Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Hobart, Australia

Discover Hobart’s Hidden Gems: Top 5 Tourist Attractions That Aren’t Crowded but Still Captivating

Hobart, Tasmania’s capital, is best known for its vibrant arts scene, stunning natural landscapes, and iconic attractions like Salamanca Place and MONA. But for travellers craving a quieter, more introspective experience—yet still rich in culture and charm—Hobart offers a treasure trove of lesser-known spots. These hidden gems are often overlooked by crowds but brim with unique stories, history, and beauty. Here are five must-visit attractions that will give you a fresh perspective on this coastal city.

1. Battery Point: A Glimpse into Hobart’s Colonial Heart

Tucked on the northern shore of the Derwent River, Battery Point is a charming historic suburb that feels more like a sleepy local neighbourhood than a tourist hotspot. Here, you’ll find well-preserved Federation-era homes (late 1800s) now converted into cozy cafes, galleries, and boutique shops. Stroll through the cobblestone streets, admire the convict-built wharves, and enjoy waterfront views of the bustling Salamanca Wharf.

Why It’s Special: Battery Point is a vibrant, community-focused area where history and modernity blend seamlessly. Its peaceful atmosphere and local vibe make it perfect for a leisurely afternoon.
Pro Tip: Visit on a weekday for a more relaxed experience, and don’t miss Battery Point’s famous Sunday markets for fresh produce and handmade crafts.

2. Mawson’s Hut Replica at Kingston

A few kilometres east of Hobart, the Mawson’s Hut Replica at Kingston offers a fascinating slice of Antarctic history. Built by Sir Douglas Mawson, an Australian explorer of Antarctica, this replica of his original 1911 hut now serves as a museum showcasing his daring expeditions to the frozen continent. The original hut is still preserved in Commonwealth Bay, while this one houses artifacts and interactive exhibits.

Why It’s Special: This is Tasmania’s unique contribution to polar exploration. While small in scale, the museum is packed with gripping stories and rare artifacts, making it a niche but powerful experience.
Pro Tip: Combine your visit with a scenic walk around Kingston Bay, where you can spot penguins and enjoy views of the Storm Bay.

3. Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery (TMAG)

Nestled in the heart of Hobart, TMAG is a cultural hub that often flies under the radar. Its eclectic mix of exhibitions ranges from Aboriginal art and natural history to Victorian scientific instruments and contemporary Tasmanian art. The building itself—a former courthouse with a dramatic red-brick façade—is a masterpiece.

Why It’s Special: TMAG offers depth and diversity without the crowds. Its rotating exhibitions ensure there’s always something new to discover, whether you’re a history buff or an art lover.
Pro Tip: Check the calendar for special events and exhibitions, such as their popular Dark Mofo winter festivals.

4. Hobart Rivulet: A River of Stories and Art

Once an industrial channel, the Hobart Rivulet has been transformed into a vibrant urban space. The revitalised area now features interactive art installations, public sculptures, and walkways that trace the river’s path through the city. It’s a great place to reflect on Hobart’s past while appreciating its creative present.

Why It’s Special: The Rivulet is a living museum of art and history. From the quirky Sculpture by the Rivulet collection to historic convict-era buildings like the old Hobart Gaol, there’s plenty to explore.
Pro Tip: Visit at sunset for a magical view of the river, or join a guided walk to delve into its industrial and Indigenous heritage.

5. Cascades Female Factory: A Haunting Chapter of Convict History

In South Hobart, the Cascades Female Factory stands as a poignant reminder of Tasmania’s convict past. This UNESCO World Heritage Site once housed nearly 12,000 women transported to Tasmania. Today, it’s a museum that tells their stories through interactive displays, preserved buildings, and audio-visual guides.

Why It’s Special: Unlike the bustling convict sites at Port Arthur (which is further out), the Cascades Female Factory offers a more intimate and reflective experience. Its focus on the experiences of Indigenous and convict women is deeply moving and educational.
Pro Tip: Take a guided tour to uncover lesser-known stories and get a personal connection to this significant site.

Why These Places Are Perfect for the Discerning Traveller

These attractions stand out not only for their historical and cultural value but also for their ability to offer a peaceful, off-the-beaten-path experience. They’re ideal for travellers who want to avoid the usual tourist throngs while still connecting with Tasmania’s rich heritage and creativity.

How to Visit:

  • Plan your trip during weekdays or shoulder seasons (spring/fall) for the fewest crowds.
  • Use Hobart’s bike paths or rent a car for easy access to nearby spots like Kingston and South Hobart.
  • Pack a picnic and linger longer at these less-visited sites—they’re perfect for slowing down and savouring the moment.

Final Thoughts
Hobart is more than its famous landmarks—it’s a city of hidden stories waiting to be uncovered. Whether you’re exploring the stately homes of Battery Point or reflecting on the resilience of convict women at Cascades, these attractions offer a deeper, more personal connection to Tasmania. So next time you’re in Hobart, trade the well-trodden path for these quiet, captivating gems and discover why the best experiences sometimes lie in the unexpected.

Have you visited any of these hidden spots in Hobart? Share your favourite underrated destination in the comments below! 🌿📷

An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at:  https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaines at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaines frequently visited and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’.  It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over.  It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half-frown, half-smile, Alison was looking stunning.  It had been months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary.  On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to.  She had adored it and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars get on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds of silence, and many more gasps.

I even had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room.  Once more, I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me.  Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others out there who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight.  She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once, I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together.  It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement.  Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with a permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and a designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it.  Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out, she had straightened it.  And took the moment to look deeply into my soul.  It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me.  A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.”  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’, but I accepted it with good grace.  Sometimes, Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand.  I guessed she was talking about the new job.  “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely.  “There are no secrets between Al and me, are there, Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al.  I tried it once and was admonished.  But it was interesting that her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not.  It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil.  As I understood it, the Blaines were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaines thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realised I was looking at both of them.  I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand.  And yet, apparently, Alison did.  I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets.  Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us.  It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me.  We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?”  Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face.  It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind.  Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realised it would be churlish, even silly, if I made a scene.  I knew what I wanted to say.  I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine or upsetting Alison.  This was not the time or the place.  Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing.  If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decided there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control.  “It’s the little things.  They all add up until one day …”  I shrugged.  “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real?  Or, I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me.  I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points.  It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted.  “Alison was off to get some studying in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up and immediately got the ‘shut up, you fool’ look that cut that line of conversation dead.  Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose.  Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend.  “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation.  I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show.  I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass, gathering some courage and turned to him.  “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up.  You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realised I had spoken.  He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed.  Or perhaps it was deliberate.  She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me.  “Yes.  Elaine said something or other about it.  But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week.  Perhaps I got it wrong.  I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”  I shrugged as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again.  “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart.  It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; she might have been telling me lies.  If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect.  Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows.  Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details.  “You sure you want to do that?”

At last, the voice of reason.  “Me?  No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him.  Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him.  “Jimmy, between you and me, I haven’t as yet decided one way or another.  To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay who recently moved into the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognised the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago.  Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker.  I felt sick, faint, and wanted to die all at the same moment.  “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time.  Too busy with work, I expect.  I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted, and I knew I had to keep it together.  I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down.  I sucked in some deep breaths and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown.  Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth.  It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction.  It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and me.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, but it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact that I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough that the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.  She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points.  Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine.  She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly.  I chose to ignore her and pretend nothing had happened, rather than tell her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’.  I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent-up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me.  It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, that Jimmy came looking for me.  I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse.  When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was, but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which, to a large degree, it was for the other three.  But I had achieved what I set out to do: to play them at their own game, watching the deception once I knew there was one, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree.  It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaines back to the Upper West Side.  But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer.  She showed concern for my health and asked me what was wrong.  It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it.  Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2026

Sunday In New York

365 Days of writing, 2026 – Beyond the second novel

History and how to integrate it

…

Weaving Reality into Fiction: Should You Use Real History and Figures in Your Epic Book Series?

If you are currently staring at a blinking cursor, mapping out the architecture of an endless series of novels, you aren’t alone. Writing a multi-book saga is a monumental undertaking. You have to sustain character arcs, invent subplots that don’t feel like filler, and—most importantly—build a world that feels lived-in and real.

One of the most powerful tools in a long-form author’s arsenal is the integration of actual history, real-world locations, historical figures, and authentic organisations.

When working on an endless series, is it a good idea to anchor your fiction in factual reality? The short answer is: Yes, absolutely. But like any powerful narrative tool, it requires a delicate touch. Let’s explore why blending fact with fiction works so well, the pitfalls to avoid, and how to do it effectively to hook your readers for the long haul.

Why Real-World History Adds Authenticity to Long Series

When readers commit to a sprawling book series (think of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire or Bernard Cornwell’s The Saxon Stories), they are looking for immersion. They want to escape, but they also want the world to obey internal logic and historical weight. Here is why injecting real history helps:

1. It Provides a Built-In Foundation

Inventing a sociopolitical system, economic structure, and cultural norms from scratch for a massive universe is exhausting. By drawing inspiration from—or directly utilising—actual historical periods, you save mental bandwidth. Real history gives you tried-and-true templates for warfare, political intrigue, religious conflicts, and technological limitations.

2. It Instantly Grounds the Reader

If your characters walk down a muddy, cobblestone street in a fictionalised version of 17th-century London, mention a real tavern that existed at the time, or interact with a lesser-known historical diplomat, the world immediately snaps into focus. Real-world anchors allow readers to visualise the scene faster because they have cognitive shortcuts to draw from.

3. It Adds Gravitas and Stakes

Real history is messy, brutal, and unpredictable. When fictional characters collide with real historical events (like a devastating plague, a sudden coup, or the eruption of a volcano), the stakes instantly skyrocket. Readers know that in real life, not everyone survives, which adds genuine peril to your endless series.

How to Use Real Elements Without Turning Your Novel into a Textbook

The biggest danger of using real history, places, and people in fiction is infodumping. You’ve spent hours down a Wikipedia rabbit hole researching the 14th-century wool trade, and now you want to make sure your reader knows it.

Don’t.

Here are four golden rules for balancing fact and fiction in a long-running series:

Rule 1: Use Real Places as a Canvas, Not a Blueprint

Whether you are writing urban fantasy, historical fiction, or sci-fi set on Earth, treat real locations as mood boards. If you are setting scenes in an actual cathedral or a specific street, focus on sensory details—the chill of the stone, the smell of coal smoke, the echo of footsteps—rather than giving a geographical lecture.

Rule 2: Bend Historical Figures to Fit Your Narrative Arc

When introducing real individuals, remember that you are writing a story, not a biography. If a real-world general needs to arrive a week early to fit your plot’s pacing, or if a monarch needs to display a personality trait that drives your protagonist crazy, take creative liberties. Just make sure the core essence of the historical figure remains recognisable if they are well-known.

Rule 3: Leverage Real Organizations for Conflict

Secret societies, trade guilds, religious orders, and military units that actually existed (or closely mirror historical ones) add instant legitimacy to your world. When your characters go up against a bureaucracy modelled after the Roman Senate or a merchant guild modelled after the Hanseatic League, the conflict feels sophisticated and institutional, rather than cartoonish.

Rule 4: Leave Room for the Unknown

History is full of gaps, lost artifacts, and unsolved mysteries. This is a fiction writer’s playground. Take a real historical anomaly—the Voynich manuscript, the disappearance of the Princes in the Tower, or Roanoke Colony—and build your fictional mythology into the historical blind spots.

The Secret Weapon for Endless Series: Continuity

If you are writing a long series, continuity is your greatest challenge. One of the hidden benefits of using real history, geography, and organisations is that history doesn’t change.

If you invent a purely fictional political system across ten books, you run the risk of contradicting yourself regarding laws, geography, or cultural customs. But if you tether your world to real-world historical constraints (e.g., how fast a horse can travel in the winter of 1240, or the actual political friction between the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor), reality does half of the world-building heavy lifting for you. You have a built-in encyclopedia that your readers might already be familiar with!

Final Verdict: Strike the Balance

Blending actual history, real individuals, and authentic organisations into an endless series of novels is a masterclass in world-building. It rewards curious readers, grounds fantastical or sprawling plots, and lends an undeniable weight of authenticity to your pages.

Just remember: You are writing a story, not a history lesson. Use the facts as stepping stones to spark your imagination, not as chains that restrict your creativity. When history and imagination collide on the page, that’s where the real magic happens.

Are you currently working on a long book series? Do you prefer total invention or historical grounding? Let us know your thoughts and writing struggles in the comments below!

…

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect them.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half-brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 23

I’m back home, and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But here we are, a few minutes opened up, and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

An unlikely ally?

 

The bar in the hotel was tucked away in a small area behind the dining room, or perhaps it was part of the dining room; I wasn’t quite sure.  Indoor shrubs were blocking the view from the front entrance, so we could feel safe enough, and less strenuous to watch the continuous comings and goings of the hotel’s guests and their friends.

For a small hotel, it was quite busy.

We were lucky it was not yet dinner time, so the restaurant was still being set up for the evening dinner service.  I had a look at one of the menus, and the Shepherd’s Pie looked good.  It was mostly hearty British staples like Bangers and Mash and Toad in the Hole.  I guess by calling sausages by their real name, sausages, no one really wanted them.

Three drinks down and looking for the restroom, it ended up being an exploration of the passage that led to a rear door, one that could be used by guests, but was mostly used by smoking staff.  When I went outside, there were two housekeepers and a concierge boy talking about the couple in 506.  I hope Jan and I were not labelled an ‘interesting couple’.

“Let’s go outside and make some calls.”  She finished her drink and slid off the barstool.  

I joined her, and we went out the back entrance, along an alley to the next main street, then along the busy road to an underground station.  There were two other hotels I noticed along the way, so we would not be making it easy for them if they could track us.

I called Nobbin first using the card he left under the name Wilson, leaving the phone on speaker.

“Yes.”  There was no ring on the other end of the line.

“Wilson?”

“Yes.  Who is this?”

“Sam Jackson.  You said to call you if anything happened.  I have managed to track down an address for O’Connell.  I went there and found two women, one named Josephine, who was definitely not a resident or his friend as she claimed.  Then I met another, whose name I can’t remember, but I suspect she’s not who she said she was, nor a friend.”

“Were they looking for the USB?”

“I don’t know.  One was on the floor when I arrived, and I assumed she had been rendered unconscious by someone else.  I roused her, but she had nothing conclusive to say.  I think she was one of your operatives.”

Silence, then, “Why would you say that?”

“I followed her out onto the street.”

More silence, then, “She was asked to search the flat.”

“For what?”

“Anything that would be useful in telling us what he was doing.”

“I’m sure I told you that Severin was after a USB, so I thoroughly searched O’Connell’s flat and didn’t find it, or anything else.”

“Neither did she, which is unfortunate, but not unexpected.  O’Connell must have been worried about the information he’d uncovered, enough to not be carrying it with him.”

“Well, I don’t think it was his primary residence.  Still too many price tags on the furniture.  He had somewhere else to go, and that might be where the USB is.  I’m surprised you don’t seem to know very much about him or what he was doing given he was one of your operatives.  Unless, of course, he went off-book.”

“I assure you that isn’t the case, and O’Connell’s activities were on a need to know basis.  All I can say is that he was using a Journalist cover, investigating cyber currency being used to purchase weapons.  We were scheduled to meet for a report on his progress late afternoon on the day he was killed.  Are you sure there was no one else near the alley where he was killed?”

“It was empty except for Severin and Maury.

“And you.”

“Are you implying that I took it?”

“No, but there’s a compelling case that might fit you in the frame.  Do you know who the other woman was in O’Connell’s flat?”

“No.  Like I said, she gave me a name, but I don’t think it was real.  She claimed to be his neighbor, but so did Josephine, so it’s likely she wasn’t.  Other than that, she could be anyone.  If he had another place, you might want to try and find out where it was.  I’m going to take up the search tomorrow morning.”

“Are you sure there was nothing to point you in that direction lying around in the flat?”

“The man was a neatness freak.  I doubt it.  And now he’s dead.  The only possibility I can see is that he found out what Severin and Maury are about to do, and by now they will be far more desperate to find it.  We need to get to it first, so perhaps if you have some analysts looking for something to do, see if they can find that second residence.  I’m sure you can get a hold of any CCTV there is.  You might be able to find him that way.  If you do and you get an address, let me know and I’ll go straight there.”

“Yes, of course.  Keep in touch.”

The line went dead.

“Interesting man,” Jan said, “but not a trustworthy one.  You listen to the modulation of his voice.  That’s a man who wouldn’t know the truth even if he fell over it.  And if he does find that address, you will not be the first person he calls.”

I shrugged.  “Probably not.  As for Nobbin, isn’t that the very nature of our business, to tell endless lies in order to get to the truth?”

“Remind me, one day, to tell you about pathological liars.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.

I remembered the car slewing sideways.

I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.

Or I could be underwater.

Everything was blurred.

I tried to focus, but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.

What happened?

Why was I lying down?

Where was I?

I cast my mind back, trying to remember.

It was a blank.

What, when, who, why and where are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.

I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.

I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.

“My God! What happened?”

I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.

I was blind. Everything was black.

“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”

Was I that poor bastard?

“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.

“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”

“What isn’t broken?”

“His neck.”

“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”

I heard the shuffling of pages.

“OR1 ready?”

“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”

“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”

Magic.

It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.

Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.

Or somewhere.

I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.

Was it night or was it day?

Was it hot, or was it cold?

Where was I?

Around me, it felt cool.

It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence.  And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.

I didn’t try to move.

Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.

A previous unpleasant experience?

I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.

My grandfather.

He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that, he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way down the same path. I could smell the smoke.

I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.

I couldn’t.

I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later, the clicking of a pen, then writing.

“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk or move; all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She had a very soothing voice.

Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.

“Everything is fine.”

Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.

“Just count backwards from 10.”

Why?

I didn’t reach seven.

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.

It rose above the disinfectant.

She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.

It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.

The next morning, she was back.

“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”

More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.

The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”

Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.

How could that happen?

That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact that I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment, was the fact that I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.

But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised I could not remember my name.

I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.

I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.

Sleep was a blessed relief.

The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?

Now I knew Winifred, the nurse, was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”

So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.

But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.

This time, I was left awake for an hour before she returned.

This time, sleep was restless.

Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Other people, I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.

Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

The morning the bandages were to come off, she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.

“This morning, the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”

I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.

I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.

I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.

I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.

I felt the bandage being removed and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.

Then a moment when nothing happened.

Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.

Nothing.

I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.

“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later, I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.

Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.

She wiped my eyes again.

I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.

I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.

Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.

I nodded.

“You can see?”

I nodded again.

“Clearly?”

I nodded.

“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”

I couldn’t wait.

When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring; there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.

I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.

They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.

Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.

I found it hard to believe that if he were, he would be at a small country hospital.

“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”

Warning enough.

The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.

Then it was done.

The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with it. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.

I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said, noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate that he was available. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

She showed me.

I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.

And I still could not talk. There was a reason; he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.

“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”

A new face?

I could not remember the old one.

My memory still hadn’t returned.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024-2026

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 79

Here’s the thing…

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.

…

Finding the treasure, or something else

…

It was time to go.

She had stayed with me the whole time, and made sure I’d seen her phone the whole time.  I was sure it was deliberate, and there would be repercussions at the end of this exercise, success or not.

She made no mention of it the whole time too, but it was stewing behind her eyes, and I could feel it.  It was a trait of my mother’s when dealing with my father, whom she never really trusted, and not without reason.  He had let her down, us down, more times than I could remember.

We had just enough light to find our way to the base of the cliff.  The weather forecast was for a cloudy night and the prospect of rain around midnight, when I was hoping we’d either found what we were looking for, or it was a bust.

The wind had picked up after we left the cave and was gusting intermittently by the time we were in position, so between the darkness and the wind, the climb was going to be ‘tricky’.

Boggs said he was up for the challenge.  I was not so sure. 

It was not far upwards to the ledge, but by the time he started, the moon had gone behind the cloud cover, the wind had picked up, and the temperature had dropped dramatically.  A minute later, he had disappeared into the darkness, leaving only a trailing rope behind that I was loosely holding.

The wind overtook the noise of him ascending, and the hammering of pitons into the rock crevices, so it felt like we were alone on the beach.  Nadia was standing about 10 feet away looking upwards.

Was she tracking Boggs progress, or waiting for something else?

The moon shed little light on our position, in between passing clouds, not enough to work solely by it. We had torches, and intermittently I could see approximately where Boggs was, and it seemed to me he had been at the same spot for at least ten minutes.

Had he reached an impasse?

We had no means of communication, I wasn’t going to call out to him, nor, I was sure, would he call out to me.  At least, only if it was necessary.

Then, I felt a slight tug on the rope, the sign her had made it to the ledge.  If he had not found it, the plan was we would leave, and go back to square one.

I went over to Nadia.  “We’re up, you’re next.”

“I’d rather stay on the ground.  I don’t need to be scaling rocks.”

“We agreed, we’d all go up.”

“Are you sure this is not about you having trust issues.”

“No.  It’s time, unless you know something I don’t.”

“Like?”

“You tell me if there are any surprises waiting for us up there?”  It was as close as I was going to get saying that she had betrayed us, and, knowing what was waiting, didn’t want to be there to face our disappointment.

“When have I had time to arrange anything.  You’ve been with me the whole time.”

I had, though it was not for that purpose, but not an unreasonable assumption on her part given the circumstances.

I shook my head.  I think deep down I was expecting some sort of development, even though I had hoped that she would be as good as her word.  It also annoyed me that she was making it so I was put in a position where the only assumption she could make was that I didn’t trust her.

It was like being painted into a corner.

And it was clever on her part because she left the onus on me, absolving herself of any blame, whether on not she was telling the truth or not.

I was the bad person.

“As you wish,” I said.  “Go home, there’s no need for you to stay.  It’s probably the last place you should be when everything goes pear shaped.”

“I’m happy to be the last line of defence.”

“When the shit hits the fan, Vince isn’t going to care whether you share the same surname or not.  Best you’re not here at all.”

“Are you expecting him?”

“We’re trespassing on Cossatino land.  If he finds out…  Best if you were not here, seriously.”

“You do realise what he’ll do if he does find you.”

It was a statement, not a question, and yes, I did.  And I’d kept Boggs waiting long enough.  “I’ll let you know what we find.”

Enough sparring, I turned and headed back to the base of the cliff. 

Scaling the cliff was not that hard, Boggs had said to keep a tight hold on the rope and used the pitons he’d places strategically as footsteps on a ladder.

When I reached the ledge, Boggs was waiting and pulled me up the last of the climb onto the narrow alleyway between rocks.

“Took your time,” he muttered.

“Nadia is having reservations about joining us.”

“Sending the lambs to the slaughter, eh.”

I’d expected that reaction, and I could see how he’d reach such a conclusion.

“She is not a climber.”

“Neither are you, but…”

“I don’t think it matters which side she’s on, in the end.  We’re not here by invitation, especially if Vince turns up.  Let’s get on with it before we get cold feet.”

“You don’t have to be here, you know.”

“Actually, I do.  You asked me along for the ride, and I let you down.”

I’d thought about it, and it seemed to me everyone, one way or another, had let him down.  If I put myself in his shoes, I’d be terribly disappointed.

“You’re here now, that says a lot.  But, enough talk, let’s see where this goes.”

I looked up and could just see the overhang, an almost flat slab of rock almost suspended in mid-air.  If it fell, we might be crushed, on it would land on or crumble, over the outer wall, which in itself looked to be part of the original wall split away.

What was once most likely a ledge, was now was tunnel.  The ledge would have been much wider, before the fall, and in this current form, narrower than it used to be.  If there was a chest or two to take away, it wouldn’t be wide enough.

I followed behind, the small torch beam picking out the sharp edges and avoiding jutting pieces of rock, making progress slow.

Ahead I could see Boggs had stopped, and was examining the wall.  When I joined him, he was standing in front of wood panelling.  A closer inspection showed it to be a door.

“That’s a good sign,” he said.  He rapped on the door and it sounded dull, like it was hollow.

To one side there was a rusty handle and a large lock, equally rusty.  I picked up a rock and with one hit, it snapped of and clattered on the ground.

I then pounded on one of the wooden panels and it disintegrated.  It had rotted over time, how much time was moot, and didn’t take much to bash an opening wide enough to fit through.

The air coming out was quite pungent, if not foul.

“Not exactly a welcome.”

“It smells of death.”

Boggs gave me a look that might have translated to ‘keep your opinion to yourself please’.

“Well soon find out.”  After selling the torch light as far in as he could, and not seeing any immediate danger, stepped over the threshold.

“Beware of any possible boobytraps.”  I’d seen too many films with similar situations, and if there was treasure in this cavern, the pirate would not let it be taken without a fight.

“Seriously, Sam.”  He turned a put his light on me. “That’s just a myth perpetuated by Hollywood.”

“Just saying, be careful.”

I saw him shrug, and turn back.  Perhaps as a nod to my warning, he reached out, checking for trip wires, as I ailed my torch at his feet, and saw what looked to be a rope strung six inches above the ground.  It looked as rotting as the door timber.

“On the ground,” I said.

He moved his light to join mine, saw the rope, and traced it from the floor, upwards to the roof.  If he had tripped over it, might it bring the roof down, or part of it?

He stepped back, kicked through it, and it disintegrated into dust.  Nothing happened.  It had to be the rope had rotted and couldn’t be used to spring the trap. 

“So far, so good.”

A flimsy rope wasn’t going to stop him.

“Just be careful.”

We used both torches to light both sides of the cave, and the roof, just in case.  The torch light did not reach the end, so it was slow progress.

Twenty paces later, we came to a larger cavern, and a quick look around showed parts of it had been man made.  A shiver went through me, and I thought that might be a ghost passing through me.

“You feel that?” I asked Boggs, now several steps in front of me.

“It’s just cold Sam.”

“I reckon there’s a body down here, somewhere.”

Suddenly his torch stopped, near the floor, adjacent to what looked like a ledge.  The corner of the cavern.  There were torn rags scattered. 

I joined him and added the light from my torch, widening the display.

The involuntary gasp was mine.  A skull, still attached to the skeleton, partially covered by cloth sitting in the corner, as if that was his final resting place.

“I was not expecting that,” Boggs said, the slightest of cracks in his voice.

I shuddered. 

I moved my torchlight along the wall, and found two more skeletons, both lying down on the ground in front of the ledge, as if they had been dragged there.  It wasn’t hard to deduce how at least one died, a sword appeared to be through the middle of the torso.

“Pirates who didn’t like their share of the treasure,” he said.

“Or raiders, who weren’t expecting guards?”

All three looked as though they were from the 17th and 18th centuries, and had not been disturbed for a long, long time.

A view of the cavern showed nothing else, except for what looked like beds made of straw on the ledges, and several chests that were in better condition than the door to the cave.  There was more clothing and other supplies, like pewter mugs and plates, and pottery bottles, some of which had liquid in them.

We didn’t say much, there wasn’t much to say. 

Except the obvious, we were the first visitors in a long, long time.

There was a passage off to one side, not visible from the entry point to the cavern, and now that we had established there was no treasure, headed towards it.

Boggs shine his torch in the entrance, and it appeared longer than the beam travelled.  The sides of this cavern were damp, and I could hear a slow dripping sound in the distance.

If my orientation was right, we would not be going,  further into the cliff, but running parallel with the shoreline.

“Ready?”  Boggs asked. 

There was no mistaking that hint of fear in his voice but whether he didn’t feel safe, or perhaps because of what we might find, like more dead pirates, I was feeling equally apprehensive.

‘As I’ll ever be.”

He took a few tentative steps, checking the walls as he went.  I followed.

It was damp underfoot, and several times I stepped in a small puddle.  We were surrounded by the aroma of salty water and a mouldy dank smell of dampness.

The next cavern was just beyond the initial torch beam, but slowly came into view as we approached it.  This cave showed signs of being dug out, and the cavern definitely so.  This was not a natural part of the cave system.

This cavern was slightly larger than the last one, had just one ledge which had three chests set out equidistant on it.  It was the first sight our torches displayed.

Was this the treasure?

Boggs headed straight towards them.  I was a little more circumspect, and slowly ran my torch around the rest of the room, until I found another body.

This one was definitely not as old as the other three.  In fact, my guess, it was either Ormiston, or, dare I consider it possible, Boggs senior.

By this time Boggs had opened the first chest and muttered, “nothing”, letting it slam down quite loudly and making me jump.

“Hey,” I said, “There’s another body here, but it’s not a pirate.”

He swung around and pointed his torch on the body, and gasped.  “No.  It can’t be.” 

He went over and knelt beside the body.  The clothes were still intact, and although damp and grimy, were still recognisable.

I saw him check the pockets first of the coat, then the pants, finding what looked like a wallet.  He carefully opened it, then fell backwards, surprise or disbelief.

“Is it.”

He held up the wallet.  “My father.  How did he get here?”

“No treasure in the chest?”

“Empty.  If it was there, it’s long gone.”

So, Boggs senior had known where the treasure was, as he had said, just before he disappeared.  Had he led the others here, and they had incapacitated him, then left him to die?

I checked the other two chests, the second nit holing treasure, but another body, jammed into the space, in slightly better condition than Boggs, but there was no mistaking the cracks in the skull.

It was another man, and if I was to make a guess, it would be Ormiston.  Had Boggs and Ormiston joined forces, or had they turned up at the same time and attacked each other.

“I think that the body in this chest is Ormiston,” I said, closing the lid to the chest.  “It would be interesting to know if they ran into each other, and whether they had found the empty chests too.”

Boggs hadn’t moved.  I could see him struggling with the fact he had found his father, and the location of the treasure, where it had once rested. 

The fact Ormiston had head injuries suggested the treasure was here, and someone had removed it.

Cossatino?

But, the question was, how did they get here if they didn’t come in via the door we’d broken down.  There was another cave leading off this cavern, but it looked as though it led into the hill, rather than head towards the shoreline.

I was heading towards that entrance when I heard a scream cut short, coming from the direction we had just entered the cavern.

Nadia?  Had she changed her mind, followed us, and found the pirates?

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The 2am Rant: That’s two days of my life I won’t get back

Yep…

I just spent 26 and a half hours in planes and in airport terminals getting home, and lost two days in the process.  The 15th of January just didn’t exist for us.

This is what happens when you fly from Vancouver in Canada to Brisbane, Australia, via Shanghai.  The thing is, everywhere way, way overseas is a two-stop run.  We have to break our journey somewhere, like Singapore, Hong Kong, Bangkok, Shanghai, Abu Dhabi, and for the sake of managing delays at the originating end, we usually end up with a mid-airport stay of five to ten hours.

It all means that when you finally arrive in Australia, you are tired, and look it.  I feel sorry for the Immigration officials who must rarely see people looking good on their arrival.

This time we were fortunate to get back in the morning.  To avoid being picked up by relatives, we arranged for a limousine service, and it worked out well.

I couldn’t say the same for some of the pickup services overseas, but that was more the fault of the travel agent here than anything else.

It only reinforced my thoughts on travel agents: some are excellent, and some are complacent, relying too much on travel wholesalers whose knowledge of the products they sell is appalling.

The original bookings were fine; the agent we used knew her stuff.  But she left, and someone else took over, and not so good, I’m afraid.

However…

On the whole, it was an incredible expedition, from temperatures of 30 plus celsius to temperatures of -21 degrees Fahrenheit, and rarely above 6 degrees Fahrenheit.

The highlight:  Lake Louise in Canada.  Everyone should see this place in Winter at least once in their lifetime.  Certainly, my wife’s 65th birthday, spent there, was something she will never forget.

And the sleigh ride, in -14 or -15 degrees, well, we might be eligible to be declared start-staring mad, but seeing the frozen waterfall was just another of those magical moments that reinforces why we should be preserving the planet, not trying to destroy it.

But…

We’re back home and glad to be so.

 

 

What I learned about writing – Where do the ideas come from?

The Elusive Spark: Where Do Your Creative Ideas Really Come From?

Ever stared at a blank page, a blinking cursor, or a sketching pad, feeling the immense pressure to “be creative”? We’re often told creativity is a skill, something to be honed, but what about the moment the idea actually strikes? How does that elusive spark ignite?

It’s a question as old as creation itself, and the truth is, there’s no single answer. The source of our most brilliant ideas is often as unique and varied as the ideas themselves.

Is it an internal wellspring, finally overflowing?

Perhaps you’re someone who carries ideas around like precious cargo in your head – fragments of dialogue, vivid images, a compelling plot twist – for weeks, months, even years. The “how” of creativity, for you, might simply be finding that neutral, quiet space to finally unleash them. Whether it’s the crisp pages of a notebook, the welcoming glow of a laptop screen, or the ubiquitous notes app on your smartphone, the act of simply getting it out is the critical first step. It’s less about conjuring and more about excavating.

Or is it a serendipitous whisper from the world?

Then there’s the magic of external stimulation. Picture this: you’re by the window, the comforting warmth of a coffee cup in your hands, a perhaps-too-indulgent slice of cake nearby. Your gaze wanders, catches on something – a passing stranger, the way the light hits a distant building, a conversation snippet drifting from the street below. And suddenly, a switch flips. The words begin to form, the scene unfolds, a character takes shape. It’s not forced; it’s discovered. These are the moments when the world itself becomes your muse, offering up gifts you didn’t even know you were looking for.

Could connection be the ignition?

Sometimes, the spark comes not from within, or from the observant quiet, but from interaction. Think of those conversations with a muse, a trusted partner, a spouse, a friend – or even a fleeting encounter with a stranger. You’re bouncing ideas, exploring possibilities, or perhaps even getting “the wrong ideas” that, ironically, lead straight to the right ones (especially if you’re writing a particular kind of story!). Human connection, the clash and blend of different perspectives, can be an incredibly potent catalyst for creativity, unlocking narratives you might never have considered alone.

Facing the Inner Critic: Why Bother?

But let’s be honest, creativity isn’t always a gentle breeze of inspiration. There are days when the well feels dry, when the voices of doubt are louder than any muse. In those moments, I sometimes find myself metaphorically moving seats, sitting opposite “the writer’s chair.” I imagine myself as an outsider, someone dragged in off the street, looking critically at this person trying to create. What would I ask?

No doubt, that imaginary person would be cynical. “Why bother?” they’d ask. “There are a million others out there trying to do the exact same thing.”

And that, my friends, is the easiest question to answer.

Every story is different. Every piece of art, every innovative solution, every poem is unique. Why? Because you are unique. Every creator brings a different point of view, a different set of life experiences, a different personality, a different circle of friends. This list could go on forever, forming an intricate tapestry of individuality that no one else possesses.

The Ultimate Proof: Your Uniqueness is Your Superpower

Here’s the test to prove this point, simple yet profound: Outline a basic story concept, give that exact same outline to ten different writers, and you will get ten distinctly different stories. Each will bear the unmistakable fingerprints of its creator – their voice, their fears, their hopes, their humour, their unique way of seeing the world.

So, how do you become creative? It’s not about finding a magic formula or waiting for a lightning bolt (though those moments are wonderful). It’s about:

  • Honouring your internal world: Giving your brewing ideas the space and time to emerge.
  • Engaging with your external world: Staying open, observant, and curious.
  • Connecting with others: Allowing conversations and different viewpoints to spark new thoughts.
  • And most importantly, trusting yourself: Believing that your unique perspective, your individual tapestry of experiences, is precisely what makes your creativity valuable and irreplaceable.

Don’t strive to be a creative. Strive to be your creative. Because the most brilliant spark you possess is the one that’s uniquely, unmistakably, YOU.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 233

Day 233 – Brevity in writing

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The Goldilocks Dilemma in Content Creation: How to Find Your Readers’ Sweet Spot

Let’s be honest: in the digital age, attention is the world’s most valuable currency.

Every time someone opens a browser, scrolls through social media, or checks their email inbox, they are bombarded with thousands of competing messages. Videos auto-play, notifications ping, and headlines scream for a fraction of a second of their day.

For writers, bloggers, and marketers, grabbing the reader’s attention is only half the battle. Keeping it is where the real war is fought.

This brings us to the eternal debate of the digital writing world: brevity. We are constantly told to keep it short, keep it punchy, and cut the fluff. But in our quest to be concise, are we starving our readers of the depth they actually crave? Is there a line where “short” turns into “shallow,” and “long” turns into “boring”?

Let’s explore the Goldilocks dilemma of content length—how to know what is too much, what is not enough, and how to keep your readers hooked right down to the final period.

The Death of the Attention Span (And Why It’s a Myth)

You’ve probably heard the statistic a dozen times: Humans now have an attention span of 8 seconds—shorter than a goldfish.

It’s a great soundbite, but it’s largely a myth. People don’t have inherently shorter attention spans today; rather, they have higher standards for what deserves their attention.

If a reader clicks on your article and immediately bounces back to Google, it’s rarely because the piece was too long. More often, it’s because the introduction was sluggish, the formatting was a wall of text, or the content failed to deliver on the promise of the headline.

When a reader is genuinely engaged, they will happily spend 10, 15, or 20 minutes reading a deeply reported, comprehensive piece. Conversely, if content is unengaging, even a 300-word blog post will feel like an eternity.

The goal isn’t necessarily to make your writing short. The goal is to make it effortless to consume.

When Is It “Not Enough”? (The Danger of Under-Delivering)

In the rush to respect the reader’s time, many creators swing too far in the direction of brevity. They strip away nuance, context, and personality, leaving behind a skeletal shell of information.

This is what we call the Wikipedia trap or thin content.

When your content isn’t enough, you run into three major problems:

  1. You sacrifice value: If a reader can find the exact same surface-level information in the first three results of a Google search, you haven’t given them a reason to stay.
  2. You lose authority: Short, superficial answers rarely build trust. Readers want to know why something is true, not just what is true. Depth demonstrates expertise.
  3. The “Unsatisfied Bounce”: Have you ever clicked an article, scrolled through a few vague paragraphs, and realised you learned absolutely nothing new? It’s frustrating. When content is not enough, it leaves the reader feeling cheated out of their time.

The Rule for Minimum Viable Length: Your piece should be only as long as it takes to completely solve the reader’s problem, answer their question, or deliver an emotional payoff. If you leave loose ends, you haven’t written enough.

When Is It “Too Much”? (The Danger of the Digital Dump)

On the flip side, we’ve all encountered the bloated blog post. You know the ones: 5,000 words of meandering prose that could easily have been summarised in 500 words.

Writers often fall into this trap for the wrong reasons—trying to hit arbitrary SEO word counts, over-explaining simple concepts, or simply falling in love with the sound of their own typing.

When your content is too much, the symptoms are glaring:

  • Fluff and padding: Using three adjectives where one would do; repeating the same point in different ways just to extend the paragraph.
  • Buried leads: Making the reader wade through a 500-word personal anecdote about your weekend before getting to the actual topic they searched for.
  • Cognitive overload: Hitting the reader with so much data, jargon, and unstructured thoughts that their brain simply shuts down.

Remember the cardinal rule of editing, famously attributed to writer Elmore Leonard (via Anton Chekhov): “Leave out the parts that readers skip.”

If a paragraph doesn’t move the narrative forward, answer a pressing question, or add distinct value, mercilessly cut it.

Finding the Sweet Spot: How to Keep Readers Hooked

So, how do you find the magical middle ground where length ceases to matter and engagement takes over? It comes down to a blend of structural psychology and empathetic writing.

1. Hook ‘Em Fast, Then Feed Them

Your introduction is the handshake. Make it firm, welcoming, and clear. Tell the reader immediately what they are going to get out of the piece. Once you’ve made that promise, dive straight into the substance without unnecessary throat-clearing.

2. Design for the Skimmer (Visual Rhythm)

Here’s a dirty little secret of the internet: People don’t read online—they scan.

Even the most dedicated readers use their eyes to preview a page before committing. If they see a massive, unbroken block of text, flight instincts kick in.

  • Use short paragraphs (1–3 sentences).
  • Utilise bold text for key takeaways.
  • Break up monotony with bullet points and numbered lists.
  • Include subheadings that act as signposts along the reader’s journey.

By creating visual rhythm, you make a long article feel short and manageable.

3. Match Length to Intent

Content length should always be dictated by the user’s intent.

  • If someone wants to know the current weather, a 2,000-word essay on meteorology is too much.
  • If someone wants to learn how to build a retirement portfolio from scratch, a 300-word summary is not enough.

Always ask yourself: What does the reader need to walk away with to feel satisfied? Give them exactly that, packaged as cleanly as possible.

The Bottom Line

Writing isn’t about hitting an arbitrary word count; it’s about choreography. It’s about taking a reader by the hand and leading them on a journey from point A to point B without losing them in the weeds or rushing them off the path.

Forget the obsession with being short. Forget the anxiety of needing to be long.

Instead, focus on being clear, valuable, and engaging. If you do that, your readers won’t care how long your article is—they’ll just be glad they stayed until the end.

What’s your take? Do you prefer bite-sized reads, or do you love sinking your teeth into long-form deep dives? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

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