For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
…
Leonardo was a happy man.
It was quite a by coincidence that they had run into Chiara, and it hadn’t taken long to break her. He had thought of taking her to the castle to let Jackerby extract the information, but he was tired of them telling him what to do.
He would get the information, and then act, taking the ringleaders of the remnants of the resistance back to the castle, and expect to get that well-earned pat on the back for a job well done.
He’d said he would take care of the rabble, and he had.
Until Wallace had asked him where Atherton was.
And there was that small problem of Carlo, too, though he was not going to mention that in his report to Jackerby.
Francesco had softened the three leaders of the resistance up before taking them to the castle, taking particular pleasure in attending to Martina himself. The three could barely walk and were almost dragged up to the castle.
The first question Jackerby asked was why he had beaten them when he’d expressly been told to bring them to the castle alive and in a fit state to be questioned. None of the three was in any sort of state to do anything other than collapse.
Jackerby’s men took them to the dungeons.
The second question Jackerby asked was where Atherton was.
“That was basically the whole point of the exercise,” he yelled at Leonardo, who, by this time was getting annoyed himself.
“He’s still out there, and you can be assured he will be causing us trouble. Those three you dragged back, whilst a nuisance, hardly compare to what Atherton can do.”
“There’s only one of him. There’s no way he’s going to be able to break into this castle, by himself, and do anything.”
Jackerby shook his head. It would not matter what he said, Leonardo was just a fool, a petty little thug who quite rightly had been ostracised by the rest of the village. And when this exercise was over and Mayer was recaptured, he was going to take extreme pleasure in killing Leonardo and his followers.
“Go get something to eat, rest, then get back out there. I want Atherton found. Surely there is nowhere left where he can hide.”
There was a dozen, or more, places, Leonardo thought but he wasn’t going to tell Jackerby that. Instead, he had made up his mind to do as Jackerby asked, rest, then take a few hours the check all the entrances and exits to the castle before going back out to find Atherton.
Or at least that was what he was going to tell Jackerby.
In reality, he had had enough of these interlopers, and it was time he removed them from the castle. It was time he took over. The war was not going to end any time soon according to his sources further north, and there were worse places than a castle to hole up in until the war ended. Especially considering how much wine was being stored in the cellars.
Wallace was in the dining room and had been in the middle of lunch when Leonardo came back. Rather than talk to him, he sent Jackerby to deal with it.
Johannsen was sitting at the other end of the table, contemplating the wine. It was not a good idea to be drinking wine in the middle of the day when trouble could arrive from any number of quarters.
In fact, he was surprised that the other resistance hadn’t made an all-out attack on them. It seemed unlikely to him that those that hadn’t followed Leonardo up the hill, were of little consequence.
If anything, and of his experience of the resistance in France, one resistance fighters was worth 10 or more enemy soldiers. They had a reason to fight, for their country, and liberation for the Nazis.
Of course, Leonardo and his men were oblivious to the fact that they were working for the Germans, not the British, but to them, he thought, anyone other than an Italian was worth working for if they were prepared to pay.
Leonardo and his men were mercenaries. Guns for hire. They didn’t care who they worked for. But there was something else. Leonardo hated the villagers, and it wasn’t difficult to convince him they needed to be kept in line and report any newcomers to the castle.
Adding the reward was a bonus.
“Atherton’s not going to come and present himself at the front door, you know that,” he said to Wallace.
Then he decided to have some wine. It’s not as if the war would be arriving any time soon.
“You know him best. A fighter, an organizer, or office boy.”
“Paper pusher, by all accounts. I’m not sure why Thompson would send him other than he was desperately out of good agents. You saw how much resistance he put up.”
“Jackerby seems to think there’s more to him.”
“Jackerby sees shadows where there are none. Where did you say he came from?”
“North Africa.”
“Then he’s had too much sun.”
“A little advice then. I wouldn’t say that to his face.”
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.
But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
“How long have you been working on this?”
“A week. Lying in bed is boring, so I decided to look at everything I’ve got again, and then again. There were some old maps of the coastline stored with the treasure maps, so I think my father was trying to find the actual location his treasure maps were based on and came up against the same problem. Physical landmarks on the treasure maps are no longer there, and if you didn’t know any better, I would think you were looking in the wrong place.”
“So, in actual fact, what you’re saying now is that your father had no idea where the treasure was buried, that he was just producing maps for the Cossatino’s’ to sell.”
That, of course, could be looked at from a different angle, one that I wasn’t going to suggest right then because Boggs was not ready to hear it. I think the real maps Boggs had found with eh treasure maps were the basis for the treasure maps, that is, his father had to give them real-life elements to keep the punters interested.
“No, not necessarily. I think he knew it was somewhere along this coastline give or take a hundred miles, because of its proximity to the Spanish Maine, but essentially you’re right. He probably had no idea.”
So, he hadn’t come to the same conclusion I had. Yet.
And if I could come to that conclusion, surely Cossatino also would, after all, he was the one who got Boggs senior to make the maps. Why all of a sudden did he think that there was a real treasure map. It couldn’t be simply because Boggs had said there was one. He’d have to know that anything Boggs junior found was an invention commissioned by him,
Or hadn’t Vince told his father what he was doing? Surely the father would have told the son about the treasure map scam.
As for Benderby, senior could base his assumption of the fact that he’d found some old coins off the coast nearby that could be part of the trove. Alex then may have decided to usurp his father’s search with one of his own, conveniently forgetting the treasure maps were an invention of the Cossatino’s. IT was a tangled web of lies deceit and one-upmanship, one that was going to leave a trail of human wreckage in its wake.
Boggs and I were two of the first three. We had lived to tell about it, Frobisher was the first casualty.
But what I suppose was more despairing was how taken Boggs was with the notion that the treasure was real, hidden out there somewhere, and that his father had ‘the’ map. I was loath to label him delusional, but his pathological desire to prove his father’s so-called legacy was going to not end well, especially when we found nothing.
And, yet, I had to admire the lengths he had gone to, to prove his case. Even now, looking at the overlaid maps, there was no guarantee we’d find anything, but at first look, the evidence was compelling.
Except I had a feeling Boggs had something up his sleeve. I had to ask the question. “Where did you get the idea of matching the treasure map to the real map?”
“My father’s journal. It was tossed in the bottom of a box of his other stuff. There are about ten boxes stacked in the shed, stuff my mother just couldn’t be bothered sorting through after he disappeared. Again, boredom pushed me into going through everything over and over just in case I missed something.”
He reached in under the mattress of his bed and pulled out an old leather-bound notebook. It had a strap that bound it together, and by the look of it had extra papers inserted or glued to pages, as well as papers at the start and back of the volume, making it look about twice the original size.
He handed it to me. The leather was old, cracked, and had that distinctive aroma of the hide. I loosened the strap and the top cover opened. The first page was a newspaper cutting, a small piece about some old coins being found about a hundred yards offshore by some surfers. Were these the same coins that Benderby had claimed were part to the trove?
“Benderby was getting that antiquarian that was murdered to identify some coins,” I said after a quick glance through the article.
“I spoke to one of the surfers the other day,” Boggs said. “He told me he came off his board on a big wave and as he was going down saw something glinting on the seabed. He managed to pull up three coins. There were more but he had to come up for air. When he went down again, he realized he’d been dragged away by the current.”
Tides and currents along this part of the coast were particularly bad, and the undertow, at times could get surfers and swimmers alike into a lot of trouble. I’d been caught out once in a dinghy myself, finishing up ten miles further down the coast that I expected to be.
“Then, I take it he can’t remember the exact spot so he could go back.”
“He tried, but alas no. Said he sold the coins to old man Benderby for a hundred apiece and told him approximately where he thought the others were, but nothing’s been found since.”
Not that Benderby would tell anyone if he did. But it explained where the coins came from that he gave to Frobisher.
“Except we can assume that it’s off our coastline somewhere, right?”
“Five miles of coastline to be precise. He and his mate always had a few reefers before they went out, made the ride more interesting he said. He could have been off the coast of Peru for all he knew.”
Surfers, drugs and a colorful story.
“It explains why Benderby and a team of divers have been out in his new boat,” Boggs added, “probably trying to either find the location or line up landmarks on his map from the seaward side at the same time. But he doesn’t know what we know.”
What did we know? I leafed through a few more pages of the diary, but the scrawled notes were almost illegible. I picked up various words, like a marina, underground river, dry lakebed, but none of it made any sense.
“Which map did we give to Alex?”
Boggs went over to a drawer in the wardrobe and leafed through the papers in it and pulled out one and gave it to me. Like the rest it showed the shore, the hills, the lake, and two what looked to be rivers flowing into the sea. Each of the maps had those same features but in different places.
I didn’t want to say it, but it seemed to me we were playing a very dangerous game. The maps might look different in some respects, but the chances were, if Alex was smart enough to hire an expert, that we might run across him out there, and, to be honest, he would be the last person I’d want to see.
“You do realize our paths are going to cross at some point.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
A shiver went down my spine, an omen I thought. Boggs has something up his sleeve, and I really didn’t want to know.
This is not meant to be a treatise on short story writing. Far be it from me to advise anyone on the subject. I prefer to explain how I do it so you can learn all the pitfalls in one go.
…
Now, there’s this thing called continuity, but it covers a whole range of writing sins, most of which I eventually get caught. Films sometimes miss a few items, like back in the Roman days, there are plane trails in the sky, in a 1920’s period piece, there’s a mobile phone sitting on a desk.
Like one minute the hero has a gun, and the next he’s fighting for his life with a knife, and, hey presto, there’s that gun again. The error might not be that big, but you can’t pull out a weapon you don’t have or wasn’t there in the first place.
Similarly, the hero pulls out a mobile phone, but there’s only one problem: it’s 1980, and there are no mobile phones. Our problem might be that we are so used to doing and using certain things that we might forget, for a minute or two, that they were not available in the past.
The same goes for the fashion of the day.
And my all-time favourite, getting the right make and model of car.
Oh, and just for good measure, back in the old days, they used acoustic couplers to attach to phones via a serial port to dial up, not a server, but a BBS, Bulletin Board Service, at a rate of 300 baud, or a little while later, 1,200 baud.
There was no internet in general use. If you wanted to call the office when out, use a telephone box. Or carrier pigeon.
And in the use of language, there’s a lot of stuff relevant today that wasn’t used back then, and there was a lot of stuff back then that isn’t tolerated now. Some of it might be hard to get your head around. It isn’t for me, because I can remember the 1970s and 1980s, but I’m not too sure about allowing some of what happened then to creep into my work.
So, you get the picture. Try to use the past as the past, or leave it in the past.
Unless it’s a book about time travel, then all bets are off.
Why Jane Austen Was Right: Is Reading Fiction Essential for a Sharp Mind?
“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not had the pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.”
When Jane Austen penned this sharp-tongued observation in Northanger Abbey, she wasn’t just indulging in a bit of 19th-century sass. She was making a bold claim about the human intellect. While Austen’s narrator might have been exaggerating for comedic effect, modern psychology and neuroscience suggest that there is a kernel of profound truth hidden in her wit.
Is reading fiction truly a prerequisite for intellectual vitality? Let’s dive into why Austen’s assertion holds more weight today than ever before.
The Empathy Engine
One of the most compelling arguments for reading novels is the development of Theory of Mind. This is the cognitive ability to attribute mental states—beliefs, intents, desires, and emotions—to oneself and others.
When you lose yourself in a well-written novel, you are doing more than just decoding text; you are practising a sophisticated form of simulation. You sit behind the eyes of characters whose lives, genders, cultures, and struggles may be vastly different from your own. This “literary empathy” forces the brain to bridge gaps, understand nuance, and anticipate human behaviour.
Those who skip fiction miss out on this mental workout, often resulting in a rigid, one-dimensional perspective of the world.
The Death of Cognitive Laziness
Austen’s jab at the “intolerably stupid” isn’t necessarily about IQ; it’s about intellectual curiosity.
A good novel is demanding. It requires the reader to:
Track complex narratives: Remembering motivations, subplots, and historical contexts.
Decipher ambiguity: Unlike a manual or a news headline, literature thrives on what is not said.
Synthesise morality: Wrestling with the ethical dilemmas faced by characters forces us to define our own values.
When we reject fiction, we often settle for “passive consumption”—scrolling through bite-sized social media posts that provide quick dopamine hits without requiring critical thinking or sustained focus. Over time, this erodes our capacity for deep, analytical thought.
Fiction vs. The “Information Diet”
In our modern age, there is a tendency to prioritise “useful” reading—self-help books, business biographies, or news articles. While these provide facts, they often lack the humanity that literature provides.
As the philosopher Martha Nussbaum argued, literature is an essential “cultivation of humanity.” Facts can tell you how a person behaves, but a novel tells you why. By ignoring the “pleasure of a good novel,” one risks becoming a walking encyclopedia—filled with data, but lacking the wisdom to apply it to the complexities of human relationships.
Was Austen Being Classist?
We must acknowledge the context: Austen was writing in a time where access to literature was a marker of status and leisure. Today, we have moved past the idea that what you read defines your social standing. However, the habit of reading remains a vital marker of a vibrant, questioning mind.
If we interpret Austen’s “stupidity” not as a lack of education, but as a lack of imaginative reach, her point stands. A mind that refuses to engage with fiction is a mind that refuses to explore the possibilities of the human experience. It is, by definition, a narrower existence.
The Verdict
You don’t have to favour Victorian prose to avoid being “intolerably stupid.” Whether it’s a noir thriller, a sweeping sci-fi epic, or a contemporary drama, the act of engagement is what matters.
Reading fiction is the gym for the soul. It makes us more empathetic, more analytical, and significantly more interesting to talk to at dinner parties.
So, pick up that book that’s been sitting on your nightstand. Your brain—and your humanity—will thank you for it.
What is the one novel that changed your perspective on life? Let us know in the comments below.
Discover Majorca’s Hidden Gems: Five Uncharted Adventures in the Balearic Islands
When most travellers imagine Majorca, they picture sun-soaked beaches and bustling resorts like Palma’s famed coastline or the vibrant streets of Magaluf. While these are undeniably iconic, the island’s true magic lies just beyond the well-trodden path. From misty wetlands to ancient ruins, here are five off-the-beaten-path experiences to unearth Majorca’s soul.
1. Sa Calobra & Es Carbó Beach: A Scenic Drive to Seclusion
Tucked between the jagged cliffs of the Serra de Tramuntana mountains and the turquoise Mediterranean lies Sa Calobra, a coastal village so remote that reaching its crown jewel—Es Carbó Beach—feels like a treasure hunt. The journey begins with a hairpin-turn road from Deia, where winding ascents give way to panoramic views.
Why It’s Hidden: While Es Carbó is a postcard-perfect cove, its inaccessibility deters large crowds. The beach is reached via a 30-minute walk down a steep path, but the reward is a secluded spot with crystal-clear waters and soft sands, where you’ll likely have it mostly to yourself.
Pro Tip: Visit in midday or later to avoid the earliest crowds—and don’t forget a picnic. The walk back up is tough, but the views are worth every step!
2. S’Albufera Natural Park: A Tranquil Wetland Escape
Venture inland to Manacor for S’Albufera, a vast wetland often overlooked by tourists but beloved by locals. This marshy haven, once a haven for pirates, is now a UNESCO-recognised site teeming with biodiversity. Herons, flamingos, and wild boars roam freely through lagoons and rice paddies.
Why It’s Hidden: Unlike Majorca’s coastal attractions, S’Albufera offers a meditative, almost otherworldly atmosphere, where you can kayak through still waters or rent a bike to explore rural trails.
Pro Tip: Visit in early spring or fall for optimal birdwatching. The park also hosts cultural festivals celebrating traditional Majorcan crafts and music.
3. Valley de Ses Eres: A Mountain Retreat with Ancient Roots
Overlooked by the Serra de Tramuntana, this serene valley near Lluc is a gateway to Majorca’s past and present. Its rugged landscapes hide old shepherds’ huts and “sa garriga” (wild scrubland) that’s home to wild herbs and fragrant thyme. The highlight is Llac de L’Alfàbia (Alfàbia Lake), a man-made reservoir reflected like a mirror against the hills.
Why It’s Hidden: This valley is a hiker’s paradise but lacks the signage and crowds of more commercialised routes. It’s where locals come to unwind, offering a chance to connect with the island’s pastoral heritage.
Pro Tip: Start your hike at the Monastery of Lluc, a stunning medieval site, and continue to the lake for a picnic. The 360-degree mountain views at sunset are unmatched.
4. Es Castell Winery: Sip on History in Manacor
Majorca’s wine scene is often overshadowed by its beaches, but es Castell—established in 1879—offers a sip of the island’s storied past. This historic winery, once the largest in the Mediterranean, now offers guided tours through its Romanesque cellars and lush vineyards.
Why It’s Hidden: While Palma’s wine bars draw crowds, es Castell remains a quiet cultural gem. Here, you can taste Málaga and Moscatel wines while learning about the island’s Moorish and Roman influences.
Pro Tip: Take the free guided tour and combine your visit with a stroll through Manacor’s charming old town. Picnic on-site with local cheeses and olive oil for a true taste of Majorca.
5. Cúber Waterfalls: An Adventurous Hike Rewarded
Hidden deep in the northern mountains, the Cúber Waterfalls (Cascadas de Cúber) are a 55-minute trek from Banyalbufar. The trail winds through wild olive groves and pine forests before revealing a lush, multi-tiered waterfall crashing into a pool—a perfect refreshment point.
Why It’s Hidden: The hike is well worth the effort, but requires a bit of stamina, keeping the crowds at bay. The waterfall’s natural beauty and the surrounding tranquillity make it one of Majorca’s best-kept secrets.
Pro Tip: Hike in the morning when the trails are cooler, and bring sturdy shoes. Post-hike, stop by Banyalbufar, a quiet village known for its pottery and panoramic views.
Final Thoughts: Let the Road Less Travelled Define Your Majorca Majorca is more than a beach destination—it’s a canvas of mountains, wetlands, and centuries-old stories. By stepping off the tourist trail, you’ll discover the island’s soul: quiet, resilient, and full of surprises. So, park your car, trade the map for a sense of adventure, and let Majorca’s hidden corners leave you in awe.
Got a local favourite? Share your own “road less travelled” tip in the comments below!
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
Unveiling Cyprus: A Journey Along the Road Less Travelled
Cyprus, with its azure seas, ancient history, and Mediterranean charm, often draws travellers to its bustling resorts and UNESCO-listed sites. But beyond the well-trodden paths lies a lesser-known side of the island—a tapestry of hidden gems, serene landscapes, and rich cultural heritage waiting to be discovered. If you’re seeking adventure off the beaten track, here are five extraordinary experiences that will transform your Cyprus journey into an unforgettable odyssey.
1. Wander Through the Timeless Villages of Omodos
Nestled in the Troodos Mountains, Omodos is a picturesque village that feels like a step back in time. Lined with centuries-old stone houses and terraced olive groves, this UNESCO-recognised hamlet is a haven for those craving tranquillity. Known as a centre for Cypriot winemaking and olive oil production, Omodos offers a glimpse into traditional rural life. Visit the Monastery of Panagia Kanakaria, with its breathtaking 17th-century frescoes, and take a leisurely stroll through the surrounding fields. Tip: Enjoy a local wine tasting at one of the family-run wineries, and don’t miss the village’s annual olive oil festival.
Why It’s Off the Radar: While Omodos is gaining attention among locals, it remains a secret to most international travellers, making it perfect for quiet exploration.
2. Marvel at Stavros tou Athanasiou: The Church of Saint John in the Forest
Tucked between the lush forests of the Troodos Mountains, Stavros tou Athanasiou is a Byzantine gem dating back to the 10th–11th centuries. This UNESCO World Heritage Site is renowned for its stunning frescoes depicting biblical scenes with remarkable vibrancy. The church’s remote location, surrounded by pine trees and the scent of herbs, creates an almost otherworldly atmosphere. Tip: Light a candle to honour Saint John, a local tradition believed to bring blessings, and bring a picnic to savour the serene setting.
Why It’s Hidden: Nestled deep in the wilderness, it’s a 45-minute drive from Limassol, requiring a bit of commitment—exactly what adventurous travellers crave.
3. Escape to Karkarash Dam and Its Bucolic Surroundings
Just west of Nicosia, Karkarash Dam is a hidden oasis that boasts one of Cyprus’s most scenic reservoirs. Framed by olive groves and rolling hills, it’s a peaceful spot for picnics, hiking, or simply soaking in panoramic views. The nearby Ethnological Museum of Avdimou village offers a fascinating look into rural Cypriot life, with relics like old wine presses and traditional tools. Tip: Visit in the spring when wildflowers blanket the area, or in winter for birdwatching opportunities.
Why It’s Under the Radar: Unlike the island’s popular beaches, Karkarash remains a low-key destination, frequented mainly by locals.
4. Walk the Ammochostos Trail’s Valley of the Queens
Stretching across the Ammachosti mountain range, the Ammochostos Trail is a lesser-known hiking route that reveals Cyprus’s ancient past. The Valley of the Queens, part of this trail, is a mystical expanse of rock formations and tombs carved into cliffs—believed to predate even the nearby Valley of the Cyclops. As you trek, imagine the footsteps of merchants and pilgrims who once traversed this path. Tip: Start your hike at the ancient city of Golgoi near Limassol, and pack sturdy shoes—parts of the trail are rocky and unpaved.
Why It’s Secret: While the Ammochostos Trail is technically a historical route, the Valley of the Queens segment is rarely explored by tourists.
5. Discover Lara Beach: The Hidden Emerald Cove
Accessed via a 45-minute hike or a boat tour from Polis Chrysochous, Lara Beach is a secluded paradise in the Akamas Peninsula. Framed by towering cliffs, this crescent of golden sand is fringed by crystal-clear waters—a true hidden gem. The nearby Ghost Forest, a small island with stilted tree trunks rising from the sea, adds a touch of mystery to the experience. Tip: Bring a waterproof bag for your supplies and explore the surrounding coves for snorkelling or diving.
Why It’s Remote: The lack of road access means Lara Beach is one of the island’s best-kept secrets—perfect for privacy-seeking travellers.
Conclusion: Embrace the Uncharted Cyprus is more than just its beaches and resorts—it’s a land of quiet villages, ancient trails, and natural wonders waiting to be uncovered. By straying from the well-worn paths, you’ll discover a side of the island that resonates with history, serenity, and authenticity. So pack your sense of adventure, rent a car, and let Cyprus surprise you with its hidden treasures. The road less travelled promises an unforgettable journey.
Got a favourite offbeat spot in Cyprus? Share it in the comments—we’d love to hear your discoveries!
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 