I live in Morecambe, so Lancaster is part of my daily rhythm.
My son goes to school there. I meet friends in its cafés and pubs.
I cross the city’s streets so often that I sometimes forget how much atmosphere Lancaster holds—until I look at it through a storyteller’s eye.
When planning The Nanny’s Secret, I knew Lancaster had to be the setting.
It’s technically a city, but it has the scale and intimacy of a town.
You can walk from one side to the other in less than half an hour.
That compactness makes it perfect for a domestic thriller: a place where everyone knows each other, or thinks they do, and secrets spread quickly behind terraced walls.
The locations are real, and they’ll appear on the page just as I’ve walked them.
The Millennium Bridge, stretching over the River Lune, where the water runs cold and grey beneath.
The canal, with its towpaths leading you past quiet houses and under dripping stone bridges.
Williamson Park, with its winding paths, hidden corners, and the Ashton Memorial looming above like a silent witness.
I’ve spent evenings in the Gregson, a community pub that blends history with a lived-in warmth.
I’ve stood in Dalton Square on rainy nights, the statue of Queen Victoria keeping watch as taxis queue and conversations slip into arguments.
I’ve walked the grounds of Lancaster Castle, its dark walls carrying centuries of confinement, punishment, and judgement.
The city has a way of shifting with the weather.
On a bright day, it’s full of charm—Georgian architecture, lively markets, and the hum of students from the university.
But when the rain sweeps in from the Bay, the streets glisten with a different energy.
The river turns restless, the alleys grow darker, and the terraces seem to hold their secrets tighter.
That duality is what makes Lancaster perfect for The Nanny’s Secret.
It’s familiar yet unsettling. Respectable yet shadowed. A place where the everyday can so easily turn ominous.
Behind closed doors, stories hide.
And in Lancaster, the streets themselves seem ready to whisper them.
