There are any number of reasons for visiting Filey. The beach is clean, long, and rarely crowded. The countryside is bold and handsome, with one maritime feature that deserves to be better known: the long, thin rock finger of the Brigg, pointing into the chilly grey waters of the North Sea.
Old Filey lies around the Ravine, a glacial gash running down to Coble Landing. This is the fishing Filey of centuries past, with neat little terraced cottages and a cluster of attractive 18th century houses.
Authors do this for a living, and if you take their work for nothing, you are depriving them of a living.
In a sense, there is no such thing as a bargain in computing. Models which are popular sell for the price they are supposed to fetch for the best part of their product cycle.
Once you get over the culture shock, Filey is a pleasant spot, particularly at the beginning or end of the summer, when the hotels are half full. The brave go in winter, when the wind can be bitter and biting and Filey resumes its real life as a tiny, introverted fishing community.
The English Channel is such a narrow little puddle, you cannot help wondering why no invader has succeeded in crossing it since 1066.
Romney Marsh remains one of the last great wildernesses of south-east England. Flat as a desert, and at times just as daunting, it is an odd, occasionally eerie wetland straddling the coastal borders of Kent and Sussex, rich in birds, local folklore and solitary medieval churches.
In the world of crime novels, the annual Audible Sounds of Crime awards are a pretty big deal, and I was thrilled to be shortlisted for my fifth novel in my bestselling Nic Costa series.
Flash turns up the optical volume so that whatever lies behind the lens - be it film or a digital sensor - is a little more receptive.
Historic Amsterdam, that old part you first see when you turn up at Centraal Station, may have its monuments, but it's also the most tawdry and overcrowded part of the city.
Few areas which are not publicly owned can boast as many footpaths as the Cuckmere Valley. For a short walk, a footbridge across the river leads back to the little hamlet of Milton Street, where another classic local pub, the Sussex Ox, provides an admirable lunch.
Nobody strikes a medal for the Royal Military Canal campaign any more, but a pint in the back bar of the ancient Mermaid Inn, perched in front of one of the biggest and oldest inglenooks you're ever likely to see, is its own reward.
The bronze dwarfs give you the first clue that Wroclaw is no ordinary city. They lurk all over the place, carousing outside pubs, snoring at the doors of hotels, peeking out from behind the bars of the old city jail.
