Simplicity

The working week got off to a fine start with breakfast on the balcony. The flags were nowhere to be seen so either they'd all been taken down or there was no wind.

The natural pace of life was rudely interrupted by the need to acquire milk between the second and third coffees thus an expedition to The Point was mounted and essentials purveyed.

When we got back it was too hot on the balcony so it was decided to take the ferry to Valletta.

On the way we visited St.Paul's Pro-Cathedral as I'd never been in it. What a wonderfully plain and simply laid out place. One gets so used to Catholic Churches and, indeed, the Carmelite one next door that standing in an almost empty plain place is an uplifting experience by dint of not being overwhelmed by ever more intricate detail visible in every direction.

However, though sometimes the religious bling may overwhelm you can never be unmoved when the memorials which adorn the walls offer such remembrances as these. What a life. What a devastating experience for his mum and dad.

A short way from that is the battle flag from HMS Barham.

It was here that my shorts were noticed. I was told that it was far too cold for shorts. Really? Not where my legs were it wasn't.

Baguettes were collected and taken to Upper Barakka Gardens where they were successfully eaten. We would have stayed but it was getting hotter. Quite seriously hot as in a hot day in August hot at 50°N.

As we wandered back I needed to visit The Agenda Bookshop. This I was allowed to do and bought "The Great Sea" by David Abulafia. Thank you. Life without a book in paper form is still a foreign thing for me, really. Amazon would have done it for a third of the price but needs must. I'll need to read 80 pages a day if I'm to read it whilst overlooking the sea who's history it describes.

A hitherto unexplored back street surprised us for having not been trodden but if we had I'm certain I'd have remembered it.

A proper record shop. Proper records in bins that you could flick through. As great, as well organised and as wide a selection of vinyl as hasn't been seen since Chy-an-Stylus closed down.

It was run by a "young" man who asked if I could be helped. Probably, however I offered a little nugget of information to the effect that his copy of "School's Out" by Alice Cooper was incorrectly marked "Original Pressing". Obviously, it wasn't as the LP was wrapped in an ordinary paper sleeve and even my mum and dad knew how the original was wrapped because when it was released I was poorly and they went down to pick up my copy for me. I did explain what was missing and he scurried off to check.  I still have my original.

I suppose it may have been sold thus to avoid upsetting anyone of a sensitive dispositon in Malta but I never thought of that till just now. It's hard to remember you're really foreign here at times.

The return on the ferry was pleasant but once ashore the short walk to the flat was a tad tiring. On the balcony with refreshment to hand I read the introduction to my new book.

The other struggled with the heat and retired to an easy chair where snoring soon became such a distraction that I had to retire to the opposite one.

I woke first, but the balcony remained unused till much later. How on earth do they cope in their August?

This is the hottest it's been and the forecast is for hotter each day till we go.

Eventually the sun set and a cool draught rested on the balcony table.

A beautifully simple day. Not too much, not too little, everything just right.

Simple is good.

Lazy Sunday

The uphill walk to Pastor Joe's was undertaken in rain and the return in drizzle, almost ceased by the time we got to the seafront.

Wonderfully, lunch was proper for a Sunday which allowed me to sit on the balcony all afternoon and finish "Best of Enemies" by Robert & Isabelle Tombs. Over 700 pages of delight. Sadly, one almost feels sorrow for the French in their search for purpose and someone they can lead.

Equally sadly, as the final pages end in 2005 is the overwhelming anger I feel directed at Tony Blair, of whom it is written, "British state policy was made by Blair and his small entourage in an inextricable tangle of vision, audacity, deceit and incompetence." After a history populated by generally decent statesmen and a lady we got Blair.

Thus was well over a century and a half during which great efforts had been made by great men and women to reduce the impact of being widely regarded by the French as "Perfidious Albion" undone at a stroke.

The only vestige of excuse we can offer, and it is a tiny vestige is that Jacques Chirac was as duplicitous, self-centred and downright dishonest as Blair. However, Chriac was not a desperate sycophant clinging onto Bush's tail encouraging him to undertake a war in Iraq, in fact he was only re-elected because Jean-Marie le Pen was the alternative and "Le Monde" put "rather a crook than a fascist" on their front page as the election took place.

Even de Gaulle put his country first, albeit in such a way as to ensure that he was the only one in a position to lead it but he had an idea of what honour was even if he never missed an opportunity to heap it upon himself. But in Blair honour was replaced by ego, as Chirac is reported to have said, "he (Blair) was an agnostic until it suited him to become a mystic."

I finish with view from our back window, the sea has all but disappeared under the steadily advancing rain which is causing a river to flow down the street as twilight descends. Valletta still looks good out of the front, though.

We survived Blair, sort of, and the forecast for next week is hot, sunny, dry and only windy towards the end of the week. Or so the BBC tells me.

I'll believe it when tomorrow comes but I wouldn't believe anything that Blair ever said, says, is involved with or has influence over .........

I bet the French wouldn't either, thus the French and I share common cause and opinion.

Who'd a'thought it, eh?

Comrade, can you spare a BMW?

We have almost walked all around the harbours of Valletta and only the walk to the end of St.Elmo's pier remained.

Thus we set off to complete our aim by doing what was expected to be the best bit. We knew that the single span bridge had been placed in 2012 to replace the one blown up by Italians in 1941 suitably funded by euro dosh. Indeed, the wall at the foot of the steps to it declare as much.

Alas, ascend the steps and you find that it is closed by pretty substantial gates beyond which the bridge itself is open to the sea but from the
wrong direction.





Normally I'd have tried to circumvent such minor examples of disrepair but the gate was extremely well thought out and there was no way around it.

Furthermore the path onward had fallen into the sea some time ago and there were two sets of steps facing each other but a 20-30 metre gap separated the lowest steps of each staircase.

A retrace was the only way back but fortunately about halfway back there is a tunnel under the wall which takes you up to the road which runs around the inside of Valletta's lowest fortification. Last time we walked there I blogged about how dirty it was. It isn't now.

Making our way up through the tunnel a policeman looked at us but made no move so we carried on. Once we joined the highway a few dozen of his colleagues did the same. They were stood in clumps separated by men in suits, some burly and some less so.

Each side of the road was lined by rows of cars, none moving in the ominous silence. The cars formed an obvious pattern that I was not immediately inclined to photograph.  There were BMW 420d s, new with registrations EU17MT xx each was separated by two hire cars, as close to white as possible and mostly Skodas, Fiats or Seats and each of these had number plates marked SV xx cable tied over the existing plates and each had a blue light magnetically attached to the roof.

Immediately above the tunnel the cars were arranged in chevrons on each side of the road and stretched as far as I could see but once around the corner they were parallel parked.

We walked along their ranks looking neither right or left so as not to catch any uniformed eye nor to meet the stare of those sat in the drivers seats.

Around the next corner there was a phalanx of minibuses with "Airport Shuttle" written along their sides and yet more police. By now we had reached the entrance to the museum in Fort St.Elmo (the best I've ever been in but closed till mid February) outside which was a squadron of police BMW flat twin motorcycles and a number of small vans labelled "Detention Service"

This road leads eventually to the Birgu ferry via the Millennium Bell and the memorial to those who lost their lives in the Merchant Navy.

Normally this is a busy, busy road. Today it was empty and kept so by a number of policemen and a load of temporary gates

It made for a very pleasant walk if not enjoyed in the most pleasant atmosphere.

I did ask a policeman what was going on as we have noticed each night for the last week or two as dusk falls and Valletta lights up there has been an almost continuous line of flashing blue lights processing along the road to the Excelsior Hotel 5 Star as it's entrance proudly proclaims. I explained that we didn't realise that Valletta was a hotbed of crime so this explained it. It's the EU he told me. We are President, in charge and we have meetings here. Very important. But who, I enquired? Very important ministers, he said making non verbal signs that he'd rather I didn't speak to him. It didn't really take much working out but such a scale on such a small island, must be very important.

I felt like asking why at least 60 black cars, 120 white ones, so many suits and probably every policeman available not to mention the frequent presence of military helicopters? Who are these eurocrats who merit such attention? They're not government ministers, just eurocrats on a jaunt. Do they each need a trio of cars to safely negotiate a road along which we walked in about 20 minutes at a leisurely pace? Who'd recognise them anyway? I'm not sure I could find a handful of people on this island, indeed in continental Europe who'd recognise a eurocrat unless they were being driven about in a new BMW420d with police escort. Maybe that's how they attain recognition.

A little further along a white car displayed this:


You couldn't make it up unless you were Sir Humphrey, could you?

What a silly waste of money. Fortunately, sooner rather than later I trust, it won't be any of mine.

So, could a couple of eurocrats not share a BMW so that the St.Elmo bridge could be repaired?

Thankfully, I saw no evidence of any black Jaguars in the serried ranks so it couldn't have been all that important then, could it?

Great expectations

Today, Friday, waking up was once again a process, yesterday it was an event. I think I actually became aware if not alert somewhere in the region of San Julian when the bus was approaching a queue of stationary traffic. Suddenly it had it's opportunity to stop reduced by the length of a grey Peugeot 308 estate which careered out of a side road to join said queue right in front of the bus. At this point the forces of retardation drove all thoughts of interrupted sleep out of the system. This was well before 0900 mind.

We were on an overcrowded bus on our way to Cirkewwa and then onwards by ferry to Gozo of which we expected great things. At least we had a seat on the bus. On the ferry we took up a position on the top deck in the port corner up forward where for the duration of the crossing one was constantly knocked about by Japanese tourists who needed my exact spot to take a photo, first with a very expensive dSLR, then a smaller point and shoot and finally a bit of video on a phone.

Arriving at Mgarr, Gozo, they piled on to waiting open top double decker sightseeing buses and melted away. After noticing a pair of Aruns moored up near the ferry terminal we too took a bus, a public one to Victoria, the capital. Inspiring it was not. Rough and jerky it most certainly was. On arrival in Victoria we boarded another bus for Xlingi which by all accounts was a nice little fishing village.

Indeed, it may have appeared thus if the observer making the judgement assumed that an empty tiny inlet and a car park with some boats wrapped in tarpaulins constituted a fishing village. Furthermore it appeared that the village itself was also closed. At least it appeared that way. We stayed on the bus and within 15 minutes were despairingly back in Victoria bus station. It's not pretty.

Over the road between a Kodak shop and a FujiFilm shop was a coffee shop. Nice photos on the wall but the coffee was poor although at least there was no piped music. Then there was so we went for a wander.

Like so many places where there's people there's crowds and I feel the need to get away from them. We did and wandering about the pristine cobbled backstreets, almost all named after St.Gorg we met Valerie in The Hat Box.

hatsbyvalerie@gmail.com if you are going to meet The Queen or if your daughter is getting married any time soon.

She's English and her daughter had just phoned to say that she was cold. Oh, dear, we exclaimed and she carried on telling me about her hats and the inspiration she derives from all manner of sources. I had to prise myself away after having taken a photo as she is extremely enthusiastic. Even though I don't find millinery in any way a compelling subject I must confess that the quality of her hats was a bit good but they wouldn't keep your hair dry in a shower.

By now the lunchtime grumble had arrived and we had a choice between a German burger bar in white and black plastic seemingly populated by Brits, The Glory of England Bar hiding in plain view under a pair of Coke banners or an Italian Breakfast bar, Capitan Spriss, frequented by a couple of very well spoken Brits, a stack of Germans and us.

Utterly superb. A delight and including drinks about €10. Cured ham, soft squidgy cheese and thin cut mushrooms in a still warm crispy baguette. Awesome. Haven't had ham like that since Spain.

The place had no plastic and exuded stylish class in a simple kind of way. You needed to be a bit slimmer than me in an ideal world but we started in the narrow seats and moved as others became vacated so eventually we had window seats and made the most of them. As we left I took this photo of a German trio in high spirits which pretty much summed up how we felt after our lunch, too. I suppose they may have been glad to see us go, though.

When a bus ticket is sold on time and not distance travelled it's often worth taking the scenic route because the tourists always go for the most direct and spend all their times in a queue and then most will have to stand in the bus. We took a sparsely peopled bus which went everywhere, at least it felt like it. How it navigated some bends is beyond me and as for the suspension, it was tormented on tracks that a 4x4 would find interesting. At one point we got to the top of a cliff where a tiny track descended steeper by far than Windsor Hill. Longer, too.Fortunately we turned around eventually and retraced our wheels for an age and eventually arrived back in Mgarr.

I decline to offer any details on the ex-RNLI Arun Class lifeboats, nor do I publish any photos, although I have a few, but in my search for the harbour office I met the man rebuilding this boat. The man who's workshop it is built it over 50 years ago with his dad and in the harbour is its sister made 100 years ago by his father and his grandfather. They can't make any more as iroko is too expensive and what they can get is of such poor quality that it's no good for boats except in their repair. He told me that the Arun's are owned by Capt.Eduardo who is a ferry skipper. Couldn't find him. May have to go back.

Finally, making our way back to the ferry we noticed a man taking his horse for a swim. Not something you see everyday, you don't see a pair of Aruns everyday either but some things are more acceptable than others, it seems. So, a picture of a man taking his horse for a swim.

A thoroughly beautiful day marred only by the bus trip outward and half the bus trip homeward. Although we got a seat from Cirkewwa so did a couple behind us. They were northern, like Hilda Ogden. She just didn't stop. Everything was wrong. Whenever the buzzer button was pressed she told her husband, us and everyone else. Mostly it was pressed by accident as the bus was bursting with people. That didn't stop her telling everyone, though. If no one got off she complained even louder. We passed a Pulizija station and she said, Ooooh, luuuke, neenaw neenaw ....." until the bus had moved quite a way past. Then we were regaled by tales of how so much of it luuuked a bit taaaatty and how much it could do with a coat of paint. On and on she went until, praise be, they alighted in the region of St.Paul's Bay/Qawra where a quiet lady took her place and all was relaxed from then on.

Gozo was not what we expected, it's not a pretty place and we saw it in its warm and sunny best, it does have a certain charm and the back streets of Victoria are well worth an explore. It also has a pair of Aruns owned by a ferry captain.

Yup, I'd like to go back as long as it's with proper foreigners and not the foreigners from Coronation Street.

At least you probably wouldn't find them in Capitan Spriss's but I'm not so sure about The Glory of England Bar opposite.

Three revolutions in one day

Wednesday began bright, calm and warm.
Second coffee was taken on the balcony at which time I noted that the shadow of the railings on the seafront were decidedly right leaning and almost as one.
By third coffee the shorts were donned and there was a discernible gap between each rails' shadow and they were not so right leaning.

It was about now that I got to 14th July 1798 and the French opened Bastille prison in a fit of rage as their aspirations to world dominance had once again been thwarted by their northern neighbour. Recognising the folly of picking fights with their strongest foe they turned their attention to a group over whom they expected a victory.

At first, having freed lots of nasty people they took on their royal family, politicians they didn't like, doctors, teachers, pretty much the same groups as Pol Pot did almost 200 years later. Once they'd done for all the upper class and middle class they turned on anyone else they didn't like. This was called "The Terror" and unsurprisingly very little was, is or has been written authoritatively about it. Not even the tribes of French literati who wrote reams about the greatness of France, the poverty of England, the depth of French Philosphie and the paucity of all things intellectually British even so much as mentioned it. Indeed, Oscar Wilde, not the most sensible of people watchers asked about it and was most unhappy with the results although his disfigurement was only temporary.

Bit of a shame really because when Monsieur Napoleon saw the tattered threads of French society they'd made he weaved together a fiendish plan which no one argued against as all the brains had been separated from the bodies of those who knew how to use them..

Alas, for monsieur le frenchmen Nelson happened to be off Trafalgar at the right time as Napoleon had told Villeneuve to rendezvous in the English Channel with the channel fleet from Brest. Sadly Napoleon's followers had chopped the heads off the meteorologists, too. If they hadn't someone may have pointed out that the wind needed by the southern fleet was the exact opposite of the wind needed by the northern one. Anyway, Napoleon went off in a huff and fought everyone else.

Once he'd made a mess of Spain, Italy, Austria, Prussia, Russia and the Germans he got his comeuppance and was dumped on Corsica. One nice point is that when Wellington rode into Bordeaux in mid 1813 he was met by the mayor who was a Jacobite Irishman from Galway!

By now it was hot and coffee gave way to cold Cisk. The shirt came off and the railing shadows were at right angles to the wall they were fitted on.

So the French had a second revolution without Napoleon although for 100 days Napoleon got ashore, raised an army and marched to Waterloo. This time he got carted off to St.Helena where he died but sadly not before he'd rewritten his story and sent it to all and sundry. Which is largely why about 30 years later his nephew came out of exile and set himself the target so widely missed by his uncle. He should have known better as he'd spent his exile as a special constable in Windsor and had looked after Price Albert at times.

Anyway Napoleon III, as he called himself raged and raged and eventually by about 1870/1 he'd lost Alsace, Lorraine and left the stage with Paris under siege. His neighbours over the channel were by now a tad fed up with having all this going on and it was beginning to interfere with trade so they sent a gunboat or two, issued threats to all the protagonists and got on with fighting their own wars in the rest of the world, well, Sudan, Afghanistan, Pakistan, South Africa, India et al.

So at this point the French revolted for the third and so far, last time.

By now the railings shadows had merged as one but to the left. It was still hot and a mug of tea was set before me thus I continued to read how the French adopted British Parliamentary procedure, tried to threaten us with a tunnel and built "Gloria" an ironclad steam warship which was pretty much made redundant instantly as HMS Warrior hit the scene. They didn't give up trying to annoy until it looked like Kaiser Wilhelm was about to unleash Moltke who was still sore at having been pulled back from Paris in 1871. Hence the first of a number of Entente Cordiales.

So, three revolutions by the revolting French who still await some kind of dominance that matters over some group who care. As long as they let us visit, make wine, baguettes and egg and bacon pies they should be happy enough.


By now it was a bit dimpsy, there was no shadow to observe so one had to make do with a large glass of Maltese Red in the balmy embrace of another Mediterranean evening.

So there, a wonderful Wednesday watching a sundial, reading a book and drinking drinks as appropriate.

Better do something tomorrow, I suppose.
Time I did a postcard or two.

Railings of delivery man against redcar parker as barefoot lady passes by.

Lambeth Walk

Now, I have no idea what "The Lambeth Walk" is but I was brung up knowing where and what "Lambeth Walk" was. It stretches from the end of the prom to the start of The Warren. Obviously those who know what's what will know what I'm on about, for the rest it is a walk which in normal circumstances is just pleasant.

At times of high water and wind it is a place to dare and be dared. The waves crash against it and wash over it. The task was to wait till the last minute and run for it. If you got it just right you'd look over your shoulder at a wall of water rising above your head and the last step you took to evade getting nearly drowned would see the water washing at you heels.  You remained mostly dry. The trick to it was to ensure that there was someone behind you who did not. That was the fun of it....

Unfortunately in northern latitudes the wet suit would never dry by natural means so if you got wet you went home wet and took what came. You probably went to grandparents first.

Of my generation in that place very few will have escaped being nearly murdered for getting a wet suit. I don't ever remember being told it was dangerous, stupid or that we shouldn't go down Lambeth Walk but I do remember being told not to come home drowned.

We went to Marsaskala today and I was reminded of those days. There was quite a surge running in the harbour. In fact I reckon it was a bit of Mediterranean ground sea. Looked like it, anyway.

No where near as fierce but similar in essence. This is the Mediterranean, though, so no tide and it just keeps going all day long the same. So you watch, see the pattern and wander along. One of us did, one of us didn't.

A man stood beside me as I took this having watched me casually amble along not perhaps aware of the years of training I has amassed meant that I had sussed out where to go if the water moved faster than I'd noted, which it didn't. He took a similar photo and began walking as soon as the water had all drained away. Wrong. He got almost to the square pillar when he got a wet suit. I could have offered advice but I'd already moved on as this is only about half way to the seat where t'other was waitng having elected to take a far more circuitous route.

However, my hero of the day was this postman. Just a few metres from where the other photo was taken. He came hammering along the seafront and hit the front brake on the last dry bit, simultaneously leaning, turning and hitting the rear brake. Now surrounded by the water he executed a perfect spin turn with both feet firmly on the foot pegs all the time, spray flying, coolly rode a couple of metres and parked the bike as you see it. Got off with a flourish and set about his job.

Afterwards he looked, grinned and made off with as much noise as such a laden bike can manage..

One seriously impressed observer of one seriously chilled and dry postman.  Bravo.

All in all a most excellent day and lunch at The Coxswain's Cabin, run by a lady from Plymouth.

Short days

Maltese lunch. Pastizzi and Cisk

It's taken a fortnight but today the shorts made their appearance. Last year I think I only wore jeans coming out and going home. This year it's been a bit different. Not as hot but generally warm and windy. Very windy at times and a bit wet on a few days but mostly at weekends and we don't get in the way at weekends. Too busy by far.

Today was hot. Last year sort of hot. And calm.

So our working week began with a boat trip. Hour and a half meandering in and out of the various harbours here. Glorious but a bit rubbly. Exceptionally pleasant.

No wind to speak of but the weekend has left a swell of a couple of feet which is enough to have stopped the Valletta ferry for three days. Our boat was very thinly populated. Mostly it was Japanese tourists running about getting in the way. Lovely trip. Our cleaner gave us the tickets from our landlady. Such a nice thing to do. Thank you.

Would we have spent €15 each for a harbour cruise? I'll leave that for you to answer!

Got back and took lunch on the balcony.
The afternoon saw frequent liquid replenishment.
Afternoon became evening,
Merlot as Valletta lit up.
Magnificent.

If the pastry isn't right, the filling doesn't matter

Last Sunday we endured the wind and rain to trudge up the hill to listen to Pastor Joe. He spoke well and with authority. It was really quite pleasant to hear, a bit of a challenge and all the better for it. Spirits lifted we left to bright sunshine and a pleasant wander back for Sunday roast as it should be. Even with the broken dishwasher it worth the washing up.

A week later we ascended the same hill to go to the same place although this week was windy but dry. Sadly, so was Pastor Joe. Even sadder was the fact that his talk skirted over the focus of his text and he spent his time repeatedly making lightweight conjectures on an erroneous premise. We came out to a downpour which has lasted a while but seemd somewhat totally appropriate.

Heads down we slithered back but on the way passed a sign clearly bearing the text "Cornish Pasty €1.20" Well, it had to be done. So we bought both remaining examples but not without hesitation.

The pastry just wasn't right. It didn't have a curled edge. Now, I couldn't make a pasty to save my life but I can absolutely guarantee that I could fold the edges in properly. Even after more than half a century you couldn't forget what your Nana taught you.

The pastry wasn't right and I wasn't about to spend €2.40 on a pair of Cornish Pasties when they plainly weren't. There are standards to be kept.

Fortunately as one was about to go in a full on huff one had ones notice drawn to the label in the shop which read "Cornish Pie"  Now, I have no idea what a Cornish Pie is so it could be anything. The man said "meat" so a deal was done and back we trudged.

Once the wet gear had been set aside, the kettle put to use and calm good humour restored we sat to eat our Cornish Pies.

Indeed, the pastry may have been right for a Cornish Pie, I've no idea because until today I'd never heard of let alone had a Cornish Pie. I can confirm, however that the presence of carrot and peas spread throughout the meaty lumps, with possibly some potato, maybe a vestige of onion but no rooty that I could find made it absolutely, definitely, positively, certainly, indubitably not in any way, shape or form a Cornish Pasty.

As a Cornish Pie for €1.20 a time I can thoroughly recommend it and am likely to try a further sample as time and permission allows.

Labels are so important, are they not and if they don't live up to what you expect them to be the disappointment is immense.

And if the foundation isn't right the filling really doesn't matter.

Home, for some

Last night eight of us gathered in "Black Gold" where one of us supped black gold the rest had whatever. Of the eight, five hail from home, one of the five lives here most of the time and the other three were Americans living on a tug locally at present but they could be anywhere soon.

We were all of the opinion that Malta isn't a bad place. It's certainly better moored in Marsa than Mount's Bay. Living here is OK but far too hot in summer but he may already have spent his last summer here. The couple on holiday have now flown back but they enjoyed their stay and we concluded that Malta is a very interesting place but pretty, it is not.

Today dawned cloudy with streaks of blue. The streaks were driven by a hard SE wind of over 40kts even here sheltered on an inlet. Venturing forth it became obvious that 40kts may have been a bit of an underestimate but it wasn't cold. Still not warm enough for shorts but easily shirt sleeves and fleece if needed.

Our wander to the more exposed side of Sliema saw a quite disturbed sea which was intent on replenishing the many swimming pools in the rocks of the foreshore.

We had lunch with our friends from up north who are flying back tomorrow in a "Surfside sports bar!" which is distinguished by a banner offering 50% off everything till March and a menu with meals named after footballers of whom I have never heard. Fortunately a brief description of the offering was included.

Over a delicious lunch of onion rings and pancake rolls with dips and carbonarra without spaghetti the skies became leaden, the wind went more to the south and freshened noticeably. The warm edge somewhat blunted, I elected to return by way of back streets that were as fascinating as all the others. This time I found a shop selling rosaries and the prayers of a priest.

Our friends from the north have found Malta interesting as well but not pretty. I think it highly unlikely they will return.


I keep remembering walks along a deserted beach in Spain and leaving our footprints over a kilometre of sand then to turn and retrace our steps finding that they were still the only footprints. Not on a solitary occasion, either.

You wouldn't call  that part of Spain a beauty spot but it has little of interest either. A few torres to scare the Berbers but now disfigured beyond redemption by graffiti. Graffiti scars most of the places we saw in that region. Towns of some charm but all rather similar, I exclude Voldemort from any consideration and fortunately nowhere like that exists here or anywhere else. Having said that we do have a corner of this place which bears some similarity.

Dogs mess everywhere made a coastal walk, or any walk an anxious navigational challenge if one was to avoid it. Here dogs mess is in evidence but on a far smaller scale and only in one or two particular spots is it almost as bad.

It was quiet, though. No one tried to sell you the same harbour cruise fifteen times in 300 metres, you could cross a road at leisurely pace, the food was different and cheaper and the beer better. The local reds are pretty similar but there's something so much more relaxed about being in Spain.

Maybe the prettiness to which I am tuned lies in the blueness of the sea when the sun shines and the boats reflecting their stripes of colour. And the historicity of every part of this place. There is a beauty in the fortress walls, the massive arched domes, the ancient steps, shallow of riser and wide of tread to permit an armoured knight to walk up them as I found out at lunch.

Beauty, too, in the geography as from our fifth storey viewpoint we can see all the major landmarks of this islands past, most of them at least. The grandeur of warm winds driving steep seas at irregular shores whilst safely dawdling along the promenade above.

There is also beauty in being on an island as a finite lump of rock. Eventually the corner you look around has brought you back to the start. An hour on a bus is as far as you can go. Short cuts are by ferry and foot.

And yet. I conclude that I'd like to be in Spain next winter but with a south facing balcony like ours and with hidden gems around every corner, a documented history that excites, exhilarates and drives you to find out more.


What I want is Malta with less than a tenth of its population and for them to be Maltese with Spanish tastes but without dogs and spray paint.

And I want to reside for the winter in this flat with this balcony and an instruction book for the TV box.

Resolve

I resolve to not assume that everyone finds boats fascinating.

Today I spent some time on "Resolve" an ocean going tug, now considered something of a classic vessel.
Still at work like so many classics of her age.
Beautiful, functional, largely analogue.

I could describe standing between two 7,500hp diesels.
Leaning against 150,000litres of diesel.
Being unable to lift a shackle pin from a shackle let alone the shackle itself .

She is American.
The company was terrific.
The coffee was excellent.

I also went on a yacht in her fourth year of refit and talked to the Grecian tasked with laying the teak decks. Watched a Maltese shipwright making her hatches and deck hatch doors. Considering the weight of paint and the fact that if you make 14 locker units to fit across the hull and then get the individual handmade front door frames painted each edge gets 0.8mm of paint applied which means each face is 1.6mm too wide, so when there are 14 of them you end up with 22 mm too many. That's only if the paint applicators don't realise that engraved "X" means "No Paint" ....... It's only made really, really bad because each edge is a complex shape of rebates for extremely slim inserts to ensure that any movement is not accompanied by noises. The rebates themselves are also rendered too narrow to accept the inserts made for them.

Precison I've never seen before in hardwoods.
Some descriptors of painters I'd never heard before, either.

I heard numbers with many, many zeros.

Remarkably restrained, eh?

Crouching tigers, hidden garden

The day began with no wind, such a relief. It was indeed warm and ominously quiet. Breakfast on the balcony was devoid of the usual traffic noise from the road below. Looking over the balcony showed the reason for the silence. No cars. Anywhere. The usually double parked parking spaces were empty and over the road a trio of policemen were amiably bimbling around stopping pedestrians and animatedly looking about.

Rather than shout over to them I went down the lift to ask what was going on. I was surprised to get a typically "English" response, "I could tell you but I'd have to shoot you," which, when the person telling you actually has a gun, carries a little more weight. He laughed, though, as did his colleagues. I ventured to suggest that someone important was coming here, but why and who?

I didn't ask as ones peripheral vision included pairs of dark suited burly men trying to look naturally inconspicuous evenly and closely distributed all along the part I could see. A military helicopter hovered overhead. Indeed, I think it followed us for the rest of the day.

We went for a walk and chatting to one of the boatmen it was made clear that while all the first division "eurocrats" were hobnobbing in the snow  the lightweights were here because Malta is in charge of all things euro. Thus, the assistant deputies understudies interns were meeting for a euro lunch in the hotels waterside terrace over which we look. The Maltese deputy eurominister's sister's husband owns said hotel.

Furthermore it was mentioned that much of Valletta is being dug up, cleaned, polished, burnished, repainted and repointed at the moment. This is because once Hull is finished with culture Valletta takes over although I suspect that seeing as Malta's main man is the current Euro boss it is being undertaken with far more euro euros than Hull's main man, or even Yorkshire's main man could ever prise out of Brussels. There does seem to be a surfeit of blue flags and placards with stars on them flapping about or nailed to walls and temporary hoardings.

One such decorated hoarding stopped our seafront walk progress. What a blessing that was. We determined to walk to the ferry, not the one 200 metres down the road but the other end of that ferry in Valletta. Thus after 6kms of marinas we arrived at a new development stopping access to the part where the grey ships, launches and their SAR vessel are parked. This meant an uphill struggle, as it was very warm, into Floriana, the bit outside Valletta.

Near the top of the hill there was a break in the wall with an open gate. We'd never have found it but for the ECC emblazoned mesh netting. An old but beautifully manicured garden lay inside. Cool and quiet. Whilst one of us went to explore plants and stuff the other looked over the walls.

There are numerous gun emplacement from before Napoleonic times but now just the stumps of Light AA guns and the rails of Heavy AA guns remain. Into the rock had been carved details of soldiers with time on their hands. Most faded, most irregular but some in immaculate script and one or two more legible than others.

Running ones fingers over the indentations was really quite eerie. I can't really explain what I felt but I'd guess that a trite response would be to say that it was being in touch with history. I don't mean that flippantly, either.

Turning to go the view of the steps to the gap in the wall was just wonderful, set between two fortifications this garden was a real joy. And empty.

We left, went up the hill and ended up in the area of Floriana which houses the offices of state and a very nice pastizzi shop called "Jeffs."

Then we wandered down past the Excelsior Hotel, 5 stars and security from which our balcony was clearly visible in the sun.

Caught the ferry back just in time to see a black Jaguar sporting a Union Flag from a bonnet mounted flag staff leaving the terrace bar and restaurant. Very slick, very smart.

Up five floor in the lift and by the time we were sat on the balcony with suitable refreshment the traffic was back to normal and double parked cars filled every space available and more besides..

Not alone

For a while in Birgu this afternoon I watched these chaps looking at a boat in a shed.

The smell of paint and quiet banter was much in evidence and I'm sure that the two watchers were giving endless encouragement to the doer.

I spoke to the doer.

The boat is 100yrs old this summer and it's all original apart from the paint so he's removing all the paint from her intricately carved top plank to redo it as it should be and repainting the boat in the colours it was when he was a kid.

Wonderful. 

I could've found a beer crate and sat there for hours, too. I'd have felt right at home and I think no one would have minded in the least.

Well, one may but she had long since walked right on by and she had the return tickets.
 

Missed the ferry

We could have run and caught it.

Wednesday's almost gone and that's half the week already.

Monday began with a phone call wondering if I'd like to look at a boat.
Which I did for most of Tuesday.

MSC Splendida

Also on Monday I had a txt from a few hotels down the road from the hotel where our friends from Wiltshire are staying. A couple known to us from home are staying there for a week. In another life we went out in boats together. He likes looking at boats too. His wife has some things in common with mine.

It was great to meet them this morning, take a ferry, stroll to a garden, make a descent in a lift, catch another ferry and stroll to Café Brasil where my aforementioned boating friend was already well settled in.
Now I have been invited to a tug on Friday, if we go to Mosta tomorrow that's the week gone.

Leaving everyone for the afternoon we retraced our path and leisurely meandered back, via the pastizzi vendor to our balcony in the setting sun.

We missed the ferry back, not by much but by enough so we waited half an hour sat beside Marsaxmett harbour in the shade looking directly at our balcony in the sun.

Half an hour soon passed as did the trip back on the ferry. Sat opposite us was "Ken from Ottawa" who retired six weeks ago and seeing as Ottawa is currently -26°C and under 6ft of snow he's here. He'd been in construction for 40 years and walks 20k a day so he can still smoke and drink but not as much as he'd like to. It's good for his health he said. Wouldn't disagree. His wife has three years before she can retiire so she's currently shovelling snow. Nice guy. Good to listen to him.

Now I don't feel so bad about going off looking at boats.

And I'm glad we missed the ferry.

Fail

Wandering back along the seawall mid afternoon as one does, approaching the steps opposite our flat ....

It's probably not "ours" but maybe cockroaches don't act like cats.

Seems they can't fly very well, either.

Obviously a coincidence.

The clatter of tiny feet

An evening with a good book is one of the easier sorts to accommodate even if accompanied by the rhythm of a plastic pen being firmly deposited on a plastic topped table as each stitch in the deckchair of time was duly recorded on the chart. It wasn't the only clatter, though.

From the corner of my eye a movement distracted me from an episode in French history which did them no favours, of which there are just so many. A cockroach clattered across the room and scurried behind the sofa, upon which stitches were being steadily applied.

Moving the sofa discovered nothing.

A while later the offending creature made a bolt across the floor and with obvious lack of planning made directly for the corner between the wall and the breakfast bar. One thing that is obvious about living in a minimalist mansion flat is that, unlike home, there are no gaps under the skirting boards or anywhere else for that matter.

I took the right flank, wine glass (plastic to reduce the risk of harm) in hand, whilst the left flank was covered by my able assistant with shopping list at the ready.

Captured by plastic wineglass, shopping list and iPhone

A series of deft moves which had William Hanna and Joseph Barbera drawn them could have produced a four minute gem in the hands of Fred Quimby and the cockroach was almost caught.

Alas, the pair of us on our knees engaged in the capture of a cornered cockroach was neither terribly elegant, efficient or swift.

Eventually we had him, her, it or whatever it chose to be at this time safely under arrest.

Being of a fragile disposition I felt that being trampled underfoot was hardly a suitable end for so valiant a foe. However, remembering a scientific article that said you can drop a cat from any height and it'll land on it's feet because it's body shape and covering ensures that it never attains a terminal velocity that would harm it upon landing, I elected to release it back into it's natural habitat from the balcony.

Octopus off the leash

There are other ways of getting to Marsaxlokk but only a bus is practical for us. Fortunately our backs are good, our knees holding up and shoulders almost capable of holding on. But today we had seats again. I've never heard a bus make such noises or contortions. Entering the town there was a brace of well modified Land Rovers riding proudly on yellow springs and red panhard rods.

It is a colourful place, Marsaxlokk. It is well up on my must visit list. Today, however was a bit special. Alighting from the bus I was told that I could clear off as long as I was back by 1330. I was denied the bus pass on the basis that if I failed to meet the management target I may have just been able to get back unaided. Sans bus pass I was still management dependent.

Wandering along the harbour was a bit like wandering along any harbourside in these warm temperate places. The boats are colourful and the fishermen equally so.

Standing alongside one I lifted a bight in the net he was overhauling before it snagged and his smile included all the thanks you could ever need. His (much) older friend with a fishing rod observed and asked a few questions to which my replies met a favourable response.

He was catching "Saigu(?)" "What?", I asked. "Silver Bream" he said. He caught one whilst I was stood there and placed it in a box with quite a few of its relatives.  "Looks like a Whiting," I said. "If it was a Whiting it wouldn't cost as much in the restaurants as a Silver Bream" he said with a grin as wide as the harbour. I understood, completely.

It transpires that along this part of the coast the fish farms specialise in Whiting but whenever there's a gale lots of them escape, Initially they hang about in the vicinity of the fish farm but a week or two later the harbour fills up with them. They had a poor week a couple of weeks ago.

As I moved to go he opened a sack and offered me an octopus. He even told me how his wife cooked it, how his son cooked it and how his mum used to cook it. Alas, I had no bag, no paper, no nothing to carry it in so I declined his offer with a deal of sadness but I really couldn't think of how to carry it. A year ago there would have been carrier bags blowing about all over the place but putting a surcharge on them has seen them all but disappear.

A little further along I wandered into a boatyard and was talking to a chap about a particular boat that looked as though she'd been built in NE Scotland when a man in epaulettes arrived on scene to explain that it was unsafe for me to be here and that I should go.

So I went. I hope to go again, too!

Marsaxlokk. Could have been taken last year. Hope it could be taken next.

Empathy. It's the jeans

As the glass of red was being savoured on the balcony last night a video call from home brought even more delight to crown a delightful day. The weather was mentioned and after the call I watched the BBC forecast.

This morning dawned beautifully, I assume, because by the time I was awake it showed all the signs of being a glorious Mediterranean day. So glorious, in fact that I ventured onto the balcony to soak up some rays in the boxers, not a pretty picture but I had the camera and I don't do selfies besides, five storeys up I felt pretty safe. It couldn't last and I was encouraged to get sorted as 1000 was the time to catch the bus.

We were off to Mdina to walk the walls again. Wonderful city. Successfully built to last. Prior to departure I was sorely tempted to don the shorts. It was a difficult decision but I felt that as the weather to the north was so bad I would wear jeans in solidarity with those enduring it.

I should have worn the shorts.

A simply stunningly sunny corner of a very old fortified city, so swamped with humanity in summer but almost empty at this time of year.

Tomorrow, Marsaxlokk, sea, boats and (hopefully) shorts.

The sun directs the last of today's rays onto our balcony

Play it, Sam.

Late this afternoon we heard a buzzing, a rasping, a pinging which upon investigation led to a hitherto unnoticed video screen beside the apartment's door. A smiling face explained that this was "Sam" who had come to sort out the telly.

Once Sam was in and buttons supplied his grin broadened and the TV burst into life with many channels, all of which were flicked through so fast that it was hard to keep up but after being overwhelmed with choice he settled on the screen that I had managed to display. A few colourful icons and one labelled "Chrome" with which I'd been able to get France24 in English and Sky News International.

Sam's delight was palpable. "Watch this," he said.
So I did.
USA News with Donald Trump performing with a heady display of vim and vigour.
France 24, again his Donaldness in performance
BBC also showing Trumpton
German TV, Spanish TV, Brazilian TV, Canadian TV and on and on and on and all distributing Trumpionianism to the whole world and to an apartment in downtown here.

Next up, movies. Never knew there were so many but thin them out by choosing "English" and there are still more than I could ever watch.

Then we were introduced to TV Shows, choose "Shows" or "Seasons". Sam chose "Game of Thrones" and I was informed that all the seasons/episodes are available. I was impressed but not by the subject matter.

So it went on. And on. He was a gem. A delight. He explained how it all worked and how to make selections and eventually as my brain was about to burst, but not before mentally noting "Grand Tour S1 E1- 8 available" and "Sherlock.S4" Sam gave me the controls, turned it all off and let me carry on.

I pretty much got as far as "British TV All" from which I selected the top one then scrolling down there was an endless list, many of which I've never heard of let alone seen.

With the exchange of pleasantries and gratitude expressed smiling Sam went leaving a mere mortal with two sets of buttons and a telly that had far too much going on in it.

After fiddling for a while and failing to find much on, apart for Trumptonia we went out for a wander in the balmy Mediterranean evening. Where I took this. We are pretty much where the bright light shining along the water is although where the light itself is I don't know.

A wonderful stroll but we noticed a cloud of smoke issuing forth a bit of a way down the road from us. Picking up the pace and pressing a few buttons I managed to shoot a couple of policepersons stood by the car with phone in hand and

anxiety in evidence.

Not wishing to be too obviously amused we wandered on whereupon two young policemen showing signs of exuberance and mirth were appearing to hurry in the general direction of the previously mentioned policepersons.

We crossed the road under cover of darkness and in no time at all a low loader arrived and spirited the broken police car away. How exciting is that?

Getting back home I fired up the laptop. It died. Tried again. Same. Cisk. Tried again and it worked. Started this blog and it's fallen over three times so far in its writing. It hasn't done this for ages but it does have phases.

However, I note that in "Explorer" under "Network" I now have a whole list of servers. Clicking on them brings up Media Player and a whole world of entertainment. It may be that I wasn't totally at fault with the telly after all.

It has just been restarted and I'm about to hit "publish" so if you are reading this it has worked and I'm on the balcony with a glass of red.

Valletta looks good tonight.

One of those days.

Ahh. Sun. Warmth. Lovely. It's hot on the balcony.

Those were the first words I heard today. They were almost expressed with a discernable whiff of enthusiasm.

I'd rather have heard words like fried, eggs, bacon, sausage, bread and would you like but I'm grateful that they were followed by the arrival of the first coffee.

Get up.
First proper non shopping day - merits a shower, this does.
Coffee.
Catch ferry to Valletta.

Interesting that last year my financier was first in the queue and we got charged full whack. Today I was leading the queue and it was assumed that we were old and only paid €0.90 instead of €1.80.
Strange, that.

Wander through the fortified walls and Hastings Gardens marvelling at the vistas as they unfold. I could mention the pigeons but one flew away as I tried to take it's photo. The other will never fly again.

A slight incline to dispose of before descending and ascending Mr.Piano's steps by the new parliament building, thence past the government palace and around to the stock exchange

The stock exchange is barely bigger than a decent garage but is most easily identified by the cars parked outside and the presence of suited and capped drivers milling about amid clouds of smoke. No Rolls's here, a few Maseratis, including a Merak 350, a classic Porsche 911 Targa, some paltry BMW's in black and a couple of nondescript blacked out Mercedes'.

It's in a lovely square but busy. Very busy. Today an ancient Land Rover was testing its' turning circle amid the fairly agile traffic and causing chaos. Those following it had obviously never driven a Land Rover or they would have known it would have to reverse at some points in its' roundabout circumnavigation and they wouldn't have followed so closely.

Around the corner to Upper Barrakka Gardens where one pauses. Too early for the midday gun but this is a place to pause, not just because it's the highest point in Valletta but one pauses to take in the view and spend a while contemplating those mentioned on some very understated memorials.

Down the elevator to the Birgu ferry where once again only €0.90 was asked. Once deposited in Birgu it was time to renew acquaintance with Café Brasil. No Lithuanian/Latvian/Estonian lady this year, an Italian only just started. She thought the world of VR46 so I overlooked her forgetting my egg on the burger with the chips, salad, olives and beer.

Thirst assuaged and hunger satiated ones focus was centred on the return trip.

Birgu, looking toward Valletta this afternoon.

It should be fairly obvious why. Fortunately the rain held off until we were the right side of the balcony doors.

Just as well we ate out as we spent most of last night washing up because once loaded the dishwasher seemed to take a while. After an indecent while my investigations led to the conclusion that when the right buttons were pressed in the right order the right lights came on in the right sequence. Alas, the lights were the only things that responded to the buttons. Once emptied the previous occupants attempts to use it had left a mush of dishwasher tablets in the bottom. Ours is still stuck in the tray.

The washing up was a bit tiresome but it was OK because the telly's still not working although I can get YouTube on it but France24 and Sky News International aren't really much to while away an evening. And typing in url's and search requests with an Android remote is a bit tedious.

However, an iPod, Sennheiser headphones and Robert Tombs' "That Sweet Enemy" are more than a match for anything I could manage to get on a smart telly's YouTube app.

Pastizzi for breakfast.

It is with some concern that I confess to having awoke this morning looking forward to a wander to Tower supermarket. In part that may have had to do with the fact that the route takes us past at least three Pastizzi outlets.

Had I not been burdened with two backpacks and a shopping bag I would no doubt have taken a photo of said Pastizzi which would be posted about here.

As it is we are now comfortably supplied and the fridge burdened with essentials. The Caravaggio Merlot is obviously not in the fridge. Indeed, as I type most of it is uncorked and breathing whilst the rest is being sampled by our cook. I note also the rapidly disappearing stuffed olives. Rather lovely they are/were, too.

Once our initial foray into the supermarket had been completed a rest on the balcony was called for. And coffee. A rest broken by the need to butter some nice baguettes and fill them with sundry pig parts and cheese. A dash of pickle and all was good to go.

We would have gone too, but it was so hot. I kept asking when our next shopping adventure was due but as long as the sun shone it was delayed. A couple of times a cloud almost drove us to venture forth but these clouds were small and their shade of short duration so we stayed where we were until we both agreed that it was getting a bit too hot. It is January, after all, and Europe is in the "Grasp of a Killer Freeze" or so I'm told. Must be due to Brexit. 

Our afternoon sally was not unpleasant, unless you were wearing high heels, which I wasn't, as the route took us along a walkway from which the shipping in and out of Grand Harbour could be observed. Which it was. Thence into an airconditioned soulless shopping complex, down two escalators and around a new supermarket which is even closer than Tower. This time I had my camera.

So, to summarise ....






It was too hot here by mid afternoon

So we walked along here

And got to here

Sadly, our lack of forethought meant that whilst the Merlot was excellent with the chilli we had no  dessert wine to accompany the Pannacotta.

Not bad for a Monday, though..

Not a bad pad

Bristol this morning was swathed in fog. Everything was damp and cold and pretty horrible. Cloud obscured our track apart from the not so snowy Alpine tops peeping through before the cloud was total, again.

Once within half an hour of Malta it cleared up and the approach was over Gozo, down the east coast, steep turn to starboard off Marsaxlokk and landed at Luqa.

Sunny, breezy and about 14, a fleece but not a proper coat. Needed the ancient hat though as the sun was a bit bright.

The apartment for this year is a bit bright, too.
Not too shabby for this years balcony view, quite a bit larger than we're used to as it has a table and four chairs on it and there's still room to move. Sunny till sunset but as we don't yet know what time to expect to be taking coffee in the morning sun. Tomorrow should answer that. I'm sure that we'll get used to it soon enough.

We made some inroads into becoming acclimatised this afternoon. There are no supermarkets open locally just corner shop which was a tad on the expensive side. However, Cisk, for the immediate thirst, milk for the afternoon tea and a bottle of something red for later.

I wouldn't normally do this but I thought a glimpse of the bedroom may lift the spirits of any still enduring cold, damp, dull dreariness.

I do hope that such a view is a fillip to you, whoever and wherever you may be as it is working wonders for me.

Lest you all think that it has been a totally wonderful day you should know that the telly doesn't work and the only milk we could get was long life stuff which, as you should also know, does not do even tea bag tea any favours.

Oh, and we can't find a coffee maker either, so it's just as well we brought one. I hope that hunger does not rear its head until a shopping expedition has been undertaken as all we have is Christmas cake.

At 0900 tomorrow a man what does is coming to do what needs being done so we can't get out before he's gone. I suppose that we'll just have to take it easy and see how the day goes.

One does feel rather privileged and grateful.

Another year, eh?

Ways of Waiting

With apologies to the recently deceased John Berger and his "Ways of Seeing", a marvellously revealing book.

In an hour or two our resident taxidermist will arrive, stuff us in his car and deposit us ready to catch the Falcon and thence aloft and south. Can't wait. Have to though.

Which gives me time to ponder the last few weeks and to once again cast ones eyes over rooms now devoid of Christmas decoration and clutter. In such circumstances it is hard to avoid letting ones eyes rest upon a gift from some very dear friends. Not that all our friends aren't dear, they are but its' unexpectedness and curious shape when wrapped drew attention to itself whilst resident under the tree with a mountain of regular shapes and usual colours.

It's unwrapping revealed .....

Now, it has been in mind pretty much constantly and currently resides on a bookcase between an Avocet and an Oystercatcher, slightly to the left of a Russian doll.

It is obviously a hook constructed from a fork and mounted on a piece of driftwood.

I have looked at this, handled it, pondered it. Smiled at it. Found myself lying awake wondering who ate with that fork and where. What they ate and with whom. How many have used it? Is there any significance in the twisted tines? What former was used to make the hook but above all why, oh why use a pozidrive No.2 screw that isn't perfectly lined up instead of an old brass slotted one?

The driftwood looks like it was once a pallett which implies that it is not as old as the fork would appear but one wonders where it has drifted, how many times it has ben washed ashore, how often carried for a while as its damp tactile surface was explored by lazy fingers before being slung back from where it had almost escaped. How often has it been kicked along a beach, used as a target for small stones in small hands, been absently or even studiously examined and discarded again before eventually falling into the hands of someone who saw beyond the immediate?

Over the past week or two this little object has been carried about, held aloft, positioned in many places, looked at from most angles and contemplated from places not usually mentioned in polite blogs. But I can't make up my mind where to put it. It ought to be on the kitchen door from which an apron should be hung.

 It is an admirable piece and deserves to be admired but what concerns me is how to use it. Even to the point of removing the thoroughly modern offset screw and fixing it to the door sans driftwood with an old brass screw that I just happen to have.

See what's happening here?

I find it surprisingly captivating. And ever so slightly annoying. It's a bent fork on a bit of driftwood. I've had loads of old forks none of which I've had the nous to bend rather than bin and loads of driftwood has come my way none of which has been used for much other than heat, apart from a few bits that fell together to form a picture frame in another life.

The bookcase seems a suitable place for it. For now.

Why have I never had the inclination to do what David H Wright BA of Mockbeggar Wharf has done?

Because he is an artist and I a Philistine.

To be continued by the reader*



* The final line in "Ways of Seeing" by John Peter Berger (5 November 1926 – 2 January 2017)