I was in the garden around 6pm today, and I swung round startled. I heard voices so close I thought someone was behind me. The yells came from above though. It then dawned on me that it’s a month to my village’s annual Festa, and the yells were from the parish volunteers putting up the decorations. Not just any old decorations, but the grand illuminations and regalia that adorn the church – from atop the pinnacles of the belfries and dome to its interior which is bedecked with deep, bulls-blood red drapery.

The festa daredevils, steeplejacks or what you will, risk a fate as bad as death each year. I’ve seen what look like rickety wooden ladders and platform contraptions levered out from the dome so someone could manage to get light bulbs working up in the gods. I’ve seen people manage to pass each other on the ledge that runs around the bottom of the dome, when I thought it wide enough only for pigeons to strut on. I’ve seen people lean out, without a harness, to reach a stray electric wire, a defunct bulb, or something that blew out of place in strong winds. The dome often ’sings’ with whistling wind around it.

No one has yet in my living memory fallen off. It’s bound to happen. Just like each year the preparation of festa fireworks claims lives in Malta. Health & Safety law enforcement? EU laws? These don’t even come into play when festa preparations are under way. No one cares. Until their son falls to his death one day.

Tomorrow, I’ll get the zoom working better and snap them on the top of the dome. Even more unbelievable a sight.

15.15, April 19th, Siggiewi piazza, Malta, and the bells are tolling. Another day, another dime for me and another death being celebrated 100 metres away from my computer screen. Most days see me wake to bells for a funeral squeezed between the frequent morning masses. I return most afternoons to find no parking as mourners have filched the spaces. Death is so much part of our lives we scarcely notice the hearses decked in white carnations sidled up by the church .

We did yesterday though. I could hardly believe what I saw. Two pairs of fine black horses, plumed and polished; one pair pulling the ‘hearse’; the other a carriage that was shaped like those you find Cinderella in on her way to the ball – a kind of Rococco, gilded affair. The funeral directors stood around as they always do, hands in pockets, waiting for the off. My son expected them to be in coiffed wigs, with doublet and hose instead of regular suits.

We wrote about Malta’s love of celebrating death a few months back. A comment came in saying an enterprising funeral director was branching out into Sicilian-style horse-drawn hearses, but we’d never come across one until yesterday. It really was an amazing sight, rare still, but one I think might start catching on. The cabby told us the guy who died ‘loved horses’. A shame then he didn’t get to see it all!

Photos: Alex Grech

There are 359 churches over 316 sq km in Malta.  That’s 1.14 churches per sq km. I believe that puts Malta slap behind the Vatican in terms of church coverage .  Now consider that we have 1,309 inhabitants per sq km, that 98% of Maltese are baptised Roman Catholic and every village has some band club of sorts and the theocracy maths starts getting complicated.

I live in Siggiewi, right behind the lovely baroque dome of St Nicholas parish church. You cannot get more village hard core than this. If I crane my neck, from my wi-fi station in the garden, the dome soars above the TV aerials and the water tanks and the pigeon coops.

Maundy Thursday is migraine day.   During the day, the bell ringing in incessant, perhaps to encourage visits to the  Last Supper pageant.  In the evening, at exactly 20.23 hrs the bell-ringing is replaced by a loud, relentless rattle.  It’s difficult to describe, except that it’s a horrible, slow, throaty, tuneless sound that could be a large, megaphoned cheese-grater or some special effect from a Hammer Horror film.  It scares the living daylight out of anyone aged 7 or under and means I will not sleep well right up to Easter Sunday, when the bell-ringing will be even more energetic, and hopefully more tuneful.

The second phenomenon is that from Maundy Thursday all the way to the evening of Good Friday, people go on a carcade of seven churches.  If you’re a kid, it’s an interesting ritual if you’re not prone to car-sickness, as you get to visit churches off the beaten track and compare tapestries, statues and overall opulence of the parish your parents happen to hit on.  And if you crash a village at the right time, you can also join the traditional, occasionally gruesome Good Friday procession and meet a Roman centurion or your own personal Jesus.

Add to this fasting, special confectioneries and theories about the weather and you have a uniquely Maltese cocktail of folklore, religion and superstition rolled into one.

I wonder how many people on Good Friday are barricaded like me, in a village core besieged by the madding crowds clocking up the church count, to the backdrop of a grating rattle.  And to think that in just over a fortnight, the Pope visits Malta and Siggiewi becomes a pit stop in the whirlwind tour.

Photo: Andrew Galea Debono

We’ve lived in an old farmhouse in Siggiewi for the past 12 years. In Malta, you get people who would not contemplate the idea; and there are others who, like us, have moved to village life after years in big cities, or leafy suburbia.

There are many different views of what goes into making up Maltese village life, so this is just a snapshot from our perspective. If you’re new to Malta, our list can count as quick tips to living in a village with the minimum amount of hassle and on your own terms. If you’re an old-hand at village life, or a Malta local, then you may easily recognise some of these aspects.

1. Do say hello to the neighbours when you arrive. They will definitely know that you have taken up residence and have probably done some research into your family history, if you are Maltese. If you cannot speak Maltese, just smile. ‘Being seen to be friendly’ goes a long way.

2. Watch where people park their motors before you deposit your own prized asset in that empty place. Villagers can get territorial. Or they simply know the driving practices of others in the neigbourhood. My car lasted a full 4 weeks before someone crashed into it and drove off without ringing my bell.

3. Even if you cannot find anything you want from the village grocer, pop your head in there for the occasional carton of milk. Many of these have great, fresh stuff behind the counter, like gbejniet, bigilla and stuffed olives. You will also realise that queuing is not normally practised at the village grocer: conversely, you may sometimes be served first because of your ‘guest’ or foreign status. Go with the flow.

4. Accept the fact that every village has more than its fair share of weirdos. Ours include a priest who has persuaded the council to paint yellow lines in front of his door in our alley and erect signs advising drivers to park with their exhaust pipes facing outwards – in between bending other drivers’ mirrors and remonstrating with anyone washing a car in the vicinity of his house. Never underestimate the power of all things ecclesiastical in a village community.

5. Accept all forms of gifts and kindness. We are blessed by having people who come round with lemons, oranges and whatever is in season.

6. Ask for local help if you need some DIY done. There is always someone who knows someone. And in true word of mouth tradition, people will generally only recommend tradesmen they trust.

7. Do your research about your house locality before you move in. The haphazard layout of village core architecture means that you can easily end up living in the vicinity of neighbours you never knew you had who have pigs, goats, chickens and pigeons as pets. The building boom in this country also sadly means that ‘back-building’ in core village areas is still allowed.

8. Accept the fact that people are either incredibly kind or incredibly cruel to animals. Stray cats either get fed by batty ladies throwing fish over their roofs, or hounded by others who detest them. Another old lady across the road lived with over 100 stray dogs, till the day she fell and broke a leg and the whole village turned up to gawp at the police, fire-brigade and SPCA attempting to evacuate the place.

9. Be prepared for odd people banging on your door. For about six months, we had an old lady with a goat and shaggy dog in tow show up to sell us mainly rotten vegetables from her pram. Be polite, but firm.

10. When it’s time for the village festa, either join in the fun, buy ear-plugs or go on holiday if it’s not your cup of tea. For a solid week, for instance, our alley is transformed into an open air bingo hall, pizza parlour and venue for ‘local talent.’

11. Nothing helps as much as having a young child around to ‘get accepted.’ Our masterstroke was going down to the local council and asking for a recommendation for a child carer when our child was 1. Like many others we know, our child-carer Joyce is a substitute for the grandparents we cannot call upon to occasionally help us get a breather – and get our child to ‘integrate’ with what’s actually going on outside his door.

Photo: Walter Lo Cascio

Only around three per cent of Malta’s population is engaged in agriculture, but the fruits of its labour can be seen at any veggie cart or shop. Some traditional Maltese farming villages though, like Mgarr in the North and Siggiewi near the west coast have new-found fame for celebrating their long and much loved ties with the land: Mgarr holds its strawberry fair in May, and Siggiewi held an agricultural bonanza last weekend (13-14 June). Judging by the numbers of non locals at both events, it seems rural life is becoming more in vogue, even among the town dwellers.

Siggiewi’s now annual agricultural fare kicks off on the Saturday evening at dusk and is a mishmash of a livestock show, heritage event and farmers’ market – and an excuse for local folk to get some air; it’s also a prelude to the villlage festa, just two weeks on.

The pageantry was a reenactment of the Grand Master handing over a falcon to Holy Roman Emperor Charles V as rental payment for the Maltese Islands. It was a charming cameo that enthralled the kids, as did another slice of history – the ancient threshing machine that took pride of place in the square. It rattled and hummed into action, man atop loading straw, and was soon spewing out chaff all over the gathered crowd.

A small tent housed old agricultural implements and canteen items that farmers would use in the fields to brew up coffee. In fact, you could see the brewing in action as nearby sat an old lady, in typical floral dress/apron, turning a coffee bean roaster over an open fire (see photo below). A stall next to her was serving the clove-flavoured coffee for free to an appreciative, and curious crowd.

The livestock on display was there mainly for the children to pet – Falabella ponies, donkeys, prize sheep and goat breeds, some with their young, and a lama – so nothing that would pull a plowshare. The next morning saw the ‘blessing’ of the animals at 08.30 (before it gets too hot), and some heavy horses on display (ah, something that would pull a plowshare!).

Both evening and morning saw stallholders selling some genuine local produce, including thyme honey, certified organic olive oil (impressively with an EU accreditation on it) and lots of peaches and tomatoes, which grow well in the Siggiewi area. The olive oil producer, Ta’ Zeppi, said he offered agri-tourism tours; best in autumn though when the harvest is in and being pressed.

It’s heart-warming that Malta is beginning to relish its rural past, and to see skills, crafts and genuine Maltese produce appreciated by young and old, and locals and visitors alike.

To glimpse rural life, even if you miss the various fares, try an open-top bus ride on a London-type, double-decker bus with MaltaSightSeeing. They leave from Sliema ferries (the main front), and do a southern and northern tour visiting villages and less touristy localities. You can hop on and off, wander round a village and get the next bus onwards.

I usually eschew stage-managed cultural or historical festivals. They tend to be put on for tourists and offer little for locals who don’t just want an excuse to waste time with the kids somewhere, or grab a beer and a take-away. But, I was pleasantly surprised by the annual Mdina Medieval Festival, held last weekend (18-19 April). It turned out to be a warm-spirited affair – damp, unseasonal weather aside.

Mdina, Malta’s medieval walled city, once the islands’ capital, was the ideal fortified backdrop to showcase crafts, sword-fighting, local produce and pageantry of yesteryear. More on those in another post, because the highlight of the day for me, friends and kids in tow, were the birds of prey and the falconry displays.

Two falconry outfits entertained us, flying several species of bird of prey in a make-shift arena in the ditch around Mdina: the Siggiewi Falconry Centre; and a falconry club, Fredericus Rex. We squatted down on our benches as the majestic birds swooped low overhead with precision accuracy, and so closely that we felt the air from their flight path on our hair. Both falconry teams ’set out their stall’ in squares in Mdina, so visitors could view the mighty talons of eagles, falcons, hawks and owls up close and personal; some children even stroked the less nervy birds, such as sociable harrier hawk.

Think Malta, and a lot of people think of The Maltese Falcon, the novel, by Daschiell Hammett, which was immortalised into a film noir classic of the same name starring Humphrey Bogart. Few realise that Malta has a more regal association with the falcon. When Holy Roman Emperor Charles V granted the Maltese Islands to the Knights of St John in 1530 after they were driven from Rhodes by the Saracens, he requested two Maltese falcons in annual rent: one for himself; the other for the viceroy of Sicily.

Malta was renowned then for best-of-breed peregrine falcons, and was, until the mid 20th century, still a place where they nested, albeit in meagre numbers, on Gozo’s Ta’ Cenc cliffs. But, instead of being prized as hunting birds, they themselves became hunted to near oblivion. The last resident pair was shot in 1980. It’s probably fitting then that the Maltese falcon of Hammett’s novel is a statue.

Little wonder then that the art of falconry died a death when the Order left Malta. It wasn’t practised again until the opening of the Siggiewi Falconry Centre in autumn 2007. In fact, the founder, Renee Scicluna, is an erstwhile hunter – ‘poacher turned gamekeeper’, so to speak. He and his wife Doreen, along with Matt Richards – a master falconer from the UK – dedicated family and a corp of newly-trained local falconers, have achieved almost the impossible with their professional centre and aviary on the outskirts of Siggiewi.

“I wanted to set something up that could help us understand these fascinating creatures,” says Renee. “Something that could also be a focal point for the education of our children, and for conservation.” They’ve had some of their display birds shot, just over the wall from their centre. But, if the popularity of the falconry displays at the Mdina Festival are anything to go by, slow, but sure progress is being made in educating us to the beauty of these raptures.

Perhaps, one day, history will come full circle in Malta and the falcon will be prized living, rather than dead.

Photos: Amanda Holmes

Share this