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?
“Wait.”
It seemed that I had managed to scare her. Either that, or she had decided to be a little more forthcoming. I stopped and waited until she caught up. I was nearly at the top of the stairs.
“Look, I have to go back to my people, and I’ll get them to look into those two people you don’t seem to trust, who were they, Nobbin and Severin?”
“I don’t think you want to do that. You start making waves, your people will send out feelers and they’ll get to hear about it, and they will know exactly where it came from, and it’ll come back and bite you. For your own peace of mind, I’d let the sleeping dogs lie.”
She seemed over-eager to get ahead using this as a steppingstone. I’d seen the type, in the training ranks, and in former jobs. She was clearly assigned this job because of her looks, and she might be a good agent too, but she hadn’t thought this through.
“Are you telling me to back off?”
“I’m trying to save your life. If I have no idea who to trust, then I have to assume both of them are theoretically the enemy. I’m still counting the blessings I’m still alive, but I suspect that will only last until the USB is found. The rest of my team are dead.”
Now that put the right amount of fear into her.
“If they’re willing to kill everybody that’s come in contact with this information, I doubt they’d stop at killing the both of us if we got in their way.”
“Then you have a plan?”
“At the moment that plan consists of one line. Stay alive and find the USB before they do. After that, I’ll see what happens.”
I caught sight of an incident, two people almost colliding, and one, I noticed, was more intent on his phone which is what caused the clash. And, a second later, I thought I recognised one of the two.
Maury. Severin’s offsider, and more likely cleanup man. My guess, he was the one searching O’Connell’s flat, and Jan’.”
I think it was safe to say she was compromised.
“Ok,” I said quietly, “we have a problem, well two problems.” And if I was wrong about her, and she was one of Severin’s people, which, seeing Maury just turned a probable into a likely, I had three.
If she was, I hadn’t seen that coming.
“What now?”
Time to test the water.
“One of Severin’s men is downstairs, mingling, which means he knows I’m here, and maybe you two.”
I did a quick check of my scan of O’Connell’s, thinking I might have picked up a bug. It was the only explanation why Maury was here. And, it was likely he was not alone.
Not me. Jan?
“Did you take anything from O’Connell’s?”
“No. Why?”
“Are you sure. Think”
While scanning the lower floor of the station looking, no doubt, for Maury, and anyone that might present a problem, she looked like she was recounting her steps.
“Damn. A pen. I left it there the last time I saw him.” She pulled it out of her bag and went to toss it in the bin.
I snatched it, and as someone brushed past me, I dropped it into their pocket.
A flash of annoyance, then, “Hey, that cost a lot of money.”
“Then be grateful it didn’t cost you your life. Yet.”
We waited, keeping far enough back from the stairs, but with still a good view of the station. I kept an eye on the man whom I gave the pen as he made his way across the floor towards one of the platforms. Luckily it was at the furthest end, and as he approached it, I saw three figures, and Maury slowly make their way towards him forming a blockade so he couldn’t escape.
“Time to go.”
She had noticed the movement too.
We went down the stairs and headed towards the first available exit. As we were going out the door, we heard a commotion, the team obviously apprehending the wrong man, who would be wondering why four burly men were accosting him on his way home.
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.
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.
…
The final treasure hunt
…
Boggs was unusually quiet, but that might be because he wasn’t in charge. We were at the cave Nadia and I had found shelter from the storm, and he was busy checking the climbing equipment, and making sure he had everything.
Then he set both Nadia and I up with the gear we’d need to follow him. Neither of us were experienced climbers, but it was simple he said, he’d more or less pull us up once he found the cave.
If there was a cave there.
It was possible the seismic activity had closed it off, and it was gone forever, but he was closing to be positive and believe it would be well hidden until he was right on top of it.
Certainly is not visible from below, it simply looked like any other rockface but with indentations where little shrubs were growing, and it certainly could not be seen from above because of the cliff overhang, nor could it be seen from the side, because it was nit possible to get high enough or near enough.
Boggs said he knew a lot about rock formations, and his preliminary inspection in the late afternoon suggested there might ledge about 10 yards above the sand line. He had put in a few pegs and climbed to a spot under the overhang where there was a small ledge, and what looked to be a narrow pathway that zig zagged seeming through the rock, but resisting the urge to follow it.
Both Nadia and I kept watch, but nothing else was stirring on that part of the shoreline. The idea was to go after dark, when it was less likely anyone else would be around.
Now, as darkness fell, he was full of nervous energy, the sort that one had before participating in an event. This might finally be the end to his, and his father before him, search for the treasure, and even I was caught up in the moment.
I had just one more task before we stepped out the door, to send a prewritten text message to Charlene, just in case everything went pear shaped. It was possible it might, but right then, it was the last thing I was expecting.
What if there was riches beyond avarice awaiting us? It was now only a matter of time before we knew.
After escaping the sheriff’s office, and saying all the words he wanted to hear, for my mother’s sake, I called Nadia, then went to see her, taking extraordinarily silly means to avoid being followed, because the idea of seeing her after being warned off might cause a reaction.
It was probably the most rebellious thing I’d ever done, and it was secretly thrilling, to the point of that pit in the stomach that was meant to be a warning that something bad was going to happen.
I could now understand the nature of addiction.
And in the semi darkness, she seemed more like an ethereal spectre, albeit a lot more whimsical.
“The Sherriff just warned me that associating with you is putting my life in danger.”
“The Sherriff?”
“My mother is getting him to put pressure on me to stop seeing you. My mother is firmly of the belief you are tarred with the same brush as the rest of your family.”
“I take it the fact your here now means you don’t agree with either of them.”
“Or I find living life on the edge is more preferable to no life at all. My mother wants me to be boring and predictable, and live my life like she does. But, she had a bad boy streak, marrying my father the criminal. She knew what and who he was long ago, one of Benderby’s henchmen.”
“Do you want to be boring and predictable?”
“I don’t want to be a criminal, even though it has a certain allure, and probably the only other job you could get in this area.”
“Things aren’t that bad,” she said.
“They are. You know as well as I do, kids who’ve left school only do one of two things. Leave town for the big smoke, or get a crap job working for either criminal enterprise. No one wants to work in the factory.”
It was hard to deny the facts. And those that didn’t do anything, were either dead, or close to it. I wasn’t exactly enamoured with my job at the warehouse, but it was a legitimate, if not underpaying, job, and I knew I should be grateful.
“Anyway,” I said, “it’s all moot now. Both Boggs and I agree the treasure, if it’s anywhere is somewhere on that cliff face, he was climbing before he was cut down.”
“So, you’re saying my family tried to kill him?”
“More or less. You don’t cut a climbers rope unless you mean him harm.”
“I’d prefer to call it a warning. They probably think he was trying to gain access to the Gove via the beachhead. I seriously doubt Vince would see it as anything else. I think we can expect he’ll be keeping an eye on that part of the beach from now on.”
It seemed like something he’d do, so it was going to add another layer of complexity to our incursion. But I doubted he would be on the beach, but prefer the clifftop, and that could work in our favour.
“Be that as it may, are you in or out?”
“In, of course. And, just in case you’re thinking I’m working for my father, and all of this has been a charade to gain your confidence, it is not.”
“I’d be a liar if I told you it didn’t cross my mind, but I believe you.”
Did I? The was a 64,000-dollar question with half a dozen different answers, all of them leading down the path to hell. I would believe, until she proved otherwise, and I was truly hoping she wouldn’t. But, blood was thicker than water, as the saying goes, and now she might believe herself she was on our side, but when push came to shove, a lot could happen.
“When?”
“In a hour. We’re going to get Boggs and his gear, and go to your beach hut, and then to the cave we found. When darkness falls, that’s when we go up the cliff.”
A clouded expression, then a smile. “Clever, Sam. You’re not giving me any opportunity to betray you.”
I had to admit, in that moment, it wasn’t intended, but perhaps sub consciously I had planned it this way.
I shrugged. “It was all last minute, brought on by being hauled into the sheriff’s office. By tomorrow we’ll all be under observation, and take away any opportunity for us to do anything. I assume you’re still in?”
“Of course. We should have something to eat, so I’ll order up some take out. Pizzas?”
And, if she wanted to, there was still a dozen ways she could betray us, and I was definitely not going to keep her under observation the whole time.
No matter how hard you try, how seamless, on paper the plan is, the odds are something will go wrong. That is not to say I am a fatalist, or a glass half empty kind of traveler, because most of the trips I have planned, and taken, have been relatively painless.
Except our good luck had to finally run out.
It was not a matter of bad planning; it was just one of those times when events didn’t quite go according to plan. It happens.
For instance, the simple objective was to get from Brisbane in Australia to Florence in Italy. There is no direct flight. Booking on an airline site is a horrendous experience, fares are ridiculously high, and there is no accommodating stopovers.
This is a trip that only a travel agent can handle.
The objective, travel to London via Hong Kong, or Singapore, or any medium distant airport, then on to London, or Paris, or where-ever, then to Florence. No overnight stopover, staying in a hotel, not this time, in either of Hong Kong or London.
Simple.
Not.
It was as horrendous for the agent as it was navigating the airline’s internet site. It was not something that could be done, sitting opposite her as she deftly navigated the highways and byways of the travel system on her computer. This was a longer, more intricate job.
Two days later she had the solution for the Brisbane, Hong Kong, London, and thence Florence trip. It would require a stay of 10 hours in Hong Kong, the connections didn’t align according to price constraints, and then a 14 hour layover in London as flights to Florence were not aligned either. All well and good. Cathay Pacific for the trip to London and Vueling Airlines for the Florence leg. At least we would arrive in Florence at a reasonable hour, about 6pm.
On paper, it was the most practical solution in the circumstances.
Reality proved it to be something else entirely.
At Brisbane airport, we were given boarding passes for the flights through to London, but by some quirk of fate had our baggage checked through to Florence. How this could be done without boarding passes for the London to Florence flight was a surprise. Back in Brisbane, the check-in person told us she could not give us a boarding pass for the London to Florence leg because the system would not issue it. We could she said, get it easy enough when we arrived in London.
The first leg went smoothly enough, though we did not realize until we got on the plane that it stopped over in Cairns for an hour or so. This was not a problem, just made the time between Brisbane and Hong Kong longer than we anticipated.
In Hong Kong, we had no trouble getting into the lounge I’d booked. The problem came with the interpretation of using the bathroom facilities, and it took several hours before we finally realized that the bathroom facilities were not part of the lounge but operated independently and you had to book your place. By that time there were a large number of people ahead of us (who obviously knew the problems associated with these facilities) and it annoyed me that the lounge staff did not mention it when we arrived.
The Hong Kong to London leg was as all long haul flights are. We knew what to expect, and arrived in London around 6 am. We arrived at terminal three and the lounge we’d booked was in terminal three. All we needed was a boarding pass to get in.
Oops.
That was not the case.
Because we could not get back into terminal three without a forward boarding pass we had to exit and go through customs and immigration. We were told that the only way to get a boarding pass for the Florence flight was to go to the airline counter.
The problem was Vueling did not have an airline counter.
This is where tempers started to flare. 7:30 in the morning, no means of getting into the lounge which we had paid a lot on money for, and no one in the terminal being helpful.
The Vueling web site was impossible to use.
The telephone number rang out.
At this point, I was beginning to believe the airline didn’t exist and we had been ripped off.
Only by a quirk of fate, reading the departures board, did I see a flight for Vueling leaving at 10 am, with the check-in counter displayed.
By this time we had spent two very frustrating hours and I was nothing short of angry.
At the gate, the head of the check-in counter, a representative of Vueling was surprised we had any problems, particularly in Brisbane, but happily issued the boarding passes.
When we mentioned the baggage she advised us it was lucky we did, otherwise it would have gone missing. She took the tag numbers and sorted that problem out.
The airline, it seems, is well respected, and based on the service I received, I had to say I agreed
The problem was back in Brisbane with an inexperienced check in person.
There was only one problem in getting to the lounge, now four hours later than we had advised, the fact we had to go back through customs, and in doing so, the duty-free that we had brought from Hong Kong was now outside the limits allowed, and the customs staff were adamant despite the circumstances we could not take it with us. $400 worth of goods finished up in the bin.
It would be true to say that day the customs staff at Heathrow were not the best ambassadors for their country, and one, in particular, would be best doing service elsewhere where human contact was not a requirement. As for the others, they were as helpful as they could be, but rules unfortunately were rules.
At last, rather distressed over the duty-free, and the lateness of our arrival at the lounge, there was no possibility of getting a short sleep before going to Florence. At least we did not have the same problems using the bathroom facilities, our room I’d book had them included in the room.
We rested, and figured nothing else could go wrong.
Not. Again!
The plane was advertised to leave London at about 3 pm. We left the lounge expecting to get to the gate on time. We checked on the departure board for the flight to get the gate number, only to see a notice ‘delayed’. When that delay passed 5 pm, two hours later, we decided to go to the counter and find out what was happening.
Only to find there was no airline counter. Again!
We asked at least a dozen people, including the special helpers the airport who there is plenty of signage to say to go to if you have a problem, but not one of them knew where the counter was or who was looking after the affairs of the airline. By this time other irate passengers of the delayed flight were massing, also seeking answers. One discovered who the agent was, and we descended on the counter as a large group.
The first person I saw at the counter was the woman who had checked us in that morning. For her, it had been a long day, and it was getting longer.
The problem, the plane had been delayed on an earlier leg, yes it would be arriving, having just left the lat airport, and we would be embarking about 7:30. For our trouble, we got a meal voucher, and at least we could have a reasonably good dinner.
The plane arrived, we embarked, the service was good and the people on board as cheerful as they could be given the delays and the discontented passengers.
We arrived in Florence just before midnight, our driver to take us to the hotel was waiting for us, and the hotel upgraded us to a very nice room.
All in all a harrowing journey, but at the end, basically a six-hour delay, and two very tired, but happy people. And we were in Florence, in summer. What more could anyone want?
The Highway to Yesterday: When Progress Paves Over Memory
There’s a phrase we hear often: “the march of progress.” It conjures images of innovation, growth, and moving forward. And often, it’s a good thing, bringing advancements that improve our lives. But sometimes, this relentless march brings with it a different kind of change – one that paves over the past, transforming what we held dear into something unrecognizable.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, prompted by a landscape that used to be… something else entirely.
I remember a time, long ago now, when ‘country’ truly meant country. Our holidays at my grandmother’s house, nestled just outside Melbourne, were expeditions into a different world. The drive itself was part of the magic. A comfortable half-hour journey, winding through stretches of open farmland, punctuated by small, charming towns – Beaconsfield, Officer, Berwick – each an oasis amidst the green. Today? That same route is a continuous sprawl of houses, a testament to metropolitan expansion, where those ‘oases’ are now just another indistinguishable part of the urban fabric.
But it was Grandma’s house that truly held the enchantment. A rambling, grand old place on extensive grounds, it was a universe waiting to be explored. Gardens, multiple garages overflowing with forgotten treasures, a huge workshop – it was a child’s paradise. One Christmas, my brother and I, armed with a sense of adventure and a few rusty tools, decided to become archaeological explorers. We unearthed a magnificent fountain, hidden beneath years of overgrowth, clearly once the centerpiece of a grand display. It felt like discovering our very own secret garden, complete with a sprawling, mysterious fernery.
Then there were the internal explorations. A whole wing of bedrooms, each a time capsule. I recall an ancient iron bedstead, so high off the ground we had to climb into it, easily a century old. And in another, the faint, lingering presence of my Uncle – a formidable, towering man whom, in our youthful imaginations, we first mistook for an ogre straight out of a Grimm’s fairy tale. The way his heavy footsteps would ‘clomp’ through the silent house after dark still sends a shiver of delicious apprehension down my spine.
But the march, as it always does, continued. And today, all of it is gone. That sprawling house, those secret gardens, the workshop, the echoes of my uncle’s footsteps – replaced. Not by new homes, not by another suburb, but by the relentless concrete and asphalt of a multi-lane highway, carving an alternate coastal route between Melbourne and Sydney. The very ground where those precious memories were made now carries the weight of countless cars, indifferent to the history beneath their tires.
All that remains are the vivid, precious memories of a time that will never return. They are treasures far more valuable than any physical object, etched permanently in the mind’s eye.
The march of progress is inevitable. It brings necessary change, growth, and sometimes, undeniable improvements. But it also exacts a cost, often unseen by those building the future. It’s a powerful reminder to cherish the present, to imbue the places we love with meaning, and to hold onto the stories that define us, because one day, they might be all that’s left.
And for me? It’s provided a rich soil, a fertile ground, for a whole new pile of stories, waiting to be told.
The Power of “I”: Unlocking the Advantages of the First-Person Novel
When you crack open a novel and the very first word you read is “I,” an unspoken social contract is formed between you and the narrator. You aren’t just an observer looking down from a cloud; you are strapped directly into the passenger seat of someone else’s mind.
First-person point of view (POV) is one of the most intimate and enduring tools in a writer’s arsenal. From classic masterpieces like The Catcher in the Rye and Jane Eyre to modern psychological thrillers like Gone Girl, the “I” narrator has the power to grip readers and refuse to let go.
If you’re an aspiring author trying to decide which POV to use, or a passionate reader wondering why certain books feel so visceral, understanding the advantages of the first-person novel is essential.
Let’s dive deep into the unique strengths of the first-person perspective and why it continues to dominate bestseller lists.
1. Unmatched Intimacy and Emotional Resonance
The single greatest advantage of the first-person novel is proximity. In first-person, there is no filter between the character’s internal emotional landscape and the reader.
Direct Access to Thoughts: We don’t just see characters cry; we hear the frantic, self-deprecating, or hopeful loops playing in their heads as they wipe away the tears.
Instant Empathy: Even if a narrator makes terrible choices, experiencing their motivations, fears, and heartbreaks firsthand makes them deeply human. We understand why they do what they do, even if we don’t agree with it.
This level of intimacy creates a profound bond. Readers often finish a great first-person novel feeling like they have just said goodbye to a real-life friend.
2. A Distinct, Unforgettable Voice
In a crowded literary marketplace, voice is everything. First-person narrative allows authors to showcase a character’s unique personality not just through their actions, but through how they speak and think.
Think of Holden Caulfield’s cynical, slang-heavy cadence in The Catcher in the Rye, or Humbert Humbert’s hyper-articulate, manipulative prose in Lolita. The narrator’s voice becomes the music of the book.
Rhythm and Diction: A weary detective, a sarcastic teenager, and a medieval peasant will all describe a rainy Tuesday differently. First-person forces the writing to be utterly specific to that character’s worldview, elevating the prose and making the storytelling infinitely more textured.
3. The Power of the Unreliable Narrator
One of the most thrilling narrative devices available in fiction is the unreliable narrator—and it only truly works in the first person.
Because we are locked inside one character’s perspective, we are vulnerable to their biases, blind spots, delusions, or outright lies.
Building Suspense: When a narrator is convinced of something that the reader slowly realises is false, the tension skyrockets.
The “Aha!” Moment: Twists hit harder in first-person because the reader has been actively complicit in believing the narrator’s deception. Think of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, where Nick and Amy Dunne’s conflicting first-person accounts keep readers guessing until the very end.
4. Heightened Suspense and Stakes
When the protagonist is the one telling the story, a very specific rule applies: They survived long enough to tell the tale.
While this might seem like a spoiler (we know the protagonist doesn’t die in chapter three), it actually heightens suspense in clever ways.
The “How” Over the “If”: Instead of wondering if the character will survive, the reader wonders how they possibly escaped the nightmare they are currently describing.
Subjective Danger: Because we only know what the narrator knows, we are ambushed by plot twists right alongside them. If they can’t see the killer sneaking up behind them in the dark, neither can we.
5. Built-In Focus and Streamlined Pacing
Third-person multi-POV novels can sometimes suffer from narrative bloat as authors jump between five different subplots across different continents. First-person acts as a natural anchor.
Laser-Focused Narrative: Everything in a first-person novel filters through the protagonist’s experiences. If they aren’t there to witness it, it doesn’t happen (unless they hear about it secondhand). This keeps the plot tight, fast-paced, and intensely focused on the core conflict.
Character-Driven Plots: First-person naturally prioritises internal growth and psychological transformation over sprawling world-building, making it the go-to choice for character-driven stories.
Potential Pitfalls to Keep in Mind
While the advantages are powerful, writing in the first person comes with unique challenges:
The “Head-Hopping” Restriction: You cannot show scenes where the protagonist is absent.
The “I-Ego” Problem: If your narrator is too passive, whiny, or unlikable without being fascinating, readers will drop the book fast.
Information Limits: It can be difficult to naturally reveal things the narrator wouldn’t reasonably know.
However, in the hands of a skilled writer, these limitations often force creative solutions that make the story even stronger.
Conclusion: Is First-Person Right for Your Next Read—or Your Next Book?
The first-person novel is more than just a stylistic choice; it is an immersive experience. It transforms reading from a passive activity into a deeply empathetic, psychological journey. Whether you are looking to get lost in a complex character study, unravel a twisty mystery, or feel the raw electricity of a unique literary voice, the “I” narrator delivers like no other POV can.
Are you a writer planning your next project, or a reader with a favourite first-person novel? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below!
Discover Perth’s Hidden Gems: Top 5 Under-the-Radar Attractions with Unique Charm
Perth, Australia, is often celebrated for its stunning beaches and vibrant culture, but for those seeking quieter, more distinctive experiences, the city and its surroundings harbour lesser-known treasures. These five attractions offer a blend of natural beauty, history, and artistry—without the usual tourist crowds. Perfect for travellers craving serenity and authenticity, here’s where to explore Perth’s hidden side.
1. Bold Park: Eucalyptus Groves and Botanical Wonders
Tucked between the Swan River and the Darling Scarp, Bold Park is a sprawling oasis of 580 hectares of native flora, walking trails, and historic landmarks. While it’s larger than many realize, its size ensures it’s often overlooked by the average tourist. Wander through ancient jarrah and marri forests, or stroll the Daly-Douglas Bridge for panoramic views of the river. The park’s crowning jewel is the Botanic Garden and Perth Zoo, but venture deeper for peaceful spots like the Chinese Garden of Friendship—a tranquil blend of art and horticulture. Bold Park is perfect for picnics, birdwatching, and immersing yourself in WA’s unique ecosystem.
2. South Perth Foreshore: Scenic River Serenity
Just a stone’s throw from the city centre, the South Perth Foreshore offers a picturesque riverside escape. This 2.5-kilometre promenade along the Swan River is ideal for a leisurely walk or bike ride, with breathtaking bridges, art installations, and sweeping views of the city skyline. Unlike the busier northern foreshore, this area is rarely packed, making it a prime spot for yoga, photography, or a quiet sunset. Don’t miss the Hassell Bridge at dusk—its illuminated arches reflect beautifully on the water, creating a postcard-perfect scene.
3. Karrakatta Cemetery: A Garden of History
Step into the past at Karrakatta Cemetery, WA’s original burial ground and a living museum of colonial history. Established in 1829, this peaceful garden cemetery is the resting place of Western Australia’s founding figures, including Premier John Forrest and pioneering women like Lady Frederick Broome. Its serene paths and historic monuments offer a unique glimpse into the region’s past. The cemetery’s ornate design and lush greenery make it a fitting tribute to those who shaped Perth. It’s also a birdwatcher’s haven, with native species thriving in the quiet environment.
4. Perth Institute of Contemporary Arts (PICA): Modern Art with a Side of Serenity
For art lovers, PICA is a must-visit. Located in the heart of Perth, this contemporary art space hosts cutting-edge exhibitions, performances, and installations that often fly under the radar of typical tourist itineraries. The venue’s sleek architecture and thoughtfully curated collections create an atmosphere that’s both inspiring and understated. PICA’s indoor-outdoor spaces and rooftop views of the city add to its charm. With smaller crowds than the Art Gallery of WA, it’s a perfect spot to engage with Australia’s modern art scene at your own pace.
5. Kings Park’s Secret Spots: Beyond the Main Attractions
While Kings Park is Perth’s largest park and a major draw for wildflower season, its lesser-known nooks remain uncrowded. Skip the main lawns and trek to the Pinjarra Hills for peaceful bushwalking or the Garden of Resilience, a 1.5-hectare native plant garden showcasing WA’s environmental efforts. The Culturama (open for three months each spring) offers interactive Indigenous art workshops and a cultural hub with a relaxed vibe. These hidden corners of Kings Park provide a chance to connect with nature and local heritage without the crowds.
Why Explore These Gems?
Perth’s less-crowded attractions often highlight the city’s unique identity—whether through history, art, or natural beauty. By venturing beyond the usual spots, travellers can experience a more intimate side of Western Australia, free from the hustle and bustle of mainstream tourism.
Next time you’re in Perth, take the path less travelled. Discover where eucalyptus groves meet contemporary art, and history mingles with serene landscapes. These hidden spots not only showcase the city’s diversity but also reinforce why Perth is more than just a gateway to the West Australian coast—it’s a destination with layers waiting to be uncovered.
Have you visited any of these underrated attractions? Share your favourite hidden gems in the comments below!
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
Hidden Gems of Harare: 5 Unique and Uncrowded Tourist Attractions You Shouldn’t Miss
When most travellers think of Zimbabwe, destinations like Victoria Falls, Hwange National Park, or Great Zimbabwe often dominate the conversation. But the vibrant capital city of Harare, often overlooked, holds its own with a blend of culture, natural beauty, and quiet charm. While many tourists rush through Harare on their way to other destinations, those who pause to explore will discover a city brimming with understated elegance and off-the-beaten-path experiences.
If you’re looking to escape the crowds and soak in Harare’s authentic spirit, here are five distinctive yet seldom-crowded tourist attractions that offer something truly special:
1. Harare Gardens (Botanical Garden)
Tucked away in the heart of the city, Harare Gardens—also known as the National Botanic Garden—is a serene 47-hectare oasis bursting with indigenous flora, tranquil ponds, and shaded pathways. Despite its central location, it remains one of the city’s best-kept secrets, often visited more by locals taking their morning strolls than by international tourists.
Why It Stands Out: Home to over 900 plant species, including ancient baobabs and flame trees that bloom spectacularly in November, the gardens are a haven for birdwatchers and photographers. The rose garden and the peaceful duck pond add a romantic touch, perfect for quiet reflection or a peaceful picnic. On weekends, you might catch local musicians or art displays, adding a cultural flair.
Pro Tip: Visit early morning to enjoy the misty atmosphere and catch glimpses of sunbirds flitting between blossoms.
2. The Kopje: A Geological Wonder in the City
Perched atop a granite hill in the suburb of Mount Pleasant, The Kopje is a natural rock formation and one of Harare’s oldest geological landmarks. It’s a short, moderately steep hike (around 20 minutes) that rewards adventurers with panoramic views of the city and surrounding highlands.
Why It Stands Out: Beyond the scenic vista, The Kopje is rich in history and geology. The massive granite boulders—some balancing precariously on others—were formed over 2.6 billion years ago. Look closely, and you’ll spot ancient rock carvings that hint at early human settlement. The site is sacred to some Zimbabweans and exudes a rare sense of stillness and spiritual energy.
Pro Tip: Bring sturdy shoes and a camera. Golden hour here offers some of the most breathtaking cityscape views with minimal foot traffic.
3. Chapungu Sculpture Park
A tribute to Zimbabwe’s renowned Shona sculpture tradition, Chapungu Sculpture Park in Borrowdale is a sprawling green space adorned with over 100 stone masterpieces. Despite its artistic significance, it remains refreshingly uncrowded, offering a tranquil space to appreciate the country’s rich sculptural heritage.
Why It Stands Out: Each sculpture tells a story—some spiritual, some whimsical, all deeply connected to Zimbabwean culture and nature. The park is set within beautifully landscaped gardens, with gazebos, lily ponds, and winding paths. It’s an open-air museum where art and nature coexist in harmony.
Pro Tip: Look out for works by master sculptors like Bernard Takawira and Henry Munyaradzi. Guided tours can be arranged to deepen your appreciation of the symbolism behind the art.
4. National Gallery of Zimbabwe
Located in the city centre, the National Gallery is a cultural gem that showcases the best of Zimbabwean and African contemporary art. While it occasionally hosts bustling events, the galleries themselves are usually pleasantly quiet, giving visitors space to truly engage with the artwork.
Why It Stands Out: The permanent collection includes traditional Shona sculpture, modern paintings, and thought-provoking installations by both emerging and acclaimed artists. The gallery also hosts temporary international exhibitions, film screenings, and artist talks, making it a dynamic cultural hub.
Don’t miss the outdoor sculpture garden and the charming café, which often features live acoustic music on weekends.
Pro Tip: Visit on the first Friday of the month for “First Friday,” a monthly art event with extended hours and special previews—still intimate but lively.
5. Samora Machel Avenue: Heritage & Urban Art Trail
Step off the main tourist routes and explore Samora Machel Avenue—a modest street in the city center that doubles as an open-air gallery of colonial-era architecture and vibrant street art. While not a traditional attraction, its blend of historical preservation and urban expression makes it a unique sight.
Why It Stands Out: You’ll find beautifully restored Edwardian and Art Deco buildings standing side-by-side with striking murals that reflect Zimbabwe’s liberation history, cultural diversity, and social commentary. It’s a walk through time: from colonial Harare to modern, resilient Zimbabwe.
Pro Tip: Visit mid-morning when natural light hits the murals perfectly. Bring a notebook—this quiet street inspires reflection on art, history, and identity.
Final Thoughts
Harare is more than just a transit city—it’s a destination with a soul. These five hidden attractions offer peace, beauty, and cultural depth without the usual tourist throngs. Whether you’re admiring ancient stone carvings at The Kopje, soaking in the quiet elegance of the botanical gardens, or letting art spark deep conversations at Chapungu, you’ll come away with a richer understanding of Zimbabwe’s capital.
So the next time you’re in Harare, skip the crowded spots and discover the city’s quieter, more authentic side. After all, the best travel memories are often made in the places few others think to go.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 