Coastal Crimes & Stories

  A Railway Story A short story inspired by a photograph taken during a wonderful journey on a steam train from Pickering to Whitby, across the Yorkshire moors and passing through pretty and unspoiled stations with my beautiful wife, Angela, to whom this story is dedicated. Sarah was early this morning. Well, she was always early, and today was no exception. The platform was empty except for the faint clatter from the tearoom, where Mrs Ashworth was preparing for the breakfast rush. The crisp air was colder than usual. Sarah’s breath drifted in soft clouds as she waited for the 7:52 — the train that would take her to the next town, then a bus, then a short walk to the office where she had just begun work as a junior typist. She loved it. Six girls in the typing room, three seniors, two other juniors, and Margaret, the firm but fair supervisor. Most mornings Sarah made tea for everyone. She didn’t mind. She liked feeling useful. The smell of sizzling bacon and fr...

While I’ve been happily buried in memoir pages and small stories over on this blog, something unexpected happened: my travel blog woke up, stretched, and decided it wanted attention again. It turns out Santorini is very persuasive. One minute I was minding my own business, the next I was surrounded by blue domes, jet‑skiing James Bond hopefuls, and quad‑bike novices wobbling into the sunset — and suddenly I had far too much to write about to keep it all to myself. So yes, Blue Sky Travels is officially up and running again. Same me, same camera, same tendency to get distracted by odd characters and overheard conversations. Just with more sunshine and the occasional mule braying in the background. If you fancy a wander through the chaos, the highlights, and the accidental comedy of island life, you’ll find it all here: Blue Sky Travels https://myblueskytravels.blogspot.com Now, back to the writing desk… until the next adventure interrupts.

  When I step out into the back garden of my cottage by the sea, the morning feels as though it has been waiting for me. The air carries that soft coastal brightness Pembrokeshire does so well — a kind of quiet shimmer that settles on everything it touches. By the old stone wall, the fern is already beginning its slow unfurling. Each frond loosens from its tight curl with the unhurried confidence of something that has all the time in the world. I watch it open, one spiral at a time, as if the day itself is stretching awake. A hint of sea breeze moves through the garden, lifting the edges of the new green. Sunlight catches on the tiny hairs along the stem, turning them briefly golden. And in that small moment — just me, the fern, and the hush of the coast — nature feels wonderfully simple again. Quiet. Certain. Doing exactly what it knows how to do. And I find myself opening with it, just a little, as the morning settles around my Pembrokeshire garden.

Some moments arrive quietly but stay with you. This week, I had one of those. I was on the sofa with my granddaughter, Elza, reading James and the Time Tunnel — my first published children’s book. She settled in beside me in her pink pyjamas, listening with that wonderful, intent seriousness children bring to stories they’ve decided to trust. As I read, she kept glancing up at me as if to check whether I really had written the words on the page. I’m not sure she’s convinced. I’m not entirely sure I am either. There was nothing grand about the moment — no launch event, no applause, no fuss. Just the two of us, a quiet room, and a story that began life at my desk and somehow found its way into her hands. It felt like the kind of magic you don’t plan for, but recognise instantly when it arrives.

While working on my latest book, The aGent , I’ve been looking back over forty years in estate agency — a career that took me into hundreds of homes and introduced me to more characters than I could ever have imagined when I first walked into the office as a young negotiator. People often think estate agency is about houses. In truth, it’s about people. Every front door opens onto a different world, and sometimes you find yourself standing in the middle of moments you couldn’t possibly make up — even if you tried. One of the chapters in the book tells the story of a visit to a very respectable couple who lived in a lovely detached house with a beautiful garden. Everything about the place suggested quiet, comfortable retirement. Tea was poured, polite conversation was exchanged, and I began to make notes for the valuation. Then I noticed a framed photograph on the windowsill. It showed the couple in their garden, smiling broadly for the camera, clearly enjoying themselves. There was onl...

Can AI Really Write a Good Short Story? Out of curiosity, I set three AI chatbots exactly the same challenge. Each was given the same brief for a 3,000-word short story. Same outline, same rules, same requirement for a twist ending. No changes, no extra instructions. Then I asked each one to write the story — and critique the others. What came back was far more interesting than I expected. The brief itself was simple. A quirky character arrives at a venue to carry out a job. Something goes wrong. There are a few possible suspects. The chatbot narrator has to help solve the clues. Light-hearted tone. Unexpected twist. Same starting point for all three. But the results were completely different. One story was careful and polished, with believable characters and a neat, tidy ending. Another leaned into humour and oddness, full of exaggerated personalities and playful ideas. The third tried to be more ambitious, building layers into the plot and using the twist to change how the whole...