Istanbul Inspired by Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express My visit to Istanbul was fundamentally driven by the allure of Agatha Christie’s classic, Murder on the Orient Express, a novel where the city itself plays a surprisingly pivotal, albeit fleeting, role. While Christie is renowned for her taut narratives and minimal descriptive prose—a characteristic I deeply admire for its ability to maintain relentless pace and deliver shocking revelations—the city’s significance to both the novel and its enigmatic author is a masterclass in subtle misdirection, a buried clue for the discerning reader. Agatha Christie’s personal journey to Istanbul marked a profound turning point in her life. Following the traumatic dissolution of her first marriage and the death of her mother, she embarked on a solo adventure in 1930 that led her to the crossroads of Europe and Asia. This initial voyage was more than just a trip; it became the genesis of her "life’s second chapter," a period of personal rediscovery and prolific literary output. Istanbul, with its exotic charm and ancient mystique, served as her gateway to the Middle East, a region that would profoundly influence her later works and personal life, notably leading to her marriage to archaeologist Max Mallowan. The legendary Pera Palace Hotel, an opulent Art Nouveau and Neoclassical masterpiece built in 1892 to accommodate the esteemed passengers of the Orient Express, often hosted Christie. It is widely believed that she penned a significant portion, if not a complete draft, of Murder on the Orient Express within its hallowed walls. Today, the hotel proudly preserves her legacy; Suite 411 bears her name, thoughtfully furnished with an antique typewriter and a collection of her novels, offering a tangible link to the Queen of Crime. From Istanbul, Christie launched intrepid overland expeditions, a testament to her adventurous spirit. In those bygone days, one could board a train at Haydarpaşa station on the city’s Anatolian side and traverse vast distances, journeying all the way to distant Baghdad, Mosul, and Tehran – routes that evoke the romance and grandeur of early 20th-century international rail travel. Another intriguing Easter egg for the Christie aficionado is the Tokatlian Hotel, explicitly named in the novel’s second chapter as Poirot’s temporary abode. Christie’s frugality with descriptive detail makes this specific mention stand out. The Tokatlian, once a formidable rival to the Pera Palace in its heyday, still presents a handsome facade with its name etched into the upper masonry. However, it has long since ceased operating as a hotel, now housing an assortment of shops and offices. Located centrally on İstiklal Avenue, Beyoğlu’s bustling pedestrian thoroughfare, it anchors one end of a vibrant stretch that leads to Taksim Square and, at the other, to the Tünel, the world’s second-oldest underground railway after the London Underground, a Victorian-era funicular that speaks to Istanbul’s long history of urban innovation. My own exploration of the former Tokatlian proved somewhat underwhelming in its current commercial guise, yet it was easy to imagine Christie herself staying there on her first nights in the city, as detailed in her autobiography, where she recounts dining at a nearby backstreet restaurant run by White Russian émigrés. This establishment is almost certainly Rejans, now rebranded as Istanbul 1924, which continues to serve Russian-inspired cuisine and flavored vodkas, maintaining a culinary thread to that era. Poirot, ever the man of business, makes only a brief sojourn in Istanbul. He barely has time for a bath and a bowl of soup before he must cross the Golden Horn—the historic waterway dividing the European side of the city—to Sirkeci station, to catch the 9 pm train to Paris, which he finds, rather ominously, mysteriously crowded. While that particular train service no longer operates, the echoing, grand interior and the fetching pink facade of Sirkeci station continue to offer a tantalizing glimpse into the golden age of rail travel, a silent testament to countless departures and arrivals. What becomes clear upon tracing Christie’s footsteps is her deep, if unstated, understanding of Istanbul. She never overtly "shows off" her local knowledge; there are no lengthy descriptions of hammams, mosques, shisha cafes, or specific Turkish culinary delights. Yet, the novel is undeniably rooted in the city, serving as an intriguingly understated introduction. Istanbul’s unique geography, straddling two continents and shaped by millennia of blended cultures, subtly informs the opening chapters. Christie perfectly grasps the logistical intricacies of moving a character like Poirot through this complex metropolis. Like the carefully placed clues in her mysteries, she drops hints about what makes Istanbul truly special. This narrative reticence is, in itself, a gift, inviting those who follow in her footsteps to embark on their own journeys of discovery, piecing together the city’s rich tapestry for themselves. Marcel Theroux Yukon and Alaska Inspired by Jack London’s The Call of the Wild My introduction to Jack London’s evocative prose came courtesy of Mr. Hill, an English teacher whose passion ignited in me an early and enduring love for what London breathlessly capitalized as "The North." From that point, a fascination with raw, untamed landscapes and the power of words became intertwined. The Call of the Wild, published in 1903, tells the gripping story of Buck, a pampered California house dog whose life is irrevocably altered when he is abducted and forced into the brutal world of sled dog labor during the Klondike Gold Rush. Chapter by chapter, London meticulously chronicles Buck’s regression from domestication, shedding the constraints of civilization to embrace his primal instincts. It wasn’t just Buck’s journey that captivated me, but the vivid, almost mythical portrayal of the Yukon itself: "The stars leaping in the frost dance, and the land numb and frozen under its pall of snow." Here was a world of extremes – the endless daylight of the midnight sun, the vast, silent spruce forests, the majestic, often fearsome wolf, temperatures plummeting to 50 degrees below zero, and solitary men wrestling a living from an unforgiving land. It felt impossibly distant, not merely in geography but in time, a relic of a frontier era. Two decades later, I finally made my pilgrimage, immersing myself in the landscape that had so profoundly shaped my imagination. I spent five months paddling the entire 2,000-mile length of the Yukon River, from its source high in the Pelly Mountains to its expansive delta where it meets the Bering Sea, some channels stretching an astonishing seven miles from bank to bank. It was a journey of superlatives, encountering the wild beauty London described, yet also experiencing it through a modern, more nuanced lens. Rereading the book recently, placenames that once resonated as almost mystical invocations—Five Fingers, Little Salmon, Sixtymile—have become familiar waypoints on my own mental map. Near Circle City, where Buck famously attacked the villainous Black Burton in a saloon brawl, I encountered my first grizzly, a truly humbling experience. In Dawson City, the heart of the Klondike Gold Rush, where Buck, in a legendary wager, pulled a sled weighing a staggering 1,000 pounds, I visited Jack London’s cabin—or rather, the preserved half of it, the other residing in California. London himself spent fewer than nine months in Dawson, much of it confined to bed with scurvy, a testament to the harsh realities of the gold rush that often contrasted with the romanticized narratives. London’s experience of this "Northland" was far from the idealized, heroic struggles of his characters. What he wrote was often an idea, a powerful backdrop against which individuals could forge new versions of themselves. These lands were depicted as "new and naked," governed by the "law of club and fang," a constant, brutal tussle between the intrepid outsiders and the raw, untamed nature they encountered. Notably, Indigenous people scarcely feature in his narrative, or if they do, it’s often as another facet of this "wild nature" to be contended with, rather than as sophisticated cultures who had built communal, grounded lives here for millennia before the influx of prospectors. As I journeyed through the Yukon, I had the privilege of meeting members of the Tr’ondëk Hwëch’in and Tlingit tribes. Hearing their stories, learning about their profound connection to the land, and understanding the devastating legacies of the gold rush—the displacement, the cultural disruption, the environmental scars—allowed me to see through London’s romanticized fantasy to a more complex and often tragic reality. Yet, despite this critical perspective, I could not deny the enduring lure of the North. I felt a powerful pull to relocate to the Yukon, understanding the sentiment expressed by the American essayist Edward Abbey: "I may never in my life get to Alaska, but I am grateful that it’s there." London’s writing, for all its historical limitations, taps into that universal human need for escape, for wildness, for a place where one might confront their deepest self. For conjuring the initial spark that ultimately led me to that extraordinary place, The Call of the Wild remains a book I will always hold dear. Adam Weymouth South of France Inspired by Françoise Sagan’s Bonjour Tristesse It was 1964, and I was a restless, bored 15-year-old living in the prosaic English town of Basingstoke. My nascent literary explorations had already revealed the intoxicating power of scandalous literature. A couple of years prior, my girlfriends and I had huddled behind a rattan sofa, giggling as we illicitly read the "rude bits" of Lady Chatterley’s Lover. So, when I got my hands on a copy of Françoise Sagan’s 1954 novella, Bonjour Tristesse—a book famously branded a succès de scandale by the French press and literary establishment for its precocious author and daring themes—I was instantly transported. It was my escape from the dreary confines of my small country town existence and my equally conventional family. I desperately yearned to be French, to inhabit the world of the 17-year-old protagonist, Cécile. I dreamt of sophisticated Parisian cafes, engaging in philosophical discussions with elegant adults over an aperitif, a Gauloises (untipped, naturally) smoldering between my fingers. My list of desires was boundless: I imagined languishing in a white-walled villa on the Côte d’Azur, the morning sun blazing through the bedroom window onto my bare skin, gauzy curtains fluttering in the warm Mediterranean breeze. This was a stark contrast to the icy patterns on the inside of my bedroom window in a semi-detached house on a new-build estate in Hampshire. I craved the caressing warmth of the sea and hot sand, not the frigid English Channel and its painful pebbles. I envisioned myself cruising along the corniche in an open-topped car, adorned in a Givenchy cocktail dress and Cartier jewelry, heading to casinos, a far cry from a Westward Ho! holiday camp wearing the same hand-knitted turquoise sweater as my brothers. Most of all, I wanted to be treated as an equal by adults, to live a life in dangerous, vibrant color, to write my own hedonistic novel of shocking immorality—just as Françoise Sagan had done at the tender age of 18. And, undeniably, I wanted to shed my virginity. By 1969, many of those aspirational boxes began to be ticked. I found myself in Paris with an artist boyfriend, staying in the apartment of a schoolfriend’s film-star uncle. I marveled at the effortless sophistication of Parisian women, swooned at the unique lemony chewing-gum scent of the Métro, and the soft whoosh of its trains with their distinct classes of carriage. The regimented beauty of the Tuileries Gardens enchanted me. We learned the proper French way to tear apart a fresh baguette or croissant, recognizing that in Paris, it seemed, there was a proper way for everything. It was in 1971 that I finally reached the Côte d’Azur, exploring Port Grimaud and Saint-Tropez, and discovered the France I had so long fantasized about: intense heat, blinding sunlight, and an endless expanse of blue sky and sea. I spent days sunbathing topless, slathered in baby oil, engrossed in Valley of the Dolls and smoking Gitanes. The culinary delights of pan bagnat, moules farcies, and frites became a celebration of indulgence and liberation, a stark contrast to the more formal rules and regulations of Paris. In 1979, my husband and I returned to the Riviera for a holiday with friends, staying in a magnificent white-walled villa with two grand pianos in Cap d’Antibes, cruising in an open-topped, gold Volkswagen Beetle. It was there, after a memorable dinner one night at the legendary Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc—an icon of Riviera glamour, frequented by celebrities and royalty—that I conceived my longed-for first child. It seemed dreams could indeed come true, fueled by the audacious spirit of a book that dared to challenge conventions. Now, all that remains is to finally write that novel… Elaine Kingett Elaine runs writing holidays in Spain Kyrgyzstan Inspired by Chinghiz Aitmatov’s The White Ship The tantalizing, smoky scent of grilled meat wafted from bustling cafes, mingling with the sunscreened air over sunbathers, swimmers, and a lively group of elderly women selling buckets of dacha-grown berries. After a long, arduous winter in Kyrgyzstan, life on Central Asia’s "beach"—the sandy shores of Issyk-Kul—unfurled in vibrant hues. This magnificent body of water, the world’s second-largest mountain lake after Lake Titicaca in the Andes, offered a vision of pure, unadulterated summer joy. My 2011 visit wasn’t my first to Kyrgyzstan, but it was the inaugural time I’d dared to dip my toes into the lake’s famously frigid, slightly saline waters. This act, a personal ritual, had been a long-held desire ever since I first encountered The White Ship. Published in 1970 and translated by Mirra Ginsburg, the novel was penned by Chinghiz Aitmatov, a literary giant born in a small village in north-west Kyrgyzstan in 1928, who would become a national hero and a prominent voice in Soviet literature. Aitmatov’s poignant story centers on a lonely seven-year-old boy, effectively abandoned by his divorced parents and living with relatives in a remote mountain village overlooking Issyk-Kul. He dreams of transforming into a fish, believing this metamorphosis would allow him to better watch for his father, whom he imagines captains the mythical white ship that sails upon the lake. This deeply moving novel, in which Issyk-Kul features heavily as both a physical and spiritual presence, reads like a modern fable, intricately weaving together ancient Kyrgyz legends, tribal lore, and pervasive myths. There are frequent references to the "horned Mother Deer," for instance, a sacred totem for the Bugu clan—one of Kyrgyzstan’s 40 historical tribes, each symbolically represented by a sun ray on the national flag. At Cholpon-Ata, the busiest stretch of Issyk-Kul’s shoreline, I encountered a Russian factory manager from an industrial Siberian city, vacationing with her family. Her face lit up as she described trying a fresh peach for the very first time, an experience previously limited to canned versions. It was a simple pleasure, yet profoundly memorable. She also expressed a deep belief in the health-giving properties of the environment—the crisp mountain air and the lake’s unique saline composition—particularly beneficial for her asthmatic son. Just as in Aitmatov’s narrative, the lake was seen as a source of hope, offering potential remedies and solace. Above us, paragliders drifted lazily in the cloudless sky, miniature specks against the vastness. Issyk-Kul in summer remained a place of unassuming joys: buckets and spades, intricate sandcastles, and brightly colored inflatable beach balls. Only the majestic backdrop of the chocolate-brown Tian Shan mountains hinted at our impressive altitude of 1,600 meters (5,270 ft). Once I’d had my fill of the sun, refreshed by sweet cherries and a cold Baltika beer, I ventured to the nearby Rukh Ordo cultural complex, an open-air museum also nestled on the lake’s shore. Rukh Ordo, envisioned as a spiritual center promoting global peace and interfaith respect, offered a serene space to wander, with chapels representing different religions and traditional yurts scattered across its grounds. It was gratifying to learn that after Aitmatov’s passing in 2008, Rukh Ordo was dedicated to his memory, becoming a living tribute to his legacy. Before catching a bus back to Karakol, where I had established my base, I sought out a statue of him, taking a moment to pose for a photograph alongside it—a final, personal homage to Kyrgyzstan’s beloved literary son, whose words had imbued this extraordinary landscape with such profound meaning. Caroline Eden Cornwall Inspired by Daphne du Maurier’s Frenchman’s Creek I first read Frenchman’s Creek when I was about 12 or 13. I can no longer recall how it entered my orbit; perhaps it was a forgotten volume on a home bookshelf, or perhaps one of my more worldly aunts pressed it into my hands. Regardless, the effect was immediate and profound. From the dreamy, almost hallucinogenic opening chapter, I was utterly swept away by this "girls’ own adventure." I found myself gasping aloud at the daring feats of its sassy heroine, Lady Dona St Columb, as she defiantly escaped her staid husband and the stifling, feckless court life of Restoration-era London. Dona retreats to her family’s long-neglected Cornish estate with her two young children, only to discover that their remote country house is being used as a clandestine base by a wanted man: a French pirate, not of the crude, brutish sort, but of the passionate, artistic variety. What ensues is a wild and perilous romance, unfolding in and around the labyrinthine creeks of the Helford River. Dona, shedding her aristocratic constraints, joins him aboard his ship, even donning a cabin boy’s disguise to participate in audacious raids on the oafish local gentry. But when her husband and his cronies arrive, hell-bent on hunting down her swashbuckling lover, she is forced to make an agonizing choice: sacrifice him to certain death or risk her own life and reputation to save him. As an adventure-hungry teenager, it wasn’t merely the bold Dona and her scandalous below-decks antics that captivated me. It was the almost physical immersion in the setting itself. Like all of Du Maurier’s masterpieces, Frenchman’s Creek employs every sensory detail to transport the reader, conjuring a mysterious, untamed Cornwall that bore no resemblance to the muddy campsites and ubiquitous ice-cream vans of my childhood holidays. Here was a lawless, ancient land of secret tributaries, hidden pools, and thickly wooded riverbanks, where anything—especially the illicit and thrilling—could happen. Du Maurier, who lived much of her life in Cornwall, possessed an unparalleled ability to infuse her landscapes with character, making them as vital as any protagonist. Reading the novel again recently (and still finding myself gasping at every turn), I was finally inspired to undertake my own pilgrimage, summoning the spirit of Dona as I headed west from London. Frenchman’s Creek is a very real place, located approximately 15 miles south of Falmouth, part of a ria—a distinctive, flooded river valley open to the sea. The book’s description remains perfectly accurate: "a narrow inlet, branching from the parent river, its short, twisting course running westward into a valley." Today, it is lovingly managed by the National Trust, and apart from a few tastefully placed signs and footpath markers, it retains its enchanted, timeless character, seemingly unchanged from how it would have appeared to the novel’s 17th-century characters. It’s more accessible now, with a popular 3.8-mile circular walk from the quaint village of Helford, winding along the creek itself. Through the ancient oak and beech trees, one can glimpse sailing boats anchored in the main channel, and it’s remarkably easy to envision Dona, her heart pounding, wandering among these very trees, spying the white sails of the pirate ship hidden deep within the creek, descending stealthily to the water’s edge. Du Maurier excels not only at crafting evocative settings and intricate plots but also at creating powerfully subversive female characters. Written in 1941, during the grim realities of World War II, the novel served as an escape for its author, reflecting her own spirited resistance to conventional domesticity. The novel’s themes of female lust, infidelity, and a protagonist’s disregard for traditional maternal duties would have been highly controversial, even shocking, for its time. Refreshingly, Du Maurier never attempts to justify or apologize for her protagonist’s actions, presenting Dona’s choices with a bold, uncompromising honesty that resonates with modern readers. This is a book that demands to be read breathlessly in one sitting, far from the incessant distractions of the modern world. Fortunately, for today’s adventurous reader, the Landmark Trust offers a remote holiday cottage, aptly named Frenchman’s Creek, tucked away in the woods at the head of the creek, deliberately devoid of Wi-Fi or phone signal. It’s the perfect place to ask oneself, as Dona St Columb might have done, what truly matters when faced with life’s most compelling choices. Lois Pryce Post navigation ‘A landscape raw and wild’: by train to the heart of the Yorkshire Three Peaks A Culinary and Cultural Odyssey: Exploring Britain’s Iconic Piers, from Worthing’s Ebb to Historic Landmarks.
