Coastal Crimes & Stories

 I’m currently working on a novel set on the Welsh coast — a place of routine, community, and unspoken understanding. The Tides We Bury is a story about reinvention, loyalty, and what happens when the past decides it’s done waiting. More to come. You’re very welcome to follow the blog for future posts and stories

 A few days ago, The Man in the Moon and Santa’s List went live on Amazon . Seeing it there — real, finished, and no longer just something in my head — was quietly emotional. This little story has taken me on quite a journey, not just creatively, but personally too. The idea began with a simple question: How does Santa really know who’s been good at Christmas? From that grew a story about Rosie , a seven-year-old girl who tries her best, gets things wrong sometimes, and worries she might not be “good enough”. It’s also a story about the Man in the Moon , who watches carefully but learns that not everything important is loud or obvious. And at the centre of it all is Santa — thoughtful, kind, and quietly wise. I wanted to write a Christmas story that felt safe. One that didn’t divide children into “naughty” and “nice”, but instead recognised effort, kindness, and intent. Especially the quiet acts that often go unnoticed. The publishing side of things was a bit daunting for ...

  I realised recently that I hadn’t really explained how writing came to take up so much of my time — or why I finally decided to share it. For as long as I can remember, writing has been something I did quietly and privately. Stories were written, put away, revisited, rewritten, and then put away again. They existed without an audience, without deadlines, and without any real intention of being shared beyond the desk they were written at. For a long time, that felt enough. Somewhere along the way, though, writing stopped being an occasional diversion and became something more persistent. Ideas lingered. Characters stayed longer than expected. Moments from life, work, history, and imagination began to demand space on the page rather than being quietly filed away and forgotten. What took much longer was the confidence to share any of it. That shift came when I had to step away from work at 62. With a change of pace and more time than I’d had in years, writing moved from th...

  Welcome, and thank you for finding your way here. Tides and Crimes is a space I’ve created to share my short stories — something I’ve been quietly writing for a long time, but have only recently found the confidence to place into the world. This blog is not about perfection, labels, or fitting neatly into one genre. It’s about stories. Here you’ll find a mixture of fiction: mysteries, thoughtful pieces, children’s tales, and stories inspired by real places, real moments, and the questions that linger after them. Some are shaped by coastal landscapes and quiet corners; others wander much further afield. What they all have in common is a starting point in curiosity, imagination, or lived experience. I’ll also occasionally share notes about where ideas come from — not to explain the stories, but to offer a glimpse into the moment that first sparked them. This blog is very much a journey. New stories will appear as they’re written, and I hope that over time Tides and Crimes bec...

A Short Story  She insisted on a window seat as she bustled into the café from the damp, cobbled streets. Even though the only unoccupied table was laid for four covers, she quickly made her way over to it. After removing her dripping raincoat, she placed it on the back of the corner-most chair and sat down. Barely visible from the dreary street, she sat turned in towards the café, yet continuously glanced through the picture window at the busy road outside. Waiting for someone, maybe. Could they see her? Maybe she wanted them to pass by. Why? She wasn’t what you’d call a pretty woman, but certainly not unattractive. She had olive skin and was smartly dressed in black trousers with stylish calf-length leather boots. Her rust-coloured jumper was a little baggy, but the colourful scarf was a well-considered accessory, giving a much-needed splash of colour. Her wavy, shoulder-length dark brown hair hadn’t fared well in the damp weather — slightly tousled and wet. The glasses she to...