Good For The Soul by Philip Rennett, published April 25th 2025 and is the second book in The Path Finder Series following on from the award-winning Paths Not Yet Taken. It is described as ‘an acerbic, heartrending and laugh-out-loud satirical rollercoaster. It rips chunks out of politicians and oligarchs, spits them onto the ground, then grinds them into a mush, before wiping its feet on the doormat and heading inside for a cup of tea.‘
Philip has kindly shared an extract with us today, which you can read below, but he also has written a guest post, based on a true story, about how a wet walk in Ireland ended up centre stage in Good For The Soul!
Good For The Soul ~ Purchase Link
[ About Good For The Soul ]
Six months after assisting the UK’s missing prime minister and avoiding two assassination attempts on the same day, Simon Pope is on holiday with friends, trying to cheer up a man who finds retirement depressing. But Pope also has a secret mission, which requires him to remain unobtrusive. He must assess whether specific individuals in the small Irish town of Clonbrinny are in mortal danger from a criminal overlord. Failing miserably to maintain the desired low profile, Pope and his group become embroiled in events outside their control and discover all is not as it seems.
Perceptions dissolve, revealing a far more dangerous reality.
Meanwhile, former prime minister Andrew Blackwell’s self-imposed media silence has made him more popular than ever. His Path Finder philosophy generates global intrigue and excitement, despite nobody knowing what it is – including him.
When a secret conference on Ireland’s west coast goes badly wrong, Blackwell must evade a media manhunt and return to London, relying on old friends and new acquaintances for help.
Subsequent events and a meeting of minds raise the tantalising prospect of an unlikely collaboration, creating the foundation of a movement that could transform the world.
Guest Post – Based on a true story by Philip Rennett
How a wet walk in Ireland ended up centre stage in Good For The Soul
Good For The Soul – the second novel in the Path Finder series – was published on 25th April 2025. As with many books, this one wasn’t written completely from scratch.
Over the last four decades, I have made notes whenever I’ve seen or experienced something that might be useful one day.
For example, my first time away with some good friends from Leicester was in Ireland. It was a fishing / golfing / walking week, and we were based in Ballinamore, a small town reasonably close to the border.
The hotel we stayed in had a great bar, and the breakfasts were very good, but the rooms left a lot to be desired – floor space, for example. Half a dozen single beds were crammed into one large double bedroom, which looked over the high street. A full cattle truck would drive by in the middle of the night and a motorcycle, which you could hear for a full two minutes, would roar by every morning at six o’clock.
Most of the lads went fishing. I was the only one walking and three of us golfed. Prior to the trip, I’d joked about the possibility of stumbling across a transfer of weapons from one car to another on a walk (this was around 1992, with the Troubles ongoing in the north).
It didn’t seem so funny as I walked down a hill on a narrow country lane in pouring rain with mist all around. I saw a large box being carried out of a single, lonely cottage and loaded into the back of an estate car by three men.
All three turned and watched as I emerged from the mist and headed towards them, dressed in black waterproof overtrousers and a large-hooded black cagoule. Just as I was thinking my time was up and there was no escape, they seemed to have the same idea, closed the tailgate, rushed inside the cottage and slammed the door shut.
I didn’t even look their way as I trudged past, but I did glance inside the estate car and saw my box of weapons was, in fact, a coffin. Thinking of the weather, and the derelict church I’d passed near the top of the hill, I must have looked like the Grim Reaper.
I carried on to Lough Allen and found shelter from the worst of the rain close to the water’s edge, where I ate a soggy lunch. I was wet, miserable, and convinced that somebody with a large hosepipe was following me around. After an hour, I set off again with no respite from the weather, but keen to get to Drumshanbo in time for my pre-arranged lift back to our hotel.
I was a touch early and mooched around the town to keep me warm. I passed St Patrick’s church, where a coffin was being carried from the church into the graveyard. At least, it was being carried until I saw the small entourage halt and look in my direction. I recognised two of the pallbearers from earlier, turned around as gracefully as I could, thankful my hood was still in place, and retraced my footsteps into the town centre and then out towards Ballinamore Road, where my ride was waiting for me.
Now and then, I wonder what those poor souls thought as Death checked first on the coffin and then the funeral itself.
I’d like to think that my memory was good enough to remember those details from over 30 years ago, but the fact is I wrote everything down almost as soon as I returned to the hotel, sat in the bar with an Irish coffee (although I assume that’s just a coffee in Ireland…).
That experience formed a key plot line in a novel called Absolution that I gave up on in 2016. Fortunately, I throw no work away, which is why elements of that event have been successfully resurrected in the new novel and will live on forever (ish).
If you read the new book, see how much of the above you can spot!
Chapter 2: Confession
The door of the confessional in St Patrick’s church, Clonbrinny, creaked open as the priest stepped in, closed it and settled onto his seat.
Before he could focus his mind, the penitent on the other side of the latticed opening decided there was no time to waste.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
The priest sighed.
“Let’s cut to the chase, Margaret. Is it the usual?”
A gasp came from the other side of the confessional.
“How did you know my name?”
The priest stifled another sigh and whispered a quick, silent prayer of his own before responding.
“Your wheelchair is just outside the door, Margaret. Jimmy is sitting in the nearest pew, reading the Racing Post. Now, is it the usual?”
“I’m ashamed to say it is.”
“Margaret, we have talked about this. Dreaming is not a sin.”
“You say that, Father. But you came to me naked in my sleep and asked me to wash your cassocks.”
“Cassocks?”
“I don’t like saying bollocks in church.”
Removing his glasses, the priest covered his face with both hands, rubbed his eyes, and – not for the first time – prayed for patience.
“We’ve spoken about this many times before, Margaret.”
“But this one was special, Father. Dirty. It started when I caught you polishing your monstrance in the sacristy after Mass…”
Realising he would never get the next fifteen minutes of his life back, the priest put the earbuds in his ears, pressed ‘Play’ on his smartphone, closed his eyes, and relaxed at the start of Mozart’s requiem.
By the time he reached Rex tremendae, Margaret would be drawing to a close, keen to catch the bus to the city to meet her younger sister for lunch. Thursday was roast day at the residential home. They would have a meal and a good chat, then Jim would return from the pub and they’d both come home again.
Sure enough, as the perfect cadence brought Tuba mirum to an end, he removed his ear buds just in time to hear, “And that’s why I need to be punished, Father. No priest should ever suffer a sore bottom and a broken finger. Not even in somebody else’s dream. Anyway, I’m sorry for these and all my sins.”
Curious how whatever had happened had happened, but not so much that he regretted his musical interlude, the priest cleared his throat.
“A penance isn’t a punishment, Margaret. It enriches life…”
“Then you should spank me, Father. Firmly. On my naked bottom.”
The priest dismissed bending a seventy-eight-year-old over his knee and turned instead to the thought of penance.
“I think we’ll go down a different route,” he said.
“You said that in the dream.”
Shuddering, he continued, “I want you to have a chat with God when you’re ready to go to sleep. Thank him for his grace and mercy. Reflect on the wonderful things you’ve seen and done over the years. Ask him to remind you of those as you take your rest.”
A moment’s silence followed, then the sounds of movement as Margaret got to her feet and her walking stick clunked against the wooden surrounds.
“Thank you, Father, and bless you,” she said, pausing for a moment before she opened the door. “You know, you’re a lovely man when you’re sober, but I think I prefer you when you’re drunk.”
And with that, she was gone.
The clink of coins tumbling into the collection box brought a warm flutter to the priest’s heart. Then he sat back, replaced the ear buds, closed his eyes and pressed ‘Play’ once more.
Good For The Soul ~ Purchase Link
[ Bio ]
Philip Rennett’s writing career started in 1970, at the age of eleven.
“I found my mum crying with worry about how we were going to pay the bills. She thought we were going to lose our home,” he says. “I noticed that some comics published letters and offered prizes for the star ones, so I started writing.”
Phil’s first letter won a star prize in The Victor. “I thought it would be some money,” he laughs, “I won a table tennis set.”
Undaunted, he did more research in the newsagents, wrote to the football magazine Shoot and won a £2 postal order, which he gave to his mother. She gave him a big hug, then put the money in his savings account.
“I realised I could make money doing what I enjoyed. I spent my entire working life writing, firstly for my employers and then for clients,” he says.
His career started as a public relations officer for a police force in the Middle East. Experiences included crash-landing in a plane whose pilots forgot to lower the undercarriage; flying in another plane with a dead body knocking against his leg; and gate-crashing a reception at the Sultan’s palace where he bumped into the UK prime minister and the Sultan.
In an unrelated incident, he spent a couple of uncomfortable minutes sitting in his Volkswagen Beetle while three very angry soldiers pointed guns at his head through the open driver’s window.
Opting for a quieter life, he returned to the UK and worked in newspaper advertising before starting his own public relations consultancy, which he ran for thirty years.
After decades of news releases, case studies, articles, advertisements, websites, award entries, major bids, mail shots and newsletters, he started writing for himself when he retired in 2020.
His first novel – Paths Not Yet Taken – was published in April 2024.
A keen if mediocre sportsman, he took up golf after his right knee decided it didn’t want to take part in more physical sports any longer. Missing the thrills of his early working life, he also goes storm chasing occasionally in Tornado Alley.
Website: www.philrennett.com/
Facebook: PhilipRennettAuthor
What advice would you give to new writers?
Write from the heart. Use your experiences in life.
Look out for nuggets. They will be there in whatever is happening or being said around you. Make sure you write them down. You never know when they may be useful.
Enjoy the process of writing. Write because you want to – not because you have to.
If it starts to become tiresome or frustrating, then stop and do something you enjoy instead. Whatever you’ve written down will still be there for you when you feel ready to return to it.
