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Writing a book in 365 days – 301

Day 301

Writing exercise

Spring had been just around the corner for a month, and now she was running out of excuses.

…

I knew instinctively that whatever chance I had with Genevieve was gone. I mean, it wasn’t much of a chance in the first place; I just happened to be in the right place at the right time when she rebounded from Tommy.

That had been a hard pill for her to swallow, and I’d been there to pick up the pieces. I knew then that I was a convenient shoulder to cry on, that she had always been looking for Mr Right, and I was not it. I was Mr Convenient.

It was just the thought that in our senior year, I was dating the girl every boy wanted, and I wanted to care that she had feelings for me, but my older sister, she knew exactly what sort of girl Geneveive was, and said she was going to let her break my heart, if only to learn a valuable lesson for later on in life.

I was not sure if I was going to hate her forever or thank her later.

…

Staring at her with her friends across the divide that seemed to be more like a chasm than the fifty-odd feet it was in reality, I could see the writing on the wall.

I had seen her glance over, but where there once would have been a smile or a small wave, there was nothing.  When her friends glanced over, then back it was always with a burst of laughter.

Mr Convenient had become a schmuck.

I wasn’t exactly running with the popular squad, of which Genevieve was one of the leaders, but I was useful, especially when it came to helping with homework and tutoring.

Other than that, notoriety only came with the association with Genevieve, and I was not sure why she still put in the half effort she did to keep up appearances.

“It’s time to call it, Jack.  Seriously.  I’m sure what they’re saying about you isn’t complimentary.”

Benny, who hated being called that, was the guy I vied too in the class.  He was the fully fledged nerd, far cleverer than any of us, and was off to Uni next year with a guaranteed spot waiting for him.

Mine was not so assured.

It was clear he didn’t like her; his adjectives for her included brainless, vacant-minded, and vacuous.  One particular day, he found ten ‘v’ words that were rather accurate.

“You simply don’t like her, Ben.”

“What’s there to like, Jack?  If you take away the model looks and the wow factor that any normal guy would see through in an instant, what’s left?”

I was sure there was a nice girl underneath all of that so-called wrapping. I had definitely seen it there in her most vulnerable moments, but when she got over the hurt, it had gradually disappeared.

“Whatever it is, it’ll be over soon enough.  When Berkeley asks her to the Prom and she accepts, you’ll get your wish.”

“She’s only going to hurt you.  Girls like her don’t give a damn about the likes of you or I.”

No, they didn’t, which was why I had to wonder why she had bothered in the first place.

The group fifty feet away was breaking up, and Genevieve and two of her friends, whom Ben labelled the mean girls, were left.

She turned to look over in my direction, then said something to the other two, picked up her bag, and they started walking towards us.

“Incoming…”  Ben made it sound like a wave of bombers was about to pass over.

When I looked up, she was standing in front of me, the two others strategically placed.  For what?

I was sitting on the table, and almost at eye level.

“Can you share the joke?” I asked.  My tone wasn’t exactly conciliatory, but she wouldn’t know the difference.

“What joke?”  It was her model stance, the one where she would shift from foot to foot, the one where her hair would move in such a way that she had to exaggeratedly swish it.

I looked into her eyes, and realised finally that they were like a shark’s, lifeless and predatory.  I had, in a sense, made up my mind in the time it took for her to sashay her way over, that I was done, but now the moment was here…

“As much as I don’t know about you, Gen, I know you don’t have a bad memory.”

So, I was being a little obtuse because I knew she hated being called Gen. After all, it was a Tommy endearment.

Her look went from dull to suffused anger.

“I thought…”

“You thought what Genevieve?”  I interrupted her, another thing she didn’t like.

It was watching her friends’ expressions change.  It had been contempt before, now it was bordering on astonishment.

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t use that name.”

“It’s been almost a year since he dumped you.  The name should have no significance.  Not unless you still care about him.”

I switched my glare to Harriet.  She was the definitive mean girl, living on the borrowed power from Genevieve.  She was one of those who knew which pack to run with.

“You tell me, then, since Gen has temporarily lost her memory.”

“Tell you what?”  Exasperation, a glance at Genevieve, then back, red spots appearing on her cheeks.

I took a few seconds and sighed.  Then, shaking my head, I slid off the table and grabbed my bag.

“I’m not sure what time warp all of you just came out of, but back here in the real world, friends don’t make fun of friends.”

Concern, perhaps, the mean girl mantle slipping a little.  “I don’t understand.”

“Please, Gen, let’s not go with the innocent angle.  It doesn’t become you.  Berkeley asked me what the deal was with us.  He’s a nice guy and a much better fit for you.  I told him there was nothing between us but air, Gen.  Is there?”

Ben was waiting in the wings.  If he was thrilled, I was finally called it a day; it wasn’t showing.

“I don’t get it.  What did I do?”

“Everything and nothing, Gen.  Everything and nothing.”

…

As a child, which in a sense I still was, there was a lot about the world I lived in that I knew nothing about.

Perhaps it was a failure of the education system that it didn’t teach us how we were supposed to live in a grown-up world, or perhaps they left that to the parents.

If that was the case, then just about every child would, if suddenly becoming an orphan, be totally at sea in a world they could never understand.

In my mind, that whole romance in high school thing was a mixture of intense feelings followed by considerable pain when it didn’t work out.

That was life, I’d read somewhere, the ups and downs of finding and keeping that one who should become your life partner, your best friend, and sometimes your soul mate.

Genevieve was never going to be that person.  I knew that before she stepped into my life.  He ideals were based on what she learned from her family, with a father who was up to vacuous wife number four, barely older than Genevieve.

In a day that began oddly, it was only going to get odder.

When I came home, my father was already home.  His car was in the driveway, making me think he had forgotten something he needed for work.

He was always away, so much so that I sometimes forgot I had a father.

I got as far as the first two steps on the staircase to safety when I heard him.

“Jack, spare me a few minutes, will you?”

What if I said no?  I was tempted, as much as I was, to escape by the side door.  A few minutes with him was generally about me not living up to the Whittaker way, whatever that was.

“Rather not, homework to be done.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

No, of course it wasn’t.  I should have known that not getting straight A’s for the last set of exams would elicit some sort of a response.

I shrugged and then retraced my steps to the study, which, when my father wasn’t in residence, was the library of first editions. That library was worth far more than the house.

A glance at the humidified bookcases as I passed showed no new additions.

He was standing behind his desk. “Sit.”

The chair of denouncement.  He always chose to look down on you when delivering the guilty verdict, making you feel small and squirming under the weight of the words.

“I prefer to stand.”  Eye to eye.

One of the more severe teachers at school, one whom we always believed hated his job, hated the other teachers and hated every single student, wasn’t who I thought he was.

Sent there for punishment, he stood me before him and looked me in the eyes, and asked me straight out why I shouldn’t be punished.

And I told him.  In no uncertain terms.

First kid to ever talk back to him.  I didn’t really care if he doubled it.  He didn’t.  We talked about how the world had gone to hell in a handbasket, then he sent me home, telling me that if an opponent couldn’t look you in the eyes, then he was not worth the effort.

“Genevieve Dubois?”

“Yesterday’s news.  I thought she cared about me.  She does not.”

“Not what her father tells me.  She’s under the impression she did something wrong.”

What did this have to do with anything?  When did my father give a damn about any of my romantic attachments?  His domain was making my sisters’ boyfriends shit themselves.

“If you want a list, give me a week.  You do realise her previous boyfriend was Tommy Blake.  He was more her speed.  There’s a new chap, Tommy’s clone, Berkeley.  Never get in the way of quarterbacks and Prom Queens.”

“The perils of high school, eh?”

My father had been there star quarterback for the school in his day, and my mother the prom queen.  Those days were long gone, but both apparently made a hit at the last reunion.  I saw the original prom photos, and she was every bit Genevieve, and yet nothing like her.”

“Different to your days, I’m afraid.  You want me to get an education, live up to the Whittaker ideals, then there isn’t time for girls like Genevieve.”

“Do you like her?”

Odd question.  Why would he care?  “I always have, since the first day I saw her.  But I also knew that she would never care for me in the same way.”

“And for the last year?”

How did he know any of this?  He was never home, and never asked, just yelled at me over slipping grades.

“I was a convenient shoulder to cry on while she assessed the boys for her next target.  I was the safest option.  She’s got over the hurt and she’s ready to move on.  I simply gave her permission.  What the hell is this all about?”

“Appearances.  Something you will never understand.  The two of you together … had a purpose.”

“Not for me.  To her, I’m an object of ridicule.  I’m done with her.”

He sighed.  There was more to this story, and if he was going to tell me, he’d decided against it.

“Give it some consideration, Jack.  I’m sure she’s not as bad as you think she is.”

I shrugged.  “As you wish.”

…

I usually left my cell phone off after six because it was only a distraction.  Sometimes I would leave it on to see if Genevieve would call, but she had better things to do, like the proverbial ‘wash her hair’ excuse.

She called on the beginning before the familiarity breeds contempt phase.

Today I left it on, and, predictably, Genevieve called.  It was short, meet her at the bandstand in the park.

It was, if anything, a set-up.  That’s how much I thought of her, which sadly wasn’t how I wanted to think of her.

A set-up for what, though?

These days, all the messaging we got was not to go out alone and certainly not to public places like the park at night.  There had been incidents, but not for a while.  The new sheriff was all about law and order and was as good as his word.

Just the same, I took precautions, but astonishingly, she was alone, waiting. 

Contrary to any other time I had seen her, she had dressed in a manner that I preferred, without looking half-naked and painted like a harlot.  It was an awful comparison to make, but she was not the only girl in that category.  But the one major difference, her hair.  It was messy and unkempt.

This version of Genevieve was totally out of character, like it was her sister, not her.  It was remarkable how the two looked so alike despite the two-year age difference.

I stood at the top of the steps, keeping a distance between us.  I could also monitor any movement in any direction.

“You came,” was all she said.

“You asked politely.”

“You said you were done with me.”

In not as many words, but yes.  “Don’t act surprised.  I ask a question and you ignore it.  I have two eyes, Genevieve.”

“Appearances can be deceptive.”

“In more ways than one.  I’ve always known who and what you are, and always hoped that would change; that I might have some effect on you.  People do when they’re together over time.  Most people.”

She hadn’t become less vacuous, just learned to hide it well in my company.  But I had seen her out and about when she hadn’t known I was there, and whatever I saw, it was just an act.

“I’ve changed.”

“With whom?  Did you switch places with your sister to try and fool me?” It was harsh and uncalled for, but I was angry.

“Do you hate me that much?” Tears.  I knew there was going to be tears.

“I don’t hate you, I could never hate you. But I don’t think you know or will know how to reciprocate that love.  It’s just not in you.”

She didn’t answer.  Instead, she used a tissue to wipe away the tears.

My father’s words were still ringing in my ears, that there was a purpose.  What purpose.  What could he need for Genevieve and me to be together?

“What’s this really about.  I get home, and my father is there.   He’s never there.  And worse, he’s asking me about us.  He’s never, ever, ever cared about anything I do except when my grades slip to an A minus.  In any other universe, you and I would be a world apart.”

“My father spoke to me, too, or, rather, he yelled a lot. He’s never done that. We are both in a different universe, as you put it. But he was right about one thing. You put up with me when I was a miserable bitch, and very few people would. My mother certainly wasn’t any help, not that she’s much older than me. God, I hate my father, because my real mother won’t have anything to do with me. I remind her of him, and so she hates me, so I had only your shoulder to cry on.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” It was a sad story, and it was making me feel bad, but I had to be unwavering. She was still the same manipulative leader of that pack of mean girls.

“No. It’s just how it is.”

“What about Berkeley. I saw you talking to him. He has to be happy you’re free now?”

“He is, but I read between the lines. I’m simply a challenge and a ticket to Prom King.”

“Give it to him. I don’t want to be King; in fact, I’m not going.” Or did I just work out what my father’s subtext was all about?

“Like me, you won’t have a choice. I told Berkeley he can be friends, but he isn’t going to be the King. You are whether you like it or not. Between the two of our fathers, both vying to be the school’s principal benefactor for this year, we got caught in the crossfire. I overheard my dad talking, well, yelling, at your father.”

Of course, I should have seen the signs. Elections for public office, nothing sticks in the minds of the voters than a large donation, and there were solid rumours about a school stadium for the basketball team. We had a good team, and a bad stadium.

I sighed. Nothing was ever going to be straightforward.

“So what’s the deal?”

“Do you have to make it sound like a transaction?”

“You don’t care about me, so what’s the difference?”

“What if I said I did?”

“I’d say I’d just stepped into whatever unreal universe you’re in.”

“Well, I guess I have about a month to prove the impossible. You could have come, told me where to go, and left but you didn’t. Instead, we had the talk we should have had six months ago, and I now know how much of the mountain I have to climb. To you, impossible; to me, improbable. Now, come over here and sit, and if you’re nice to me, I’ll share what’s in this picnic basket.”

I sighed, for about the tenth time in five minutes. What harm could it do?

….

©  Charles Heath  2025

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

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

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

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

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

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

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

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

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

Then there’s the title, like

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

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

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

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

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

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

PIWalthJones1

In a word: Can

Yes, another three letter word with a multitude of meanings, like

I can do this, it’s what we tell ourselves when faced with an impossible mission

You might want to carry a can, perhaps of drink, once made out of steel but now from aluminium.  It can also hold food, like baked beans

You might have a jerry can, which holds petrol, mighty handy if you are driving and run out.  It’s happened to me once

There’s the can-can, but that’s a dance

Can you do this, can I have a drink, you can park over there, it seems we can seek or be given permission

It is an informal name for either prison or a toilet, though it depends on where you are

And in the United States, a ‘tin can’ can also be used to describe a navy vessel

If you get canned from your job, it really means you got fired

In the can means the film has been completed

Of course, there is always a trash can which makes both a mess and a loud noise when they tip over, particularly at night

And, which also make a good set of wickets, painted on, when playing backyard cricket with your friends

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t work.

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

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

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

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

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Zoe.”

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

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

“I might throw myself overboard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I saw it coming.”

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

OK, that was unexpected.

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

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

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

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

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NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 13

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

Six weeks in a boat can be a long or short time, depending on the circumstances.  To use a pun, of sorts, our protagonist is going to be all at sea with his feelings, while knowing that family obligations, and the upcoming parting at Melbourne with those he had spent quite some time with, will be leaving the ship.

That is going to be an interesting chapter, because there is a sad parting and an unexpected one.

The thing here is that the intrepid adventurers all seem to come together at some point over the voyage, and since they are all trying to achieve the same thing, though some still have that ‘so-called’ outdated idea of marriage as security, that notion of independent women was stirring within this group.

Our protagonist is more like a fly on the wall than actively stirring the pot, but it is a theme of those days, the end of a golden period of emigration, of luxury ships, and the start of something new. 

Of course, it would take a World War to change the status of women and their ability to work and prove themselves.  It’s how to subtly weave this into the story.

But, since the story is following our protagonist, he is off to Queensland and a life he never expected could have happened to him in a million years.  It will be so different to the cold, wet, green lands of Derbyshire back home; culture shock doesn’t even begin to describe it.

…

1655 words, for a total of 19145 words.

Writing about writing a book – Research

Day 23 – Air America

Cargo of Shadows: Unpacking the CIA’s Air America and the Vietnam War’s Dark Underbelly

The Vietnam War, a conflict already steeped in tragedy and controversy, has spawned countless legends and dark whispers. Among the most enduring is the story of Air America – a seemingly innocent civilian airline operating in Southeast Asia, but widely believed to be a clandestine arm of the CIA, flying not just supplies, but also engaging in drug trafficking, weapon running, and other “shady operations.”

So, how likely is it that the CIA had a thing called Air America running in the Vietnam War, shifting drugs and weapons, and running shady operations? Let’s unpack the layers of secrecy and come to a conclusion that’s more nuanced than a simple yes or no.

What Was Air America, Officially?

From 1950 to 1976, Air America was a U.S. proprietary airline, owned and operated by the CIA. Its official mission was to provide air support for covert operations in Southeast Asia, particularly Laos, which was caught in a brutal “Secret War” between the Royal Lao Government and the communist Pathet Lao, supported by North Vietnam.

Given that Laos was officially neutral, direct U.S. military involvement was prohibited. Enter Air America. Operating out of bases like Udorn in Thailand and Long Tieng in Laos, its pilots, often ex-military, flew everything from fixed-wing transports like C-47s and C-123s to helicopters like the Bell 204/205 (Huey).

Their supposed tasks were benign: resupplying remote outposts, ferrying personnel, evacuating refugees, and delivering humanitarian aid. But beneath this veneer of legitimacy lay a far more complex and morally ambiguous reality.

The “Secret War” and Plausible Deniability

The need for Air America stemmed directly from the CIA’s efforts to fight communism in Indochina without direct military intervention. The agency armed and advised indigenous forces, most notably the Hmong ethnic minority led by General Vang Pao, who became key allies against the Pathet Lao.

These were guerrilla fighters operating in incredibly difficult, mountainous terrain. Regular supply lines were impossible. Air America became their lifeline, delivering weapons, ammunition, food, and other necessities to sustain the fight. This aspect – running weapons and essential supplies to proxy forces – is not just likely; it is a documented and undeniable fact of Air America’s mission. That was its primary, stated (within covert circles) purpose.

The Allegations: Drugs and Shady Operations

Now, to the darker allegations:

  1. Drug Trafficking (Opium & Heroin): This is where the story gets truly controversial. The highlands of Laos were part of the “Golden Triangle,” a prime opium-producing region. Many of the Hmong, the CIA’s primary allies, were traditional opium growers. As their communities were disrupted by war, and as they fought on the CIA’s behalf, their need for income became desperate.
    • The Allegation: Air America aircraft, it is widely claimed, were used to transport raw opium and even refined heroin from remote poppy fields to larger airfields for distribution. Some accounts suggest the CIA actively facilitated this trade, either directly profiting or, more plausibly, “turning a blind eye” or even assisting the drug trade of their allies to fund their war effort and secure their loyalty.
    • The Evidence: While no smoking-gun document has ever explicitly shown the CIA itself directly running a drug syndicate for profit, numerous credible historical accounts, particularly Alfred W. McCoy’s seminal book “The Politics of Heroin: CIA Complicity in Global Drug Trafficking,” present substantial circumstantial evidence and eyewitness testimonies. McCoy argues that the CIA’s actions created an environment where drug trafficking flourished, and that Air America aircraft were indeed used to move drugs, sometimes out of necessity for their allies, sometimes as a means of payment, and sometimes simply because they were the only available transport. The U.S. State Department even acknowledged that Lao government generals, who were U.S. allies, were involved in the drug trade.
    • Likelihood: It is highly probable that Air America aircraft, wittingly or unwittingly by some of its personnel, transported opium and heroin for its allies. It is also highly probable that the CIA, at a minimum, tolerated or ignored the drug trade of its Hmong and Lao allies, understanding it was a vital source of income for them to continue fighting. Whether the CIA itself directly profited from this trade is less clear and less substantiated, but its indirect complicity in facilitating it, or at least enabling it by controlling the only air transport network, is very difficult to dispute.
  2. Shady Operations: This is a broad category, but given the nature of a covert airline operating in a secret war, it’s almost a given.
    • Personnel Insertion/Extraction: Dropping off or picking up intelligence operatives, special forces (often disguised as civilians), and allied commanders in hostile territory.
    • Intelligence Gathering: Reconnaissance flights, monitoring enemy movements.
    • Black Operations: While less commonly documented in detail, the infrastructure of Air America certainly provided the means for clandestine actions, sabotage, or psychological warfare if needed.
    • Likelihood: Undoubtedly true. These “shady operations” are exactly what a covert intelligence agency’s proprietary airline is designed for. The entire existence of Air America was a “shady operation” in itself, designed to obscure U.S. involvement.

Conclusion: How Likely?

Let’s break it down:

  • Running Air America as a CIA front airline: 100% likely. This is an officially acknowledged historical fact.
  • Shifting weapons and essential supplies to proxy forces: 100% likely. This was the core mission and was extensively documented.
  • Running other “shady operations” (covert personnel transport, intelligence gathering, etc.): Extremely likely, bordering on certainty. This is standard operating procedure for a covert airline.
  • Shifting drugs (opium/heroin) for profit or as a critical part of their allies’ financing: Highly probable. While direct CIA profit is debated, the evidence strongly suggests Air America’s network was used to facilitate drug transport for its allies, and the CIA was, at minimum, complicit through tolerance or indirect assistance, seeing it as a necessary evil to maintain the war effort.

The story of Air America is a stark reminder of the moral compromises and complex realities of covert warfare. In the shadows of neutrality, an airline became an indispensable tool for a secret war, its legacy forever entwined with both heroism and the dark underbelly of the Golden Triangle’s illicit trade. It’s a testament to how far nations will go, and what lines they will blur, in the pursuit of geopolitical objectives.

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 36

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

 

The next stretch of road was from Aba to Nagero, the gateway to the Garamba National Park.  This was a road where we would have to be more careful because it was possible, now we were off the main road, even though it was designated a highway, or perhaps that was a little too optimistic since it had a number N26, which ran into the R240 at a place nominally named Faradje, but did have a place to stay called the Residence Robert Ball.

I guess I missed that.

Beyond Faradje the road was a little more intense, but something else that worried me, there was more scope for us to be ambushed.  To be honest, I had expected trouble for the last 100 kilometers, but trucks and people were plentiful enough to keep any surprises away.  Now, that element of safety had gone and for quite some distance now we’d been moving slowly, and everyone was on alert.

My fears were not misplaced.

We’d hit a rather rough patch and had to slow down, and coming into a creek crossing the road narrowed, and the trees came down to the side of the road, providing any would-be attacker plenty of cover.  I had been considering how I would arrange an ambush when, suddenly the car in front stopped suddenly, and we, caught unawares, slid almost into the back of them.

My other radio crackled, Monroe was reporting in.  “Houston, we’ve got a problem.”

A flooded creek that was impassable, or a rockfall.  There had been one of each so far, but both had been relatively easy to negotiate.

Then she added, “A gentleman in army gear with a gun.  He’s brought a few friends to the party.”

“Real army, or…”

“The or, I think.  Some of his ‘men’ are, well, not men.”

A local militia.  Ahead I could see several more of the ‘soldiers’ filtering down to cover each of the vehicles until a real soldier stopped near ours, gun aimed and ready to fire.

“Send in our guide and get him to sort the matter out.”

No one was asking us to leave the vehicles yet, so this might but just a ‘request’ for a passing fee.  Jacobi had said this might happen once we left the mainstream roads.  I had hoped, the Garamba National Park is internationally known, all roads in and out would be ‘protected’.  Perhaps that was only for convoys protected by Government troops, a service we had to forego due to the nature of our business.

Five minutes passed, then the next update.

“Jacobi is going now.  We’ve finally got past any possible misunderstandings.  Good thing he knows the language.”

Mindful of where the soldier covering us was standing and his line of sight into the car, I said into the other radio, “Mobley?”

“Sir?”

“Where are you?”

“About a k behind you.”

“Stop.  Park, and approach on foot.  We have a small problem, about 10 militiamen have stopped us at a choke point.”

“Done.  I will be there shortly.  Take them out?”

“Get a position and standby.”

Forward of us little was happening.  I could now see Jacobi and the group commander standing to one side of the lead vehicle, talking.  Jacobi was gesturing, and the soldier was looking defensive.

Seconds dragged by like they were minutes.

Davies came back to life.  “Why have we stopped?”

“Checkpoint.”

“There isn’t meant to be a checkpoint here, is there?”

“No.”

Before we started out Davies had hidden a sidearm under her seat, in a place where I had hoped would not be checked by the border officials.  They had made a cursory scan in the front of the car but hadn’t seen it.  Now she had reached down and had it in her hand, at the same time making sure she had eye contact with the militiaman on her side of our car.

Our personal detail had doubled in the last minute or so.  I had just watched Jacobi return to the lead vehicle, get in, but leave the door open.

The radio crackled again.  “They want five thousand US dollars, and we can proceed.”

“We got five thousand.”

“Jacobi says two should do it.”

“Give it a go.”

I watched and waited as it took a few more minutes before Jacobi, with a bulky envelope, got out of the car and walked towards the soldier.

Showing we had money and were willing to hand it over might lead to further demands, particularly if the soldier though he was being disrespected.  It all depended on Jacobi’s negotiating skills.

Mobley reported in.  He had a position where he could see the men at the head of the convoy.

I spoke into the radio to the others, “Has everyone got a clear shot on their covering guards, just in case this goes sideways.”

“They’re not exactly soldiers,” I heard Barnes say.

“But they’ll shoot to kill you all the same.  Unfortunately, we’re on a mission-critical timeline here, and whilst I don’t like it, it’s going to be one of those at all costs decisions.”

A series of ‘ready’ came over the radio.

Several more minutes passed, and more animated conversation between Jacobi and the commander, then Jacobi returned to the car, minus the envelope.

Was it successful?

Monroe.  “Seems he wants ten thousand now.  Orders?”

“Negotiations are over.”

Several shots rang our, taking down the three men at the front of the convoy in quick succession, the signal for the others to take out their guards almost simultaneously.  It was a miracle none of the guards got a shot off, but, then, they were standing a little too close for their own good.


Five minutes later we were back on the road, the militiamen having their arms removed, and removed from sight, just in case anyone came looking for them.  It might be a forward group from the kidnappers, looking for some extra cash, or, if the negotiations had dragged on, looking to take the ransom and then demand another when we turned up empty-handed.

Whatever had happened, it was over.

Ten minutes later Mobley had re-joined the convoy behind me.

 

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

Writing a book in 365 days – 300

Day 300

A slice of life, or a slice of imagination?

…

The Feast of the Impossible: Why We Don’t Want a Slice of Life, But a Slice of the Imagination

There is a culinary term often used in creative circles: the “slice of life.” It refers to narratives that capture the ordinary, the mundane, the painfully relatable reality of human existence. It’s the story of the difficult commute, the awkward first date, the slow, inevitable march of rent payments and domestic chores.

And while critics and readers praise these narratives for their mirror-like accuracy, a growing chorus of us—the dreamers, the schemers, the creators—have started to push the plate away.

We are perfectly familiar with reality. We live in it every day. Why, then, should we dedicate our precious leisure time to consuming its reheated leftovers?

We are not interested in a slice of life; what we want is a slice of the imagination.

The Tyranny of the Mundane

The argument against the strict “slice of life” isn’t an argument against authenticity; it’s an argument against limitation.

Reality, for all its occasional beauty, is often characterised by bureaucratic ennui, disappointing physics, and a predictable set of social rules. The slice of life, at its most restrictive, holds us hostage to these limitations. It dictates that things must be believable, that characters must struggle with only the problems we currently possess, and that the scope of human experience must fit within the current legal code and the known laws of thermodynamics.

When we turn to art, literature, or media, we are not looking for confirmation that the world is exactly as depressing and limited as we suspected. We are looking for a lift.

We seek the moment of transcendence—the moment that allows us to step outside the constraints of our five senses and the 24-hour news cycle. The slice of life provides comfort in shared familiarity; the slice of the imagination offers freedom in glorious impossibility.

The True Taste of Imagination

What exactly is this “slice of the imagination”?

It is the narrative that begins not where the road ends, but where the road should have begun if we had been allowed to choose the construction materials ourselves.

It is the hidden history whispered by an exiled queen on a planet visible only through a telescope carved from ice. It is the intricate workings of a clockwork city powered by collective dreams. It is the raw, untamed emotion of a character whose heartbreak causes the actual atmosphere to fracture.

Imagination gives us narratives designed not to confirm the limits of our world, but to test the limits of our humanity under impossible pressures.

Why Imagination Is More Authentic Than Reality

Despite popular misconception, investing in the imaginative is often a deeper, more rigorous exploration of truth than merely documenting the real.

  • It isolates the core idea: If you want to explore the nature of sacrifice, you can write a story about a parent giving up a promotion for their child (a slice of life). Or, you can write about a space traveller forced to stop the flow of time at the exact moment their daughter smiles, knowing they will be trapped alone in that instant forever (a slice of imagination). The latter, while impossible, isolates and intensifies the emotional truth of sacrifice far more effectively.
  • It offers universal empathy: A narrative depicting the specific political struggles of 1980s Eastern Europe might struggle to resonate with a modern teenager in Sydney. However, a story about an oppressed people fighting a magically-enforced totalitarian regime (Fantasy) or resisting a hive-mind alien force (Sci-Fi) speaks directly to the universal human impulse for freedom, regardless of the historical moment.
  • It is the blueprint for the future: Every innovation, every breakthrough, every architectural marvel that defines our modern existence began as a “slice of the imagination.” The aeroplane, the smartphone, the idea of universal healthcare—all were once impossible concepts derided by those content with the current “slice of life.” To celebrate the imagination is to celebrate potential itself.

The Imperative of Invention

To choose imagination is not to choose childish escapism; it is to choose necessary fuel. We need stories built out of invented metal and arcane logic because they train our minds to accept the possibility of a world radically different from the one we inhabit.

The imagination is the muscle we use to solve problems we haven’t encountered yet.

It is the necessary ingredient for those who refuse to accept the status quo—the engineers, the artists, the social reformers, and the writers who believe that if Reality is flawed, the only ethical response is to invent something better.

So, the next time you sit down to read, watch, or create, allow yourself to look past the documentary style and the accurate mirroring of your weekly routine. Demand complexity. Demand strangeness. Demand dragons, ships that sail between dimensions, and philosophical conundrums posed by sentient black holes.

Take the slice of the imagination. It’s a messy, glorious, impossible meal, and it’s the only one that truly nourishes the soul.

What is the most important “impossible” story that changed your perspective on the world? Share your favourite slice of the imagination in the comments below!

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Budapest

Budapest Beyond the Guidebook: 5 Adventures on the Road Less Travelled

Budapest. The Pearl of the Danube. A city of majestic architecture, thermal waters, ruin bars, and a history that echoes through every cobblestone street. It’s a city that rightfully earns its place on countless travel bucket lists, beckoning with the grandeur of the Parliament, the panoramic views from Buda Castle, and the vibrant pulse of Szimpla Kert.

But what if you’ve already seen the iconic sights, or perhaps you’re simply tired of following the well-worn path? What if you crave a deeper connection, a more authentic encounter with this incredible city?

If your adventurous spirit whispers for something different, something just off the main tourist radar, then pack your curiosity. We’re about to explore five truly unique experiences in Budapest that promise a new perspective and memories distinct from the typical postcard shots.

1. Descend into Budapest’s Hidden Labyrinth: The Pál-völgyi or Szemlő-hegyi Caves

Forget the surface for a moment and journey into Budapest’s fascinating underworld. Beneath the city, an extensive network of limestone caves riddles the earth, formed by ancient thermal waters. While few tourists venture here, these natural wonders offer a thrilling escape.

Why it’s unique: Unlike most cave systems, these are right beneath a bustling capital city! You’ll trade city noise for geological silence, marvelling at incredible stalactite and stalagmite formations, crystal growths, and narrow passages. The Pál-völgyi Cave offers a more adventurous, helmet-and-headlamp caving experience (guided, of course), while the Szemlő-hegyi Cave is more accessible, known as the “underground flower garden” for its stunning mineral formations.

Road Less Travelled Bonus: You’ll be one of the few experiencing an ancient, geological side of Budapest often overlooked. It’s an active, immersive adventure that feels a world away from the city above.

2. Bathe Like a Local: Rudas Thermal Bath (and its Rooftop Pool!)

Everyone knows Széchenyi and Gellért. They’re stunning, no doubt. But for a truly authentic, less-crowded thermal experience steeped in history, head to Rudas Thermal Bath. Dating back to the Ottoman occupation, Rudas offers a glimpse into centuries-old bathing traditions.

Why it’s unique: Rudas maintains designated gender-specific days in its beautiful 16th-century octagonal main pool (check their schedule!), offering a more traditional and serene experience. But the real hidden gem? It’s a contemporary rooftop panoramic hot tub. Imagine soaking in warm thermal waters, overlooking the magnificent Chain Bridge and the Danube, especially as the city lights up at dusk.

Road Less Travelled Bonus: While not entirely undiscovered, Rudas offers a far less ‘tourist factory’ feel than its more famous counterparts, allowing for a more reflective and local bathing ritual, especially on single-sex days. The rooftop pool is pure magic.

3. Ride the Whimsical Hungarian Children’s Railway (Gyermekvasút)

Step back in time and into a truly charming piece of Hungarian history. The Children’s Railway is no theme park ride; it’s a fully operational, narrow-gauge railway line winding through the picturesque Buda Hills, and almost every role – from ticket inspector to signalman – is performed by children (aged 10-14), under adult supervision.

Why it’s unique: It’s a fascinating relic of the socialist era, designed to teach children responsibility and discipline. The kids take their roles very seriously, making for a delightful and slightly surreal experience. The journey itself offers beautiful views of the surrounding forests and hills, a welcome green escape from the city’s concrete.

Road Less Travelled Bonus: Far from the city centre, this is a heartwarming, quirky, and surprisingly educational experience. It’s perfect for families, history buffs, or anyone seeking a genuinely unique interaction with Hungarian culture and its past.

4. Dive into Pinball Heaven at the Flippermúzeum (Pinball Museum)

If you’re looking for something purely fun, nostalgic, and utterly unexpected, the Budapest Pinball Museum is your answer. Tucked away in a basement close to Margaret Bridge, this vibrant museum houses over 160 playable pinball machines and arcade games, from the 1940s to the latest models.

Why it’s unique: It’s not just a museum; it’s an interactive arcade where your entrance fee grants you unlimited play for the entire day! You can spend hours immersed in the delightful clangs, flings, and flashing lights of pinball history, challenging friends or simply reliving childhood memories.

Road Less Travelled Bonus: This isn’t on any standard itinerary, making it a fantastic discovery for those craving entertainment beyond traditional sightseeing. It’s a quirky, joyful experience that appeals to all ages and offers a lively break from historical tours.

5. Explore the Ancient Charms of Óbuda

While everyone flocks to Buda Castle or Pest’s vibrant districts, take a tram or bus to Óbuda, the oldest part of Budapest. This tranquil district, effectively Budapest’s “Old Town,” predates the unification of Buda and Pest and offers a distinctly different atmosphere.

Why it’s unique: Here, you’ll find charming Baroque squares like Fő tér (Main Square), dotted with sculptures, quaint cafes, and local shops. Explore the ruins of Aquincum, an ancient Roman city that once thrived here, complete with an amphitheatre. Óbuda feels like a separate, sleepy village, with its own pace and unique history.

Road Less Travelled Bonus: You’ll experience a quieter, more residential side of Budapest, encountering fewer tourists and more locals going about their daily lives. It’s a chance to savour genuine Hungarian village charm within a major metropolis, and to walk among Roman ruins without the usual crowds.

Budapest is a city that keeps on giving, especially when you step away from the well-trodden path. These five adventures offer a glimpse into the city’s diverse soul, inviting you to connect with its history, nature, quirks, and local life in truly memorable ways. So, next time you’re planning a trip to the Hungarian capital, dare to take the road less travelled. You might just discover your own personal pearl.

What are your favourite Budapest hidden gems? Share them in the comments below!

What I learned about writing – You cannot force yourself to write

Yesterday, the dark clouds were swirling overhead, and there was an air of impending doom all around.

Much like those few hours before a storm is about to hit, one of those really big ones with very loud thunder that feels like it’s over your roof and not moving, and, a short time later, the deafening sound of torrential rain.

You know the feeling, you could cut the air with a knife.

I’ve been in that state of mind for some time now, but yesterday something changed.

It wasn’t the internet, that was still as dreadful as ever, despite the assurances we get that we will have the best internet in the world.  The best joke, I think they mean, after spending $50 billion on it, I had better speeds on my 300 baud modem 20 odd years ago.

Sorry, I had to have another whinge about it.  Politicians are such liars.

No, it was not something I could put my finger on.

But…

What was it?

Yes…

I found I could write again.

Well, I could always write, but it was a matter of forcing myself to sit down and do it, as if it were a chore I really didn’t want to do.   And how easy it was to get sidetracked on social media.

Not today.

Today, I simply looked at the writing I wanted to do, and it all came to me without having to stare at the blank screen, waiting for the words to appear, and then find myself deleting them over and over.  Yesterday, writing 500 words really meant writing 5,000 crappy words and continually revising.

Today I am going to write 5,000 words, and it will be all good.

Let’s hope it continues into tomorrow.