Category: Uncategorized

“Return to sender” a short story

We all make mistakes, errors of judgment, stupidly or otherwise.

I’ve made a few, just like in the words of a song that rattled around in my head for a long time after.

Regrets, I’ve had a few, but there was one that, in the end, I didn’t.

But I guess it took a while to get to that point.

Sometimes it’s hard to work out why, sometimes because it’s simply time, others, well when you look back you realize that it should have happened for so many reasons, but at the time you couldn’t see the wood for the trees.

We were in a bad place.

I’d been spending too much time traveling in a job that I had begun to hate, and I could see our relationship slipping away.  It was not that neither of us cared for the other, or even stopped loving each other, it was simply the stresses of everyday life.

And it was not as if Chloe didn’t have a high-pressure job, the one she had always wanted, and the one, we agreed, nothing would get in the way if she was given the opportunity.

I was happy with that, and for her.  She was as entitled to have her dream job, as I was.  I thought, I think we both thought, and believed, that would be the foundation of a good relationship.

And it was, to begin with.

There’s a point where there is a catalyst, that action, or statement, or person, or moment in time that comes along like a wrecking ball, and sets a series of events in motion, and no one really knows where it’s going to land or it’s effect.

That event?

I came home early and saw an old friend of mine, Roger, leaving our house.  OK, not so much a big deal, except for the send-off.  Still, even then it might not be such a big deal, because I knew Chloe was a very affectionate, touchy feely sort of person.

It used to faze me, way back in the beginning, but she had said and proved, that I was the love of her life, and that others, well, she made them feel special.

I thought no more about it, of course, and I didn’t even mention it, though at the time when I did walk in the door, she seemed distracted.

And I would not have thought about it again until Roger’s wife, Melissa, called one morning, though why she would call me was a mystery, to say that she was planning to surprise Roger in Las Vegas.

OK, I was suitably surprised, thinking that she was suggesting that Chloe and I should both go and make a weekend of it.  We had done it before because Melissa was a travel agent, and sometimes got airline and hotel deals that made it affordable.

I remember saying that as far as I was aware, Chloe was in Pasadena for the week at a conference.

No, she said, Chloe was coincidentally in Las Vegas, and Roger had accidentally run into her.

Should alarm bells be going off, I wondered, when that sliver of memory of him leaving popped back into my mind?  No, it was just me, running around like a headless chook, failing to read her diary correctly.

I simply said, Fine, and told her to make the arrangements.

It was going to be a surprise because I hadn’t seen Chloe for two or three weeks, time seemed to pass too quickly these days, and it would be good for both of us to spend some time together, away from home and the stresses of our respective jobs.

…

I met Melissa at the airport.  Unlike Chloe, she was travelling light with only a carry-on bag.  I was used to moving fast and light with a bag that fitted in the overhead locker.

She had secured business class which was a treat because, in this day and age of economics, that perk had disappeared a while back and was only available to the senior staff.

Onto the fourth glass of champagne, she dropped her bombshell, whether deliberate or otherwise, I was never sure.

“It was very nice of Chloe to find Roger a job in her company.”

Did she, I thought.  It was the first time I’d heard about it, and my expression must have given me away.

“You didn’t know.”

“Chloe never mentioned it, no.  But it is like her.”  She had also employed members of her family who, in my opinion, wouldn’t get a job anywhere else.

“Odd, don’t you think?  It’s been about a year now.  His company went broke, and all the employees were tossed out onto the street with nothing.”

A year was a long time to forget to tell someone.  “Has it.  Perhaps it just slipped her mind.  She doesn’t tell me everything that goes on, nor do I want to know unless she thinks it’s important.”

Employing my best friend was important, and it surprised me that he hadn’t told me himself.  He was never backward in bragging about his achievements.  Odd, yes, that he hadn’t told me he’d lost his other job.

…

Melissa had found out the hotel they were staying in, which I had no idea of and didn’t ask, and it was simply a matter of telling the front desk clerk their spouses had arrived, and without question, he handed over the keys.

They were staying on different floors, which to me made sense.  I wasn’t expecting they to stay together, but I had an awful feeling Melissa had.

On the floor, I went to the room and knocked on the door.

A minute later, the door opened.  Chloe, still in her nightgown, and an expression that lasted a fraction of a second before it registered surprise.

“Tom!”

Any other time, I might have thought she was expecting someone else.

Then my phone buzzed, an incoming message, and I looked at it.

From Melissa.  “Lobby, now.”

I looked up, thought how beautiful she still looked, and said, “Hold that thought.  I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Then I closed the door and headed for the elevators.

Once inside and going down, my brain finally registered what it had just seen.  A woman prime for sex with that lustful look she used to have when we were first married.  Yes, she had been expecting someone, only not me.

Yet, in that moment of realisation, I wasn’t mad at her or angry.  She was exactly where she was because of me and my lack of consideration.  I had several opportunities to toss in the job that was clearly causing us issues, and I didn’t.  It was inevitable we were going to end up here.

When I stepped out of the elevator, I looked for Melissa, but she was not immediately noticeable.  Then, a further scan showed she was outside and not in a good state.  When I reached her, it was evident she had been crying, and she was angry.

“Is it what I think you’re going to say?”

She nodded.  “When he opened the door, his first words were, “Chloe, you sly fox, back for seconds?  And then nearly had a heart attack when he saw me.

“I’m sorry.  But did you have an idea this might happen?”

She nodded.

It explained everything: the hints, the sadness, the trip.  Obviously, she had known about it for some time.

I gave her a hug, and she melted into my arms, and we stayed that way until I saw Roger coming out of the elevator, looking around.

“Roger’s coming,” I said.

“I don’t want to see him, much less talk to him.”

“Then I’ll head him off.  Do you want to go home?” Again, she nodded.  “Then get a taxi to the airport, and I’ll be along in a short time.  I’ll text you when I’m leaving.”

A quick look in Roger’s direction, she headed to the taxi rank, and just as Roger came out the door, her taxi departed, leaving me standing there.

He saw me coming towards him, and to give him credit, he didn’t run.  It would be difficult for him to know exactly how I might react.

“Tom.”

“My best friend, Roger.  I might have been able to cope if it were some random guy, but not you.”

“Look…”

If he was going to try and justify himself or make excuses, I didn’t want to hear it.  “Now is not the time.  I’m going to take Melissa home, and I suggest you take the time to figure out how you are going to deal with her because I’m not the problem.”

He was going to reply, but possibly thought twice about it.  Instead, he shrugged.  “Later then.”

I watched him go back inside.  What I should have done, then, was go back to see Chloe.  The thing is, I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t want the conversation to descend into blame, or worse.  Better, I just head for the airport and come to grips with what I was going to do next.

…

As expected, about five minutes after the taxi had left for the airport, Chloe called.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she said.  Her tone was not confident, but a little bit hesitant.

“Sorry.  Roger came looking for Melissa, and seeing him, well, that just threw me.”

“I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“About?”

“Going to Pasadena.  I came here to end it because it made me realise what was missing between us, and I wanted it back.”

“And if Melissa hadn’t played out her worst fears, that would have worked.  The world, it seems, works in mysterious ways.”

If I thought about it, I might have had suspicions, but I was not the sort of person to let them get the better of me.  And had it not been for Melissa, my ignorance would have been bliss.

“What is it telling us, then, Tom?”

“That we need to take a step back.  I know that I’m to blame as much as anything else, and although you might find it hard to believe, I don’t hate you, nor am I angry with you.  For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.  I saw the signs, and I didn’t do anything about them.  We’ll talk when you come home.”

I disconnected the call.  My voice had broken, and I hadn’t realised just how much it had affected me, suddenly overcome with great sadness.

…

I didn’t go home.

On the plane back, I realised that where I lived was just a house.  It wasn’t mine; Chloe’s success had contributed most towards it, and everything else.  If I were to be objective, there really wasn’t anything of me there.

It was easy to walk away.

When Chloe came home and found me missing, she called three times before I answered.  I had thought long and hard about what we had together and whether or not we could get over what had happened.  Perhaps, if she hadn’t lied about where she was, perhaps if it had not been Roger, my best friend, who, by the way, was no longer my best friend, I might have considered we had a chance.

But the trust was broken, and I’d always be wondering.  She was successful, she had everything she ever wanted, and she was a grown woman who had to take responsibility for her actions.

She would always be the love of my life; it’s just that I couldn’t live with her.  We spoke about divorce, but it never seemed to happen.  I think she always had the notion that we would eventually get back together.

We parted friends, but never seemed to travel in the same circles.  On our twentieth wedding anniversary, she sent me a letter, perhaps thinking it was the only way she could speak to me. I had long since traded my old phone in for a new one, in another country.

I toyed with the idea of reading it, but in the end scrawled on it black capital letters, “Not known at this address, return to sender”.  It was time to move on.

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2025

The 2am Rant: It’s good, it’s bad, and at times it can be very, very ugly

It was as if Microsoft Word was sent down from that place in the universe where a group of torturers sit around a table to find new ways of making our lives just that little bit more difficult.

I mean, most of the time it works really well and behaves itself.

But…

Then there are the times, usually when you are stressed about a deadline, or you are nearly at the end of what you believe to be the most brilliant writing you have ever put on paper.

Then…

Disaster strikes.

It could be the power goes off, even for just a few seconds, but it’s enough to kill the computer.  It could be that you have reached the end and closed Word down, thinking that it had autosaved, all the while ignoring that little pop up that says, ‘do you want to save your work’?

It’s been a long day, night, or session.  You’re tired and your mind is elsewhere, as it always is at the end.

You always assume that autosave is on.  It was the last time, it has been since the day you installed it however long ago that was.

So…

When the power comes back on, you start the computer, go into Word, and it brings back all the windows you had open when the power failed, and the one with the brilliant piece you just wrote, it’s just a blank sheet.

Or up to where it last autosaved, which is nowhere near the end.

Or it didn’t save at all.

You forget the software updated recently and that always brings changes.  Usually unwanted changes.

By which time you have that sinking feeling that all is lost, deadline missed, brilliant work lost, it’s the end of the world.

You promise yourself you’re going to get Scrivener, or something else, where this doesn’t happen.

Or if you’re like me, you put the cat on the keyboard and tell him to sort the mess out.

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story

The beginning, which seemed so long ago…

…

So, I have to decide on the genre. Well, that’s easy, espionage. I look up at my shelves and I can see at least six authors’ novels staring me in the face, and between them over a hundred stories.

I should get started reading, to see what it is that makes them eminently readable.

Oh, been there and done that. in fact, of a library of around three thousand books of various genres, I have read over three-quarters of them.

That includes the classics, like Dickens, Hemingway, Tolstoy and my hero Alistair Maclean.

So, where do I start…

An unassuming main protagonist, the quintessential spy who looks like anything but what he is. He’s a loner, doesn’t trust anyone, and works alone, though perhaps it’s time to throw him a partner and tell him the world is changing and not for the better.

He needs a handler who is old, crusty, never wrong, dresses impeccably, doesn’t have a life, works in a dusty dungeon, and is very, very ruthless.

Will it be a choice of saving the day or saving the girl?

Is he invincible or vulnerable?

Does he have a whiny mother, demanding girlfriend, odd friends, and even odder work colleagues?

Does he talk the talk, talk in riddles, or multi-syllable words that no one can make sense of?

And what is his real job?

…

What are my ideas for this story? I generally write spy stories or thrillers, so I’m thinking that I need to put together the typical James Bond start, where you are hanging on for dear life and not knowing where it’s going to end up.

I have one: waking up in a hotel room in the Middle East, a fan above our spy turning slowly, churning the already hot air in the room. It’s the sound of the blades turning so slowly, with a creak or groan somewhere in the revolution, that wakes him, soaked in sweat and with a horrible taste in his mouth.

The attempt to drain the bar below of cold bottled beer didn’t go so well. There’s a headache to go with that, and it was all he could manage to get to the small refrigerator where he’d put a half dozen bottles of Perrier water the afternoon before.

The first went down his throat very quickly. The second helped the two painkillers go down though for a moment it felt like they’d stuck in his throat. A monetary shudder as the pills started to dissolve.

A knock on the door has him instantly alert and hand on the gun under the pillow.

“Who is it?” He yells out, not exactly the done thing in a hotel, but the last seven days of endless heat had finally taken a toll.

And today was going to be no different. The gun slipped in his wet hand, a sign that he was not sure if he would make the shot without missing by a yard or two.

“Room service.”

“I didn’t order room service.”

Silence, and then an envelope was shoved under the door.

…

Ever woken up in another part of the world in a strange bed, in a hotel or guest house, and wondered where you are?  It seems that would happen a lot if you were a road warrior.

I’m not but I still have those moments even at home in my own bed.

Is it the dreams we have that disorient us?  Like mine because they take me to different places, and different situations, and above all, it takes me out of my mundane and boring existence.

It’s time to immerse myself in a more vicarious existence.

The world of a spy.

I think an action start might work better than just introducing the main character.

The last time we visited him in a hotel room, very hot, very hungover, and not very ready to work.

Why is he there?

Most espionage works during meetings with sources, informants, and important people who defect with a bag full of state secrets.

For wads of money, of course.

Where is he, right now?  Perhaps it could be said he was not in a good place.  A very tough few years, in the firing line, and the loss of colleagues begins to make him question everything and everyone.

There is going to be a last straw, you know, that one that breaks the camel’s back.

I’m working on his background story, a legend if you like, so I’m more acquainted with the character.  I want to be able to slip into his character and be him.  It makes it easier to write when you know everything about him or her.

And, yes, there will be a her.

And yes, jaded, world-weary or not, he’s not quite done with the bad guys yet.

It’s just he wishes the moments of self-doubt would get less rather than more.

…

How did it end up?

You’ll have to read the book

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Podgorica

Discovering Podgorica’s Hidden Gems: A Road Less Travelled

Nestled on the banks of the Morača River, Podgorica is often overshadowed by its mountainous neighbours and coastal rivals in the Balkans. But for those willing to venture beyond its bustling city centre, this Montenegrin capital holds a trove of quiet enchantments. If you’re craving a deeper, more offbeat experience, here are five extraordinary ways to unlock Podgorica’s soul.

1. Step Back in Time in Donja Lastva

Tucked just a short walk from the city centre, the historic neighbourhood of Donja Lastva is a labyrinth of cobblestone streets, 19th-century stone houses, and vibrant murals. Once a medieval merchant district, its peaceful atmosphere offers a stark contrast to Podgorica’s modern core. Stroll through hidden courtyards, admire the architecture, and sip a coffee at a local kafana (traditional café) to savour life at a slower pace. Don’t miss the Old Jewish Quarter, a poignant reminder of the community that once thrived here.

2. Unwind on Vrmac Hill

For panoramic views of the city and the surrounding mountains, head to Vrmac Hill. A short, family-friendly hike leads to a vantage point dominated by the Ethnographic Museum of Montenegro and a historic fort. The well-maintained trails are perfect for a morning walk or sunset picnic. In spring, the hillside bursts into colour with wildflowers, while autumn offers fiery foliage. It’s a favourite among locals, but rarely crowded with tourists.

3. Get Cultured at the Ethnographic Museum

Perched on Vrmac Hill, this quirky museum is a window into Montenegro’s rural heritage. Wander through recreated village houses filled with traditional costumes, farming tools, and folk art. The museum also hosts rotating contemporary art exhibitions, making it a fascinating blend of old and new. Pro tip: Visit on a weekday to have it mostly to yourself!

4. Shop and Savour at the Podgorica Municipal Market

For a taste of local life, head to the Podgorica Municipal Market (Pazar). Open six days a week, this bustling bazaar is a riot of colour and aroma. Sample krompiruša (Montenegrin potato soup), fresh ražnjići cheese, and fragrant herbs. Haggle for handmade crafts or pick up a jar of truffle honey from the region’s famed forests. It’s a feast for the senses—and your wallet!

5. Visit the Đurđe Krstić House – A Literary Pilgrimage

Poet and writer Đurđe Krstić (1879–1934) is Montenegro’s Shakespearean figure, and his 19th-century stone house in Podgorica is a modest tribute to his legacy. Now a museum, it’s housed in a simple, ivy-clad building where he once lived. Inside, you’ll find his personal library, manuscripts, and memorabilia. Though it’s a niche spot, it offers a poetic insight into Montenegro’s cultural heart.

Tips for Exploring Off the Beaten Path

  • Best Time to Go: Visit during the shoulder seasons (May–June or September–October) for milder weather and fewer crowds.
  • Transport: Most of these spots are walkable within the city centre, but consider renting a bike for a leisurely pace.
  • Taste the Local Flavour: Pair your explorations with a stop at Café Jelena or Risto – Montenegrin Cuisine for authentic, home-style meals.

Podgorica’s charm lies in its contrasts: history meeting modernity, tranquillity nestled next to the city’s pulse. By straying from the well-worn paths, you’ll uncover a city that’s unafraid to show its soul—and it’s waiting for you to discover it. So, pack your curiosity and let Podgorica surprise you, one hidden gem at a time.

Happy exploring! 🌿✨

What I learned about writing – The path is not always a straight line

I’ve been on roller coasters, and they actually scare the hell out of me.  It might have something to do with watching the news and hearing about a breakdown.  High up and usually hanging on for dear life upside down.

My fear is it’s going to come off the rails, or that I’ll lose my grip!

A bit like my life really.

I’m in an abyss and free falling.  The first thousand yards is exhilarating.  I’m not sure if everyone has done skydiving, but it’s like that time before you pull the ripcord.

Absolute adrenaline rush.

Followed by a single thought.  Will the parachute open?  I’ve seen too many TV shows where ripcords don’t work, and strangely I have actually seen a skydiver whose parachute didn’t open, and it’s one of those moments when your heart is literally in your mouth.

Ok, I get it, if you don’t like the heat in the kitchen …

But, it’s hard to get that thought, that the metaphorical parachute won’t open, and I’m at a point where I’m starting to think about the landing.

You dash headlong into a job, thinking yep, you’ve got it covered, but, what if you haven’t.  What if there are variables you never thought of, what if the people around you, so happy to cheer you on at the start, are now starting to change their tune.

It’s like jumping into an abyss; starting a new job, or the first day after a promotion, your choice of vocation, the sort of lifestyle you want to have, whether you are following a dream that could quite easily become a nightmare, it seems there’s very little difference conceptually.

I think about writing, and it’s an individual thing.

Are we writing for ourselves first, or are we writing simply to make money?  If it’s the latter, it ain’t going to work, at least not until you’re established.  If ever.

But, here’s the thing.  It’s where I feel the most comfortable.

Now, I’d better get back to work.

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on.  Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter.  He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing.  Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain.  He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile.  We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it.  Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.

Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster.  We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility.  The car was empty, and no indication where he went.

Certainly not up the road.  It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit.  Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up.  Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly.  “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”  available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Pristina

Beyond the Beaten Path: 5 Unique Things to Do in Pristina Off the Road Less Travelled

When most travellers think of Pristina, Kosovo’s capital often appears as a quick stopover—somewhere you pass through en route to mountains, monasteries, or ancient towns. But those who linger discover a city pulsing with youthful energy, raw history, and hidden cultural gems just beneath the surface. While the Newborn Monument and the National Library are well-worth a visit, true authenticity lies beyond the guidebook checklists.

For the curious explorer who craves unique experiences, local life, and a deeper connection with the city’s soul, here are five unforgettable things to do in Pristina—off the beaten path and away from the tourist trail.

1. Explore Graffiti Lane: Pristina’s Open-Air Street Art Gallery

Tucked behind the National Gallery of Kosovo on Rruga Gani Koci, you’ll find a narrow, unassuming alley that bursts with colour, rebellion, and storytelling. Locally known as Graffiti Lane, this urban canvas is Kosovo’s most vibrant street art hub, where local and international artists use spray paint to express political commentary, cultural pride, and personal dreams.

Unlike curated galleries, this space evolves constantly. One week you might see a tribute to Ibrahim Rugova, Kosovo’s former president; the next, a surreal portrait of a woman wearing traditional pletë (embroidered headdress) morphing into a galaxy.

Pro Tip: Visit in the late afternoon when local artists often hang around to touch up their work—strike up a conversation. You might walk away with a new friend and a deeper understanding of Kosovo’s post-war identity.

2. Sip Traditional Rakia at a Hidden Family-Owned Konoba

Forget fancy rooftop bars (though Pristina has those too). For a taste of real Kosovar hospitality, head to Konoba Kalaja—a cozy, stone-walled tavern tucked into the hillside of the Old Town district, near the remains of Pristina Castle.

This isn’t a tourist trap; it’s a family-run eatery where time slows down. Wooden beams, clay pots, and flickering candles set the mood as you’re served homemade rakia (a strong fruit brandy) and slow-cooked dishes like tava kosi (baked lamb with yogurt) or grilled qebapa (seasoned minced meat sausages).

Locals bring their grandfathers here. The owner, Gjergj, might pull out a two-string lahuta and sing a folk tune if you’re lucky. There’s no menu in English—just point, smile, and trust the kitchen. This is how Kosovo feeds its soul.

3. Join a Local Philosopher on a “Coffee & Conversation” Walk

In a city where university students outnumber skyscrapers, intellectual conversation is part of the culture. Through local community initiatives like Qendra Multimedia, you can sign up for a unique experience: a guided “philosophy walk” led by university students or professors.

Over slow-sipping espressos at tucked-away cafés like Cafe Du Coin or Pompik, you’ll discuss everything from Kosovo’s nation-building challenges to existentialism, all while strolling through quiet neighbourhoods like Velania or Lagjja Çnarama.

It’s not a tour—it’s a dialogue. And it might just be the most human connection you make on your entire trip.

4. Discover Forgotten Trains at the Abandoned Railway Station

On the outskirts of Pristina, hidden behind wild grass and graffiti-tagged fences, lies a relic of a bygone era: the city’s disused railway station. Once part of a regional Balkan rail network, the station has been inactive for decades, but its decaying platforms, rusted tracks, and crumbling waiting rooms tell a poignant story of missed connections and unrealised potential.

Urban explorers and photographers love this spot. Wander among silent freight cars overtaken by vines, peer into abandoned ticket booths where dust coats vintage typewriters, and imagine Pristina as a crossroads of Yugoslav-era travel.

Note: This is not an official tourist site—visit respectfully and safely. Early morning or late afternoon light makes for the most hauntingly beautiful photos.

5. Attend an Underground Live Music Night at Pulp

Tucked inside a repurposed printing house in central Pristina, Pulp is more than a bar—it’s a cultural heartbeat. By day, it’s a café with indie books and artisan coffee. By night, it transforms into Kosovo’s most authentic live music venue, hosting a diverse range of acts, from jazz trios and experimental electronic sets to punk bands and spoken word poetry.

The crowd is young, local, and politically aware. Performances are intimate—sometimes just a mic and a guitar in a room that holds fifty people max. There’s no cover charge, but donations keep the lights on.

Check their Facebook page before you go; nights are irregular, but if you catch one, you’re witnessing Kosovo’s creative resistance in real time.

Final Thoughts: Pristina Reveals Itself Slowly

Pristina doesn’t dazzle at first glance. Its charm is in the cracks—in the laughter over a shared bottle of rakia, the poetry scrawled on an alley wall, the silent echo of a train track that once led everywhere.

The top five attractions on any standard list will show you the city’s face. But these five offbeat experiences? They’ll let you feel its pulse.

So next time you’re in Pristina, skip the crowded cafés on Mother Teresa Boulevard. Turn down a narrow street, say “yes” to an invitation you don’t fully understand, and let the real Kosovo welcome you in.

Traveler’s Checklist:

  • Wear comfortable shoes for Graffiti Lane and the old station.
  • Bring small bills for konobas and donations at Pulp.
  • Learn a few Albanian phrases—“Faleminderit” (thank you) goes a long way.
  • Respect local customs—especially in family-run spaces.

Pristina isn’t just a destination. It’s a conversation. Come ready to listen.

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence, after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable, calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story

The beginning, which seemed so long ago…

…

So, I have to decide on the genre. Well, that’s easy, espionage. I look up at my shelves and I can see at least six authors’ novels staring me in the face, and between them over a hundred stories.

I should get started reading, to see what it is that makes them eminently readable.

Oh, been there and done that. in fact, of a library of around three thousand books of various genres, I have read over three-quarters of them.

That includes the classics, like Dickens, Hemingway, Tolstoy and my hero Alistair Maclean.

So, where do I start…

An unassuming main protagonist, the quintessential spy who looks like anything but what he is. He’s a loner, doesn’t trust anyone, and works alone, though perhaps it’s time to throw him a partner and tell him the world is changing and not for the better.

He needs a handler who is old, crusty, never wrong, dresses impeccably, doesn’t have a life, works in a dusty dungeon, and is very, very ruthless.

Will it be a choice of saving the day or saving the girl?

Is he invincible or vulnerable?

Does he have a whiny mother, demanding girlfriend, odd friends, and even odder work colleagues?

Does he talk the talk, talk in riddles, or multi-syllable words that no one can make sense of?

And what is his real job?

…

What are my ideas for this story? I generally write spy stories or thrillers, so I’m thinking that I need to put together the typical James Bond start, where you are hanging on for dear life and not knowing where it’s going to end up.

I have one: waking up in a hotel room in the Middle East, a fan above our spy turning slowly, churning the already hot air in the room. It’s the sound of the blades turning so slowly, with a creak or groan somewhere in the revolution, that wakes him, soaked in sweat and with a horrible taste in his mouth.

The attempt to drain the bar below of cold bottled beer didn’t go so well. There’s a headache to go with that, and it was all he could manage to get to the small refrigerator where he’d put a half dozen bottles of Perrier water the afternoon before.

The first went down his throat very quickly. The second helped the two painkillers go down though for a moment it felt like they’d stuck in his throat. A monetary shudder as the pills started to dissolve.

A knock on the door has him instantly alert and hand on the gun under the pillow.

“Who is it?” He yells out, not exactly the done thing in a hotel, but the last seven days of endless heat had finally taken a toll.

And today was going to be no different. The gun slipped in his wet hand, a sign that he was not sure if he would make the shot without missing by a yard or two.

“Room service.”

“I didn’t order room service.”

Silence, and then an envelope was shoved under the door.

…

Ever woken up in another part of the world in a strange bed, in a hotel or guest house, and wondered where you are?  It seems that would happen a lot if you were a road warrior.

I’m not but I still have those moments even at home in my own bed.

Is it the dreams we have that disorient us?  Like mine because they take me to different places, and different situations, and above all, it takes me out of my mundane and boring existence.

It’s time to immerse myself in a more vicarious existence.

The world of a spy.

I think an action start might work better than just introducing the main character.

The last time we visited him in a hotel room, very hot, very hungover, and not very ready to work.

Why is he there?

Most espionage works during meetings with sources, informants, and important people who defect with a bag full of state secrets.

For wads of money, of course.

Where is he, right now?  Perhaps it could be said he was not in a good place.  A very tough few years, in the firing line, and the loss of colleagues begins to make him question everything and everyone.

There is going to be a last straw, you know, that one that breaks the camel’s back.

I’m working on his background story, a legend if you like, so I’m more acquainted with the character.  I want to be able to slip into his character and be him.  It makes it easier to write when you know everything about him or her.

And, yes, there will be a her.

And yes, jaded, world-weary or not, he’s not quite done with the bad guys yet.

It’s just he wishes the moments of self-doubt would get less rather than more.

…

How did it end up?

You’ll have to read the book

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

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