On Thursday I paid my first visit to Topping’s Bookshop in Bath to interview the distinguished crime novelist H.R.F.Keating, an author laden with an armoury of daggers and other distinctions. Harry talked wittily about his books, his writing methods and - of course - about Inspector Ghote, the mould-breaking Bombay detective whose literary career now spans nearly half a century. We were there partly to celebrate Ghote’s recent and much welcome return in Inspector Ghote’s First Case. Friends in the audience included fellow crime writers Liza Cody and Mike Lewin.

Andrew Taylor& H.R.F.Keating

It was a particularly enjoyable evening because of the setting. I know Toppings Bookshop in Ely slightly (indeed, Robert Topping tells me my books are on the local author shelf, since I grew up in Ely). But the Bath shop is equally good, with a wonderfully eclectic stock, a welcoming setting (and welcoming staff) and of course that reassuring sense that tea and coffee are never very far way. The establishment perfectly illustrates why I (and so many other authors) are enthusiastic about independent bookshops. Long may Robert Topping, Robert Jones and their colleagues flourish.

Topping & Co, Bath

We’ve just had a Festival of Words in Coleford, the small Forest of Dean town where I live.  Thanks to the enthusiasm and organization of the Forest Bookshop, ably complemented by local arts worker Roger Drury, there were 21 events over 5 days, and over 500 people took part.

We are a long way from Hay, spiritually if not geographically, but there was something unique about what turned into a celebration for writers and readers of all tastes and types.  It reflected perfectly the rich cultural mix of the Forest and the indefinable community spirit that somehow binds it all together.  The journalist Owen Adams picked up on this, and he blogs about it here in the Guardian.

Already there’s talk of a festival next year.  I’m queuing up for tickets already.

It’s become traditional that whenever possible I launch my novels at my favourite retail establishment, the Forest Bookshop in Coleford. It exemplifies perfectly the many virtues of independent booksellers. Click here to see some pictures of the launch (and of those who were there) on their website.

Here are a few more, which show one or two particularly memorable highlights. We begin with the window display:

Red hearts float in the air. There are lots of copies of the book. What you can see less easily in the photo is the model of the bookshop’s facade in the centre, with the author’s face peering out of every window. For me the piece de resistance was the packages wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, bearing 1930s stamps, and addressed to Mr J.S.Serridge, 7 Bleeding Heart Square, London.  The parcels were sticky with what appears to be blood.  Those of you who read the book will understand the dreadful significance.  Funnily enough, one of the parcels arrived in the post yesterday. Now that’s real attention to detail. Our post office is wonderful.

The next photo shows genial proprietor Doug Maclean, the godfather of the Forest’s literary culture, saying a few well-chosen words.

Don Burgess of the Forest’s Freeminer Brewery provided one particularly appreciated touch. Few books can boast of having their own beer label. The expression on my face shows the exquisite effect of the bottle’s contents.

As the poet A.E.Housman so truly remarked, ‘And malt does more than Milton can/ To justify God’s ways to man.’

There’s no news like old news, so here are a few more photos from the German tour. Most of these were taken by Susanne of Goldmann, and are therefore less touristy and far more professional than those in the previous post.At Munich’s Cafe Ruffini, Bernhard, Tobias and I wait warily on the platform before the event begins. The organisers are taking no chances and have decided it will be safer if this author is radio-controlled - note aerial protruding from my head.

The audience listen in stunned admiration.

When not giggling uncontrollably:

The next evening it’s Hamburg where Tobias watches a British crime writer in full cry with understandable astonishment.

Then it’s on to Miss Marple’s at Charlottenburg near Berlin. Here is Miss Marple herself, looking elegantly youthful, introducing the three of us:

One of the audience, Stefan Paprotka, took the following photograph and has kindly allowed me to use it here. It appears to show a reader demonstrating a lethal karate chop while I attempt to defend myself with Der Ruf des Henkers, the German translation of Naked to the Hangman.

In Frankfurt, Bernhard briefly undergoes a dark night of the soul…

…in Die Wendeltreppe, whose spiral staircase is shown below:

In Stuttgart’s Undercover, Susanne captures incontrovertible evidence of my tendency to…

…wave my hands around while speaking.

Finally a shot of the author en voyage. Not all of the luggage is mine.

I spent most of last week in Germany, covering five cities in the inside of six days. This makes it sound more difficult and proactive than in fact it was for me, since my German publisher Goldmann took care of the logistics with the sort of enviable efficiency I can only dream about. There were four of us in the party - Susanne from Goldmann, who did so much of the real work and remained extraordinarily calm and cheerful throughout; the erudite and unfailing inventive Bernhard Robben, who acted as presenter and translator; and the suave and cosmopolitan actor Tobias Hoesl, who did the German readings.

Here’s the team bracing up for yet another day of existential stress and light literature, pictured here in front of the Concorde Hotel in Frankfurt-am-Main:

The days fell into a pattern - breakfast, followed by travel by air or train; then another city - and if there was a spare hour, time to look around; then interviews, followed by a nourishing snack to prepare us for the rigours of the evening; then the ‘performance’ itself - with Bernhard introducing it and asking the questions; me trying to answer them, which wasn’t always easy because he came up with a fiendishly fresh set of questions every evening; Tobias doing two German readings with great panache, and me doing two in English with silly voices for different characters (it’s a terrible temptation); afterwards a signing, food, conversation and drink, not necessarily in that order.

We started out at the Cafe Ruffini, a cooperative in Munich. Then we went to Hamburg, a city of water and gardens.

Here we had the event in the splendid surroundings of the Speicherstadtmuseum, a converted warehouse near the Elbe that would have made a wonderful setting for a Tintin movie:

Unfortunately other opportunities to take photos of the area were limited, but I did manage to capture a couple of the former inhabitants of the docks:

Next stop was Berlin, always edgy and fascinating - and also in the process of reinventing itself at high speed. There was far too little time for the Bodemuseum:

In the evening we were off to Miss Marple’s, a crime bookshop in nearby Charlottenburg. Here’s Miss Marple herself, Bernhard, Susanne and a wobbly-looking bicycle waiting outside for the excitement to begin.

Rather blurred, I’m afraid, because I hadn’t yet mastered the night setting on my camera phone. Fortunately help was at hand in the shape of Stefan Paprotka, who took this intriguing photo:

Onward we went to Frankfurt, where the event was at another crime bookshop, Die Wendeltreppe - the Spiral Staircase - with a photo of Patricia Highsmith visiting the place just before she died, which seemed a good omen as she had been such an influence on me when I started as a writer (and later); and, yet again, the place was a reminder of just how individual and culturally vital a good specialist bookshop can be. No photos of the shop, I’m afraid, but here’s a view from a cafe window:

And one of the city’s less mobile inhabitants:

Finally we went to Stuttgart, and to Undercover, another enthusiastic and attractive bookshop dedicated to crime fiction. (Why do the Germans have so many good specialist crime bookshops? It’s partly because they still have their version of the Net Book Agreement, which means that all new books are sold for the same price, whatever the retail outlet, at least for the first few months of their life. Unfortunately Britain abandoned this sensible arrangement years ago, which is one reason why so many independent bookshops have had to close.)

The old centre of Stuttgart was looking very handsome in the sunshine. Here’s the former royal palace:

And here - just because I like it as a photo - is the sunlit balcony of the old castle, now a museum:

There may be a second part to this blog - hence its title - with more photos. You have been warned.