Unveiling Cyprus: A Journey Along the Road Less Travelled
Cyprus, with its azure seas, ancient history, and Mediterranean charm, often draws travellers to its bustling resorts and UNESCO-listed sites. But beyond the well-trodden paths lies a lesser-known side of the island—a tapestry of hidden gems, serene landscapes, and rich cultural heritage waiting to be discovered. If you’re seeking adventure off the beaten track, here are five extraordinary experiences that will transform your Cyprus journey into an unforgettable odyssey.
1. Wander Through the Timeless Villages of Omodos
Nestled in the Troodos Mountains, Omodos is a picturesque village that feels like a step back in time. Lined with centuries-old stone houses and terraced olive groves, this UNESCO-recognised hamlet is a haven for those craving tranquillity. Known as a centre for Cypriot winemaking and olive oil production, Omodos offers a glimpse into traditional rural life. Visit the Monastery of Panagia Kanakaria, with its breathtaking 17th-century frescoes, and take a leisurely stroll through the surrounding fields. Tip: Enjoy a local wine tasting at one of the family-run wineries, and don’t miss the village’s annual olive oil festival.
Why It’s Off the Radar: While Omodos is gaining attention among locals, it remains a secret to most international travellers, making it perfect for quiet exploration.
2. Marvel at Stavros tou Athanasiou: The Church of Saint John in the Forest
Tucked between the lush forests of the Troodos Mountains, Stavros tou Athanasiou is a Byzantine gem dating back to the 10th–11th centuries. This UNESCO World Heritage Site is renowned for its stunning frescoes depicting biblical scenes with remarkable vibrancy. The church’s remote location, surrounded by pine trees and the scent of herbs, creates an almost otherworldly atmosphere. Tip: Light a candle to honour Saint John, a local tradition believed to bring blessings, and bring a picnic to savour the serene setting.
Why It’s Hidden: Nestled deep in the wilderness, it’s a 45-minute drive from Limassol, requiring a bit of commitment—exactly what adventurous travellers crave.
3. Escape to Karkarash Dam and Its Bucolic Surroundings
Just west of Nicosia, Karkarash Dam is a hidden oasis that boasts one of Cyprus’s most scenic reservoirs. Framed by olive groves and rolling hills, it’s a peaceful spot for picnics, hiking, or simply soaking in panoramic views. The nearby Ethnological Museum of Avdimou village offers a fascinating look into rural Cypriot life, with relics like old wine presses and traditional tools. Tip: Visit in the spring when wildflowers blanket the area, or in winter for birdwatching opportunities.
Why It’s Under the Radar: Unlike the island’s popular beaches, Karkarash remains a low-key destination, frequented mainly by locals.
4. Walk the Ammochostos Trail’s Valley of the Queens
Stretching across the Ammachosti mountain range, the Ammochostos Trail is a lesser-known hiking route that reveals Cyprus’s ancient past. The Valley of the Queens, part of this trail, is a mystical expanse of rock formations and tombs carved into cliffs—believed to predate even the nearby Valley of the Cyclops. As you trek, imagine the footsteps of merchants and pilgrims who once traversed this path. Tip: Start your hike at the ancient city of Golgoi near Limassol, and pack sturdy shoes—parts of the trail are rocky and unpaved.
Why It’s Secret: While the Ammochostos Trail is technically a historical route, the Valley of the Queens segment is rarely explored by tourists.
5. Discover Lara Beach: The Hidden Emerald Cove
Accessed via a 45-minute hike or a boat tour from Polis Chrysochous, Lara Beach is a secluded paradise in the Akamas Peninsula. Framed by towering cliffs, this crescent of golden sand is fringed by crystal-clear waters—a true hidden gem. The nearby Ghost Forest, a small island with stilted tree trunks rising from the sea, adds a touch of mystery to the experience. Tip: Bring a waterproof bag for your supplies and explore the surrounding coves for snorkelling or diving.
Why It’s Remote: The lack of road access means Lara Beach is one of the island’s best-kept secrets—perfect for privacy-seeking travellers.
Conclusion: Embrace the Uncharted Cyprus is more than just its beaches and resorts—it’s a land of quiet villages, ancient trails, and natural wonders waiting to be uncovered. By straying from the well-worn paths, you’ll discover a side of the island that resonates with history, serenity, and authenticity. So pack your sense of adventure, rent a car, and let Cyprus surprise you with its hidden treasures. The road less travelled promises an unforgettable journey.
Got a favourite offbeat spot in Cyprus? Share it in the comments—we’d love to hear your discoveries!
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.
In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.
In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.
Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.
Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.
She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.
Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.
All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.
Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”
Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!
“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.
He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.
“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.
“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.
“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.
Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”
They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.
Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.
His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.
Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.
No. That wasn’t possible.
Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.
It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.
“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”
At least we agree on that, she thought.
It was obvious he was running away from something as well.
Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.
After getting through this evening first.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”
A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.
Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”
Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.
She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”
She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.
Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.
Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.
Was that what she was expecting?
Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.
Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.
On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.
This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.
Rebellion was written all over him.
The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.
“Mr Henshaw?”
He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.
“Then my name is Michelle.”
Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.
“Staying long?” she asked.
“About three weeks. Yourself?”
“About the same.”
The conversation dried up.
Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.
Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.
“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”
Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”
“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”
You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.
“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.
“Yes, so do I.”
Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.
It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.
Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”
“By car.”
“Did you drive yourself?”
And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.
“After a fashion.”
He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.
And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.
“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.
“Whatever for?”
“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”
“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.
“Do you drive?”
“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”
The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.
“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.
“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.
“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.
“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.
He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.
“I’m a purser.”
“A what?”
“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”
“I see.”
“And you?”
“I was a model.”
“Was?”
“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.
As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.
“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”
“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”
Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.
Dinner over, they separated.
Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.
But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.
Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.
She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
We gathered up what food there was to take with us. There were no weapons left behind. Leonardo had assumed correctly we would have used them if they’d been left there.
Carlo had changed slowly into an automaton, and I guess if I could read his mind, I’d know exactly what he was thinking. Enrico had attached himself to Carlo, and I knew Carlo would look after him.
When I said that the burials would have to wait, Carlo agreed.
We had a short discussion on what we would be doing next, and in the first instance, we would be going back to the other soldiers and the church. There, with both of our knowledge of the castle, its entrances, secret or otherwise, and the internal passageways which I knew Wallace and the others there were not too familiar with, we would formulate a plan to go in and pick them off one by one.
It seemed a good plan when we first talked about it, but on the way back to the church, and I had time to consider how it would work, it seemed we would only get an advantage once, and we would have to kill or capture as many as we could in the first raid.
Then it was going to be difficult.
Unless Carlo knew of more places we could enter the castle without being seen or heard.
I only knew of three.
And the first post we had to hit, and silence, the radio room.
My war had not been as start or as terrifying as most of those whom I’d known or worked with. My part was more selective, finding and eliminating spies, informers, and enemy cells on home territory.
Sometimes that would extend into enemy territory, particularly France where, as one who could speak French fluently, I found myself working with the resistance, using intelligence gathered by a network of spies we had, not only in France but in all parts of enemy territory. That also meant, sometimes, accompanying weapons and other supplies into enemy territory.
It hadn’t included anything like what I’d just seen back at the underground cavern.
I’d been told, often, about the enemy executing whole villages, and large groups as retaliation for resistance operations that killed German soldiers, and particularly officers, but I’d not seen it first-hand.
Now I had.
I’d been told, along with the others who had been at the training camp way back at the start of the war, that we would inevitably see atrocities. Those instructors, men who had survived the first war, were speaking from experience. We were told it would make us angry. It had. I had this immediate thought of doing as much damage as I could to the perpetrators of that massacre.
But we had also been told that we had to harness that anger, and use it to drive our actions, bot in a reckless manner, but with a measured calm and with planning. Blind rage, which had been predicted, would only get us killed.
I had left the cavern at the blind rage stage, but the walk to the church wore some of that off, and I began to piece together the seeds of a plan to get our revenge. We were only a small group, but even so, we could work more efficiently than those at the castle.
Leonardo was not going to tell Wallace that he hadn’t captured or killed me in his ambush, but it might make Wallace think that my ability to retaliate would be weakened. Leonardo would know that Carlo and I were still alive. He would not know about Blinky and his men.
It would be interesting to see if Wallace would commit any of his men to hunt us down, send Leonardo back out to finish the job, or just wait until Meyer turned up. His contact in Gaole would know about the castle’s change of allegiance, but he would not know that Martina was not going to be there to greet them when they arrived in the village.
That was several days away. We would have to be there, but it was going to be dangerous unless we found a way to neutralize the castle. So far, in my head, we’d neutralized the radio and got as far as the dungeons before meeting enemy resistance.
The same had happened in the next six scenarios, after playing out the last we had arrived back at the church.
Chiara was resting as comfortably as the Sergeant could make her.
He had made a more thorough assessment of her injuries, and aside for the severe beating, she had sustained a few cracked ribs and several broken fingers. The broken fingers were a surprise. The sergeant had reset them as best he could.
Other than that, she would recover physically. Mentally, he said, would be something else. She was lucky, he said, her torturer was an amateur, and Italian. Had it been the German Gestapo, she would be dead.
She was lucid and I told her we would make Leonardo pay for what he’d done. I thought it best not to tell her about what had happened back at the cavern. She had enough on her conscience without adding the senseless deaths of the villagers.
Then we had a meeting, where I asked Carlo to draw a plan of the castle and the places where we could breach their defenses and give us an element of surprise.
He had one that I hadn’t known about, one that might give us a fighting chance.
A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.
A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?
A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.
A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.
After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.
From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
It was an understatement to say I was dreading going to Boggs’ place.
In fact, in the hour it took to get through the morning chores I had time to consider how and why I was in this position. Boggs was a friend. We were friends at school and as best we could we had each other’s back when the bullies came out to play.
At times that didn’t amount to much because as everyone knows, bullies hunt in packs. Six against two wasn’t much of an equation. And it those days, the teachers spent more time hiding from the students than being in front of them.
It was simply a case of what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
It didn’t feel like that, not for a very long time.
But, in the end, misfortune can make strange bedfellows, and in a town that depended on a single industry, it soon became apparent that there were more people against the Benderby’s and the Cossatino’s than for, and in small-town politics, that was more than an evening up. Out of school and separated from their acolytes, both Alex and Vince found that whatever influence they had once, was now gone, and all that was left was a grunt, and we were basically left alone.
Boggs was the dreamer.
He had idolized his father and when he went missing it broke him.
This map thing was the first signs of Boggs finally coming back to life, but the problem was, it was all pinned on false hopes. The Sherriff was right. Boggs was in over his head, playing with the two most vicious families from around here, and it was bad enough that his father had fallen foul of them, the Sherriff was not about to see his son go the same way. I was going to try and talk Boggs out of it.
Yet, on the other hand, it was people like us who needed a win, just to show there was still hope in this place. With threats every day that the factory might have to close, there were dark clouds hanging over everyone’s head.
If the factory closed, there was going to be a very large hole in the local economy and a lot of people in financial trouble. I’m not sure how finding the treasure might solve all of that, but I suspect Boggs’ had something up his sleeve.
I knocked on the door and his mother answered. She looked harried. She was a nurse and looked as though she just got home from the night shift at the hospital.
“Boggs is in his room.”
“How are you this morning?”
“Tired. And an afternoon shift, which I might not get to if I don’t get some sleep. You know where he is. Try not to make any noise.”
“Will do.”
I came in and closed the door, watching her dash off down the passage to the other end of the house.
She could not work endless double shifts for much longer, but like all of us, it was not out of desire but necessity. She had implored Boggs to get a job and help, but he seemed oblivious to the problem. I’d tried to speak to him, but he had that insufferable way of just not listening.
Boggs was in his room, sitting on the bed and staring at the ceiling.
“If only. I could use it right now to find something that’s missing>”
“Your cell phone?” Boggs was always misplacing something, of forgetting it. I’d lost count how many times he’d misplaced his phone.
“No. An underground river.”
OK. That was out of left field. I had no idea any rivers were missing, or, in fact, they could actually go missing.
Apparently, they could.
“There’s two,” he said. 300 years ago five or take this part of the coastline had several rivers that ran down from the mountain range. What we now call the hills on the edge of the coastal plain. There was also a lake, not very large, but it used to have several streams flow into it all year round and had an aqua flow that came out along the coastline.”
“And you figured all of this out from what? A copy of the treasure map.”
The moment he started quoting rivers, streams, and lakes, I remembered each of those geographical features appeared on several of the map versions. I had suggested, rather comically, that it would be funny if the treasure was buried in the lake.
It wasn’t all that funny. It was also possible.
“Imagine this. Drop anchor out to sea, in other words on the other side of the natural sandbar that formed at the seaward side of the river, get in the longboats and row inshore to the lake, across the lake, up another river to the base of the hills. Then do a little exploring, north or south, and find a cave. I reckon the treasure was buried in a cave. We know there are caves up there, not many, but I think there used to be more.”
“Someone already did a survey with some rather fancy electronic equipment with the same idea in mind. He found three, not very long, and certainly without treasure. Two had substantial falls inside, which is why they were buried.”
“There’s more.”
He jumped up off the bed and went over to the robe and opened the door. Tacked on the back was a copy of an ordnance survey map of this part of the coastline, and a tracing of the treasure map, to the same scale on top.
“As you can see, I think ‘I’ve found the correlation between the real, and what was real 300 years ago.”
Except there’s no rivers and no lake. And no sand bar as I recall. There was a small marina in what might have been where the river met the sea, but that’s gone. They filled it in and build a shopping mall on it. A huge, now half empty, shopping mall. A modern wonder 40 years ago that was supposed to bring business and shoppers to the town. For a few years it did, until another town 50 miles away got the same idea, sold the land for half the price, and made the rents a quarter of what they were here.
They called it progress.
We called it piracy.
“Then we can hardly row our boat inshore and up the stream, if it’s not there.”
I hated to state the obvious.
“But,” he said, looking like the cat who’d swallowed the canary. “What if it is still there, but we just can’t see it?”
This is not meant to be a treatise on short story writing. Far be it from me to advise anyone on the subject. I prefer to say how it is that I do it so you can learn all of the pitfalls in one go.
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I find inspiration in the most unlikely places.
Shopping malls are great; there are so many things going on, so many different types of people, and there’s often enough to fill a journal.
Driving on the roads, you get to see some of the most amazing stunt driving, and it’s not even being filmed; it’s just playing out before your very eyes.
Waiting in hospitals, waiting for doctors, accountants, dentists, friends, hanging around coffee shops, cafes, bistros, restaurants, the list is endless.
But the best source, newspapers, and the more obscure the headline, the better, and then just let your imagination run free, like:
Four deaths, four mysteries, all homeless.
This poses a few interesting scenarios, such as whether they were homeless or were made to look like they’re homeless. Are they connected in any way?
The point is, far from the original story that simply covers four seemingly random murders, a writer can turn this into a thriller very easily.
It could follow a similar headline in another country, where three headlines could be found, say, in London, where a man is found dead in an abandoned building, a week after he died, with no obvious signs of how he died.
A woman is killed in what seems from the outset an accident involving two cars, where, after three days, the driver of the second vehicle simply disappears.
A man is reported missing after not reporting for work when he was supposed to return from a vacation in Germany.
Where an obscure piece says that a man was found at the bottom of a mountain, presumed to have fallen in a climbing accident.
The Craft of the Craft: Inside Ursula K. Le Guin’s Writing Workshops
For aspiring writers, the name Ursula K. Le Guin stands as a monolith of literary craft. Beyond her genre-defining novels like The Left Hand of Darkness and the Earthsea cycle, Le Guin was a dedicated mentor. She believed that writing was a skill to be honed, not just a talent to be waited upon.
If you’ve ever wondered what it was like to sit in a room (or engage in a digital exchange) with the master of speculative fiction, you are asking about more than just a class—you are asking about a philosophy of language.
In this post, we’ll explore the core themes, methodologies, and enduring legacy of Ursula K. Le Guin’s writing workshops.
1. The Primacy of “The Sentence”
Le Guin was famously obsessed with the mechanics of the English language. Her workshops were rarely about high-concept plot brainstorming; they were about the rhythm and music of the sentence.
She often taught that a paragraph is a piece of music. If a sentence didn’t flow, if the cadence was awkward, or if the words didn’t communicate the precise “weight” of the idea, she would push students to rewrite it. Her workshops taught writers that if you cannot control the sentence, you cannot control the story.
2. Reading as Research
One of the most distinct aspects of Le Guin’s pedagogical approach was her insistence that to be a writer, you must be a voracious reader.
Her workshops often featured “close reading” sessions. She would assign classic and contemporary texts, asking students not just to enjoy the story, but to dissect how the author achieved specific effects. She taught that writers are essentially “thieves” of technique—you must read widely to understand the toolbox you have at your disposal.
3. The “Steering” of Narrative Perspective
Le Guin was an expert at shifting perspectives, most notably in Always Coming Home. In her workshops, she challenged students to abandon the “default” narrative voice.
She encouraged participants to experiment with:
The unreliable narrator: How do we trust (or distrust) the voice on the page?
Non-human perspectives: How does one describe the world without using human-centric metaphors?
Voice and Tone: How the specific register of a character’s voice dictates their social standing, their history, and their internal world.
4. The Philosophy of “The Craft” over “The Market”
Unlike many modern MFA programs that focus on “getting published,” Le Guin’s workshops were notoriously indifferent to the commercial market. She viewed writing as a communal, humanistic endeavour.
She often warned students against writing for trends. Her workshops were safe spaces to fail, to experiment with “weird” ideas, and to focus on the integrity of the work rather than its potential for a book deal. She taught that if you focus on the quality of the work, the audience will eventually find its way to you.
5. The Accessible Legacy: Steering the Craft
If you cannot attend a workshop taught by Le Guin herself, the next best thing is her seminal guidebook, Steering the Craft.
This book is essentially the curriculum of her workshops distilled into text. It provides:
Exercises in Sentence Structure: Moving beyond simple S-V-O (Subject-Verb-Object) sentences.
Exercises in Point of View: Learning to inhabit different narrative distances.
Exercises in Sound and Rhythm: Using assonance, consonance, and pacing to create mood.
What You Can Take Away Today
Whether you are a fantasy novelist or an essayist, you can adopt the “Le Guin Method” by implementing these three habits into your daily practice:
Read Aloud: If a sentence trips you up when you read it aloud, it’s not ready. Rewrite it until it sounds like music.
Limit Your Adjectives: Le Guin was famous for stripping away “filler” to let the strong verbs do the heavy lifting.
Study the Masters: Pick a favorite author, transcribe a page of their work by hand, and try to understand exactly why they chose each word.
Final Thoughts
Ursula K. Le Guin’s workshops were never about “finding your voice” in a performative sense. They were about disciplining your voice. By treating writing as a craft—a trade similar to carpentry or weaving—she empowered thousands of writers to take their work seriously.
If you want to write better, stop looking for “inspiration” and start looking for the perfect word to end your next sentence.
Are you a fan of Ursula K. Le Guin’s writing advice? Have you read ‘Steering the Craft’? Share your favourite writing tip from her in the comments below!
Day 189 – Jane Austen’s novels as examples to draw on
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The Austen Blueprint: Mastering Structure, Dialogue, and Plot Through Jane Austen’s Novels
If you want to write a novel that stands the test of time, look no further than the 19th-century drawing rooms of Jane Austen. While the social landscape of Regency England may seem worlds away from the modern reader, Austen’s technical prowess remains the gold standard for novelists.
Whether you are writing contemporary romance, historical fiction, or a suspenseful thriller, Austen’s work offers a masterclass in narrative architecture. Here is how you can use Jane Austen’s novels as a blueprint for your own storytelling.
1. Structural Symmetry: The Art of the Controlled Narrative
Austen was the queen of “the perfect structure.” Her novels rely on a rhythmic pacing that keeps readers engaged without ever feeling rushed.
The Economy of Characters: Austen never included a character who didn’t serve a specific purpose. In your own work, audit your cast. If a character exists only for flavour, consider cutting them or merging their function with a protagonist to tighten your focus.
The “Small Village” Approach: Critics often joked that Austen wrote about “three or four families in a country village.” By limiting the scope of your setting, you create high-stakes intimacy. You don’t need a sprawling intergalactic empire to create tension; you just need a closed system where social consequences feel life-altering.
2. Dialogue as a Character Tool
Austen’s dialogue is legendary—sharp, witty, and deeply revealing. She rarely relied on “said-book” descriptors, preferring to let the weight of the words reveal the character’s soul.
Character Voice: Think of Mr. Collins’s sycophantic, flowery verbosity versus Mr. Darcy’s clipped, guarded brevity. When writing your dialogue, ask: Would my antagonist speak in long, rambling sentences, or short, punchy bursts? Give each character a distinct rhythmic signature.
Subtext is King: In an Austen novel, characters are often forbidden from saying exactly what they mean due to social decorum. This creates incredible tension. Try writing a scene where your characters are arguing about something trivial (like a letter or a walk) while the real conflict is something they are strictly prohibited from mentioning. The friction between what is said and what is felt is where the magic happens.
3. Plotting: The “Misunderstanding” Engine
Modern plotters often over-complicate their narratives. Austen’s plots are remarkably simple on the surface, usually revolving around money, marriage, or social reputation. But the engines of these plots are always character flaws.
The Internal-External Drive: Austen’s plots progress because of her characters’ internal biases. Elizabeth Bennet’s prejudice and Mr. Darcy’s pride aren’t just personality traits; they are the literal obstacles that prevent the plot from resolving early.
The Revelation Moment: A hallmark of the Austen plot is the “Anagnorisis”—the moment of discovery. Think of Darcy’s first letter to Elizabeth. It forces the protagonist to re-evaluate everything they thought they knew about the world. Identify the “prejudice” your protagonist holds and build your second act around a moment that forces them to burn that belief to the ground.
4. The “Slow Burn” Pacing
In today’s market, many writers feel pressured to start with a massive explosion. Austen teaches us the value of the slow burn. She builds tension through small, incremental shifts in relationship dynamics.
Use Micro-Events: Instead of a car crash, use a dance, an unwanted dinner invitation, or a shared secret. When the stakes are emotional, the smallest gesture—a held hand or a cold glance—carries the weight of an explosion.
Putting it into Practice
To apply this “Austen Blueprint” to your next draft, try this exercise:
Strip it down: Take your current manuscript and identify the three most crucial relationships. Cut any character who doesn’t directly influence these dynamics.
Audit the Dialogue: Go through a scene and delete all the dialogue tags (he said/she said). If you can’t tell who is speaking based on their word choice alone, rewrite the lines to be more distinct.
Define the “Pride”: Write down the one lie your protagonist believes about the world. Does your current plot actually force them to face that lie, or are you just throwing external obstacles in their way?
Final Thoughts
Jane Austen’s brilliance wasn’t in grand, sweeping spectacles; it was in the profound understanding of human behaviour. By focusing on tight structures, character-driven dialogue, and the internal growth of your protagonist, you can craft a story that—like Pride and Prejudice—will be read and reread for generations.
Are you currently working on a manuscript? What lessons have you drawn from the classics to improve your writing? Share your thoughts below!
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 