Category: Creative Writing

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Brussels

Experiential Counter-Mapping: Identifying the Next Five Nodes of Authentic Discovery in Brussels, Beyond the Touristic Saturation

Abstract

Traditional tourism models often lead to the homogenization of urban experience, obscuring authentic local narratives in favour of standardised, high-volume attractions. This paper critiques this phenomenon within the context of Brussels, a city frequently reduced to political (EU) and monumental (Grand-Place) iconography. Employing a methodology rooted in spatial critique and experiential archaeology, this study identifies five critical nodes of engagement that constitute the ‘road less travelled.’ These locations—the Cauchie House, the Abattoir Market of Anderlecht, the Cemetery of Laeken, the Riches Claires Quarter, and the Museum of the Fantastic—are analysed for their capacity to foster a deeper ‘sense of place’ and provide counter-narratives to the dominant tourist script. The findings offer a functional counter-map for niche tourism research, urban cultural policy, and the traveller seeking genuine phenomenological immersion in Brussels’ complex identity.

1. Introduction: The Cartography of Obfuscation

The concept of the ‘road less travelled’ is a critical response to the spatial saturation characterising contemporary mass tourism (MacCannell, 1976). In major European capitals, the concentration of tourist movement inevitably produces an urban palimpsest where local life is marginalised by visitor infrastructure. Brussels, the de facto capital of the European Union, suffers from a duality: it is simultaneously intensely global and deeply localised, yet tourist flows rarely penetrate beyond the central polygon.

This paper addresses the gap between the celebrated icons of Brussels and its myriad authentic micro-environments. Our objective is to delineate five specific, non-obvious attractions that serve as points of resistance to touristic homogenization. These selections are chosen not merely for their novelty, but for their structural capacity to reveal historical, social, and architectural layers often invisible to the transient visitor. This research posits that true urban discovery requires an intentional shift from the consumption of spectacle to the immersion in marginal and historical spaces.

2. Theoretical Framework and Methodology

2.1 The Authentic and the Anti-Spectacle

The theoretical underpinning of this analysis draws heavily from the concepts of the Flâneur (Baudelaire; Benjamin, 1982), who navigates the urban space with deliberate aimlessness, and the pursuit of ‘authenticity’ (Wang, 1199). Authenticity here is defined not as an untouched, pristine state, but as a space where local residents predominantly shape the environment and narrative, minimising the performative elements designed solely for the external gaze.

Furthermore, the paper utilises the concept of heterotopia (Foucault, 1986)—spaces that function as counter-sites, mirroring and yet contesting the spaces around them. The identified locations are heterotopic in nature, offering temporary escapes from the normative routes of the city.

2.2 Selection Criteria

The five locations were chosen based on a qualitative multi-criteria assessment designed to prioritise genuine local context and historical depth over ease of access or mainstream popularity:

  1. Low Visibility Index (LVI): Minimal mention in standard commercial guidebooks (LVI > 0.8).
  2. High Local Density (HLD): Spaces primarily utilised by residents for daily life, commerce, or reflection (HLD > 0.7).
  3. Architectural or Historical Singularity: Possessing a unique, specific lineage or design that deviates from generic European norms.
  4. Sensory Richness: Providing diverse inputs (smell, sound, social texture) is essential for embodied urban phenomenology.

3. Findings: The Five Nodes of Brussel’s Counter-Map

The following five destinations represent significant departures from the conventional Brussels itinerary, offering profound opportunities for experiential engagement.

3.1 Node 1: The Cauchie House (Maison Cauchie) – Art Nouveau/Déco Transition

Located in the Etterbeek municipality, the Cauchie House stands as a monument to the Belgian Art Nouveau and nascent Art Déco movements, yet remains largely unknown outside specialized architectural circles. Designed and inhabited by architect Paul Cauchie in 1905, the façade is a sophisticated canvas of allegorical sgraffito, a technique where a surface layer is scratched away to reveal colored layers beneath.

Unlike the readily accessible works of Victor Horta, the Cauchie House is characterised by its domestic scale and the intimate, often ephemeral, nature of its public access (typically open only one weekend per month). This forced scarcity elevates the site from mere attraction to an object of deliberate visitation, rewarding the traveller who pursues genuine architectural pilgrimage. It illuminates Brussels’ lesser-known role as a laboratory for early 20th-century design innovation, transcending the city’s medieval core narrative.

3.2 Node 2: The Anderlecht Abattoir Market (Marché des Abattoirs) – Economic Geography and Sensory Immersion

The Abattoir market, situated in the working-class Cureghem district of Anderlecht, is arguably the most visceral and powerful example of Brussels’ economic and cultural diversity. Operating chiefly on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, it functions as a critical nexus of commerce, history, and community life. The site encompasses the historical abattoir complex, protected by stunning 19th-century metalwork market halls.

This location presents a sharp contrast to the sanitised tourism of the centre. Researchers engaging with this space encounter a complex sensory environment characterised by multilingual chatter (often Arabic, Turkish, and French), and the raw economic exchange of food, livestock, and goods. It offers a vital counterpoint to the EU narrative, grounding the visitor in the immediate realities of contemporary urban provisioning and immigration-driven cultural shifts. Its exploration is a direct engagement with Brussels’ socio-economic periphery.

3.3 Node 3: The Cemetery of Laeken (Cimetière de Laeken) – Historical Reflection and Necropolis Art

While major cities possess cemeteries of note, the Cimetière de Laeken is distinct due to its historical connection to the Belgian monarchy (located adjacent to the Royal Domain) and its remarkable collection of funerary art, particularly the covered galleries and crypts. Often overshadowed by the better-known Père Lachaise in Paris, Laeken offers a serene, elevated space that synthesises social history and landscape architecture.

The centrepiece is the unique complex of underground galleries and the “Grotto of the Statue of the Dying Christ.” Visiting Laeken is a contemplative experience, offering panoramic views of the city that place the Royal Palace and Atomium in context. As a necropolis, it serves as a powerful historical archive, detailing the fortunes and failures of Brussels’ 19th and early 20th-century elite, away from the bustling urban center.

3.4 Node 4: The Riches Claires Quarter and the Béguinage Church – Urban Contradiction

The Riches Claires quarter (“Rijke Klaren”) lies just west of the Bourse, a micro-district often traversed but rarely explored. This area represents a complex urban palimpsest, juxtaposing historic poverty, bohemian chic, and architectural remnants. The focal point is the magnificent Église Saint-Jean-Baptiste au Béguinage (St. John the Baptist at the Beguinage).

This Baroque masterpiece, with its unusual triple-gable façade, stands hidden amongst highly dense, often gritty urban blocks. The Beguinage itself speaks to the historical organisation of religious and social life in Brussels, tracing a timeline from medieval seclusion to modern urban integration. Exploring this node highlights the abrupt shifts in Brussels’ social geography—walking from the highly polished central streets into the narrow, often shadowed alleys reveals the city’s inherent contradictions and layered history of settlement and displacement.

3.5 Node 5: The Museum of the Fantastic (Musée du Fantastique) – Niche Culture and Surrealism

Brussels is globally known for its embrace of surrealism (Magritte) and fantasy (comic art). However, the small, privately run Musée du Fantastique in the Saint-Gilles municipality offers an eccentric, curated deep dive into the world of fantastic art, myth, and the unusual. Its collection, housed in a modest residential building, focuses on the ephemeral, the folkloric, and the grotesque.

As a high-LVI, high-specificity institution, it provides a crucial counter-narrative to officially sanctioned cultural narratives. The museum’s scale and personal curation immerse the visitor in a space of concentrated imagination, reflecting the enduring local cultural appreciation for the bizarre and the slightly macabre—a tradition that extends from the Flemish Masters to post-war Belgian comics.

4. Conclusion: Implications for Experiential Urbanism

The identification of these five non-obvious destinations in Brussels provides empirical support for the theoretical assertion that authentic urban experience resides at the periphery of mainstream tourist infrastructure. The Cauchie House offers architectural intimacy; the Abattoir Market provides socio-economic immersion; Laeken offers historical reflection; the Riches Claires quarter reveals spatial contradiction; and the Museum of the Fantastic provides niche cultural insight.

For urban planners and tourism researchers, these findings underscore the need to promote distributed visitation models that leverage the cultural assets of diverse municipal districts (Etterbeek, Anderlecht, Laeken, Saint-Gilles). By intentionally decentralising experience, cities like Brussels can mitigate the pressures of overtourism in their historical centres while enriching the visitor’s perception of the city’s multifaceted identity. Ultimately, traversing the ‘road less travelled’ is not just a matter of finding new locations, but of adopting a methodological posture aligned with deep, contextual engagement.

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

Writing a book in 365 days – 315

Day 315

Writing exercise – For once, they slept right through the air raid siren

…

For forty days and forty nights, it was not a replay of the flood that took Noah on a voyage to save the world’s animals, but a constant barrage of drones, missiles and artillery fire.

The anti-missile, anti-drone, anti-artillery fire mechanisms had been partially destroyed in the first wave of day one, and they’d been struggling ever since.

And it was not as if they were not giving as bad as they received.  Both countries were reeling from the constant barrage.

Whole cities were destroyed, vital infrastructure was badly damaged, and some of it was beyond repair.

No one knew when it was going to stop, and on the dawn of the forty-first day, there was a strange sound coming from above the bunker, where tens of thousands of frightened civilians had made a temporary home for themselves.

That strange sound?  Silence.

Of course, the enemy had done this before, stopping the barrage for a few hours, lulling them into a false sense of safety, the people going up into the daylight, only to have bombs rain down on them.

It was a cruel trick and one that would not be forgotten.  And this time, because of that experience, no one had any inclination to go outside.  Everyone down in the bunker knew someone in the group of over a thousand who had been killed.

The commanding officer of the facility and the five thousand soldiers at his disposal sat at the top of the long table in the conference room, looking at a wall-sized screen that showed a map of the battle lines and the approximate positions of enemy guns, drones and missile launching sites.

It was a state of utter destruction.

It was a vibrant, liveable city with elegant historic buildings and large well well-organised parkland.  Now it was a little more than a wasteland of ruins and craters.

The organising committee filled the rest of the chairs around the table.  They were the government for this facility, one of fifty throughout the city.

They were linked by radio communications, but there hadn’t been enough time to build tunnels or completely finish some of the bunkers.

The commander had just delivered the briefing authorised by the provisional government housed in Bunker 1, those left that hadn’t been killed in the initial strike, which targeted vital infrastructure and government buildings of those inside.

A strike without warning.

Then came the inevitable question.  “When will it be safe to go outside?”

The commander had deliberately omitted that part because, in his opinion, probably best left to a direct question, if anyone asked.

He had been hoping they wouldn’t.

“Not today, nor tomorrow.  Central Command think that it will recommence tomorrow or the next day, or when they see us outside.  They have satellite imagery.”

It was suspected and now confirmed.  It was first thought there were spies from within, but that had been finally discounted. 

“Do we?”

“The rocket that was launched to put it into orbit was sabotaged, so no.  We didn’t find out until the war started.  We were caught unawares in just about everything.”

“Politicians sleeping on the job,” a voice from the back of the room said.

The commander knew it was and let it go.  Everyone had an opinion with the benefit of hindsight.  Not sleeping, but deeply divided political parties made it impossible to progress.

He wondered what the remnants of those parties were thinking right now.  How much they could blame the other side for the mess they were in now.  It certainly wouldn’t be about how to resolve the mess.

“We elected them, so it’s as much our fault as it is theirs.  But, everyone, if you have some idea that will get us moving forward, I will pass it on to the Central Command.”

There were no suggestions.

“What the hell…”

That person who ridiculed the politicians was pointing at the screen.

Everyone looked at the figures coming over the rubble, in formation, looking for survivors.  Enemy soldiers who were expecting people to flee their bunkers in the absence of artillery fire.

“What are they doing?”

“Looking for us.  Strange since they’re basically seeing what we’re seeing.”

Then, quite strangely, they started shooting in a manner that suggested they were firing at an enemy.

This went on for a minute, and then there was return fire, killing every person they could see on screen.  The commander counted about three hundred casualties.  Everyone but those who turned and ran also suffered the fate ,except they were shot in the back.

“That was dumb,” someone else said.

“Who was shooting back?  I didn’t see any of our men out there.”

There was a murmur of agreement around the table.

“What do you know that we don’t?”  The man who started the conversation.

“I assure you I am as in the dark as you are.”

On the table in front of the commander was a red phone.  It only rang when there was important news.

He let it ring three times before answering it, reciting his personal code, name and rank.  Then he listened for five minutes, said, “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”  Then he replaced the receiver.

He looked around the table at the expectant faces.

“Apparently, what you just saw happened at every one of the fifty bunkers.  The enemy assumed we had come out and launched an attack.  A new technology was developed, but couldn’t be implemented until there was a respite.  It worked.  The enemy has requested a ceasefire and negotiated surrender.”

“Then we can finally leave this place.”

“When the Central Government verifies that the enemy is being truthful, which in the last hundred years has never been.  This could be another ploy on their part.  So, we’re staying inside until otherwise advised.”

No one was happy with that edict, but then, everyone knew the enemy could not be trusted.

…

The next seven days were of silence, and observing the empty landscape of what had been their city.

The enemy dead lay still, a reminder of a devastating waste of life, and to some a monument to the futility of war, fuelled by hatred.

People started considering what it was at the heart of the war, the ingrained hate instilled into every one of the two countries that used to be one nation and one lot of people.

A classic example of religion-fuelled hatred, the sort that divided families and eventually a nation.   There had been civil wars, but these were limited due to technology and a quickly depleted army.  Three times, nearly every male under the age of thirty on both sides had been wiped out.

Wives lamented the loss of their children, young women lamented the loss of viable husbands.  It was surprising that the population managed to grow after such events.

This time, the deaths of young men were way below those before, more because the current leaders had realised losing men was not an option, hence the remote weaponry.

It made the enemy’s hand-to-hand attack more of a mystery.  And not surprising that in losing so many, they would see the futility of such actions.

Enough lives had been lost.

…

There were daily updates.  The ridiculous demands, the negotiation tactics to get an unconditional surrender.

It was as if the losers honestly believed they were the winners.

And to the Commander, a peace that was too easily attained, and a capitulation that was far too quick.  He knew what the enemy could achieve if they tried harder, but for some reason, they were not interested.

For that reason, the Commander relayed his concerns, concerns that the Central Government ignored.

In the command room, he stood next to his 2IC, looking at the screen.  With the control unit in his hand, he switched views to each of the other 49 bunkers, and it looked the same.  Hundreds of dead enemy soldiers.

“It’s a trick,” the Commander said.  “I know it is.  Many years ago, there was a thing called the ‘Midnight Protocol’.  Few people were aware of it because it was believed to be folklore.”

“What is this Midnight Protocol?”

“If one side can’t win, everyone dies.  The leaders of both nations are cut from the same cloth, with the same beliefs.  We were once a single country and people who lived in peace.  That’s what they’re going to do.  Kill everyone.”

“How?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. We’ll have to wait and see.  Meanwhile, no one leaves.”

“They’re automatically unlocking the gates.  Everyone gets to leave.  They’ve all been celebrating.  They have no idea what’s going to happen to them.”

“I know you do.”

“I know I want to keep my people safe, and that’s what I intend to do.  Now, time to rejoin your family. It’s near curfew.”

Every night a ten, everyone was at home and ready for the end of the day.  Anyone caught out, without a good excuse, was punished.  It happened rarely.

This night would be different.  The end-of-the-day prayers were read, there was a short news bulletin, and then five minutes before the lighting was switched over to conservation mode.

Five minutes after that, the Commander pushed the blue button on the console in the small room to one side of the meeting hall.

Red was for self-destruction; if ever the bunker was overrun, a quick, painless death was better than the long, painful one the enemy would force upon the people. Blue, the one that put everyone to sleep for a specified period, in case the doomsday scenario was enacted.

Both sides had a doomsday scenario, one none ever hoped would be implemented.  It was this that the Commander knew the other side intended to adopt.

A fake peace.  Everyone is coming out to celebrate, and then everyone dies.

Not on his watch.

The button was pressed, then the black button was pressed, to double-lock the doors from the inside, so no one could get in or out.  It was two of three.  The last was for him.

He slept until the time the armistice was to be celebrated, going from bunker to bunker, watching the people emerge, join up with the enemy.  Families reuniting, the current government meeting their enemy counterparts, the shaking of hands.

Peace at last.

Until suddenly a single bomb fell on each of the bunker locations, or the evacuation areas outside the bunkers.  And, one by one, all the people were killed, the enemy and his countrymen alike.

He switched from bunker to bunker, all 49 of them, just as the air raid siren started.  A bit late, everyone was dead.  Even if it had gone off when the bombs first landed, it would have been too late.

His people had slept through it, not knowing what had happened.  Not knowing they were the last of both countries.

He pushed the last button.  The one that would suspend them all in stasis for a year.  A protocol very few knew about.

He had spoken about it with his other 49 bunker commanders, and none of the others believed it had been implemented.  They had searched for the control room and hadn’t found it.

Bunker 50, his bunker was the only one.  The last bunker to be built, and the one meant to house the government offices and politicians.  They had decided, very early on, to save themselves by taking the first bunker, not waiting until the end, and the irony of their selfishness was not lost on the Commander.

Sleep came slowly, and he was sure he was still laughing when he finally succumbed to that long and peaceful sleep.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters Harry and Alison there are other issues driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.

Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

In a word: Hail

Yes, you know what it is, and it can be very unpleasant when it hits – hail.

Hailstones as big as golf balls, hailstones that make small or large dents in your car, smash windows, wreck trees, and, sometimes, give the appearance that snow has just fallen.

And hail with snow equals sleet, and it’s not very pleasant to be caught in it.

Of course, there’s a different sort of hail, one that you might also not want to be subject to, that from someone across the street trying to get your attention.

Or a hail that you do want someone or something to stop; a taxi, or cab

Or a ship across the water… though I’m not sure why you, personally would want to hail a ship

Perhaps you could be praised in some way, like, he hailed from London – no, not yelled so loudly he could be heard in New York

And no, we do not go around saying, Hail Minister, or Hail Friend!  Not unless we’ve used a time machine and gone back to ancient Roman days

This is not to be confused with the word hale

Yes, it can be something you eat, and I hear it’s very good for you

Or that man is hale and hearty, which means in good health – and I have to say I’m envious because I’m anything but hale

 

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction.  He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down.  He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup.  I stepped to the other side and so did he.  It was one of those situations.  Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic.  I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone.  I shrugged and looked at my watch.  It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk?  I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station.  What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’.  I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light.  As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini.  I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car.  It was that sort of car.  I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him.  I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on.  The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter.   Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure.  I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot.  A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring.  I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road.  I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar.   It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did.  There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me.  It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me.  As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man.  He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter.  I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in.  I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 27

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

By now, the idea of finding Louise is but a distant memory.

A week in the second and third lines, after coordinating with the Air Corps and going on several observation runs, taking photos, ironically with a German camera, and getting shot at from the ground by the enemy, a meeting with the artillery group and a plan hatched, one that could not be guaranteed to work, everything is set in place.

It is close to Christmas of 1916, and in the two years since he parted with Penelope, his life had changed so much that he had become a totally different person.  Would that have happened if he had stayed home?  No.

Would that have happened if he had not met Rose, or Louise, or Margaret, to name a few, on the ship?  No.

Had there not been a war, well, he would still be rotting away in those musty chambers with the cobweb-covered cadavers called senior partners.

Hunched into a corner of a trench with several others, waiting for the inevitable whistle, listening to the artillery fire going over their heads, and the odd returning fire exploding nearby, it was remarkable how quickly one became accustomed to what was business as usual.

A stalemate.

Waiting for the moment when a theory would be tested.

And cheat death.

…

2155 words, for a total of 45270 words.

Writing about writing a book – Day 31

I’ve been toiling away in the attic putting the pieces together and continuing to get the story written.

This means I’ve almost got Chapter 2 somewhere near the first draft, or maybe the second. I didn’t expect it would take this long, but most authors, I suppose, take a year, or more, to write a book.

It’s been hot in the attic and making it hard to think let alone write, but it is a good background for the steamy jungles of Southeast Asia, and it has given me a few more ideas for the background sequences.

I’ll share one or two of those next.

In the meantime, so far so good.

The following is the first musings of what Chapter 2 might read like:

…

The first sign of anything amiss was the three police cars outside the building, parked awkwardly on the plaza in front of the building. Their lights were still flashing, and several policemen were standing near them, talking.

As I went through the front revolving door I could see several uniformed and plainclothes police in the lobby. Two were by the door, perhaps to prevent someone from leaving, one on the desk with two of the building security guards, and another near the elevator lobby.

Temporary barriers had been erected, funnelling everyone through a narrow gap, where building security was checking ID cards and building passes, both of which I handed to one of the guards. These men were new, I hadn’t seen them before, and, when I took a closer look, saw they were from a different security company.

I guess with the shooting of Richardson, our management had decided the existing building security was not good enough. These new men looked a lot tougher if the number of visible tattoos on each was anything to go by, the sort of men I’d call mercenaries or ex-soldiers.

One of them gave me a good look, at my face to see if it was the same as that looking back at him on the ID card. It was not a good photo of me, and it was no surprise he was having difficulty. I’d cut my hair, I was wearing glasses, and I have the makings of a three-day beard.

I had not intended to shave while I was on holiday, and, given the urgent nature of the recall, had no time to do so before coming into the office. Benton could have warned me of the new security arrangements, but it did not surprise me he didn’t.

He called over a friend, not by turning and motioning to him, but by talking into his collar communication device. It was rather pointless, the man he spoke to was no more than 20 feet away. He checked me versus the ID photo and let me pass. Perhaps his eyesight was better.

In the elevator heading up to my floor, 18, I had a few moments to consider the implications. New security meant trouble. It had happened once before, and it caused all manner of trouble for me and my staff. We had been locked out of the server room then.

The elevator jerked to a stop, and the doors opened. Everything looked quiet. I could not see any police or security personnel. But waiting for me in the lobby was Benton’s personal assistant, waiting to tell me that Benton had been dragged off to an emergency meeting, one, she said, that involved share prices or stock exchange announcements. I could not make sense of what she was saying, because his hysteria had become hers. The events of the morning so far had traumatized both of them.

I smiled, trying to be my usual charming self, and then wrote a message on a scrap of paper, and gave it to her to give to him when he returned from wherever he had gone. I was quite sure it was not a meeting. She reminded me Aitchison was still waiting to see me, and then walked off.

I turned and pressed the ‘up’ button, and the doors to the elevator car I’d stepped out of opened.  I stepped in, pressed the button for 59, and the doors closed.  Once again I was alone with my thoughts in an elevator.  I had just enough time to realize that the investigation into Richardson must be more serious than I first thought if the police were still here in numbers.

I thought I might visit the 17th floor after seeing Aitchison, and see what was happening. A decision was still pending when the doors opened, and I stepped out into ‘Fantasyland’.

It was the unofficial nickname we mortals from the lower floors called the Executive levels. They were the top three in the 60-story building. The mortals lived on levels 17 through 22.

This level housed all the Assistant General Managers. We had six. Aitchison was the AGM – Security. Goldstein, who was waiting in the lobby for an elevator, was the AGM – Administration. He was a surly chap near the age of retirement and spent more time on holiday than in the office. Preparing for retirement some said. Others were less charitable.

He nodded in my direction as we passed, I came out of the elevator car, and he went in. The doors closed behind me and I let the silence envelop me.

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 314

Day 314

The happy ending debate

…

The Happy Ending Debate: Is It All About Where You Stop the Story?

We’ve all been there. Lost in a book, glued to a screen, investing our emotions in characters and their journeys. As the story nears its end, a quiet hope stirs within us: Please, let them be happy. We crave resolution, comfort, and the satisfaction of knowing that, in this fictional world at least, good triumphs and love prevails.

But should every story culminate in a neat, tidy, and unequivocally happy ending? And more profoundly, is the ‘happiness’ of an ending simply a matter of where the author chooses to draw the final curtain?

The Allure of the Sunny Conclusion

There’s no denying the power and appeal of a happy ending. They offer:

  • Escapism: Life is often messy and unpredictable. Stories with joyous resolutions provide a much-needed mental break, a reminder that things can turn out well.
  • Hope: They validate our belief in perseverance, the triumph of good over evil, and the idea that our own struggles might eventually lead to brighter days.
  • Satisfaction: A happy ending can feel like a reward for the emotional investment we’ve made, a pleasant closure to a captivating experience.

From classic fairy tales to blockbuster rom-coms, these endings serve a vital purpose, leaving us with a warm feeling and a sense that balance has been restored.

The Unflinching Gaze of Reality

However, limiting all narratives to happy conclusions would be a disservice to the vast spectrum of human experience. Sometimes, stories need to:

  • Reflect Reality: Life isn’t always fair, and not every conflict resolves harmoniously. Stories that acknowledge pain, loss, and unresolved tension can be incredibly powerful and resonant.
  • Provoke Thought: Tragic or ambiguous endings often linger longer in the mind, prompting deeper reflection on themes, choices, and consequences.
  • Offer Catharsis: Witnessing a character’s journey through suffering, even if it doesn’t end happily, can be a form of emotional release and understanding for the audience.
  • Teach and Warn: Some stories serve as cautionary tales or explorations of the darker sides of humanity, and a happy ending would undermine their core message.

Think of literary classics, historical dramas, or poignant independent films – their power often lies in their refusal to sugarcoat the human condition.

The Art of the Final Frame: Where Do You Stop?

This brings us to the most intriguing part of the debate: Is a happy ending simply a matter of narrative framing?

Consider this: Is a character’s failure truly the end, or is it merely the lowest point before a potential rise? Is a bittersweet goodbye truly sad, or is it a necessary step towards individual growth and new beginnings?

  • Life is Continuous: In reality, our stories don’t stop. A “happy ending” might just be a moment of respite before the next challenge, and a “tragic ending” could be the catalyst for profound change in others.
  • The Power of Hope: An ending doesn’t have to be happy to be hopeful. A character might face immense loss, but the final scene could show them finding a glimmer of purpose, taking a first step towards healing, or inspiring others to carry on. This isn’t happiness in the traditional sense, but it offers forward momentum.
  • The Reader’s Imagination: Sometimes, an author intentionally leaves an ending open, trusting the audience to imagine what comes next. What feels unresolved to one person might feel like an invitation for possibility to another. The “end” of the story is merely where the author stops narrating; the characters’ lives, in our minds, continue.
  • Satisfying vs. Happy: A story can have a satisfying ending without being strictly happy. It can be satisfying because it feels earned, logical, and true to the characters and themes, even if it’s painful or melancholic.

Crafting the Right Conclusion

Ultimately, whether a story should have a happy ending isn’t a universal rule, but a deliberate choice. It depends on:

  • The Genre: Rom-coms and fairytales thrive on happiness; noir and tragedies demand a different tone.
  • The Story’s Purpose: Is it meant to uplift, entertain, challenge, or reflect?
  • The Characters’ Journeys: Does a happy ending feel organic and earned, or forced and unrealistic, given what the characters have endured and become?

So, should every story have a happy ending? Probably not. But should every story offer some form of resolution, be it hopeful, cathartic, or thought-provoking? Absolutely.

The true magic lies in the storyteller’s ability to know precisely where to stop, leaving us not necessarily with boundless joy, but with a feeling that the journey was complete, meaningful, and true – even if the sun isn’t shining quite so brightly in that final frame.

What do you think? Do you prefer happy endings, or do you find more satisfaction in realistic or even tragic conclusions? Share your thoughts in the comments below!

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Brussels

Experiential Counter-Mapping: Identifying the Next Five Nodes of Authentic Discovery in Brussels, Beyond the Touristic Saturation

Abstract

Traditional tourism models often lead to the homogenization of urban experience, obscuring authentic local narratives in favour of standardised, high-volume attractions. This paper critiques this phenomenon within the context of Brussels, a city frequently reduced to political (EU) and monumental (Grand-Place) iconography. Employing a methodology rooted in spatial critique and experiential archaeology, this study identifies five critical nodes of engagement that constitute the ‘road less travelled.’ These locations—the Cauchie House, the Abattoir Market of Anderlecht, the Cemetery of Laeken, the Riches Claires Quarter, and the Museum of the Fantastic—are analysed for their capacity to foster a deeper ‘sense of place’ and provide counter-narratives to the dominant tourist script. The findings offer a functional counter-map for niche tourism research, urban cultural policy, and the traveller seeking genuine phenomenological immersion in Brussels’ complex identity.

1. Introduction: The Cartography of Obfuscation

The concept of the ‘road less travelled’ is a critical response to the spatial saturation characterising contemporary mass tourism (MacCannell, 1976). In major European capitals, the concentration of tourist movement inevitably produces an urban palimpsest where local life is marginalised by visitor infrastructure. Brussels, the de facto capital of the European Union, suffers from a duality: it is simultaneously intensely global and deeply localised, yet tourist flows rarely penetrate beyond the central polygon.

This paper addresses the gap between the celebrated icons of Brussels and its myriad authentic micro-environments. Our objective is to delineate five specific, non-obvious attractions that serve as points of resistance to touristic homogenization. These selections are chosen not merely for their novelty, but for their structural capacity to reveal historical, social, and architectural layers often invisible to the transient visitor. This research posits that true urban discovery requires an intentional shift from the consumption of spectacle to the immersion in marginal and historical spaces.

2. Theoretical Framework and Methodology

2.1 The Authentic and the Anti-Spectacle

The theoretical underpinning of this analysis draws heavily from the concepts of the Flâneur (Baudelaire; Benjamin, 1982), who navigates the urban space with deliberate aimlessness, and the pursuit of ‘authenticity’ (Wang, 1199). Authenticity here is defined not as an untouched, pristine state, but as a space where local residents predominantly shape the environment and narrative, minimising the performative elements designed solely for the external gaze.

Furthermore, the paper utilises the concept of heterotopia (Foucault, 1986)—spaces that function as counter-sites, mirroring and yet contesting the spaces around them. The identified locations are heterotopic in nature, offering temporary escapes from the normative routes of the city.

2.2 Selection Criteria

The five locations were chosen based on a qualitative multi-criteria assessment designed to prioritise genuine local context and historical depth over ease of access or mainstream popularity:

  1. Low Visibility Index (LVI): Minimal mention in standard commercial guidebooks (LVI > 0.8).
  2. High Local Density (HLD): Spaces primarily utilised by residents for daily life, commerce, or reflection (HLD > 0.7).
  3. Architectural or Historical Singularity: Possessing a unique, specific lineage or design that deviates from generic European norms.
  4. Sensory Richness: Providing diverse inputs (smell, sound, social texture) is essential for embodied urban phenomenology.

3. Findings: The Five Nodes of Brussel’s Counter-Map

The following five destinations represent significant departures from the conventional Brussels itinerary, offering profound opportunities for experiential engagement.

3.1 Node 1: The Cauchie House (Maison Cauchie) – Art Nouveau/Déco Transition

Located in the Etterbeek municipality, the Cauchie House stands as a monument to the Belgian Art Nouveau and nascent Art Déco movements, yet remains largely unknown outside specialized architectural circles. Designed and inhabited by architect Paul Cauchie in 1905, the façade is a sophisticated canvas of allegorical sgraffito, a technique where a surface layer is scratched away to reveal colored layers beneath.

Unlike the readily accessible works of Victor Horta, the Cauchie House is characterised by its domestic scale and the intimate, often ephemeral, nature of its public access (typically open only one weekend per month). This forced scarcity elevates the site from mere attraction to an object of deliberate visitation, rewarding the traveller who pursues genuine architectural pilgrimage. It illuminates Brussels’ lesser-known role as a laboratory for early 20th-century design innovation, transcending the city’s medieval core narrative.

3.2 Node 2: The Anderlecht Abattoir Market (Marché des Abattoirs) – Economic Geography and Sensory Immersion

The Abattoir market, situated in the working-class Cureghem district of Anderlecht, is arguably the most visceral and powerful example of Brussels’ economic and cultural diversity. Operating chiefly on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, it functions as a critical nexus of commerce, history, and community life. The site encompasses the historical abattoir complex, protected by stunning 19th-century metalwork market halls.

This location presents a sharp contrast to the sanitised tourism of the centre. Researchers engaging with this space encounter a complex sensory environment characterised by multilingual chatter (often Arabic, Turkish, and French), and the raw economic exchange of food, livestock, and goods. It offers a vital counterpoint to the EU narrative, grounding the visitor in the immediate realities of contemporary urban provisioning and immigration-driven cultural shifts. Its exploration is a direct engagement with Brussels’ socio-economic periphery.

3.3 Node 3: The Cemetery of Laeken (Cimetière de Laeken) – Historical Reflection and Necropolis Art

While major cities possess cemeteries of note, the Cimetière de Laeken is distinct due to its historical connection to the Belgian monarchy (located adjacent to the Royal Domain) and its remarkable collection of funerary art, particularly the covered galleries and crypts. Often overshadowed by the better-known Père Lachaise in Paris, Laeken offers a serene, elevated space that synthesises social history and landscape architecture.

The centrepiece is the unique complex of underground galleries and the “Grotto of the Statue of the Dying Christ.” Visiting Laeken is a contemplative experience, offering panoramic views of the city that place the Royal Palace and Atomium in context. As a necropolis, it serves as a powerful historical archive, detailing the fortunes and failures of Brussels’ 19th and early 20th-century elite, away from the bustling urban center.

3.4 Node 4: The Riches Claires Quarter and the Béguinage Church – Urban Contradiction

The Riches Claires quarter (“Rijke Klaren”) lies just west of the Bourse, a micro-district often traversed but rarely explored. This area represents a complex urban palimpsest, juxtaposing historic poverty, bohemian chic, and architectural remnants. The focal point is the magnificent Église Saint-Jean-Baptiste au Béguinage (St. John the Baptist at the Beguinage).

This Baroque masterpiece, with its unusual triple-gable façade, stands hidden amongst highly dense, often gritty urban blocks. The Beguinage itself speaks to the historical organisation of religious and social life in Brussels, tracing a timeline from medieval seclusion to modern urban integration. Exploring this node highlights the abrupt shifts in Brussels’ social geography—walking from the highly polished central streets into the narrow, often shadowed alleys reveals the city’s inherent contradictions and layered history of settlement and displacement.

3.5 Node 5: The Museum of the Fantastic (Musée du Fantastique) – Niche Culture and Surrealism

Brussels is globally known for its embrace of surrealism (Magritte) and fantasy (comic art). However, the small, privately run Musée du Fantastique in the Saint-Gilles municipality offers an eccentric, curated deep dive into the world of fantastic art, myth, and the unusual. Its collection, housed in a modest residential building, focuses on the ephemeral, the folkloric, and the grotesque.

As a high-LVI, high-specificity institution, it provides a crucial counter-narrative to officially sanctioned cultural narratives. The museum’s scale and personal curation immerse the visitor in a space of concentrated imagination, reflecting the enduring local cultural appreciation for the bizarre and the slightly macabre—a tradition that extends from the Flemish Masters to post-war Belgian comics.

4. Conclusion: Implications for Experiential Urbanism

The identification of these five non-obvious destinations in Brussels provides empirical support for the theoretical assertion that authentic urban experience resides at the periphery of mainstream tourist infrastructure. The Cauchie House offers architectural intimacy; the Abattoir Market provides socio-economic immersion; Laeken offers historical reflection; the Riches Claires quarter reveals spatial contradiction; and the Museum of the Fantastic provides niche cultural insight.

For urban planners and tourism researchers, these findings underscore the need to promote distributed visitation models that leverage the cultural assets of diverse municipal districts (Etterbeek, Anderlecht, Laeken, Saint-Gilles). By intentionally decentralising experience, cities like Brussels can mitigate the pressures of overtourism in their historical centres while enriching the visitor’s perception of the city’s multifaceted identity. Ultimately, traversing the ‘road less travelled’ is not just a matter of finding new locations, but of adopting a methodological posture aligned with deep, contextual engagement.