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We think of tropical Queensland having pristine white beaches and azure sparkling seas.
Not necessarily so.
This used to be a mangrove swamp.
Perhaps this is what happens when you mess with the natural environment, you’re left with something that’s not very nice.
There’s no beach, no sand, and sometimes not a very pleasant odor.
We can imagine what this might have looked like before man turned up to urbanize the area. In the background, there is an inlet and on either side lush vegetation.
It must have looked very inviting once upon a time. Now the shoreline is completely built on, the vegetation that was once there completely cleared, and the inlet leads to a marina.
Perhaps the story here might be about greedy destructive property developers who care not for anything but profits. But in their quest to destroy, there is always someone else aiding and abetting, someone in government.
But what if there was an even darker secret hiding just below the surface, and about to be uncovered. How far would someone go to preserve that secret?
I wandered back to my villa.
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw the globe was broken.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
There were four hiding spots and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in. One shot would be all that was required.
I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
She smiled. “As you say, I was never here.”
© Charles Heath 2018-2020
Well, it’s been a monumental process to get to the point where I think I can start writing Chapter One.
This, of course, might not be the first chapter, it might finish up somewhere else.
If there was a plan, then this would be chapter one. In fact, right now, I’m going to sit down and do a plan with as much as I know about where the book is heading.
One, about Bill and his introduction to the reader
Two, a phone call to interrupt the dream
Three, having to go into work – there’s a disaster going on, and he’s the only one who can fix it.
Well, not necessarily others, but this is the nineteen seventies/eighties, and women were still not looked upon or considered as being able to hold the same position as Bill – we’ve certainly come a long way in forty years.
And that, of course, is anther stream in the book, proving that woman, and one in particular is clever and given the recognition she deserves.
I’ve also got to remember that there is no internet, and there are no mobile phones and a lot of other stuff that is now regarded as commonplace and taken for granted.
We had telephone boxes, telephones on desks that connected to a switchboard, dumb terminals connected to mainframes, modems that were bulky and very very slow, and comms ran very differently to those today, and networking was a variety of technologies that mostly don’t exist anymore, like ethernet and token ring, and software like 3Com and Novell.
I know I’m going to forget sometimes because it’s going to be hard not to have the MC pull out his cellphone and call on the spot.
Anyway, here’s the first attempt…
A cool breeze blew briskly across meadows of tall grass, giving the impression of the ocean in a storm. High above, clouds scudded across the sky, occasionally allowing the sun to shine through to bathe the ground in the sunshine, intensifying the richness of the greens and browns.
It was spring. Trees were displaying new growth, and flowers were starting to show the promise of summery delight. An occasional light shower of rain added to the delightful aromas, particularly where the grass had recently been mowed.
I was there, too, with my grandmother, the woman who had, for the most part, brought me up at her country residence. But, as I got older, the dream changed and sometimes there were storm clouds on the horizon, or I was caught in the rain, alone and frightened, or lost in the woods in the dark.
There were other visions like these from my childhood, now a million years away somewhere in a distant past that was hard to remember or say where and when they belonged. It was a pity some were now based on images stolen from the start of a movie seen on TV late at night as I was trying to get to sleep. Or that the psychiatrist had said there was some trauma from my early childhood, trying to work its way out.
Like every other morning, these images came to me as I was hovering somewhere between conscious and unconscious, just before the alarm went off. Then it did, filling the room with a shrill noise that would have woken the dead.
I cursed, and then dragged myself over to the other side of the bed where I’d put the alarm clock, and hit it, killing the shrill sound. I’d put it there so I would have to wake up to turn it off. And, worse, I’d forgotten to turn it off the night before because it was, technically, the first day of my holiday.
Not that I really wanted one because since Ellen left, my life consisted of work, work, and more work. It kept my mind off being alone, and in an empty apartment except for the books, a bed, a table, and two chairs, a desk, and a well-worn lounge chair. I’d been there for years and still hadn’t bought any new furniture or anything else for that matter.
And the last holiday I’d gone on had been organized by Ellen fifteen years ago in Italy after our two daughters had finished school and graduated almost top of their class. We’d been happier then, but happiness was fleeting for me, and soon after the rot had set in, and it was the beginning of the end.
I remembered it only too clearly, coming home, opening a letter addressed to her, and finding proof of what I think I’d known all along. She was having an affair, had been for quite some time.
It should not have been a surprise given what I had put her through over the years, since my discharge from the Army, and the nightmares active service had fueled, but it was and sent me spiraling to a new low.
But that was five years ago. I came out of the fog a year after that. Ellen was gone, the girls came to see me from time to time, and all I had left were memories.
I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. I was on holiday. No work, no pressure, nothing. I could go back to my grandmother’s house and visit. I had been promising myself I’d do that soon, even if it was now a country hotel. From the advertising it had not changed one bit, the house and grounds intact.
Or I could throw a dart at a map and get on the next plane there, though knowing my ability with a dart, it would be in the middle of the ocean.
I could do almost anything I wanted.
It’s not much, just a taste. But it’s enough for now. I’ve made a start. Now, all I have to do is come up with the next 100,000 words or so.
© Charles Heath 2016-2020
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 modeled 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 image 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 May 2020. It even has a cover.
Does a rainy, cold, miserable sort of day usually reflect your mood?
This was taken on the morning of the following day we arrived in the Gold Coast hinterland when we were staying at a cottage in the countryside.
Good thing we had a GPS to get us there.
Going away for a weekend, in winter, can be challenging. Not always, but for some years now, we have been going away when it is winter elsewhere in the world, and thought nothing of minus temperatures, simply because our summers are very, very hot.
With the pandemic travel anywhere is all but closed down. This was at a time when we could only travel up to 200 km from home, in a low-level set of restrictions. It’s since changed to the whole of the state because the other state borders are closed.
But winter here is not as bad as winter on the other side of the world. Wet, raining, it was still about 16 degrees celsius, so it turned out to be a weekend where we could just sit on the patio and watch the rain go by, a rather interesting phenomenon watching it and the low clouds pass by going up the valley.
I was trying to read a book, but it was one of those that required no distractions. I’d also tried doing some crosswords, but that too required concentration.
And being in the middle of nowhere with nothing but hills, bush, fields, farm animals, macadamia nut plantations, and a river, there was plenty going on around us.
I still have to bring a fishing line the next time, and tackle fishing in the river. Maybe I’ll catch a trout.
“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.
When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.
From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.
There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.
Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.
Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?
Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?
Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?
As they say in the classics, read on!
It’s, on the one hand, the opposite of major, and not the military rank, but the lesser of two evils.
It was a minor misdemeanor, so you won’t be going to jail for life, just 20 years, maybe.
Or perhaps you’re referring to a child who is also known as a minor.
And, once upon a time, there was a car called a Morris Minor. I know, my father owned one.
And one of my uncles owned a Morris Major, yea, the Morris car company didn’t have much imagination.
Music-wise it is having intervals of a semitone between the second and third degrees, and others.
It is also qualifying in a subsidiary subject in college in America.
And while we’re still in America, there are the minors, a rather interesting description for the minor baseball league.
Something I remember when reading books about children in British private schools, was where there were two boys in different grades, one would have minor attached to his name, e.g. Smith minor.
The Billy Bunter books spring to mind, but the discrimination police would have them banned these days.
Of course, there’s another word that sounds somewhat similar, miner.
We all know that a miner sign ore out of the ground, a name given to a single man, or a huge corporation.
A computer program could be called a data miner.
A miner is a South American bird, and it’s also an Australian bird.
It also describes a person who obtains units of cryptocurrency using a specific computer program.
There is another variation, mynah, but that used to describe a bird.
The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.
My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.
Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.
So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.
So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.
I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.
And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.
There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’
Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.
But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.
One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.
It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.
I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.
Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.
The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.
Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?
But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.
And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.
Except for the bad guys.
Get it here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4
We visited Rome in August
It was hot.
It was verrrry hot.
We flew into Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino airport after a rather bumpy flight from London. Unlike most other airports the plane parked at a satellite terminal and after we disembarked we had to catch a train to the main terminal.
The most notable memory of this airport was my daughter’s discovery of a salami shop.
We had booked a transfer to take us to the hotel the Roma Corso Trieste Mercure in Via Gradisca from the airport. It was a white air-conditioned van and so far we had avoided the heat.
One of the rooms had a faulty air conditioning an absolute must as the rooms were very hot without it and necessitated a room change which was done quickly and efficiently.
The hotel was in the suburbs and without a car we were dependent on public transport. According to the reception staff, there was a bus stop nearby, and a longer walk to the tram or light railway. The bus seemed to be the best option as it would take us to the central terminal near the railway station, where all tour buses also operated from, and particularly the open-top buses that went to all the major tourist attractions.
That first day basically was given over to travelling, arriving by plane and settling into the hotel, thus we didn’t get to feel the force of the heat. That came the next day.
After a walk around the hotel precinct to get our bearings and see what shops and restaurants were available, on returning to the hotel we were faced with the limited choices of room service or to go out for dinner.
My daughter and l go for a long walk up Via Nomentana to find several shops and a restaurant. We went into the restaurant and sat down. We waited for 10 minutes and got no service nor did anyone come and ask us if we wanted to order food so instead we left somewhat disappointed and go next door to what seems to be the Italian version of a delicatessen and order sandwiches and beer. I bought a half dozen cans of Moretti beer two of which I drank on the way home.
It was still very hot even at eight at night and the sandwiches are delicious. It just might be by that time we were starving and anything would have tasted great.
The next morning we are up and ready to chance the weather and some history. Breakfast at the hotel is limited but very good.
We were going to use public transport and I’d studied up on the Internet.
Travelling on the bus required pre-purchase of tickets which could be bought in certain shops and locally when exploring the area near the hotel, l found a tobacconist.
Next, we needed to understand how to use the tickets. There was no one on the bus who could help so when l tried to scan the tickets and it failed, l gave up. We had the same issue each day and in the end, the tickets never got used.
The trip to central Rome by bus took about 15 minutes. In the morning it was reasonably cool and showed us a little of suburban Rome. We also saw the trams but we would not be able to use them because our hotel not on a direct route.
That first full day we decided to go and see the Vatican.
Not understanding buses and which one we needed to get to the Vatican, we took a taxi.
Wow. It was the metaphorical equivalent of driving over the edge of a cliff with a daredevil. It was quite literally terrifying.
Or maybe we just didn’t know that this was probably the way people drove in Rome.
Shaken but delivered in one piece we found ourselves in the square opposite St Peters Basilica.
The square is impressive, with the statues atop a circular colonnaded walkway. The church is incredible and took a few hours to take in and to top off the day, we did a tour of the Vatican museum which took the rest of the afternoon.
Then it was back to the delicatessen for more sandwiches and beer, and an interesting discussion with several elderly Italian ladies, of which I did not understand one word.
The second full day we decided to use one of the open-top bus tours and eventually decided on the hop on hop off tour simply because the bus was at the central transport terminal for trains and buses and it was getting hotter.
Our first stop was the Colosseum. There were other monuments nearby, such as the Arch of Constantine, but as the heat factor increased we joined the queue to go into the Colosseum and gladly welcomed the shade once we got inside.
The queue was long and the wait equally so, but it was worth the wait. It would be more interesting if they could restore part of it to its former glory so we could get a sense of the place as it once was. But alas that may never happen, but even so, it is still magnificent as a ruin.
Outside in the heat, it was off to the ruins which were a longish walk from the Colosseum, taking Via Sacra, not far from the Arch of Constantine. This day in the walkway there were a number of illegal vendors, selling knockoff goods such as handbags and watches, and who, at the first sight of the police, packed up their wares in a blanket and ran.
Included in these ruins were The Roman Forum, or just a few columns remaining, the Palatine Hill, Imperial Fori, including the Forum of Augustus, the Forum of Caesar, and more specifically the Forum of Trajan. It was, unfortunately very hot and dusty in the ruins the day we visited.
We walked all the way to the Foro Romano and the Septimus Severo Arch at the other end of the ruins, past the Temple of Caesar.
I found it very difficult to picture what it was like when the buildings were intact, so I bought a guide to the ruins which showed the buildings as ruins and an overlay of how they would have looked. The buildings, then, would be as amazing as the Colosseum, and it would have been interesting to have lived back then, though perhaps not as a Christian.
I lost count of the number of bottles of water we bought, but the word ‘frizzante’ was ringing in my ears by the end of the day. Fortunately, the water did not cost a lot to buy.
At the end of the day, we caught the hop on hop off bus at the Colosseum and decided not to get off and see any more monuments but observe them from the bus. The only one I remember seeing was Circo Massimo. Perhaps if we’d know it was going to be twice as hot on the bus, yes, there was no air-conditioning; we may have chosen another form of transport to get back to the hotel.
The third and last day in Rome we decided to go to the Trevi Fountain, see the pantheon and walk up the Spanish Steps. We spent most of the morning in the cool of a café watching the tourists at the fountain. By the time we reached the top of the Spanish Steps, we were finished.