of Gangnam and Lotte World Tower in the distance. It’s a fantastic spot for sunrise or sunset, offering a different perspective of Seoul’s sprawling beauty. Bonus points if you pack a simple picnic to enjoy amidst nature.

4. Delve into Subculture at a Themed Cafe or an Independent Bookstore

Seoul’s cafe culture is legendary, but move beyond the mainstream and discover its quirky corners. Explore the Hongdae area (beyond the main shopping street) for its abundance of independent bookstores and uniquely themed cafes. Think cat cafes, sheep cafes, board game cafes, or even cafes dedicated to specific K-Pop groups.

For book lovers, Chronicler B’s or Village offer curated selections of art, design, and independent publications, often with cozy reading nooks. These spaces are not just for sipping coffee; they are vibrant hubs of creativity and community, offering a glimpse into Seoul’s subcultures and passions.

5. Discover the Art of Hanji at a Traditional Paper Workshop

Hanji, traditional Korean paper, is renowned for its durability and beauty. While you can admire Hanji crafts in museums, why not try your hand at creating something yourself? Seek out a Hanji workshop in areas like Bukchon Hanok Village or inquire at cultural centres.

These workshops offer a hands-on experience where you can learn about the intricate process of making Hanji, from the Mulberry bark to the final paper. You might even get to create your own small piece of art, try your hand at calligraphy on Hanji, or craft a beautiful lantern. It’s a deeply satisfying way to connect with a traditional Korean craft and take home a truly unique, handmade souvenir.

So, the next time you find yourself in Seoul, dare to stray from the well-worn paths. Embrace the spirit of exploration, and you’ll discover a city that’s not just grand and modern, but also intimate, quirky, and brimming with hidden wonders waiting to be unearthed. Happy adventuring!

What I learned about writing – Author interviews can ask difficult questions

As accomplished as we can be at putting words on paper, what is it that makes it so difficult to sit in a chair with a camera on you, and saying words rather than writing them?

Er and um seem to crop up a lot in verbal speech.

OK, it was a simple question; “What motivates you to write?”

Damn.

My brain just turned to mush, and the words come out sounding like a drunken sailor after a night out on the town.

The written answer to the question is simple; “The idea that someone will read what I have written, and quite possibly enjoy it; that is motivation enough.”

It highlights the difficulties of the novice author.

Not only are there the constant demands of creating a ‘brand’ and building a ‘following’, there is also the need to market oneself, and the interview is one of the more effective ways of doing this.

If only I can settle the nerves.

I mean, really, it is only my granddaughter who is conducting the interview, and the questions are relatively simple.

The trouble is, I’ve never had to do it before, well, perhaps in an interview for a job, but that is less daunting. That usually sticks to a predefined format.

Here the narrative can go in any direction. There are set questions, but the interviewer, in her inimitable manner, can sometimes slide a question in out of left field.

For instance, “Your character Zoe the assassin, is she based on someone you know, or an amalgam of other characters you’ve read about or seen in movies?”

That was an interesting question, and one that has several answers, but the one most relevant was; “It was the secret alter ego of one of the women I used to work with. I asked her one day if she wasn’t doing what she was, what she would like to do. It fascinated me that other people had a desire to be something more exotic in an alter ego.”

Of course, the next question was about what I wanted to be in an alter ego.

Maybe I’ll tell you next time.

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.

…

newdevilcvr6

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Sydney

Beyond the Icons: Five Hidden Sydney Gems on the Road Less Travelled

Sydney is one of the world’s most beautiful cities, but let’s be honest: once you’ve seen the Opera House sails sparkle and crossed the Harbour Bridge, you might feel like you’ve checked the box.

But for the traveller yearning for authenticity—the one who prefers the local pub to the tourist trap, and a hidden bush track over a crowded promenade—Sydney holds secrets. If you’re touring New South Wales and looking to uncover the true soul of the Harbour City, you need to drive past the postcards.

Here are the top five things to do in Sydney on the road less travelled, reserved for those willing to venture just slightly off the beaten track.

1. Trace Ancient History at Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park

While the Royal National Park gets most of the glory (and the weekend crowds), the vast, stunning wilderness of Ku-ring-gai Chase, located in the north, often slips under the radar for international visitors. This is the perfect spot for a Sydney day trip that feels like a true escape from urban life.

Why it’s on the road less travelled: This park is not just known for its phenomenal bushwalking and sprawling waterways; it is a repository of irreplaceable history. Ku-ring-gai is home to some of the most significant and well-preserved Aboriginal rock art and engraving sites in the Sydney basin.

The Must-Do: Head to the captivating West Head Lookout, which offers panoramic, uninterrupted views across the juncture of the Hawkesbury River, Broken Bay, and Barrenjoey Headland. On your way back, stop and walk the short loop trail at the Basin Track to view Aboriginal engravings of marine life and human figures, remnants of the Guringai people who have called this land home for millennia.

2. Harbour Views Without the Crowds: The Hermitage Foreshore Walk

Everyone knows the walk from Bondi to Coogee, but Sydney’s most exquisite harbour views are often found on the quieter paths along the Eastern Suburbs. The Hermitage Foreshore Walk, connecting Nielsen Park to Rose Bay, is the perfect example of secluded city beauty.

Why it’s on the road less travelled: This 1.8 km track meanders through lush, protected rainforest, leading you to tiny, secret beaches that feel utterly remote, despite being minutes from million-dollar homes. You get postcard-perfect views of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House—but from across the water, framed by trees and exclusive little coves.

The Must-Do: Pack a picnic and stop at Milk Beach, a glorious sliver of sand that is largely inaccessible except via this track or boat. It is one of the most romantic spots in Sydney, ideal for watching the yachts sail by without the presence of tour buses or selfie sticks.

3. Step Back in Time (and Ruin): Cockatoo Island

Located right in the middle of Sydney Harbour, Cockatoo Island is a UNESCO World Heritage site and one of the world’s most unique islands. It’s an industrial ghost town, a former prison, shipyard, and reformatory school, offering a fascinatingly gritty contrast to the polished surrounding suburbs.

Why it’s on the road less travelled: While easily accessible by ferry from Circular Quay, most tourists jump off at Taronga Zoo or Manly. Those who make the short trip to Cockatoo Island find a raw, sprawling historical site where the massive industrial machinery and sandstone penal buildings have been left largely intact.

The Must-Do: Take a self-guided audio tour that delves into the island’s dark convict past and its role in building Australia’s naval strength. For the truly adventurous, book a waterfront glamping tent or apartment for the night. Waking up on a silent, historical island, watching the sun rise over the harbour, is an experience few visitors ever get to claim.

4. Explore Inner West’s Industrial Transformation: The Tramsheds

Sydney’s Inner West is famous for its hipster cafes and vintage shops, but the Tramsheds in Forest Lodge offer a specific culinary and architectural experience that screams “local.”

Why it’s on the road less travelled: This is not a standard food court; it’s a beautifully restored Rozelle Tram Depot, built in 1904. The massive, soaring industrial space, complete with old tram tracks and repurposed steel infrastructure, now houses a selection of artisanal retailers, high-quality restaurants, and providores focusing on local Australian produce.

The Must-Do: Skip the chain restaurants and grab lunch at a specialist venue like Bodega 1904 or pick up fresh seafood. The atmosphere is buzzing but intimate, giving you a real feel for Sydney’s industrial heritage fused seamlessly with modern dining culture. It’s a perfect pitstop for lunch if you are driving through the Inner West towards the city.

5. Discover the Tranquil Waters of Pittwater via Ferry

For a Sydney experience that truly requires a sense of adventure (and a slightly longer drive north), head to Church Point or Palm Beach and leave the car behind to explore the hidden waterways of Pittwater.

Why it’s on the road less travelled: Pittwater is Sydney’s serene northern counterpart to the bustling Harbour. It is edged by protected national parks and sprinkled with tiny, virtually car-less communities only accessible by private ferry or water taxi. This area feels less like Sydney and more like a secluded holiday destination.

The Must-Do: Catch the little commuter ferry from Church Point across to Scotland Island or The Basin (part of Ku-ring-gai Chase). The Basin offers brilliant, calm, lagoon-like swimming and excellent walking tracks leading to lookouts over the pristine water. This ferry journey itself is a charming slice of local life—you’ll be sharing the trip with residents doing their grocery runs and kids heading home from school.

Your Sydney Adventure Starts Now

Sydney’s iconic sights are worth the visit, but the true brilliance of the city lies just beyond the tourist trails. By taking the road less travelled, you don’t just observe Sydney; you immerse yourself in its history, its wild geography, and its genuine, local spirit.

So, ditch the guidebook, fire up the GPS, and go find the hidden beaches and industrial ruins that the locals try to keep secret.

Have you discovered a hidden Sydney gem that should be on this list? Share your favourite off-the-beaten-path spot in the comments below!

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.

Writing a book in 365 days – 325

Day 325

The Zero Draft – that old devil in the ointment, Writer’s block

…

The Tricksy Zero Draft: Taming the Beast of Writer’s Block

So, how do you vanquish this devious demon and finally break free from its stranglehold on your writing muse? Here are a few battle-tested strategies to help you rise triumphant over the Zero Draft:

Lower Your Expectations: Recognise that your first pass at a piece of writing will rarely, if ever, be perfect. It’s the rough blueprint, the scaffolding upon which you’ll build something more substantial later on. Don’t expect to craft a masterpiece in a single, inspired burst; instead, focus on getting words on the page, no matter how messy or imperfect they may be.
Set a Timer and Write Drunk: Inspired by the famous Ernest Hemingway anecdote, this technique involves setting a timer for a fixed interval (20-30 minutes works well) and writing as freely and uninhibitedly as possible during that time. The resulting output may be chaotic, but it’s often a rich source of raw material to mine for later polishing and refinement.
Change Your Environment: Sometimes, a change of scenery can work wonders for sparking creativity and banishing the Zero Draft. Try writing in a different location, or at a different time of day. Even a simple rearrangement of your usual writing space can help jumpstart your imagination.
Collaborate with a Writing Buddy: The old adage “misery loves company” holds true when it comes to writer’s block. Having a fellow writer to share the struggle with can provide a much-needed motivational boost. Set a regular writing schedule with your partner and hold each other accountable for making progress, no matter how small.
Reward Progress, Not Perfection: Give yourself small rewards for reaching certain milestones, even if your writing is still far from polished. This could be something as simple as a favourite meal, a walk in the park, or an extra hour of reading time. By focusing on the journey rather than the destination, you can maintain a sense of momentum and purpose even when the words aren’t flowing as freely as you’d like.

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 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, they 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 realized she’d spoken it out loud, had 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 civilization, 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 realized 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 observance, 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 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, 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 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, 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 off-hand 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, and 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 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.

…

lovecoverfinal1

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

Category: Book

Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 8

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The Chronological Duty Cycle of a British Enlisted Soldier on the Western Front: April 1915 to Demobilisation

“Do you believe in g..g..ghosts…?”, a short story

Writing a book in 365 days – 325

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Seoul

Beyond the Palaces: 5 Unexpected Seoul Delights Off the Beaten Path

1. Get Lost (and Found) in a Local Market’s Labyrinth

2. Step Back in Time at a Traditional Tea House in Seongbuk-dong

3. Ascend the Less-Climbed Peaks for Panoramic Views

4. Delve into Subculture at a Themed Cafe or an Independent Bookstore

5. Discover the Art of Hanji at a Traditional Paper Workshop

What I learned about writing – Author interviews can ask difficult questions

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Sydney

Beyond the Icons: Five Hidden Sydney Gems on the Road Less Travelled

1. Trace Ancient History at Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park

2. Harbour Views Without the Crowds: The Hermitage Foreshore Walk

3. Step Back in Time (and Ruin): Cockatoo Island

4. Explore Inner West’s Industrial Transformation: The Tramsheds

5. Discover the Tranquil Waters of Pittwater via Ferry

Your Sydney Adventure Starts Now

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

Writing a book in 365 days – 325

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

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One writer's experiences, and battles with words

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Beyond the Palaces: 5 Unexpected Seoul Delights Off the Beaten Path

1. Get Lost (and Found) in a Local Market’s Labyrinth

2. Step Back in Time at a Traditional Tea House in Seongbuk-dong

3. Ascend the Less-Climbed Peaks for Panoramic Views

4. Delve into Subculture at a Themed Cafe or an Independent Bookstore

5. Discover the Art of Hanji at a Traditional Paper Workshop

Share this:

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Beyond the Icons: Five Hidden Sydney Gems on the Road Less Travelled

1. Trace Ancient History at Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park

2. Harbour Views Without the Crowds: The Hermitage Foreshore Walk

3. Step Back in Time (and Ruin): Cockatoo Island

4. Explore Inner West’s Industrial Transformation: The Tramsheds

5. Discover the Tranquil Waters of Pittwater via Ferry

Your Sydney Adventure Starts Now

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