Tag: life

Notes from Sicily

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Hi everyone, it’s been a few months since I last posted on here, the reasons for which I’ll come to later.

Well, “The Magus of Sicily” came out on July 3rd and reviews thus far have been overwhelmingly positive. Which is a relief. The Mirror, Mail and Financial Times all really liked it and – most importantly – feedback from readers has been wonderful.

And, as I said, that was a relief. I confess I was nervous about this one. Not because I’m not proud of the book – I am – but because after eight books in a series I was worried about holding on to my readers or, as I wrote in the acknowledgements, having them throw the book across the room once they realised Nathan wasn’t in it.

So thank you all so very, very much for the feedback. And – if by chance you were one of those who threw it across the room – don’t worry. I’m actually in Sicily at the moment but, confusingly, working on next year’s Venice novel and, yes, Nathan, Fede, Gramsci et al will be back!

And now, sadly, I come to the reason for the lack of recent posts. As those of you who follow me on the socials will know, my mother died at the end of June. It was peaceful and without suffering and for that I am grateful. It was also not unexpected; but nevertheless nothing can ever quite prepare you for the late night phone call from an all-too-familiar number…

I have my lovely cousins in the South of England who, like Caroline, have been an immense support to me. But Mum was my last living relative on that side of the family and my last living relative in Wales. I am the last Jones now. That’s a lot to get my head around. It also means that the rhythm of my life which, since dad died, has been three weeks in Venice followed by a week in Wales has now changed. Things will be different now. That, too, is a lot to get my head around.

She never got to see “The Magus of Sicily”. To be honest, she was too physically frail to read by the end of her life. But she knew what I did, and would always ask about how I came up with plots and ideas (answer : you walk around Venice and something will come up). She always asked after Caroline (if she wasn’t there – she also visited a lot) and Mimi (who, sadly, she never got to meet except via photos).

“The Venetian Masquerade”, book 3 in the Nathan Sutherland series, came out back in 2019. The dedication reads :-

For Mum and Dad, with love.

It took me many years to find la strada giusta.
Thank you for your patience

Six years on, and I still mean that. Diolch, dad. Diolch, mam.



Adventures in car hire

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Well, this was going to be a wrap-up of Gwyl Crime Cymru Festival 2025, and there will be one, but in the meantime you’ve got this piece of nonsense instead.

I was supposed to be flying back to Wales, via Bristol, 24 hours ago; but a strike put paid to that and so, thanks as ever to Caroline who rebooked everything for me, I found myself flying out this morning. All went well, neither of the airports were horrible (okay, I had to remove a blade from my razor but – I forgot, my bad) and I’m at the car hire place nice and early. Picking up the car from Avis is super-efficient and, so far, it’s all going well.

I check the car over and notice a small scuff on the paintwork. I go back inside and mention it to the young woman behind the desk who says, oh don’t worry, just take a photo of it and it’ll be fine. Okay, good to know.

Then I actually get into the car.

Now, the thing you need to realise is that cars now work differently to when I left the UK. I live in Venice. I don’t have a car. And I spend about 20 minutes trying to get the onboard computer to communicate with my phone as the route from Bristol Airport to the M4 is tortuous and, even after all these years, I don’t trust myself to remember it.

Anyway, I get it sorted, and I try to start the car. I know ignition keys are becoming a thing of the past, but I look around the dashboard and I can’t find a start button. Eventually I google “Vauxhall Crossland Start Button” and find it’s kind of hidden away behind the steering wheel. Phew. That could have been embarrassing. I press the button and the engine rumbles into life. Just take the handbrake off and I’m good to go.

Except…

Except, try as I might, I can’t get the bloody handbrake off. I google “Vauxhall Crossland handbrake” and follow the instructions and…and…nothing. The damn thing refuses to work.

Eventually I give up. I go back in and say words to the effect of “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand cars any more, can somebody tell me how to take the handbrake off.”

The young woman who was dealing with me comes out to the car park and shows me. Of course, it works first time. Oh, silly me! We have a good laugh about it and I prepare to set off.

And I do. As soon as I’m past the barrier to the car park a warning light starts flashing and there’s an incessant PLING sound. Apparently the seat belt isn’t on.

I’m on the road now and there’s nowhere to pull over. I do a U-turn at the airport roundabout, go back to the rental place, and pull over. I unlatch the seat belt and plug it in again. I open and close all the doors. I plug in the passenger seat belt.

PLING.

I plug in the rear seat belts.

PLING.

I open and close all the doors again because, hey, shutting things down and starting them again always worked in IT.

PLING. PLING. PLING.

There’s only one thing left to do.

The young woman is well used to me by now and we greet each other as old friends.

She takes pity on me. Perhaps I might like another car?

I practically weep with gratitude. Nearly an hour has passed since I first picked up the first car.

It’s an automatic, are you okay with that?, she says, by now evidently a bit worried that I might be behind the wheel of any vehicle at all.

Frankly, by now, I’d be grateful for a man with a flag walking in front of me as a warning to other road users and so, yes, I’m perfectly okay with that.

We swap keys, I get into my new Nissan, and I set off. The roads are clear, the sun is shining, my heartrate returns to normal, and I’m back in Pembroke three hours later.

I still couldn’t get the bloody Bluetooth to work, mind you.

With my sincere thanks to the lovely people at Avis for their immense patience…

Venice in Film : Eva

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A recent watch with the House of Hammer team, Joseph Losey’s The Damned has set me off on a bit of a project, namely to watch every Losey film by the end of the year. A bit like my Fritz Lang odyssey of a few years ago, except this might be a little bit easier given that Losey’s filmography is shorter and all the films actually exist.

Unlike the Lang project I won’t be doing these in order. Thus far I’ve just been picking and choosing ones that happen to catch my eye. And this led me to 1962’s French-Italian co-production Eva (Eve, in the UK and – oh dear – The Devil’s Woman in the US).

Stanley Baker plays Tyvian Jones, a working-class Welsh writer living in Venice. As he explains, his first novel made him famous and the film adaptation made him rich. Well, perhaps they were different times for writers. Anyway, despite being engaged to the lovely-but-fragile Francesca (Virna Lisi) he becomes obsessed with high-class escort Eva (a deeply sexy Jeanne Moreau). Tyvian’s life unravels, in hopeless pursuit of Eva whilst being unable to find happiness with Francesca. It also transpires that he may not have been entirely honest about his background…

Further down the cast list we find Losey favourite James Villiers and his lovely voice. There’s a small role for Lisa Gastoni, and none other than Peggy Guggenheim has a cameo as a baccarat player in the casino. IMDB says Vittorio de Sica is there as well, but I couldn’t spot him.

Eva was co-scripted by Hugo Butler (blacklisted in Hollywood, like Losey himself) and his regular collaborator Evan Jones, who, unusually for the time, play up Baker’s Welshness. He even gets to sing Sospan Fach at one point. Baker was another favourite of Losey’s : if you wanted someone to play a tough cop, a working class hero or simply – as in this case – a major league asshole, there was no-one better at it than Stanley Baker. The boozy, self-destructive Welsh artist (this is only a decade after the death of Dylan Thomas) could easily have become a cliche and yet Baker makes it work; a seething toxic stew of machismo and self-pity. Moreau is cooler, controlled without ever wandering into “ice maiden” cliches, the intellectual to Baker’s force of nature.

Losey, filming in glorious black and white, makes 60s Venice look as beautiful as it ever has, including some memorable interior scenes at the Hotel Danieli and, unusually, on Torcello. Essential viewing for the Venetophile, then, but it’s also a wonderful film in its own right.

Highly recommended, then. It’s a film that will stay with you.