Category: Uncategorized

Research for the writing of a thriller – 3

Background material used in creating a location, an explosive situation, and characters to bring it alive – the story – A Score to Settle

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The assistant who is anything but…

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The Ghost in the Cell Block: When Undercover Becomes Ultimate Sentence

In the murky world of espionage, there are missions measured in months, and then there are missions measured in souls. Few agents ever truly pay the ultimate price, but some lose something far more valuable than life: they lose the self.

This is the volatile, razor-sharp reality facing Kaelen, the subject of a disastrous operation that has already cost her everything—including her name.

The Line That Dissolved

Kaelen wasn’t just working undercover; she became the cover. For years, she anchored herself so deeply into the shadows of a powerful criminal network that the defining line between her identity and her fabricated persona ceased to exist. She was the ghost that haunted the operation, successful beyond all measure, yet utterly unreachable.

When the signal came to extract, she refused. She had become indispensible, and in her drug-fueled, identity-splintered mind, standing down meant abandoning the mission—a mission that had superseded her marriage, her career, and her sanity.

She was literally dragged out—a reluctant, raging captive forced back into the daylight. Tragedy followed immediately: her husband, the last tether to her real life, was found violently murdered. The evidence was planted, the frame solidified, and Kaelen—a high-value operative now deemed unstable, drug-addled, and a convenient scapegoat—was sent down.

Her destination: a maximum-security women’s correctional facility. Her sentence: recovery and consequence. Her reality: a broken mind and a terrifying, blank space where the memory of her husband’s death should be.

The Crucible: Fodder for the Spies

Maximum security is rarely a place for healing; it is a pressure cooker designed to break the already broken. Kaelen is locked in the system, trying to navigate the agonizing fog of withdrawal while serving time for a crime she can’t remember committing and almost certainly didn’t. Her past genius is now overshadowed by her present fragility.

She is, precisely because of her profound damage and her unique skillset, now the perfect asset—or the perfect piece of wreckage—for the shadowy figures who still move the chess pieces.

Enter Rook.

Rook is the definition of a world-weary spy. A brilliant operative who has spent decades operating alone, he has finally hit a wall. He needs eyes and hands in a place where only the forgotten reside. He needs an asset who is underestimated, disposable, and capable of operating without definable allegiance. He needs Kaelen.

Their partnership is a forced marriage of necessity and paranoia. Rook is risking his career; Kaelen is risking her tenuous grip on reality. Kaelen can handle herself—years of deep immersion have given her instincts sharper than the correctional officers’ blades—but the question isn’t about ability. It’s about commitment.

The Volatile Equation

The spy business necessitates unfortunate bedfellows, and the prison environment multiplies the toxicity exponentially. Trust is the most expensive and dangerous currency.

Rook needs Kaelen to infiltrate the prison’s black market economy, which he suspects is tied to the very network she once served, and possibly, to her husband’s murder. But the mission demands that Kaelen remain clean, focused, and loyal—a set of demands entirely counter to the chaos that defines her current existence.

Will she lapse? The craving for the numbing oblivion of the drugs is a constant siren call, especially as fragments of the disastrous undercover mission begin to surface, threatening to shatter her fragile new identity. She made promises to herself, resolutions forged in the cold light of detox, but the darkness she inhabited is waiting for her return.

The prison walls are closing in. Every inmate, every guard, and every whisper could be an informant, a threat, or the unfortunate bedfellow Rook warned her about. They are operating within a system designed to punish, but which is now being used to execute a far more dangerous agenda.

Kaelen’s recovery is crucial, but her relapse could be catastrophic. In this volatile cage, the stakes aren’t just about freedom or vengeance; they are about stopping a localized crisis that threatens to blow the lid off the entire espionage world, taking Rook, Kaelen, and everyone around them with it.

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

In a word: Joe

Aside from being the short form of the name Joseph, ie a man’s name, there is also a derivative for women, Jo.

The name Joe is said to be used from the mid-1800s.

My favourite Joe name is Joe Bloggs, and he features in some of my stories.

It’s anonymous enough for someone to use as a cover when booking into a sleazy motel and is a little more refined than Smith or Jones, names that more than likely already feature in the register.

Jo could be a short form for Josephine, a name I’m sure some women would prefer not to be called.

But…

Did you know it’s also a name given to a cup of coffee?

Well, that didn’t make much of a splash.  I don’t think anyone these days refers to coffee as Joe because there are so many different variations with names I couldn’t pronounce let alone spell, I think it’s been lost in the mists of time because there was only one type of coffee.

It was called coffee.  Funny about that.

However…

There is another definition, and that is for the ‘average Joe’, an ordinary fellow who works for a living.

Odd, because I thought that was what most of us did, but perhaps it refers to tradespeople, or blue collar workers, not the white collar brigade.

Hang on, isn’t there a GI Joe, a universal description of the average soldier?

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

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What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

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It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life.  Again.

Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 15

All stories require some form of research, quite often to place a character in a place at a particular time, especially if it is in a historical context. This series will take you through what it was like in 1914 through 1916.

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Mena Camp Training and Deployment (April 1915)

1. Trench Warfare Conditioning at Mena Camp, Egypt

The British and Dominion troops (primarily ANZACs) stationed at Mena Camp near the Pyramids from December 1914 through early 1915 received extensive military training, but it was generally considered inadequate for the complex, industrialised nature of Western Front trench warfare.

A. The Focus of Training

The curriculum was heavily influenced by traditional pre-war British doctrine and the immediate need to defend the Suez Canal, resulting in conditioning focused primarily on:

  • Discipline and Drill: Intense route marches in full kit across the deep desert sand to build stamina and discipline. The aim was to “harden” the men for active service.
  • Musketry and Field Tactics: Extensive rifle practice and training in basic field formations and manoeuvres, adapted for the open terrain of the desert.
  • Rudimentary Trenches: While they did dig and occupy practice trenches, these were often created for the purpose of defending the linear positions of the Suez Canal against a Turkish attack (which did occur in February 1915). This training lacked the crucial elements that defined the Western Front:
    • No Bombing/Grenades: Many troops arrived without even seeing a modern hand grenade (a “bomb”) or knowing how to use one.
    • No Periscopes or Wire Tactics: They lacked training in the use of periscopes for observation or tactics for cutting and navigating dense barbed wire defenses.
    • No Gas Warfare: The chemical attacks that defined the Western Front had not yet become standard, so this conditioning was absent.

In short, the training was excellent for physical fitness and basic soldiering but poorly prepared the men for the static, subterranean, machine-gun-dominated battles of Europe.

B. The Missing “Western Front” Element

Training staff at Mena relied on textbooks and older doctrine. There was very little intelligence or doctrine flowing directly from the horrific realities of the trenches in France and Belgium (where the stalemate was already in full swing). As such, the conditioning was for a war of movement that had already ceased to exist on the main European front.

2. Deployment Destinations

For the troops training in Egypt in April 1915, the overwhelming majority of British, Australian, and New Zealand forces were not sent to the Western Front.

A. Immediate Destination: The Gallipoli Campaign

The primary and immediate destination for almost all troops (British territorial divisions, ANZACs, and other reinforcements) mobilised from Egypt in April 1915 was the Gallipoli Peninsula (The Dardanelles).

  • The Mediterranean Expeditionary Force (MEF), commanded by General Sir Ian Hamilton, was assembling in Egypt to launch the amphibious assault designed to capture Constantinople and knock the Ottoman Empire out of the war.
  • In the weeks leading up to April 25, 1915, forces were moved from Egypt to staging posts like the Greek island of Lemnos for final preparations before the famous landings at Anzac Cove and Cape Helles.
  • Your enlisted Englishman, arriving in April 1915, would almost certainly have been deployed to Gallipoli if his special orders related to infantry service or staff work supporting the MEF.

B. The Western Front Deployment (Later in the War)

The large-scale movement of these forces to the Western Front only occurred after the failure and eventual evacuation of Gallipoli (late 1915 and early 1916).

  • 1916: In early 1916, the surviving ANZAC divisions were expanded and reorganised in Egypt before being transferred to France and Belgium. They entered the trenches of the Western Front and suffered massive casualties at battles like Pozières and Fromelles (part of the Battle of the Somme in 1916).
  • British Divisions: Several British divisions (such as the 31st and 54th) that had been brought to Egypt to protect the Suez Canal or support the MEF were also transferred to France in early 1916.
  • Remaining Forces: Other British and Empire forces remained in Egypt to form the Egyptian Expeditionary Force (EEF), which was tasked with defending the Canal and launching the later successful campaigns into Palestine and Syria against the Ottoman Turks.

“Possibilities” – a short story

How many choices could one person have?

Usually, from a very early age, you have some idea of what you intend to do with your life.

Those early choices of fireman, policeman, doctor, fighter pilot, slowly disappear from the list as the education requirements become clearer, and their degree of impossibility.

Then you have to factor in academic achievement or failure, hone situation, what blows life has dealt you, and your financial ability to fund any it all of your hopes and dreams, especially for that all-important university education, and even then, it has to be the right one.

Then there are the family aspirations where parents really want you to follow in their footsteps, as a doctor or a lawyer or in the military.

And if you get past all that, and everything has fallen into place, and you’re ready to head out on that highway of life, you should be fully imbibed with the knowledge and the drive to make everything happen.

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Now I was lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling wondering at what point it all went wrong.

Right on the starting line where everything I had worked for was about to come to fruition, it had all come to an abrupt halt.

My memory got as far as driving home from a work party where we had been celebrating the company’s most recent success, and my progression to the next level of management, when a car failed to stop at a stop sign and T-boned me.

The car was a write-off. I was still not sure what happened to me, but I had heard someone say, in that murky twilight of pain medication, that if I was a horse, they would have to shoot me. It was the only thing I remembered between the car hitting mine and waking up in the hospital bed.

But that was not all the story, and I had plenty of time to mull over everything that had happened in that last week. There was a certain symmetry to it all, as if one event led to the next, and then the next, and it was the last straw, on the last day, that broke the proverbial camel’s back.

…

And here’s the thing.

I would not have been in that accident had I not taken the car. I wasn’t going to, I had intended to take the train to a friend’s place and stay there for a few days, what the boss had told me would be a well-earned rest.

Even then, I might have not taken the car, except for a cryptic text message I received from my sister, about needing to be ‘rescued’ from a bad date.

Nothing unusual for her, she was currently on a dating site binge, and after half a dozen bad experiences, I thought she had given up.

That was the thought that ran through my head as I watched her curled up in the chair next to the bed, half asleep.

Her first words, on arrival, and when she was allowed to see me, was to apologize, believing it had been her fault. She knew I hated driving in the city, so coming to get her, as I always did, had been preying on her mind, and I could see the tangible effects of it in the worried expression, and unkempt manner which was so totally unlike her.

“It was simply an accident, and could have happened to anyone,” I told her.

“You were going to Jeremy’s, I should have sorted my own problem out for once. It’s not as if I couldn’t just call up an Uber, and now look what’s happened. I’m so sorry.”

She wouldn’t accept that it was not her fault, nor would she leave until she knew I would be OK. I didn’t understand what she meant by that because, in the three discussions I had with the head doctor, I was going to make a full recovery.

He had used the word lucky more than once, and seemingly the sequence of events, and other factors like the car safety features, the angle the car had struck, and where, the fact the other driver had to dodge a pedestrian, all of it played a part.

Had they not, quite simply I would be dead.

My sister and her dating were only one aspect of how my life was being driven.

Another memory returned, from that week, that of another text message, from a girl I used to know back at university.

Erica.

She was what some might have called a free soul. She didn’t conform to what I would have called normal. Her clothes sense was somewhat odd, she always looked as though her hair needed combing, and she never had any money.

And, for a while, she lived with me, in a small, cramped room ideal for single University students on a budget, but not for two. Yet, for some strange reason, she never seemed to get in the way or mind the closeness of our existence.

In that short period, she became my first real love, but she had said that while we were together, it was fine, but she was not seeking anything permanent. Nor, she said, did she believe in monogamy. Until she left, studies completed, I wanted to believe she would stay, but a last lingering kiss goodbye and she was gone.

Now, the message said, she wondered if I was still free, and like to meet. Of course, ten years of water had passed under that bridge, so I was not sure where it would go. I hadn’t replied, and the message was still sitting on my phone.

That invitation, however, had been on my mind moments before the crash, and I had to wonder, thinking of her, contributed to it.

Then, on top of all that, there were my parents. Married for 40 years, and the epitome of the perfect marriage.

Or so I thought.

That morning, before I went to work, I had called in to see them after my mother had called the day before saying she wanted to talk to me about something.

Before I knocked on the door, I could hear yelling, and it seemed the perfect marriage had hit a rocky stretch.

Or simply that my father had chosen to have an affair and had been caught out by the simplest of means, my mother answered his phone when he was out of the room thinking it was important work matters, only to discover it was his ‘floozie’.

No guessing then why my mother had called me. After hearing all I wanted to, and not wanting to face an angry couple I just headed on to work.

My mother had yet to come to the hospital to see me. My father had been, but he made no mention of her, or anything else, except to tell me if there was anything I wanted, all I had to do was ask. Then he left and didn’t come back.

Then, last but not least, were the rumours.

The owner of the company I worked for was getting older and didn’t have an heir. One thing or another had managed to foil his succession plans, and in the end, he did not have a son or a daughter to pass the reins to.

With the latest success, the company was about to have a bigger profile which meant more work and plans to open branches in other cities. It was too much for one man, now in his 70s, and looking to wind down.

A rumour had started about a week before the accident that he was looking to sell, and there were at least half a dozen suitors. There was supposed to be an announcement, but it hadn’t happened while I was at work, but considering how long I’d been in hospital, and the two weeks in an induced coma, anything could have happened.

Louisa stretched and changed positions.

“You look better,” she said.

“Relative to what, or when?”

“Half an hour ago.”

I shook my head. Sometimes Louisa was prone to saying the oddest stuff. “What’s the deal between our parents. Dad was here for all of five minutes. Where’s our mother?”

“She left.”

OK. Blunt, but plausible. “Why?”

“Dad was being an ass.”

“Does she know I was in an accident?”

“I told her.”

“So, you’re seeing her?”

“She calls. I don’t know where she is. I think she might have gone to stay with one of our aunts.”

I sighed. Louise had an awfully bad memory, and I was sure one day she was going to forget who I was.

There were four sisters, our mother the youngest. She had a love-hate relationship with the middle two, so the best bet would be the eldest sister, Jane. Jane was also the crankiest because she hated children, never got married, and was set in her ways.

Then, there was something else lurking in the back of my mind. Another item I’d overheard when I suspect I was not meant to be listening.

I might not have a job to go back to if the company had been sold, I might not have a home to go back to if my parents had split up, and I might not be able to do anything for a long, long time. Recovery might be complete, but it wasn’t going to happen overnight.

I had a sister who blamed herself for my accident, and an old girlfriend who wanted to see me, though I suspect not like this, broken and useless. What else could there be?

Oh, yes. Another snipped from the shouting match behind the door. And an explanation of why my father had all but abandoned me. My mother had also had an affair, and his son, well he was not his son.

No surprise then I had a father who didn’t want to know me.

What else could go wrong?

There was movement outside the room, and raised voices, one of which was saying that whoever was out there couldn’t go into the room. It didn’t have any effect as seconds later, a man and a police officer came in. The officer stood by the door.

Louisa looked surprised but didn’t move.

The man, obviously a detective, came over. “Your name Oliver Watkins?”

It was, and hopefully still is. “Yes.”

“I need you to answer some questions.”

“About the accident?”

He looked puzzled for a moment, then realized what I was referring to. “No. Not the accident. About the embezzlement of 50 million dollars from the company you work for. It seems you didn’t cover your tracks very well.” He turned around to look at Louisa, “You need to leave now, miss.”

“I’ll stay.”

He nodded to the officer, “You leave now, or he will remove you.”

She looked at me, with a different expression, “You didn’t tell me you were a crook, Olly.”

“Because I’m not.”

The officer escorted her from the room and shut the door.

The detective sat in the recently vacated chair. “Now, Mr Watkins. It seems there is such a thing as karma.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

The 2am Rant: We are taught not to be selfish, but…

Today I decided to take some time out and read a few blogs, to see what the rest of the world is doing leading up to CampNaNoWriMo, and sometimes read some news that’s usually a few days old, not that I’m complaining.

And still working on the James Bondish piece that set my mind on fire.  Last I heard, he has almost completed a successful, almost suicide, mission.  There’s just a small matter of a rebel helicopter with air-to-air missiles trying to shoot down the escape plane.

I try to keep away from the news if it’s possible, but it comes at you from everywhere.  My browser somehow decided to allow notifications and every few minutes a little popout slides out from the bottom right corner and tells me what’s gone wrong.

Never any good news by the way.

And yes, I have Windows 10, but I can’t be bothered reading the manual to find out how to stop them.  Maybe, subconsciously, I don’t.

I never thought one man could generate so many headlines.  We had one, given the nickname, the human headline, but Trump, he is in a class of his own.

I used to like watching him on The Apprentice, believe it or not.

But again I digress…

I saw the word selfish popup in a number of posts, and it reminded me that, at times writers have to be.  There are only so many hours in a day, and after emails, blogs, reading, news, life, there’s very little time left to write.

So, we need to be selfish at those times.  I am because when I sit down to write, there shouldn’t be any distractions.  As a writer, I’m not seeking popularity, maybe one day that will come, but I’m in this writing thing because I have stories to tell and I want to get them down.  Nobody may ever read them, I may never rise above mediocrity, but I am doing something I love, and very few of us out there can say that unequivocally.

Most of us have a day job or something else that consumes a great deal of our time.

Oh to be a successful author like James Patterson?  But how does he do it?  I guess it comes down to hard work, and a little bit of luck.

And maybe, one day, if I work hard enough, some of it might come my way.

Writing a book in 365 days – 332

Day 332

From First Draft to Focused Masterpiece: How to Narrow Your Writing Target

Introduction: The Freedom of the First Draft
Crossing the finish line of your first draft is a triumph. The blank page is no more, and your ideas are finally spilling out. Yet, beneath that satisfaction often lingers an unspoken truth: the work isn’t done. Now comes the equally critical (and often underrated) task: narrowing the target. This phase transforms an amorphous draft into a sharp, impactful piece that resonates deeply with its audience. Think of it as sculpting the raw marble of your thoughts into a statue with purpose. Let’s explore how to do this with intention and clarity.

The Power of the First Draft

Before diving into refinement, it’s important to honour the messy beauty of your first draft. It’s a “get it out” stage—where creativity flows unfiltered, and every idea, no matter how half-baked, is welcomed. But here’s the thing: first drafts are not meant to be final products. They’re blueprints, prototypes, or even “vessels of possibility.” The magic happens next, when you take a step back and ask, “What is this really trying to say?”

Step 1: Identify Your Core Message

The first step in narrowing your target is distilling your work down to its essence. Ask yourself:

  • What is the single most important takeaway?
  • What changes do I want the reader to experience?

Write this down in a single sentence. If your draft aims to persuade, what’s the one action you want your reader to take? If it’s a story, what’s the central theme or emotion you want to evoke? This core message becomes your compass during the editing phase.

Example:

  • Vague: “Climate change is a problem that affects us all, and we need to do something about it.”
  • Narrowed: “Rising ocean temperatures are accelerating coastal erosion—here’s how you can advocate for immediate policy change in your community.”

The narrowed version focuses on a specific cause (ocean temperatures), effect (coastal erosion), and a clear call to action (advocacy and policy).

Step 2: Cut What Doesn’t Serve the Core

Once you have clarity on your message, ruthlessly edit out anything that doesn’t amplify it. This includes:

  • Tangential anecdotes: A personal story might have been fun to write, but if it doesn’t tie back to your point, it’s a detour.
  • Jargon or fluff: Replace vague phrases like “a lot of people” with specific data or terms.
  • Redundant sections: Are two paragraphs exploring the same idea? Consolidate.

Pro Tip: Use the “kill your darlings” mantra, but with a twist. If a line makes you cringe but still feels essential, it might belong. The goal isn’t to erase creativity—it’s to eliminate clutter.

Step 3: Refine Your Audience Focus

Know your reader’s face. The more specific you are about your audience’s needs, the sharper your focus. Ask:

  • Who is most likely to engage with this?
  • What do they need to know, feel, or do?

If your draft is for a niche audience (e.g., organic farmers, tech startups, grieving parents), tailor your language, examples, and structure to speak directly to them. Narrowing your audience isn’t about exclusion—it’s about connection.

Example:
A post about healthy eating for adolescent athletes versus busy working parents will require fundamentally different angles, even if the topic is the same.

Step 4: Use Feedback to Sharpen the Edge

Once you’ve narrowed your draft, seek feedback. Ask your beta readers or editors:

  • “Is the main point clear?”
  • “Did anything feel off-topic or confusing?”
  • “Where did I lose you?”

Their honest responses will highlight where your focus is strong and areas that need tightening.

Conclusion: From Broad to Bold

Narrowing your target isn’t about stifling creativity—it’s about amplifying it. By focusing on one core message, one audience, and one action, you create writing that’s not just heard but felt. So, after your first draft, give yourself permission to dig deeper. Prune, polish, and focus until your work becomes a beacon of clarity.

Your Turn: Grab a pen and write your core message in one sentence. If you can’t sum up your draft in a tweet, keep refining.

Final Thought: A narrow target may seem limiting, but it’s the very thing that turns a sea of words into a sea change.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Corsica

Corsica, known as the “Isle of Beauty,” has many stunning areas that are often overlooked by the crowds heading to the main coastal resorts.

Here are five of the next best places or activities to do on a less-travelled road in Corsica:

1. The Désert des Agriates

  • Why it’s “less travelled”: This vast, uninhabited area in the north-west is a protected coastal wilderness with no main roads. The beaches are often only accessible by boat, a long hike, or a rough, dusty 4×4 track.
  • The Experience: Explore the wild, fragrant maquis (scrubland) and find pristine white-sand beaches like Plage de Saleccia and Plage du Lodu. You can hire a boat-taxi from Saint-Florent for a day trip, or rent a 4×4 to experience the rugged interior track.

2. The Castagniccia Region (Chestnut Country)

  • Why it’s “less travelled”: Located in the mountainous north-east, this region is a maze of winding, narrow roads that discourage fast travel. Its villages were once wealthy but have been slowly abandoned, giving it an atmosphere of beautiful, forgotten history.
  • The Experience: Drive through deep chestnut forests (castagna is the Corsican word for chestnut) and discover ancient, isolated stone villages like Piedicroce or La Porta, which features a magnificent baroque church and bell tower. This area is perfect for feeling truly lost in time.

3. Hiking the Western Side of Cap Corse’s Sentier des Douaniers

  • Why it’s “less travelled”: While the Cap Corse loop road is popular, most tourists stick to the drive and the villages. The full coastal path (Sentier des Douaniers) is long, but the section on the wilder, rockier west coast sees fewer walkers than the northern tip.
  • The Experience: Start near a village like Centuri or Tollare and walk south along the “customs officers’ path,” an ancient route used to patrol the coast. You’ll be rewarded with dramatic sea views, Genoese watchtowers, and a silence that contrasts with the busy eastern coast.

4. The Alta Rocca Region and the Solenzara Natural Pools

  • Why it’s “less travelled”: Located in the mountainous south, the focus here is inland scenery, far from the coastal bustle of Porto-Vecchio and Propriano. The villages like Zicavo and Quenza offer an authentic glimpse of mountain life.
  • The Experience: Go for a freshwater swim in the natural rock pools (piscines naturelles) carved by rivers like the Solenzara, or head toward the spectacular Aiguilles de Bavella (Bavella Needles) for jaw-dropping mountain views and hiking trails.

5. The Niolo Valley and the Col de Vergio

  • Why it’s “less travelled”: This high-altitude valley is deep in the heart of the Corsican mountains, accessible via a dramatic, narrow road that climbs up to the Col de Vergio (the island’s highest road pass).
  • The Experience: Enjoy the dramatic scenery and cooler air. From the Col de Vergio, you are close to the famous GR20 hiking trail. A short hike to the Lac de Nino is a popular but quieter option. The valley is also known for its traditional Corsican products and its semi-wild roaming pigs and cows.

What I learned about writing – Your reality is … your reality

I started out by saying I didn’t want to be a lone voice in the wilderness.

Apparently, I am, still.

Well, that might be a little harsh in the circumstances, but the monkey on my shoulder is telling me I should start writing something that someone might want to read.

I guess the trials and tribulations of a writer who basically is a lone voice in the wilderness is as boring as everyday life.

I mean, who wants to read about someone’s miserable, or, on rare occasions, good, day.

Yet, if I were to pick up any book written in the 18th and 19th centuries, all it seems to be about is everyday life, but what makes it interesting is the fact we never lived it, nor realized how hard it was for some, and how good it could be for others.

Best not to be born poor.

So, I was wondering, in 200 years when someone sits down to read about the vicissitudes of my life, will it be interesting to know what it was like back in the ‘old days’ that is really today for me?

Interesting how a change in time frame makes something interesting, and ‘classic’ literature.

But one difference between then and now is the fact we, today, can write about science fiction, spies and all manner of events that come out of recent inventions.  Odd too, that people are still the same, those who tell the truth, those who are pure of heart, those who are as evil as the devil himself.

Some things never change.

Just the when, where, and how.