“The Things We Do For Love”

Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?

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Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

But can love conquer all?

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

Third son of a Duke – The research behind the story – 9

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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Operational Analysis of Western Front Trench Activity: A Week in October 1915

I. Introduction: The Attritional Landscape of Late 1915

By October 1915, the character of the First World War on the Western Front had solidified into a grueling stalemate defined by static trench warfare, a condition established rapidly following the “Race to the Sea” in late 1914.¹ The 800-kilometer line of fortified trenches, stretching from the North Sea to the Swiss frontier, dictated a war of attrition where the defender generally held a decisive advantage due to the revolution in firepower outpacing mobility.²

This specific period followed the costly and ultimately unsuccessful Franco-British offensives of September 1915, notably the Battle of Loos and the Third Battle of Artois.⁴ While these large-scale attacks inflicted severe casualties, they failed to achieve an operational breakthrough.⁶ Following these failures, October represented a strategic pause, compelling both sides—the Germans primarily on the defensive throughout the year—to prioritise maintenance, consolidation, and learning from the “tough learning experience” of offensive warfare.⁷

The tactical consequences of the earlier offensives were substantial. The initial British success at Neuve Chapelle in March 1915, achieved via a short, concentrated artillery bombardment, demonstrated a clear method for overcoming a single trench line.⁵ However, Allied command incorrectly concluded that mere volume of fire was the key, leading to the doctrine of massive, prolonged barrages. Conversely, German command immediately recognised the necessity of deep, redundant defensive systems, prompting a rapid divergence in trench quality.⁵ By October 1915, Allied trenches, particularly those taken over from the French, were frequently rudimentary, poorly drained, and in a “weak state of defence,” demanding immediate, dangerous labour details to upgrade the infrastructure.⁸

Furthermore, October marked the meteorological transition toward winter, introducing the environment itself as a critical mechanism of attrition. The onset of cold, persistent dampness led to widespread flooding, exacerbated by the destruction of pre-war drainage ditches by constant shelling.⁷ For the infantry soldier, this environmental degradation often superseded direct enemy action as the primary danger. The resulting non-battle attrition, especially conditions like Trench Foot, became a systemic military challenge, requiring constant attention and effort to mitigate the loss of manpower.¹¹ The overall soldier experience during this week was highly variable, ranging from “invariably hellish” salients like Ypres to “quiet” sectors operating under an informal “live and let live” system, though even these peaceful fronts accrued daily casualties from snipers, gas, and disease.²

II. The Weekly Rhythm: Rotation, Fatigue, and Logistics

The experience of a soldier during a specific week in October 1915 was defined entirely by the rotation system, a necessary measure acknowledging that a “prolonged stay in the first trench was inhumane”.¹⁴ This structured cycle allowed for the management of physical and psychological fatigue, ensuring that combat forces were regularly replaced and refreshed, though true rest was often scarce.

A typical British or Commonwealth infantry rotation cycle involved moving through four positions along the line: the Front Line, the Support Line, the Reserve Line, and a period of Rest/Hinterland duty.² A unit would typically spend 2 to 4 days in the Front Line before rotating backward.¹⁴ This period was the most dangerous, demanding constant vigilance and work, including ‘Stand-to’ rituals and continuous maintenance of the parapet.¹⁶ During the following periods in the Support and Reserve lines (totalling approximately four to eight days), soldiers served as defence in depth and were heavily engaged in crucial tasks: digging new systems, constructing fortifications, and serving as strenuous working parties to supply the front.²

The goal of the rotation was to achieve a minimum of seven days in a dedicated Rest/Recuperation period, essential for restoring fighting fitness. During this phase, soldiers benefited from crucial measures like undisturbed sleep, the opportunity for a bath, and regular hot meals.¹⁵ These periods also included essential training and drill.¹⁸ However, even when rotated out of the absolute front, the respite was not necessarily idle; men were constantly detailed for strenuous labor, such as communication trench digging or assisting logistics, meaning they were often “up every night”.¹⁹ This constant high level of physical activity, combined with sleep deprivation, resulted in a state of chronic exhaustion, which was a recognized predisposing factor for severe medical conditions such as Trench Foot.¹¹

The flow of supplies was paramount and dictated the nightly rhythm of the rear areas. All vital logistics—rations, water, and ammunition—were moved up the line after dusk under the cover of darkness.² This involved long, dangerous carrying parties traversing miles of winding communication trenches from rear-area field kitchens and depots.²⁰ Despite sophisticated initial logistical plans relying on rail transport ²¹, the final miles relied on manual conveyance. The inadequate final-mile logistics meant that rations, though generous on paper, often arrived cold, tinned, or spoiled, failing to provide optimal nourishment.¹⁵ Furthermore, drinking water, transported in repurposed containers like petrol cans, had to be purified chemically, resulting in a taste that forced soldiers to consume most water in the form of cold tea.¹⁵ The difficulty in providing hot, nutritious food and clean water weakened troop immunity and morale just as the cold, wet conditions of October began to set in.²²

Table 1 details the cyclical demands placed on infantry units during this attritional phase of the war.

Table 1: Typical Western Front Infantry Rotation Cycle (October 1915)

Location/Phase	Duration (Approx.)	Primary Duties/Activity Level	Key Characteristic in October 1915
Front Line (Firing Trench)	2 to 4 days	Sentry Duty, Parapet Repair, Aggressive Patrolling, Stand-to (Dawn/Dusk) ¹⁴	High exposure to Minenwerfer and snipers; constant dampness/mud ⁹
Support Line	4 days	Reserve for Front Line, Carrying Parties, Drainage/Dugout Labour, Equipment Supply ²	Still subjected to sporadic artillery fire; heavy fatigue work at night ¹⁹
Reserve Line/Billet	8 days	Training, Deep fatigue work (e.g., communications digging), Cleaning, Rest/Sleep ²	Opportunity for hot food and bath ¹⁵; billeting conditions often poor ¹⁹

III. The 24-Hour Cycle: Routine, Boredom, and the Fear of Dawn

Life in the front line was characterised by a strict, repetitive schedule where movement and labour were rigidly controlled by the risk of observation and fire. This routine was simultaneously mundane and terrifying.¹⁶

The day commenced approximately 30 minutes before sunrise with the critical ritual known as “Stand-to arms,” requiring every soldier to man the firing step with rifles and fixed bayonets.¹⁶ Doctrine held that dawn was the most likely time for an enemy attack. Paradoxically, because both sides fully manned their defences, outright dawn assaults were rare, as commanders recognised the suicidal nature of attacking an alerted garrison.¹⁸ However, this expectation of attack often culminated not in an infantry rush, but in a concentrated artillery barrage known as the “morning hate,” designed to strike bunched-up infantry outside the protective confines of their dugouts.¹⁸

Once the morning firing subsided, the daily routine transitioned into maintenance and inspection. This included weapons cleaning, kit inspections, and breakfast, which often consisted of tinned rations and the highly valued tot of rum.¹⁶ During daylight hours, nearly all work was conducted below the parapet to avoid snipers and observation.²³ This included essential maintenance like filling sandbags, deepening trenches, and repairing duckboards.¹⁷ Interspersed with these fatigue duties, periods of downtime offered a vital psychological release, allowing soldiers to read, play cards, or write letters and journals, maintaining a crucial connection to normalcy amidst the “near-constant horror and death”.¹⁷

The imposition of a rigid daily routine was essential for imposing discipline and order amidst the inherent chaos of static warfare.¹⁶ Small, predictable comforts, such as the rum ration and post from home ¹⁶, functioned as vital psychological buffers. The capacity of a unit to maintain this routine and deliver necessary logistics, therefore, had a direct, measurable effect on morale and cohesion, which were essential components of effective resistance in attritional warfare.²⁶

As visibility faded, the day’s routine culminated in the second ‘Stand-to’ at dusk.¹⁶ With the cover of darkness, activity intensified dramatically. The trenches became a hive of motion, facilitating troop rotations, the dangerous logistics of carrying rations and water, and the retrieval of mail.¹⁶ Engineering parties worked continuously to repair the parapets, maintain wire defences, and lay duckboards, preparing the line for the dangers of the ensuing night and the next day.¹⁷

IV. Night Operations: The Real Battle for No Man’s Land

Under the cover of darkness, No Man’s Land transformed from an exposed wasteland into a critical, intensely contested operational theatre.² Night operations involved specialised patrols, raids, and constant construction, crucial for both defence and intelligence gathering.

Movement of troops, supplies, and reconnaissance was strictly limited to the night.² Troops deployed specialised patrols with two main objectives. Reconnaissance patrols operated cautiously, seeking to detect enemy working parties, confirm the integrity of friendly wire, and occasionally cut enemy telephone cables, generally trying to avoid engagement.²⁷ In contrast, fighting patrols had an aggressive mission: they actively engaged enemy patrols, disrupted enemy reconnaissance, and sought to eliminate forward positions like listening posts, thereby wrestling the nighttime initiative away from the opponent.²⁷ Both sides also established listening posts in No Man’s Land, where sentries sought to detect the sounds of enemy movement or indications of an impending attack.²

By October 1915, trench raiding had become an established and accepted component of trench warfare.²⁶ Raiding parties, typically small groups of up to twenty highly trained soldiers ²⁶, would sneak across No Man’s Land with the goal of entering the enemy trenches to gather intelligence, capture prisoners (a primary objective), or seize weaponry.²⁶ These missions were exceptionally perilous, often resulting in high casualty rates due to counter-patrols or organised defence fire.28 For the close-quarters fighting within the confined trenches, soldiers often abandoned cumbersome rifles in favour of improvised, brutal weaponry like clubs, knives, and knuckledusters.²⁹

Beyond the tactical gains, raiding served a critical psychological purpose in the war of attrition. Frequent raiding was intended to “pressurise those in the opposing trenches and prevent them from ever truly being able to relax at night”.²⁶ Since the entire logistics and maintenance structure depended on the cover of darkness ², successful enemy patrols or raids could cripple a unit’s operational capacity. Therefore, the necessity of aggressive, high-risk patrols underscores that the continuous battle for the front was fundamentally fought at night, in stealth and close combat.

Concurrently, subterranean warfare continued below No Man’s Land. Specialist tunnelling companies, often composed of men with civilian mining experience, worked tirelessly to dig deep tunnels beneath enemy positions. These tunnels were packed with high explosives and detonated to breach or destroy the enemy trench line, creating craters that could be rapidly converted into advanced defensive positions.² This high-risk activity was constant in specific geographical sectors, such as the slopes of Vimy Ridge.⁴

V. Mechanisms of Attrition: The Constant Threat Environment

The week in the trenches was characterised by a pervasive threat environment where death was typically delivered not by massed infantry assaults but by random, persistent weaponry. The majority of casualties on the Western Front were caused by artillery fire, shrapnel, and explosive blast effects.¹

Artillery bombardment was generally sporadic and unpredictable, even in sectors not officially designated as “active”.¹³ Commanders understood that continuous massive bombardments were wasteful and often ineffective against dug-in troops.¹⁴ However, shelling was a daily feature, supporting every patrol and raid, and used specifically for daily harassment, such as the aforementioned “morning hate”.¹⁷ Soldiers mitigated this threat by constructing deep trenches, bunkers, and dugouts, constantly adjusting their defences in a continuous arms race against high explosives.²

A particularly terrifying localised weapon in 1915 was the German Minenwerfer (trench mortar).⁹ These heavy mortars delivered shells that looked like “an oil drum,” exploding with a terrific report.⁹ Their steep trajectory allowed them to circumvent the conventional protection afforded by trench parapets, specifically targeting fire bays and dugouts.³⁰ One soldier noted that his sector was less troubled by conventional artillery, but that the enemy “make up for that with trench mortars and rifle grenades”.⁹ This highlights a tactical imbalance in 1915, often referred to as the “mortar gap,” where German specialisation in trench siege weaponry forced the British to continually upgrade their rudimentary trench designs under fire.⁷

Sniping and persistent machine gun fire enforced a state of permanent vigilance during daylight hours.¹⁶ The fixed defensive positions of trench warfare maximised the effectiveness of the machine gun, a “killing machine” with a high rate of fire that could be sustained for hours.²⁹ Sniping accounted for persistent daily casualties even in quiet sectors, compelling soldiers to adhere to strict movement discipline below the parapet.²

Following the first effective deployment of chlorine gas at Ypres in April 1915 ⁷ and the British use of gas at Loos in September ²⁹, chemical warfare was an evolving and terrifying threat. By October 1915, rudimentary protective measures were in place, including linen masks soaked in water, improvised respirators, and the eventual distribution of cumbersome gas hoods/helmets.²⁹ Gas alarms, typically horns and whistles, were crucial for giving troops the necessary seconds to don this protective equipment.²⁹

The analysis of casualty data reveals a critical characteristic of this period: the cumulative toll of low-level attrition. Even in relatively quiet periods in early 1916, before the launch of the Somme Offensive, the British suffered over 107,000 casualties without engaging in any major battles.

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Table 2: Sources of Daily Attrition and Risk (October 1915)

Threat Category	Weapon/Source	Impact/Frequency in 1915	Tactical Significance
Direct Combat	Artillery Shells/Shrapnel	Majority of total casualties; unpredictable area denial. Sporadic but highly destructive.	Primary method of attrition; limits daytime movement and forces deep dugouts.
Localized Siege	Trench Mortars (Minenwerfer), Rifle Grenades	Highly disruptive localized attacks against specific fire bays and dugouts.	Overcomes conventional frontal cover; psychological terror.
Precision Fire	Sniping/Machine Gun Fire	Daily casualties even in ‘quiet’ sectors; enforced low profile during day.	Enforced movement discipline; constant state of vulnerability.
Chemical Warfare	Chlorine/Tear Gas	Rising, sporadic threat following 1915 deployments (Ypres, Loos).	Requires constant vigilance and use of cumbersome, improvised protective gear.
Non-Combat	Trench Foot, Trench Fever (Lice), Rats	High rates of illness leading to extended incapacitation (months).	Undermines unit strength and morale; caused by cold, dampness, and exhaustion.

VI. The Environment and Physical Toll: October’s Misery

As October progressed, the shift in weather ensured that the physical environment became as dangerous as the enemy. The trenches, often hastily constructed, had poor drainage and were quickly destroyed by artillery fire.⁷ The persistent autumn rains led to widespread flooding, with soldiers describing conditions where they lived in “mud and water” that rose “steadily till knee deep”.⁷ One account detailed men having to retreat from flooded positions, sometimes having to wade through two feet of water.⁷

This cold, persistent dampness was the primary driver of Trench Foot, a debilitating condition caused by the stagnation of venous blood in the feet.¹¹ This condition, worsened by chronic fatigue ¹¹, could rapidly progress to gangrene, necessitating amputation.³² Prophylaxis required constant, systematic effort, including regular foot and boot inspection, frequent sock changes, use of specialised talc (“French powder”), and the greasing of boots.¹¹ The widespread attempt to use duckboards to mitigate the standing water often failed, as the boards were either floated away by heavy rains or simply trodden into the thick Somme mud.¹¹

The unsanitary environment was amplified by ubiquitous pests. Rats, bloated from feeding on the waste and corpses of stationary armies, grew “as big as cats” and were known to gnaw on wounded or sleeping soldiers, occasionally causing wounds severe enough for hospitalisation.¹² Lice were a constant tormentor, responsible for transmitting Trench Fever, a persistent illness characterised by debilitating headaches, fevers, and muscle pain that could pull a soldier away from the front for months.²

The trenches were an overwhelming sensory experience dominated by the stench of war. The smell was generated by a pervasive mix of “stinking mud mingled with rotting corpses, lingering gas, open latrines, wet clothes and unwashed bodies”.¹⁷ Sanitation was a continuous struggle, requiring strict, though often poorly executed, measures such as purifying drinking water and digging small waste pits.¹⁵

The systemic failure of early trench design and logistics, particularly in dealing with dampness and sanitation, was recognised as the cause of widespread non-combat casualties. The army authorities realised that maintaining health was crucial for retaining fighting capacity.¹⁵ This period starkly highlighted the disparity in positional warfare; while Allied soldiers struggled with hastily dug trenches, accounts suggest that German trenches were often initially better constructed, reflecting their earlier commitment to long-term defence and fortified dugouts.¹⁹ The inherent hardship of fighting defensively from positions often materially inferior to those of their opponents compounded the physical toll on the Allied soldier in October 1915.

VII. The Psychological Warfare of Endurance

The relentless, localised violence, combined with the extreme physical degradation of the environment, placed soldiers under extraordinary psychological pressure. This continuous stress environment led to a grim, self-protective normalisation of horror; one private recounted that while seeing men killed immediately initially felt “rather funny,” they “got used to the shrapnel and Bullets” as time wore on.²⁵

The profound psychological strain of this unique form of warfare led to the formal recognition of ‘shell shock’ in 1915.³³ Although initially misdiagnosed as physical injury resulting from bomb blast, medical practitioners soon realised that the “mental strain was considerable” even for those not directly exposed to heavy shellfire.³³ The symptoms were varied and severe: uncontrollable shaking and trembling, being “dazed” after bombardment, or, in acute cases, men losing “control of everything” and being seen “singing” as they were taken out of the line.³⁴ By 1916, hundreds of thousands of men would suffer from this condition.³³

The high incidence of shell shock provided empirical evidence that the most pervasive form of combat activity in October 1915 was the psychological warfare of continuous endurance. Soldiers lived with the constant expectation of a “sudden, random, violent end,” even in designated quiet sectors.¹³ This anxiety, compounded by chronic sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion, caused rapid psychological breakdown.³⁵

To counter this debilitating strain, soldiers relied on internal and institutional coping mechanisms. Routine provided structure ¹⁶, while camaraderie—even occasional, localised truces for collecting the wounded—provided human connection.³⁶ Personal reflection through letters and diaries was a crucial outlet.¹⁷ Some soldiers developed a powerful sense of moral justification for their ordeal, such as the soldier who felt that he pitied the civilians who would “never have seen or known the things that we have seen and known”.³⁷ Ultimately, however, the volume of non-battle attrition, both physical (disease) and psychological (shell shock), presented a continuous challenge to the military apparatus’s ability to maintain a functional frontline force.

VIII. Conclusion: October 1915 as a Microcosm of Attritional Warfare

Activity in the trenches during a typical week in October 1915 was dominated by a high-intensity, localised battle for survival, characterised by rigid routine and the constant struggle against systemic attrition. This period marked the deepening recognition of the demands of static warfare following the failed summer and autumn offensives.

A soldier’s week was highly segmented, demanding 2-4 days in the front line defined by the fear of the Minenwerfer and snipers, mitigated only by the discipline of “Stand-to” and constant labour.9 Nights were operational peaks, driven by the need for logistical resupply and the lethal game of patrolling No Man’s Land for intelligence and psychological harassment.2 The bulk of the week was dedicated to recovering from the physical and psychological toll in the support and reserve lines, although true rest was often compromised by unavoidable, exhausting labour parties.¹⁹

The analysis demonstrates that the primary attrition sources were not necessarily large-scale battles, which were absent during this strategic pause, but rather the cumulative effect of constant exposure: random shelling, disease vectors (lice, rats), and the debilitating impact of the cold, wet environment.² The environmental degradation is linked directly to physical collapse, with dampness and fatigue combining to produce widespread Trench Foot, a systemic casualty problem.¹¹

In summary, the week in October 1915 was a crucible, simultaneously characterised by the boredom of routine and the omnipresent threat of a sudden, violent end. It was a transitional phase where tactical and logistical lessons—particularly the necessity of permanent, deep dugouts and counter-siege weaponry—were being painfully learned by all belligerents, hardening the grim reality that would define the warfare of the Western Front for the years to come.

“The End of the Road”, a short story

The man who had said that we would never make the distance was right.

It had been my idea to go ‘troppo’, forsake everything, hop on a motorbike and go around Australia. I was, at that stage fed up with everything and, catching Harry in one of his low spots, he decided there and then he would join me.

For the first few days, we believed we were stark staring mad and talked about calling it quits, but perseverance made all the difference. After two months we were glad we had the resolve to keep going, and in that time we had managed to see more of the Australian countryside than we’d seen all our lives.

That was until this particular morning when we arrived in Berrigum, what could have been called a one-horse town. It consisted of one hotel, one general store (that sold everything from toothpicks to petrol) and an agricultural machinery depot. It also had a station and some wheat silos, and this appeared to be the only reason for a town in this particular spot in the middle of nowhere.

And it was the railway station that interested Harry, who was, by this time, getting a little homesick and fed up with his motorbike.

After coughing and spluttering for the last week it had finally died, and the five-mile walk to Berrigum had not helped either his temper, or his disposition, and had only served to firm his resolve to return home.

It was hot but not unbearably so, unlike a hot summer’s day in the city, and even worse still in public transport. For miles around as we tramped those five miles all we could see was acres and acres of wheat, but no sign of life. It was the same when we reached the town. It appeared all the people were either hiding or had left. Harry suspected the latter given the state of the road, and the buildings, more or less the epitome of a ghost town.

Standing at the end of what could have been called the main street with only our own dust for company, one look took in the whole town. In a car, one wouldn’t have given it a second look, if one had time to give it a first. I didn’t remember seeing neither any speed restriction signs nor signpost advertising a town ahead.

And since no amount of argument could sway him from his resolve, the first objective was to get a train timetable, if such a thing existed, and make arrangements for Harry’s return.

The station was as deserted as the town itself, and a quick glance in the stationmaster’s office showed no sign of life.

Leaving the bikes on the platform outside the office, we headed for the hotel for both a drink and make enquiries about rail services. Being a hot day and the morning’s tramp somewhat hot and dusty, we were looking forward to a cold glass (or two) of beer.

The hotel looked as though it was a hundred years old though there was no doubting a few relentless summers would reduce it to the same state. It was as bad inside as out, though the temperature was several degrees lower, and we could sit down in what appeared to be the main bar. We were the only occupants and still to find any sign of life. Overhead, two fans were struggling to move the hot air around.

More than once Harry reckoned it was a ghost town and I was beginning to believe him when, after five minutes, no one arrived.

After ten, we stood, ready to leave, only to stop halfway out of our chairs when a voice behind us said, “Surely you’re not going back out there without refreshment?”

“I was beginning to think the town was deserted,” I said.

“It is during the day, but when the sun goes down…”

I didn’t ask. We followed him to the bar where he had stationed himself behind the counter. “The name is Jack.” He stretched out his hand towards us. “We don’t bother with last names here.”

“Bill,” I said, shaking it, and nodding to Harry, “Harry.”

Harry nodded and shook his hand too.

“The first one’s on the house.” He poured three glasses and put ours in front of us. “Cheers.”

In all cases, it went down without touching the sides (as they say) and he poured a second, at the same time asking, “What brings you to our little corner of the earth?”

“Just passing through,” I said, “Or at least for me.”

“And you?” Jack looked at Harry.

“I can’t hack the pace. I can truthfully say I have thoroughly enjoyed the trip so far, except for a few mishaps, but for me, it’s time to get back to the big smoke. My ‘do your own thing’ has run out of momentum. Do you know if there is a train that goes anywhere important?”

The publican looked at him almost pityingly. “Important, eh?” He rubbed his chin feigning thought. “You make it sound like you are in purgatory.”

“Aren’t we?”

I suppose one could hardly blame Harry for his attitude. After all, at the beginning, he had numerous accidents, caught a virus that stayed with him (and a couple of torrential downpours had done little to help it), and now his motorbike had finally died. No wonder his humour was at an all-time low.

For a moment I thought the publican was going to tell Harry what he thought of him, but then he smiled and the tension passed. “Perhaps to a city fellow like you it might be,” he said. “The mail train which has a passenger carriage comes through once a week, and, my good man, you’re in luck. Today’s the day.”

“Good. How do I get a ticket?”

“You’d have to see the Station Master.”

“And where might he be at the moment? We were at the station a while back and there was no sign of life.”

“Nor will there be until the train comes. Meanwhile, there’s time enough for lunch. I’m sure you will stay?” He looked questioningly at us.

I looked at Harry, who nodded.

“Why not.”

Over lunch, we talked.

I remember not so long ago when I had to attend a large number of lunches where the talk was of business, or, if anything, mostly about subjects that I had no interest in. It was always some posh restaurant, time seemed important, the atmosphere never really relaxed, and to get into a relaxed state it took a large amount of alcohol to deaden the despair and distaste of that one had to fete in order to secure their business.

How different it was here.

We talked about the country, and, after seeing as much of it, and worked on it as we had to fund our odyssey, we could talk about it authoritatively. And, most of all, it was interesting.

The atmosphere too was entirely different than it had been in the city. Out here the people were always friendly, people always willing to stop and talk, particularly farmers; share a drink or some food.

There was none of this carefree purposefulness in the city, and more than once I’d thought of the fact one could travel in the same train with the same people for year after year and still not know any of them. It was the same at work. Even after five years I still hadn’t known three-quarters of the office staff, and most of them probably didn’t want to know me. Harry was virtually the only real friend I’d had at work.

But here, in ‘the middle of nowhere’ as Harry had called it, I felt as though I’d known the publican all of my life instead of the few short hours.

Some hours later and after much argument, where Jack and I tried to talk Harry into staying (Jack said he knew someone who could fix anything including Harry’s bike), Harry remained unconvinced and resolute. Jack, to round off the occasion (we were the first real guests from outside he had had in a week) provided another on-the-house ale and then saw us to the station. “After all”, he had said, “I’ve nothing else to do at the moment.”

By that time the station was showing a little more life than it had before. A station assistant, moving several parcels with a hand trolley, slowly ambled towards the end of the platform.

And whether it could be called a platform was a debatable point. It was a gravel and grass affair that looked more like part of cutting through a hill than a station.

At the station, Jack portentously announced he was also the stationmaster and would be only too happy to take care of Harry’s requirements. It would be, he added, “the first passenger ticket sold for several months.” Certainly, the ticket he handed Harry bore witness to that. It had yellowed with age.

One would have thought with the imminent arrival of the train there would be more people, but no. The only event had been the station assistant’s stroll to the end of the platform and back. Now both he and Jack had disappeared into the office and we were left alone on the platform. Very little in the whole town stirred, nor had it the whole time we’d been there.

“Well,” I said to break the silence. “I’m sorry to see you going through with it. I thought I might have been able to talk you out of it…” I shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“I’m sorry to be going too, but a body can take only so much bad luck, and God knows that’s all I’ve had.”

“Yes.” I couldn’t think of much else to say. “But it’s been good to have your company these last few months.”

“And you. When do you think you’ll get back?”

“When I get sick of it I suppose.”

“Look us up then when you get back.”

“I will.”

Thankfully the appearance of the train in the distance broke off the conversation. I had begun to think of what it was going to be like out on the road with no one to talk to but myself. The thought was a little depressing and I tried not to let it show.

We said little else until the train pulled in, three flat cars, seven enclosed wagons, a passenger carriage and the guard’s van. The train stopped with only part of the passenger carriage and the guard’s van at the station.

The guard took aboard the parcels the station assistant had left for him earlier, and then put those that were for Berrigum on the trolley.

I shook Harry’s hand and said I’d see him around. Then he, the motorbike, and the guard were aboard and the train was off, disappearing slowly into the afternoon haze.

The station assistant then repeated his amble to the end of the platform to collect the hand trolley.

“Staying or moving on.” Jack had come up behind me and gave me a bit of a start.

“Staying I guess, until tomorrow or maybe later.”

“I had heard one of the farm hands is leaving tomorrow heading back to Sydney. There could be a vacancy.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said.

“I could put in a word for you.”

“Thanks.”

Jack just grinned and we headed for the hotel.

The 2am Rant: It’s dark, it’s late, it’s raining…

Yes, it’s dark and late at night on this side of the world, and I’m guessing where you are, it’s probably winter, the sun’s disappeared, the day is freezing cold, and you’re having a hard time keeping warm.

Here, in the so-called land down under, which surprisingly a lot of people from the other side of the world do not know about, it is wet and cool, where it should be sunny and hot as well as humid.

Now, hang on, that can’t be true; others don’t know about us, because we all know the world is round and there has to be something or somewhere opposite. I know that north we have China, and Europe, and further away, the United States.

Been to China, Europe and the United States, so I know you’re all there, somewhere.

And, as you can see, the rain and the cold have amped up the boredom factor and pushed me to do anything other than writing. I have three jobs I’m supposed to be doing,

Editing the second Walthenson PI, a Private Detective novel
Writing two episodes of a serial story about surveillance going wrong, and
Finishing off some new travel blog posts

None of them is appealing to me at the moment.

Instead, I find myself looking at what is shown on Winter TV in the US, one of which is reruns of Snowpiercer and is suitably cold. It’s also complicated, and sometimes a little hard to follow, which means it takes two viewings to understand what’s going on. It will be interesting to see where series three leads us … and I’m hoping Melanie will be back

Fascinating.

Then there are several of my favourites, FBI, The Rookie, a show called The Equaliser, a new version of an old TV show I used to watch many years ago. Another will be the next series of Bridgerton, which was odd but interesting since we like those Jane Austen-like programs. Now, hopefully, there will be another series of Miss Scarlett and the Duke, set in Victorian England.

And as for the blacklist, since Liz left, it had gone downhill … let’s hope they find something to lift it, like Liz’s evil twin sister! Perhaps wisely, they wrapped it up, and it’s over.

There’s more, but I’d better get back to work.

Writing a book in 365 days – 326/327

Days 326 and 327

Writing exercise – Take a minor character and give them a backstory, and something that couldEight out of eight passengers and crew never thought they’d find themselves in what was, literally, a life and death situation.

…

The air hung heavy with cigarette smoke, for nearly all smoked (and some for the first time). Tension thickened the atmosphere to a point where it could almost be cut with a knife.

In the deathly quiet, all had time to reflect on the fate that had befallen them, and the resume of events read like the script of the archetypal disaster movie.

The first hint of trouble came when they’d lost one engine. The pilot had been quite nonchalant about it because, he said, they had three others. Only Harry thought he could detect a note of apprehension in his tone.

Then, after a short time, they lost another engine.

An hour later, they crashed.

Of the eight, during those precious seconds before impact, none believed they would survive, but only the pilot and co-pilot perished. All admitted it had been a spectacular piece of flying on the pilot’s part, all, that is, except Rawlings.

“A fine mess this blasted pilot has got us into,” Rawlings said for the umpteenth time. No one had taken much notice before, and it was debatable whether anyone was taking notice now, for Rawlings had hardly endeared himself to the other passengers.

As the only person travelling first class he made sure he received the best service (and the only one to receive any service for that matter) from the moment he came on board. The fact that the airline had allocated only one stewardess for the flight was the airline’s (and his fellow passengers’) problem, not his.

“After telling us how clever you are, Rawlings, why don’t you do something about it?” An indistinguishable voice came from the rear of the plane. It was an indication of the undercurrent of hate simmering beneath the icy calm.

Rawlings, still in the forward section of the plane, glared at the group, trying to put a face to the voice. “To whom am I speaking?”

No one replied.

“No matter.” He shrugged it off. “Had the pilot managed to get the plane down in one piece, I could. Since he didn’t, you can be assured I’ll think of something, which is more than I can say for some.” It was, to him, a simple statement based on his assessment of the situation, but it served only to further alienate him from the others.

…

Harry had known better days, and, not for the first time, he wished this were one of them. He’d had a premonition the previous night when he’d woken, bathed in sweat, an unconscious warning of an impending disaster.

Not that the threat of death was significant to him, for he knew it would come eventually, despite the doctor’s optimism, but not yet, not here, in the middle of nowhere, atop a mountain range in the freezing cold.

He glanced at his fellow passengers, a curious mixture of travellers he’d ever met.

Rawlings was the egotistical, bombastic, thorough son-of-a-bitch. He had gone out of his way to make the trip as miserable as possible for the others. Status, to him, was all-important, even after the crash.

Harkness, Rawlings’ assistant (and relegated to Economy class because he was a servant), was the sort who said little and suffered a lot. His defence of the pilot had caused Rawlings to ‘vent his spleen’ on him, after which, to Harkness, the silence must have been golden.

Daphne and her mother, Mrs Gaunt, two of the three women on board, were congenial, cheerful people who bore up well considering they were terrified out of their wits. Daphne, in fact, had taken over stewardess duties for the Economy passengers, a job much appreciated by them.

The remaining two passengers, geologists, were odd sorts who arrived late and drunk. After take off, they’d fallen asleep and, in fact, had slept through the crash. They were, Harry thought, in for one hell of a shock when they finally woke.

Above all, however, the stewardess had fared the worst, after the pilots, having, after the discovery of the death of the pilots, become hysterical. It was an interesting development because she had kept a tight, calm grip on the situation all through the calamity.

Harry huddled closer under his blanket, only to remember his sore arm. He didn’t think it was broken, but it certainly felt like it. And the hell of it was, he couldn’t remember how it happened. He shuddered as a gust of icy wind came through the rent in the fuselage near his seat. But it was not only the cold which left him with almost uncontrollable shakes – it was also the onset of shock.

In the back of his mind, he relived those cataclysmic minutes after successive engines failed. It was then he wished he hadn’t been so insistent on having a window seat.

As the plane lurched sickeningly, the pilot calmly said they’d have to land immediately. Of course, he added equally as calm, it would be difficult in mountainous country. However, they were fortunate it had been snowing recently. All except Rawlings took the news with equanimity. It was odd, someone said later, that with all his knowledge and self-praise, Rawlings didn’t take over the plane and fly them to safety.

The plane was barely in the air when the order came to brace themselves, and all were prepared when the plane hit the ground moments later.

The plane came to rest abruptly in a snow-covered valley; the silence, after the cacophony of tearing metal and involuntary screams, was almost maddening. The first realisation each had was that they were still alive – the second, the icy wind coming in through the large cracks in the fuselage.

Harry was the first to move himself into action and to make an appraisal of the situation. The other passengers were more or less unharmed, except for the stewardess, who was slightly dazed. Then, Harkness joining him, he went forward to the flight deck. When they managed to wrench the door open they were greeted by a scene of total destruction. Both pilots were dead, unrecognisable in the mass of twisted wreckage. Harry quickly reclosed the door before he was physically ill.

At least it explained why the plane had stopped so abruptly: they’d crashed into a rock in the last stages of the slide. It was miraculous that the plane hadn’t caught fire.

Harry had no intention of taking charge; it just happened. He told the others what the situation was briefly and down to earth, and then suggested they search for food and other items such as blankets. Everyone noted Rawlings’ lack of enthusiasm to help, and if it had not been for Daphne, he would not have received blankets or food. Most ignored him, wondering at the fact that he could still be so aloof in such tragic circumstances.

Because of the cold, they quickly organised themselves so they could wait for their rescue. It wouldn’t, they reasoned, relatively cheerfully, be long.

…

Whilst the others may have considered Rawlings little more than a pain in the neck, it would have surprised them to learn that he despaired for them. He couldn’t understand their attitude towards him, for all he wanted to do was make them feel better, and, if he could, help.

But there was little chance of that occurring, and, in fact, as much chance as him receiving the treatment he considered he deserved. It was clear in his own mind that there were two types of people in the world: the leaders and the led. By virtue of his station in life, he was one of the leaders. Why, he asked himself rhetorically, didn’t they realise that? He glared at them, all studiously ignoring his presence. There was, he thought bitterly, little prospect of getting any assistance from those people.

Conditions were unbearable during the first night. Darkness had fallen quickly, and with no hot food to ward off even a fraction of the coldness that had settled on them, their relatively good spirits quickly dissipated.

To Harry (and the others) the night seemed interminable, and he found it impossible to sleep for any length of time. He was shaking uncontrollably, despite the warm clothing and number of blankets, and, as dawn broke, he wasted no time getting up and about to get his circulation going again, urging the others to do likewise. It was something he remembered having seen in a film once: if the cold was allowed to take over, a person quickly succumbed and died.

His first venture outside was something of an experience. In the first instance, it was colder outside than in, if that was possible, and in the second, the landscape was as bleak, in his opinion, as their prospects of rescue.

After trekking some distance through the rather solid snow and up a rise, he found he had a good view of the plane, and the fact that there were, strangely, no trees from one end of the valley to the other. The same could not be said for the surrounding country. It seemed an impossibility that the pilot had been able to find such a place, and, desperately unlucky, he should hit the only rock Harry could see in the line of the plane’s path.

The plane was half covered in snow. It was apparent it had been snowing during the night, and by the look of the sky, more was on the way. Low clouds continually swept through the valley, obscuring everything from view, and that, he considered, would make discovery from the air nigh on impossible.

What it really meant was that they would have to come up with their own plan of action rather than wait for hypothermia to take its toll. It was something he had been thinking about most of the night, but he had been unable to progress to any sort of workable alternatives.

During a clear period, Harry saw Harkness coming towards him slowly. He was rapidly gaining respect for Harkness, as he was not only surprisingly cheerful (despite being blunted by the more dominant Rawlings) he was resourceful.

…

By the time he reached Harry, he was out of breath and needed a few minutes to recover. Harry noted he looked a good deal older than he had first estimated.

“What a hike, but it sure beats the hell out of waiting down there,” Harkness said when he’d recovered sufficiently, nodding towards the wreckage. “And, God knows how, I feel warm.”

“So do I. It was one of the reasons I came here.”

“Those two geologists, or whatever they are, are finally awake. Boy, you should have seen their faces. One swore he’d give up drink forever.”

“He may get his wish sooner than he thinks.”

“You don’t rate our chances of discovery high, eh?”

“Take a look.” Harry beckoned to the mist, which was swirling through the valley, obliterating everything in their view. Harry, in fact, could hardly see Harkness.

“Yes. I see what you mean. What do you think we should do?”

“God knows. But one thing is for sure, I don’t think we can afford to sit and wait for someone to come and find us. Not under the current circumstances, with more snow imminent. It’ll take only another fall to completely hide us from any viewpoint.”

Harkness looked at the sky, then at the surroundings, and nodded in agreement, adding, after a minute, “It seems odd this is the only part of the country that’s clear of trees. Do you think there’s any significance in that?”

“Exactly, would you believe, what I was thinking?”

“Do you think we might be near help?”

“Who knows. But, because of the urgency of the situation, I think we should find out. The question is, who is the ideal person is There was, however, no doubt in his mind.

…

“You’re mad, stark, staring mad,” Rawlings said when Harry told the others of the plan he and Harkness had formulated on their way back to the plane.

“I agree there is an element of risk….”

“Risk?” Rawlings exploded. “Risk? It’s bloody suicide. In my opinion, we should sit tight. We have enough to eat, and we’re relatively warm. It won’t be long before the search parties are out now we are overdue.”

“You haven’t been outside. Circumstances dictate that we must seek help. It’s been explained in detail. If you cannot understand the situation, then don’t interfere.” Harkness glared at his old chief, for the first time feeling more than a match for him. Rawlings would never again dominate him.

“Then you’re fools, as are all the rest of you if you condone this idiocy. I wash my hands of it.” And he ignored them, going back to his book. If that Davidson character wanted to kill himself, that was his business.

There were no other objections. The others understood the realities of the situation, both Harkness and Harry had explained at length. Harry would seek assistance. Harkness would do his best to keep the others alive.

Then, after a good meal (in the circumstances) and taking enough food for two days, Harry left. At the top of the rise, he stopped, briefly, looking at the scene. It was, he thought, exactly as it had been in the dream.

…

For two days, it had snowed continuously. The sub-zero temperatures had virtually sapped them all of whatever energy they had left, and, on the morning of the third day, they were all barely alive

At the end of the second day, Harkness had requested everybody to huddle together, including the standoffish Rawlings, who finally agreed, despite inner misgivings. It was probably this single action that saved them.

Harkness, though he said nothing, had given up hope that Harry would still be alive. No one could have survived the intensity of the blizzard.

Harkness had woken to inky darkness and a death-like silence, the storm having abated. His first thought was that he had died, but that passed as the cold slowly made itself felt. Soon after, finding his torch still worked, he roused everyone and cajoled or browbeat them into doing their exercises to ward off frostbite.

It was then that they heard the strange throbbing sound, and Harkness instinctively went outside and found they’d been snowed in. As the throbbing sound passed over them again, Harkness didn’t need to ask for assistance to make an opening in the snow. They frantically dug their way through; luckily, the snow wall was only of powder-like consistency. Hot long after daylight showed through, and then Harkness was out. But the plane, or what he assumed to be a plane, had gone.

Instead, he was alone, by the snow mountain that covered the plane, greeted by a perfectly blue sky and the sun’s rays. It was, he thought wryly, perfect skiing weather but awfully lonely if no one could see where you were.

In a minute, he was joined by Daphne, and the disappointment was written on her face. They waited, wordless, by the plane for an hour, glad to be out of the confined space of the fuselage, and were, at various times, joined by the others, escaping what Mrs Gaunt had said (now, after the rescue plane had gone) would probably be their grave. The disbelief and joy of having survived the crash had now worn off, and Harkness knew that if they had to try to survive another night, some might not make it.

He was alone, striking out for the rise when the throbbing sound returned, coming from behind him. And judging by the sound, it could not be a plane. It was too low and too slow. Thus, he was not surprised when a helicopter hovered over the rise and slowed as the occupants sighted him waving frantically, and yelling, quickly being joined by the others.

They all couldn’t believe they’d been rescued, all, that is, except Rawlings. In every instance, Rawlings had the exception, and it was not to his credit. He was the only one who had suffered severely from frostbite. He was, however, the one to say, when they finally reached what he called civilisation, that he’d been right: that all they had to do was sit tight and wait. They’d be rescued sooner or later.

That was when the leader of the rescue operation shattered his illusion – and shocked everyone else. “That’s not necessarily so Mr Rawlings. You would have been discovered, but late in spring, after the thaw. The plane was terribly off course, and, to be honest, after the second day, we’d given up any real hope of finding you. The surrounding countryside is very rugged. No, you owe a great deal to a fellow called Davidson.”

“Davidson, you say?” Harkness muttered. “He’s alive?”

“Unfortunately, no. He died soon after he told us about the plane and where it had crashed. If he hadn’t, you’d still be there.”

“My God.” Harkness slumped into a chair, only barely able to hear Rawlings say, quietly, “I told him it was suicide, but no one listened to me. Suicide, I said. And, as for that damn pilot…..” elevate them to becoming a major character

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Sardinia

Sardinia is famous for its glamorous coastlines, but the island truly shines when you venture inland or to its quieter corners. For a journey on the road less travelled, here are five of the best places and activities:

1. Hike the Gola Su Gorropu Gorge

What it is: Often called the “Grand Canyon of Europe,” this is one of the deepest gorges on the continent, carved by the Flumineddu River in the Supramonte mountain range.
Why it’s less travelled: It requires a moderate-to-challenging hike (or a 4×4 transfer) to access, keeping the crowds away. This activity takes you deep into Sardinia’s rugged, wild heart, offering a dramatic contrast to the beaches.
Activity: Trek through the immense canyon walls, navigating the huge boulders within the gorge floor.

2. Meet the Albino Donkeys of Asinara National Park

What it is: A protected, uninhabited island off the northwest coast, formerly a maximum-security prison and penal colony.
Why it’s less travelled: Access is restricted to preserve the environment. Its primary inhabitants are the rare wild albino donkeys (known as Asinara donkeys), horses, and other wildlife.
Activity: Take a ferry from Stintino or Porto Torres and explore the island by bike (or e-bike), following the paths that connect coves, ancient watchtowers, and abandoned prison infrastructure.

3. Explore the Dunes of Piscinas

What it is: Located in the Arbus area on the west coast, this is the largest desert in Europe, with vast, rolling golden dunes that stretch for miles and meet the sea.
Why it’s less travelled: It’s a remote area, part of the old mining region, far from the main tourist hubs. The landscape is unique, offering a “wild-west” feel.
Activity: Wander through the immense dunes, admire the rust-red lagoons, and spot the abandoned mining carts illuminated by the Milky Way at night.

4. Step Back in Time at Nuraghe Su Nuraxi

What it is: The largest and most complete example of the nuraghi, the massive stone defence structures erected by the ancient Nuragic civilisation (1800–700 BCE). It is a UNESCO World Heritage site located inland in the village of Barumini.
Why it’s less travelled: It’s located deep in the countryside, away from the coastal routes. While famous, it draws a different crowd focused on deep history and archaeology.
Activity: Take a mandatory guided tour to explore the ruins of the fortified complex, which has re-emerged in its entirety, offering a window into one of the oldest civilisations in the Mediterranean.

5. Walk the Streets of the Open-Air Museum of San Sperate

What it is: A small, vibrant agricultural village about 15 minutes from Cagliari, transformed into an open-air art gallery.
Why it’s less travelled: It’s often overlooked by tourists heading straight for the beaches. Since the 1960s, local and international artists have covered the exterior walls of homes and shops with colourful murals depicting social, political, and historical themes.
Activity: Get “lost” walking the quaint streets, admiring over 200 murals and the basalt sculptures by local artist Pinuccio Sciola, who started the town’s artistic renaissance.

What I learned about writing – When you’ve got words on paper

They’re not exactly Nobel prize-winning prose.

Well, not yet.

I guess the point is that I have at least crystallised my thoughts on paper so that I can do something with them. After all, anything is better than nothing, isn’t it?

Sometimes I wonder. I look back on a lot of the stuff I wrote forty or fifty years ago, and it looks bad. The thing is, then, I thought it was great, and that I was destined to do great things with the written word.

Pity, all this time later, I’ve turned into a self-critical monster, where it seems nothing I write is any good.

So, does that mean we need to be less critical of our work? After all, through the years, when I’ve shared novels and short stories with others, they have all universally said they’re quite good.

So…

It’s time to go back to the previous day’s work and rework it. Yes, the idea that I wanted to write about is where I wanted the story to go; it’s just the execution.

The problem is, since then, a few other ideas have been running around in the back of my head, and these could be added or used to further the current plotline.

The other problem is, it is one of the six stories that I’m writing by the seat of my pants, you know, the way some pilots like to fly a plane, without all that computer backup. Similarly, this is the way I sometimes like to write.

It’s as much a surprise to me as it is to the reader.

There are good arguments for having planned the story from start to finish, but with these, I like to write it and see where it takes me. They’re episodic, so sometimes I get to write three or four episodes at a time, and these would most likely, in a boo,k become a chapter.

Last night I wrote two episodes, but it seems that it might need pointers back in previous episodes, because we all like to leave a trail of crumbs for the reader, so when they get to the denouement, they remember, ah yes, back in chapter two, such and such happened, but why am I only remembering it now?

Ok, enough convincing myself I’m a good writer, it’s time to get back to work…

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Seoul

Beyond the Palaces: 5 Unexpected Seoul Delights Off the Beaten Path

Seoul. The name itself conjures images of shimmering skyscrapers, ancient palaces, and the pulsating energy of K-Pop. And while those iconic sights are undeniably breathtaking, what if you’re looking for something a little… different? What if you’ve already ticked off Gyeongbokgung and conquered the Namsan Tower, and your wanderlust craves a Seoul that whispers secrets rather than shouts them?

Fear not, intrepid traveller! Seoul’s magic extends far beyond the well-trodden tourist trails. If you’re ready to immerse yourself in the city’s multifaceted soul, here are five alternative experiences that will leave you with unique memories and a deeper appreciation for this dynamic metropolis.

1. Get Lost (and Found) in a Local Market’s Labyrinth

While Namdaemun and Gwangjang are famous for good reason, venture into one of Seoul’s lesser-known Dongdaemun (east gate) markets for a truly authentic adventure. Think Migun-dong Electronics Market or the sprawling Tongin Market (though it’s gaining popularity, it still offers a more intimate feel than its mega-market counterparts).

Here, you won’t just find souvenirs. You’ll witness the daily rhythm of Seoul locals. Wander through aisles overflowing with everything from vintage cameras and artisanal crafts to the freshest produce and sizzling street food. Engage with vendors, practice your basic Korean greetings, and savor the thrill of discovering treasures you never knew you needed. The vibrant chaos, the cacophony of sounds, and the intoxicating aromas are an experience in themselves.

2. Step Back in Time at a Traditional Tea House in Seongbuk-dong

While Insadong offers a taste of traditional Korea, the charming Seongbuk-dong neighbourhood offers a more serene and authentic tea house experience. Tucked away in its hilly streets are hidden gems like Moonbird Porcelain or O’Sulloc Tea House (Seongbuk Branch).

Imagine this: stepping out of the bustling city into a tranquil haven adorned with traditional Korean architecture. You’ll be presented with delicate porcelain cups, fragrant teas like omija (five-flavour berry) or barley tea, and perhaps a plate of traditional Korean sweets (hangwa). It’s an opportunity to slow down, disconnect, and engage in a centuries-old ritual of mindfulness and conversation. The quiet elegance of these spaces is a welcome antidote to the urban rush.

3. Ascend the Less-Climbed Peaks for Panoramic Views

When most people think of Seoul views, Namsan Tower comes to mind. But for a more rewarding and less crowded panoramic experience, consider hiking some of Seoul’s other magnificent peaks. Bukhansan National Park is a hiker’s paradise, but for a slightly more accessible yet equally stunning vista, try Achasan Mountain.

The trail to Achasan is relatively moderate, and the reward at the summit is immense. You’ll be greeted with breathtaking views of the Han River snaking through the city, with the iconic buildings of Gangnam and Lotte World Tower in the distance. It’s a fantastic spot for sunrise or sunset, offering a different perspective of Seoul’s sprawling beauty. Bonus points if you pack a simple picnic to enjoy amidst nature.

4. Delve into Subculture at a Themed Cafe or an Independent Bookstore

Seoul’s cafe culture is legendary, but move beyond the mainstream and discover its quirky corners. Explore the Hongdae area (beyond the main shopping street) for its abundance of independent bookstores and uniquely themed cafes. Think cat cafes, sheep cafes, board game cafes, or even cafes dedicated to specific K-Pop groups.

For book lovers, Chronicler B’s or Village offer curated selections of art, design, and independent publications, often with cozy reading nooks. These spaces are not just for sipping coffee; they are vibrant hubs of creativity and community, offering a glimpse into Seoul’s subcultures and passions.

5. Discover the Art of Hanji at a Traditional Paper Workshop

Hanji, traditional Korean paper, is renowned for its durability and beauty. While you can admire Hanji crafts in museums, why not try your hand at creating something yourself? Seek out a Hanji workshop in areas like Bukchon Hanok Village or inquire at cultural centres.

These workshops offer a hands-on experience where you can learn about the intricate process of making Hanji, from the Mulberry bark to the final paper. You might even get to create your own small piece of art, try your hand at calligraphy on Hanji, or craft a beautiful lantern. It’s a deeply satisfying way to connect with a traditional Korean craft and take home a truly unique, handmade souvenir.

So, the next time you find yourself in Seoul, dare to stray from the well-worn paths. Embrace the spirit of exploration, and you’ll discover a city that’s not just grand and modern, but also intimate, quirky, and brimming with hidden wonders waiting to be unearthed. Happy adventuring!

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense. Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan. He was about six or seven. The girl was Louise, and she was five years old. She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds. I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell. Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children. They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand. She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it. The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants. It was enough to have them arrested. It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die. It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing. I had murder in mind. It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows. It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out. I knew he eventually would. The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go. I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me. He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes. He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours. I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.” An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe. It had blood on it. Willy’s blood. “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up. He sang like a bird. That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me. Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.” Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie. He didn’t. I’m coming for you. All of you Bannisters. And everyone who touched my sister.”

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries. Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late. If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood. The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told. He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy. There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone. It was a half mile walk, through a park. The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness. He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names. At first, when he saw me, he laughed. He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list. I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi. The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me. I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality. The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face. He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out. He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged. I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me. I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital. He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come. Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters. His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful. Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered. A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub. We got along like old friends. He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges. We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared. I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me. He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes. I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it. He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report. They all had a turn. He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats. Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities. She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me. I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily. The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family. I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony. I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes. This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily. He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm. Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie. My friend.”

Then she shot him. Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this. May God have mercy on your soul.”

Now I was in jail. I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession. Without my sister, my life was nothing. I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors. I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone. They ignored me. I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that. You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good. I told him to go away.

He didn’t. Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table. The prison officers thought I was dangerous. Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that. McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.” Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister. By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same. No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right. But you’re different, Alan. As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen. We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him. It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot. I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life. Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward. A team. On the plane early before the rest of the crew. A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless. Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides. It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision. If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness. Not that day. Not any day.

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag. They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her. It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she? No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it. After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks. Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away. He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground. I looked at his two friends. “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk. She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were. The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her. “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me. She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state. Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.” I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care. Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person. If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.” I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again. “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder. We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one. Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk. What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet. “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

The wedding was in a small church. We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot. Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age. She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte. It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me. “I like you. Take care of my granddaughter. You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us. Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother. She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends. For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother. It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close. I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness. We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head. It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction. “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother. Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?” I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong. She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life. I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled. It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye. Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

onelastlookcoverfinal2

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

Category: Uncategorized

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The 2am Rant: It’s dark, it’s late, it’s raining…

Writing a book in 365 days – 326/327

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Sardinia

1. Hike the Gola Su Gorropu Gorge

2. Meet the Albino Donkeys of Asinara National Park

3. Explore the Dunes of Piscinas

4. Step Back in Time at Nuraghe Su Nuraxi

5. Walk the Streets of the Open-Air Museum of San Sperate

What I learned about writing – When you’ve got words on paper

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Seoul

Beyond the Palaces: 5 Unexpected Seoul Delights Off the Beaten Path

1. Get Lost (and Found) in a Local Market’s Labyrinth

2. Step Back in Time at a Traditional Tea House in Seongbuk-dong

3. Ascend the Less-Climbed Peaks for Panoramic Views

4. Delve into Subculture at a Themed Cafe or an Independent Bookstore

5. Discover the Art of Hanji at a Traditional Paper Workshop

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

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One writer's experiences, and battles with words

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1. Hike the Gola Su Gorropu Gorge

2. Meet the Albino Donkeys of Asinara National Park

3. Explore the Dunes of Piscinas

4. Step Back in Time at Nuraghe Su Nuraxi

5. Walk the Streets of the Open-Air Museum of San Sperate

Share this:

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Share this:

Beyond the Palaces: 5 Unexpected Seoul Delights Off the Beaten Path

1. Get Lost (and Found) in a Local Market’s Labyrinth

2. Step Back in Time at a Traditional Tea House in Seongbuk-dong

3. Ascend the Less-Climbed Peaks for Panoramic Views

4. Delve into Subculture at a Themed Cafe or an Independent Bookstore

5. Discover the Art of Hanji at a Traditional Paper Workshop

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