Helen Glynn Jones

Wednesday Wander – Stonehenge

I do love a stone circle. There is something fascinating about the fact that, millennia ago, our ancestors expended the effort to place giant stones in specific patterns across the landscape, and we no longer really know why.

And when it comes to stone circles, Stonehenge is arguably the best known of them all. When I first visited the site as a child in the 1970s, you were allowed to wander among the great stones, and I remember people lying across the recumbent ‘altar’ stone.

Now, when you visit the site, you are guided on an anti-clockwise circuit around the monument, allowing you to appreciate it from all angles and see how it sits within the landscape, light changing as you move around the stones.

It is a place of great majesty and power, despite the toll that centuries and human intervention have taken on its original shape. And, as we drove away, it had one last angle to reveal, rising like a crown on the plain above as the land dropped away.

A place of magic, indeed.

Thank you for joining me on another Wednesday Wander! See you next time 🙂

Heading To Camp NaNoWriMo

I’ve only been to camp once in my life. It was during Grade Eight, a class trip to the Canadian woods where we got to stay at a summer camp complete with dormitories and a washhouse and dining hall. There were crafts and toasted marshmallows and the vague threat of putting someone’s hand in a glass of water while they were sleeping, apparently guaranteed to make someone wet the bed. There were crushes and cute older counsellors, plus a ghost story about someone coming in through a window, then somebody actually CAME IN THROUGH THE WINDOW and we all screamed and moved about three feet to the right in a single terrified leap.

So it was pretty fun.

And now I’m about to head off to camp again. This time, however, it’s a virtual camp. I won’t need my sleeping bag, and the only people threatening to put my hand in water while I’m sleeping will be my family (and it will be pretty weird if they do that). There will, however, be stories.

I’m going to Camp NaNoWriMo this April, and am in a cabin with several other lovely authors, all of whom I hope like virtual toasted marshmallows. For you see, I have this vampire story just begging to be told, and several of you out there who are keen to see it written. So, in a moment of madness I signed on, with a goal of 50,000 words for the month. Then I remembered that school holidays run from April 1st to 18th, and so I adjusted my word count goal down to 30,000.

Hmmm.

Well, I won’t deny I’m excited. I did NaNoWriMo in 2014 and ended up with a book, which is currently doing the rounds. So it would be great if I can achieve the same again, or at least get part way through. I have the same feeling I had when I did NaNo, of the story just waiting to be told, the world building inside my head. I can see how it all goes together, though a few plot points are still unclear. But they will come.

And if they don’t, I’ll go for a walk in the woods. Perhaps do a little craft. And then return to the cabin for another go.

#BlogBattle – Hair: Behind The Mask

This week, Rachael Ritchey’s blog battle theme is Hair, and this is my entry. It seems to be Historical Fiction:

Behind The Mask

She had cried when they cut her hair. At least, that was what he had heard. But stories told from behind prison walls grow in legend or ridicule, depending upon who is doing the telling.

He had also heard that it was the only emotion she had shown. No other tears, not even when they passed down her sentence, when she was led to the stone tower where she would spend her final days, shut into darkness alone.

It had been her great beauty, apparently. Hair like pale sun on wheat, long enough to sit on. Add to that her youth and her lustrous grey eyes, set against the gilded halls she frequented, enough to make her stand out even in the most illustrious company.

But youth and beauty are no match for age and power, and the man she murdered had been powerful indeed. Never mind that he had been her father. Never mind the rumours of what he had done to her for years, had let his friends do to her, hidden behind privilege and the high walls of their palazzo.

He thought of his own daughter and his heart clenched, his being shying away from the idea of visiting such desecration on her tender flesh. He shifted, wood creaking beneath his feet, his hands tightening on the timber he held, worn smooth with use.

He could see her coming, now. Hear the calls and jeers of the crowd. Yet even they seemed more subdued than usual. Word had travelled, and she had more than the usual amount of sympathy. Including his own. He shook his head slightly, as if to dislodge the thought. He wondered, not for the first time, whether this had been the right path, the right choice, for him.

His job conferred privilege, though his family knew not what he did. Though he thought his wife might suspect, the nightmares that brought him screaming from sleep perhaps more than would trouble a captain of guards, as she thought him to be. He clenched his jaw, tilting his head to one side and stretching his neck, which had grown tight.

The cart drew to a stop at the base of the stairs. The crowd grew silent as the guards opened the back of the cart and helped her down, even their hands on her slender arms more of a courtesy than to stop her from escaping. She stumbled, her bare foot catching on the timber frame and several women cried out, the guards stopping her from falling.

He had seen so many come to the scaffold. Crying, screaming, others numb with shock, still others pleading and begging, protesting to the very end. But she was none of these. She stood, looking at each guard until they let go of her arms. They did, finally, stepping aside. One of them bowed his head. She nodded in return. Then, taking the rough brown cloth of her skirt in her hand, she held it as though it were the finest silk, so as to ascend the stairs without tripping on the ragged hem.

He was glad to be wearing a mask. The official story was that it was to protect his identity, so that the relatives of the dead could not seek their revenge. But it was more than that. There was no room for sympathy, not in his job. He was merely a tool, delivering punishment meted out by the will of the people.

And yet, it was hard not to be moved when a girl of only sixteen summers made her careful way across the creaking timbers, her head held high. The cropped hair only served to heighten her youth, the fine bones of her face standing out against her pale skin. She stopped, looking at him with her head slightly tilted to one side. She seemed to be looking through the mask, to the very heart of him. He tensed. Then a ghost of a smile crossed her features and she moved closer still.

‘It is all right.’

She knelt, placing her hands carefully on the block and bending her head forward. Her exposed neck was slender like the stem of a flower, skin pale against the tattered edges of her shorn hair. The sun came through, briefly, gilding the ragged strands. Pale sun on wheat, just as the stories told.

He swallowed. Then swung the axe.

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To read more Blog Battle entries, or to add one of your own, visit Rachael’s blog, The Chronicles of the Twelve Realms. See you there!

Lifting Yourself Out Of A Writing Slump

I find writing to be a joyous experience. I love telling stories, living in different worlds and seeing them through my characters’ eyes, feeling what they feel, good and bad. It’s just about the best thing ever. However, there is another side to being a writer – it’s not all lattes and sitting in coffee shops for hours thinking. As writers, we have to deal with writers block, negative reviews, rejection, poor pay, long hours, a WIP that isn’t going where you want it to go, plus the endless slog of self-promotion, and there are times when it all seems too hard. I’ve run up against a couple of challenges myself this week so, on my walk this morning, I made myself a list, tentatively titled: How To Lift Yourself Out of A Writing Slump.

Go for a walk. Get some fresh air and a change of scenery. I often figure out plot points, get inspiration or simply work through frustration while on a walk. Plus it’s good exercise, especially if you’ve been sitting for a while.
Talk to someone. A blogging friend, a fellow writer, your mum. Writing is a solitary profession, but you don’t have to be.
Don’t sweat the small stuff. Because most of it is small stuff. Weird tweets, negative ratings, rejection – it hurts, but it doesn’t last forever. Nobody died. In the end, I know I’m extremely fortunate to be writing stories.
However, don’t discount it either. A lot of small stuff can build up into big stuff, so acknowledge that you’re feeling bad for whatever reason, then process it. Choose to make change and move on.
Think before you speak or act. Someone annoyed you on social media? Left a bad review? Given you your 163rd rejection? Count to ten and let it go. Don’t make a bad situation worse.
Write about it. If you’re suffering from writers block this may seem an impossible task. However, sit down, set a timer and just write. Write about how you feel, what you had for lunch, what you can see out the window. Setting things down on paper is a release, and can get you on the right path again.
Take a break. Writing is work, and it’s hard work. So step away from it completely. Have something to eat. Watch an hour of TV. Go out. Disengage. Then come back to your work with fresh eyes.

Of course, sometimes life throws things at us that are too large to dodge simply by going for a walk. That’s different. However, if you’re just feeling a little bit low about this whole writing thing, maybe give one of my suggestions a try.

Happy Friday, everyone!

Thursday Doors – The British Library, London

This is the main entrance to The British Library, London. Through it you can see into the central piazza, and the large statue of Isaac Newton (based on a drawing by William Blake). This was the meeting point for the first Blogger’s Bash last year, and I have fond memories of us all standing around and chatting like old friends, even though most of us were meeting for the first time.

I went past the library this weekend past, which prompted me to take these shots. Someone had, rather incongruously, left a small baby doll propped against the open door – whether a lost toy or an artistic statement, it was hard to tell.

The Library was created in 1973, as part of the British Library Act of 1972, and is the largest library in the world (by virtue of the number of items catalogued there). My own books are here – this is due to the principle of Legal Deposit, which dates back to to 1610. It states that the Library is entitled to a free copy of every book published or distributed within Britain, as are five other libraries, The Bodleian Library at Oxford, The University Library at Cambridge, The Trinity College Library at Dublin, and the National Libraries of both Scotland and Wales. While you have to send a copy of your book to the British Library, the other five libraries will only request a copy if required, which you then have to send at your own cost (and yes, this happened to me).

Thanks for reading my entry for this week’s Thursday Doors Challenge, courtesy of Norm 2.0. To see more doors or add one of your own, head on over to his site.

Wednesday Wander – Sydney Opera House

Jorn Utzon’s Sydney Opera House is one of the most recognisable buildings in the world, cream coloured sails floating on a point surrounded by blue water. When I lived in Sydney I took the bus across the Harbour Bridge most days to work (I know, it’s tough, right?), yet I never failed to appreciate the beauty of the building, or my good fortune in being able to see it whenever I chose.

Unbelievably, Bennelong Point, on which the Opera House stands, was once a tram depot. Yes, one of the most prominent points on one of the most beautiful Harbours in the world was deemed as being the best spot in the city for trams to terminate. I suppose the proximity to the commuter ferries made it a sensible choice, but you do wonder whether the people who made such decisions had eyes.

The Opera House was opened in 1973, and is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. While I do have other photos of the Opera House from the water and nearby Circular Quay, I chose to share these ones instead. Taken up close from the landward side, they reveal different angles, the intricacy of the tiles that cover the eggshell curves, and the fact that there are several different buildings that make up the whole.

Even though it was a cloudy day when we were last there, I think you can still appreciate the genius of Utzon’s design – it is utterly timeless.

Thanks for coming on another Wednesday Wander with me – see you next time 🙂

#BlogBattle ‘Trace’

It’s Tuesday, it’s wet and rainy, and it’s the first of the month – March has come in colder than February, that’s for sure. It’s also #BlogBattle Day, courtesy of Rachael Ritchey, and this week’s theme is ‘Trace’. As has seemed to be happening lately with these challenges, another scene has appeared from my vampire story. And here it is:

The hallway was dark, the moon only a pale sliver against the velvet sky, glimpsed through long windows. Faintly I could hear music from below, the laughter of my parents and their guests.

But I didn’t care about any of that.

Kyle was behind me, walking two paces back as was proper, as befitted a Guard. Then the hallway turned and I felt him take my hand. I stopped, remembering the kitchen, blood and a kiss in the dark.

He came around to stand in front of me, his eyes a silver gleam. He said my name, the words dropping like stones into the deep pool of night. I held my breath. Then his fingers began to move along the soft inner skin of my arm, tracing the path of my veins. Sensation rippled from his touch, his breath hot/cold on my skin as he bent close. His eyes closed and he inhaled, breathing me in as his fingers moved higher.

I froze, my breath coming in short gasps as his hand reached my shoulder and the strap of my gown, sliding under the fabric. He was so close to me, the scent of violets overpowering, heady like wine. Was I ready for this? I managed to turn my head and he kissed me, a quicksilver touch of the lips.

‘There is a vein just here,’ he murmured, his lips millimetres from mine. ‘And it is oh, so sweet.’ His hand left my strap to slide up the side of my neck, so gentle. I curled into his touch, my hair slipping across the bare skin of my back, every nerve ending alive as he continued to trace my human frailty, pulsing through my skin. I felt as though I might fly, or explode, screaming into the night, dissolving to dissipate like sparking embers, gold flickers against the dark. Every hair stood on end, an ache deep inside me. I reached up, his hair slipping like silk through my fingers as I pulled him in for another kiss.

He let me, and I felt him smile against my mouth, diamond sharp teeth nipping me. His other hand came up between us, sliding over the silk of my dress to rest against my pounding heart. ‘And here is where they meet, where your life pulses strong,’ he said, his lips moving across my cheek and down, past my jawline to my neck, his voice a rumble against my throat, his hand heavy against my chest.

I was gone. Caution thrown to whatever wind passed by. He could have done anything in that moment and I would have let him. How would I stop him, anyway? He could kill me before I even moved.

————————————————————————————————————

Now, once again this is a very ‘lovey’ sort of scene. So, lest you think this whole book is going to be just a vampire love-in (which, while fun, would make for a fairly boring book), here is another scene I wrote for last week’s battle, the theme of which was ‘Pure.’ Obviously I’m a little late for that one, so please don’t consider this as an entry – rather, it’s just a bonus scene if you’re interested:

‘And then the great families were formed, each with their own bloodlines, their own magic.’

Mistress Galena’s voice droned on and on and I tried not to roll my eyes. Mainly because she would have seen me do it, her vampire eyes no less sharp because of her age. Plus I was sitting in my own little pool of light, the lamp I needed when taking lessons perched on one corner of the small table.

Galena kept well back from it, of course. The latest in a long line of teachers, she sat in the corner shrouded in stiff dark taffeta that rustled as she moved, careful not to let my light touch her skin.

‘And they grew in number, careful to choose those with whom they shared the blood magic, wanting to keep the lines pure.’

Yeah, right. Pure. Whatever. I leaned my head on my hand, pretending to make notes in my book, but all I was doing was doodling. And thinking. About the kitchen, steel gleam in the moonlight. And Kyle, leaning against the cupboards, all muscled black and silver.

‘Of course there were aberrations, throwbacks, our old blood resurging in impure ways. Such children were usually abandoned-‘

What the actual f*ck? I sat up as though stung, frowning. I’m right here. She can see me, right? She knows who I am, what I am? I mean, I got it, that I couldn’t go to regular school. My parents had tried to send me but I’d refused, not wanting to have a guard with me at all times. As if I wasn’t going to stand out enough already.

I’d heard there were schools in the human safe zones. Open during daylight hours, the children given a chance at a normal life, an education. My mouth twisted. Right now, they seemed a much better option that this. Hell, vamp high school with a whole battalion of guards seemed better than listening to this. Galena’s wrinkled mouth curved up as she spoke, her eyes glittering more than usual as they focused on me.

‘-their families finding them difficult to feed and care for, the shame of such an impure birth an unwanted burden. There were some who kept the children, of course, but hid them from sight, their existence unacknowledged outside the home, as it should be-‘

‘As it should be?’

My head whipped around. Mother. She was standing in the doorway, her pale beauty even colder than usual. Her voice was calm, but I could see her nostrils were flared, her iridescent gaze fierce.

‘Do I hear you correctly, Galena?’ she went on, sweeping into the room in a cloud of deep red silk.

‘My lady,’ Galena rose from the chair and sank into a deep curtsey, the taffeta folding like paper around her. ‘I’m sure I did not mean-‘

‘I’m sure you did.’ My mother’s voice was clipped, sharp as she cut Galena off and the teacher bowed her head. ‘Is this what she has been teaching you?

Her voice softened as she came close to me, her violet scent enhanced with spice and flowers curling around me as she reached to smooth my hair, so like her own. I nodded.

‘Well, pretty much,’ I said. ‘It’s history, after all-‘

Her mouth twisted. ‘History.’ She paused then swallowed, her hand soft on my hair. The light must have been hurting her – I could see her pale skin turning red – but she did not move away. ‘History is something we can learn from, I suppose. Mainly not to repeat the mistakes of the past.’ She returned her focus to Galena. ‘I trust you take my meaning? Such thoughts are of the old ways, and I will not have you poisoning my daughter with your prejudice.’

‘My lady.’ Galena bowed her head once more, still holding the deep curtsey, vampire strength making it seem so easy. ‘ I am sorry.’

‘You will be, if I hear of any further such talk. They are always in need of new fighters for the pits, you know.’

My mother’s voice was like steel and I glanced up, wide eyed. The pits? Galena would be destroyed in a night. I mean, she was a nasty old bitch but still, it was only words. I’d heard worse. Galena trembled, the taffeta creaking around her ancient form.

‘I am sorry, my lady,’ she whispered, her voice rough as she sank even lower. ‘I will not-‘

‘You will not indeed. I think perhaps it is best if you go. I do not think you have anything of value to teach. Guard!’

As she called out a guard entered the room. Kyle.

I blushed all over.

His silver eyes widened briefly and he took a sharp intake of breath, as did my mother and Galena.

And once again I cursed my human nature, the embarrassment of my unreliable body, my surging blood letting me down once more. I stood up too quickly, knocking the table so the little lamp rocked and flickered. I reached to steady it.

‘Ow!’ My hand burned as it touched the hot metal shade and I snatched it back, feeling the blood pulsing even more against my skin, my blush endless. I knew it must be torture for all three of them. Even though I couldn’t smell it, I knew the scent of my heated flesh was filling the room, overpowering their violet perfume.

All at once it was too much. I turned and ran for the door, hot tears burning my eyes, clutching my sore hand to me. Kyle reached out a moment too late, his long fingers just brushing the velvet of my sleeve. I didn’t stop, running down the long hall, my mother calling after me. She sounded worried. I knew she loved me. I knew I loved her. But it was too hard. I just couldn’t deal with any of it right now.

But you can’t run from vampires. She was there, all at once, catching me in her arms and holding me close, her hands on my hair, rubbing my back.

‘My darling girl, I’m so sorry.’

Thanks for reading! 🙂

An Experiment with Facebook Promotion*

*Before we begin, I’d like to clarify that this promotion was not by using paid ads through Facebook, but rather by contacting community pages on Facebook for promotion.

I recently ran a five-day free promotion for Oak and Mist, the first book in my Ambeth series. I’d run one before, back in September last year, and had rather good results, with around 4500 copies downloaded, several paperbacks sold, a few good reviews and a large increase in my KENP numbers. I’d supported that promotion with three days of paid advertising, as well as blog posts, which were picked up and shared via many lovely bloggers.

I wasn’t expecting lightning to strike in the same place twice, but, as the third Ambeth book is due to come out soon, I thought I’d give it another go and hopefully attract some new readers to the series. This time I decided to supplement the promotion via Facebook. This was for a couple of reasons – first, my budget wasn’t huge, so searching out free or low-cost options suited me. Second, I kind of stuffed up in terms of booking any paid advertising, so ended up with only the first day of the promotion advertised through Booksends. However, I’d read a recent blog where the author had used Facebook as part of his promotion and had garnered an astonishing number of downloads, so thought it worth trying.

And here’s what happened:

I approached three different pages, Free Kindle Books UK, Free Kindle Books and Free Kindle Books – Community. I sent them each a universal link to Oak and Mist, plus some information about the book and the dates of the promotion, and did so a few days before my promo was due to start.

Free Kindle Books UK were great – they ran a promotion on the first day, which was then picked up and shared. I also had some lovely blogging friends share the promo through their own blogs, Facebook pages and Twitter – thank you all so much for the support. This, coupled with the paid ad through Booksends, meant I had a fairly respectable first day of downloads, about 500 in total.

When I approached Free Kindle Books – Community, their page directed me to their website, Free Kindle Books 4u dot com. I went there and checked their submission requirement, which stated that, due to high demand, they could only guarantee me a spot if I made a ‘donation.’ This donation would, however, make my book a featured title for the duration of my promotion and, as the recommended amount started at $5, it seemed a pretty good deal. The page was updated daily and there were plenty of titles on offer, as well as a ‘Featured’ column where, I presumed, my book would be. So I paid $10, submitted my link and that was that.

However.

On the 23rd of February, halfway through my promotion, I checked their site. My book was not featured, nor had it been posted at all. When I did a title search it did eventually show up, but the listing was from my original promotion in the previous September. I had not submitted my book to them at that time, so I can only presume they pull offers from the web and post them, hoping to entice authors such as myself into making ‘donations’, with the impression that we would get promotion as promised in return. I emailed them to enquire, but to date have had no response. So, definitely not recommended.

And finally, Free Kindle Books. They have about 50,000 followers, so I thought they would be a good bet. Once again I was directed to an external website, where a number of packages were available for advertising there. I messaged them, saying I only wanted a Facebook promotion and could they let me know if it was possible. I didn’t receive a reply until the last day of my promotion – it stated that they would be happy to run a post for me on that day, but could I please do them a favour in return.

Visions of all sorts running through my head, I cautiously messaged back, What sort of favour? It turned out that the favour was to purchase a book for 99c, then leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads. I messaged back saying I was always happy to support fellow indies, but couldn’t guarantee I would leave a review. I don’t review every book I read, and won’t leave negative reviews for books as I feel it’s unfair to the author – opinions can be very subjective and just because I don’t like something, doesn’t mean someone else won’t love it. Anyway. I also asked her if this was a standard part of promotion for their page.

She replied that it was, and that she understood I may not be able to leave her a review, however, she hoped I would enjoy the books (my 99c bought me a five-book set). In the end we had a very civil exchange of messages, and, as I felt that 99c was cheap to reach a potential 50,000 readers, I went ahead and did notice a small surge in download numbers on the last day.

So there you have it. In the end I gave away about 800 books, not a huge amount compared to my previous promotion, but still not bad. I also sold a few more copies of No Quarter, received some great feedback comments from readers, and my KENP numbers have surged again. I’m not sure whether I’ll offer Oak and Mist free again – perhaps I might consider it when the last book comes out and there is a full set – but feel both promotions have been a success as I’ve definitely increased my readership. As for using the Facebook community for promotion? I’m still of two minds about it.

How about you? Have you used Facebook to promote your books? And did you get positive results? Look forward to hearing your comments.

Sue Vincent – Writing Prompt – The Fairy Door

It’s Thursday, so I normally post a door as part of Norm 2.0’s Thursday Doors Challenge (and I may yet still, it’s Thursday for a little while longer yet). But Sue Vincent over at The Daily Echo posted a writing prompt based on this picture she took of a mysterious door in a stone wall, and it inspired me to do something a little different.

Sue asked that we use a hundred words or less to describe what we think lies beyond the door. I started writing a poem, for some reason – it arrived quite quickly and so, here it is:

Beyond the door the pathway waits,

Through trees and tiny fairy gates,

Lined with velvet petals sweet

Mosses soft beneath your feet

Branches whisper as you pass

Trailing fingers through long grass

Singing sigh of leaves that fall

As you approach the elven hall

Twigs like fingers pull your hair

Vines appearing from thin air

To wrap you in a green embrace

Leaves to cover up your face

Music lulls you deeper still

Pulled into the fairy hill

There to spend your final hours

Bound amongst the scattered flowers

So take the pathway if you dare

You know not what you’ll find in there…

Hmmm. Well, it started off very sweetly but got a bit darker towards the end. Plus it is slightly over 100 words – I hope you don’t mind, Sue!

If you’re feeling inspired, head over to Sue’s blog and add your own response to her photo – the challenge is open until March 1st.

Wednesday Wander – Museum Of Traditional Architecture, Dubai

We went to Dubai a few years ago, taking several days as a stopover to break up the lengthy flight between Australia and the UK. While there, we opted to stay in the older part of the city, our hotel looking out at the creek, a mosque and the oldest building in Dubai, a towered mud brick fort (which is now a museum).

My husband had a school friend who lived on Palm Island and he was kind enough to take us for a drive on our first day there – however, lack of sleep and a long flight meant we were drooping in the desert heat, and all I remember of the Atlantis Hotel is a glimpse through half closed eyelids, my daughter asleep against me.

Dubai Palace 2 — Looking along the creek

On subsequent days we wandered through the textile market and along the banks of the creek in forty degree heat, my heart in my mouth as I saw the flat topped boats ferrying passengers across the water, thinking of the impossibility of holding my then two-year-old steady if we went on board. (We decided not to, in the end). We did go to Jumeirah beach, the famous Burj Al Arab Hotel like a white sail against the blue waters of the Gulf, then sped along the motorway past gleaming towers, the unfinished Burj Khalifa towering over everything.

On our second last day there we once again walked along the creek, to where it curved like the letter ‘U’. At the apex of the curve stood what was once a Royal Palace, now restored and opened to the public as The Museum of Traditional Architecture. Intrigued, we decided to pay a visit. The thick walls and long verandahs provided welcome respite from the heat, and its position at the curve of the river meant it caught the breeze as well. Inside, the rooms all opened onto a central courtyard, so you had to exit into the courtyard to enter each room on the ground floor. The white-painted walls were almost a foot thick, and one had been left unfinished so we could see the mix of sand and seashells and stones that went into their construction. The decor was neither glittery nor opulent, as you might have expected – instead it was simple and beautiful, with varnished wood, painted walls and carved stone panels, cool stone floors that echoed as we walked through.

The other thing about the Palace was that we were essentially the only people in there, other than a security guard. We did see one other tourist, but he left not long after we arrived. So the security guard took it upon himself to give us an unofficial tour. I remember him taking us into a room where there were two scale models, one of Dubai in the 1950’s and one in the present day – he was obviously immensely proud of what had been accomplished to create this glittering city in the desert. I also remember thinking, as he unlocked one massive wooden door after another, leading us through the palace, that he could just as easily lock the door behind us and no one would know where we were. An uncharitable thought, I’m sure – he was a very nice man and nothing in his manner indicated he would do such a thing. I think it was more that we were the only people in the place – something I found a bit unnerving.

Finally we had seen both levels, sat in the shaded terrace overlooking the river, wandered up and down the open staircases and across the dusty courtyard. As we went to leave, another man appeared. A cleaner, still holding his broom. He came up to our group and held out his hand. ‘Baksheesh,’ he said with a smile. The security guard looked at us and nodded, also smiling. So we hunted around for dirham coins, not wanting to give too much or too little, conscious of wanting to do the right thing. We counted our coins into the cleaner’s still outstretched hand and the security guard inspected our gift, poking it with his finger. Then he smiled and nodded once more. ‘Thank you,’ he said. It seemed we had managed to give the correct amount. Then we exited through the double doors and back onto the riverbank, the noise and bustle of boats and markets surprising after the cool solitude of the Palace.

Dubai Palace 3 — Palace interior – my daughter’s legs just visible 🙂

I found Dubai a fascinating place. Of course it is known for luxury shopping and modern resorts, a gleaming jewel on the shores of the Gulf creating land from water and building ever taller towers. Yet beneath all the glamour the spirit of the original place remains, the people we encountered friendly, welcoming, and immensely proud of their city. I realise that there can be a dark side, as there is to most places, yet in our time there it was not apparent, though we took care to dress and behave appropriately in public, as did the majority of foreign visitors we saw.

So this is my Wednesday Wander for this week – thank you for coming along with me.

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