THE OLD MALTESER SOCIETY WRINKLY REUNION
‘The cliff walks of Malta and Gozo have no shade,’ I say to myself as I plod along. The cliff walks of Malta and Gozo have no shade.’ Repeat after me: ‘The cliff walks of Malta and Gozo have no shade.’ Like a Mantra this phrase keeps recurring to me as we round another spectacular headland in the northwest of Gozo, where the Mediterranean is so deep and impenetrable that the colour of its water has deepened to a dark shade of ultramarine, and begins to approach Homer’s comparison of its waters to the darkness of wine. This phrase is not mentioned in the guidebook entitled ‘A Guide to Walking in Malta’, but it should be. These near molten heaps of limestone in the middle of the Mediterranean do not lend themselves to tree growth. An isolated stunted fig, or a cultivated pomegranate tree can be seen, but stands of trees are rare. Fortunately it is now mid September, and the temperatures are now an acceptable 28°C rather than 38°C of a month earlier. Out in the sun however, the exact temperature is anybody’s guess. All the same, here in Gozo, we are enjoying the absence of people and the frenetic activity and overcrowding which characterises Malta itself in 2010.
Our walking holiday, brief as it is comes as something of an antidote to the earlier part of the week on Malta. The reason we are here is a School Reunion, with a difference perhaps, but still with all the resonances that such an event carries with it...
It is Tuesday evening. We are on the terrace of the Villa, Meridien Hotel, St Julian’s Bay. The grey haired lady who obviously attended in 2005, the only previous occasion when Old Verdalans gathered here, is showing me her photo album. Almost immediately the first page stirs a chord. It is a black and white photograph of a shipwreck. ‘The Star of Malta went aground on the 25th of July 1955’, she announces. And immediately I am back there – in another country. ‘The past is another country: they do things differently there.’ Yes, it is another country, even though this event took place on the Dragonara reef less than a mile from where we are standing. As a seven year old, I dutifully trotted beside my mother down to the Sliema seafront. There in front of my eyes was a real live shipwreck, something only known to me from children’s storybooks. So our arrival in Malta was sometime during the early part of the summer in 1955. It was obviously in time to witness this.
Jane, for this is her name, has other surprises in store. Her autograph book is next. There in her familiar script, is my mother’s handwriting, P.E. teacher at the school, in this lady’s autograph book. My medical senses, usually on auto, have been dulled. Jane tells me that she has suffered a stroke. Of course I had noticed as she walked across that one foot skimmed the floor in an arc rather than a step, but it hadn’t arrived in my ‘medical cortex’. But there is a tragic irony here: I remember her now as a leading member of the school netball team – young, fit and healthy, as indeed we all were. ‘Do you remember that Staff versus School netball match which we all watched and Mr Ross fell down trying to defend an attack?’ ‘Well I’m not sure.’ I remember it though because my mother commented on it. The result was a fractured scaphoid with Mr Ross in a plaster for weeks afterwards. Like many of our teachers, Mr Ross was something of a character. It obviously demanded something extra of a school teacher in 1955 to up sticks and go to Malta. Mr Ross’s career moved on in spectacular fashion, and much of his teaching life after leaving us was spent in Kathmandu. During his many years there he converted to one of the local religions – Sikhism somebody whispered, and his death there a few years ago was marked by a traditional funeral with alfresco cremation.
Looking across at a tall lady with an impressive shock of grey hair interestingly counter-streaked with blue, I see that her name badge says ‘Lesley Collett’. Another magic carpet of instant transport. Kalafrana (Malta south coast, bay of Marsaxlokk). Summer 1958. I am playing there with Lesley and her friend Sheira. Next to the admiralty facility where torpedoes are stored and maintained, there is a lookout tower, of what seems to us unimaginable height. With not a care in the world (and out of sight of our parents) we swing ourselves up hand over hand on the rungs of the side of the tower until we are at the top and can look over the entire bay. Was it Lesley who suggested it? I can’t remember. It was one of the highlights of that summer for me. But, bathos, Lesley has no memory of it. Perhaps she was always doing things like that. She was something of a tomboy. I realise now that this was almost certainly because she had an older brother and two younger brothers, though the subtleties of child psychology escaped me at the age of ten. She’s still entertaining though. She reminds me that we were both in Miss Kernahan’s recorder group together.
To a rather conventional child whose main early memories were a bizarre old house in Larkhall, Bath, with dodgy plumbing, and a rather constraining top floor flat in Queen’s Parade, the translocation to Malta at the beginning of the Mediterranean summer brought an extraordinary new deluge of experience, which burned itself as deep as the Maltese sun itself. When all of this came to an end, after three memorable years, and my father was posted to a remote part of West Wales, the shock was deep. The experience was preserved, in aspic, or in amber, or more correctly in RNA which we now know hold the stores of memory. Visits subsequently were few and far between, and served to highlight the earlier memories, rather than obliterate them. I went back for the first time to a cardiology meeting in March 1976. My main memory then is how the lovely old higgledy-piggledy houses had all sprouted unattractive TV aerials. In the 80s I went to Gozo, for a holiday. I also returned for a Maltese friend’s wedding sometime in the mid 1980s. This was a spectacular affair with a massive service for 700 people in the old cathedral in Mdina. Eight years ago, I brought my daughters for the first time, and showed them the place where I had lived in Sliema, the rather grubby ‘Nelson Flats’ in Dingli Circus. This was during the World Cup, and we watched the England-Argentina game in a dive called the ‘Zanzibar’ in St Julian’s. After the Beckham penalty, the streets were full of Maltese as well as English people honking their horns and waving Union Jacks as well as the Maltese flag.
So you may understand that when I walk in Malta or Gozo, I am walking with ghosts. The ghosts of my parents in particular. But also the ghosts of my young self, and that of my brother. It was a time when we were all happy, life was reasonably uncomplicated, and we were all healthy. How young my parents were then – my mother at 34, and my father 36, when we arrived in Malta. Nowadays, I look on myself at that age as desperately naive, even though I had just become a consultant cardiologist (I was appointed at King’s when I was 35)... All of that generation had World War II in their recent consciousness, and they were doubtless more worldly wise than we would have given them credit for. But the sun was bright, the world was bright, and there were new excitements every day.
Back at the initial drinks party for the reunion, it’s clearly impossible to meet and talk to everybody. There is Liz Mardel, looking in great shape, one of our teachers from Verdala, and another colleague, Roy Jenkins, who came to Malta in January 1958, who seems to be enjoying himself as well. The organization for the day is done by Pauline – scarily efficient – and bells are beginning to ring – do I remember her? She was one year older than me – quite a lot when you’re only ten. She lived on the same staircase in the same block of flats, Egmont Close, so I must have known her then... The girls proudly display their house colours, and some have brought their sashes. The men are generally not so possessed of memorabilia, though one couple have done a good job with their photocopied school badges, duly laminated and worn on the lapel.
Eventually we all depart for a stroll along the Sliema seafront and our own affairs, but the next day will bring the school visit, and there I will be breaking new ground. I haven’t been there since I walked out for the last time some time in the summer term, 1958.
The initial announcement was that the bus would depart the hotel in Sliema at 9, but then there was mention that it would be there at quarter to 9. When I get on, at 1 minute to 9, I’m surprised that the latter was obviously the case, and lots of wrinklies and grey hairs are waiting for me. ‘100 lines’, says someone. Off we go, the familiar route, Sliema, Gzira, the Msida roundabout, back around the creeks, past Pieta (a Maltese place name rather than a Madonna and dead Christ), and up towards the Porte des Bombes, making a right away from Valetta, and then left somewhere down the road to the tortuous route around the south of the Grand Harbour and its six creeks. Through the famous three cities, eventually to Cospicua, and up into the fortifications of the Margarita lines to Verdala. Now here is a surprise. All of the buses which took us to school used to stop in what was called the ditch, but was in fact a gigantic moat. Now we bypass this and wind up the road until we are on the playground of Verdala itself. This is a concession made to age and infirmity. Stumbling out of the bus we are met by blinding sunlight (plus ça change). Of course the playground looks smaller than it did. But there is at least a valid reason. The old one story block at the South end has been replaced by a magnificent large block, much higher and deeper. Some of the old 1906 barrack blocks where my classrooms were are still there. The hall is still there. Looking at the message board as we enter the hall I notice for the first time the programme for the day. It looks horrifyingly long. The reality is different. Rita DeBattista gives us an introduction, and then Brother Martin Azzopardi, a sincere and soulful looking man, gives us a welcome and blessing. He distributes slips of paper with his contact details on, and some indication of the desperate search that these people are undertaking in pursuit of what one might call Colonial Verdaliensia begins to emerge. After a welcome address from Mr Vella, the present headmaster, there is a longer intro from Rita, with an amusing and sometimes touching slideshow (powerpoint of course) of the graffiti which she has found around the place – some of which date back to the prisoners of war from the first World War, and some from sailors or Marines stationed here between 1939 and 1945. Professor Griffiths (what he is Professor of is unclear), who seems to be about 100, gives us a largely unintelligible address about the Dockyard School (the predecessor of Verdala). As far as I can tell this closed in the 1930s, so my assessment of his age cannot be too far out. Never mind, everybody applauds enthusiastically, and quite right. Well done the Prof for getting here, let alone standing up to speak.
After a coffee break, with some excellent Maltese pastries and biscuits, it’s time for a group photo and then a look around. The highlight of this is that we are allowed up onto the roof of the main building, with its elegant lantern, something that we were never allowed to do in the 1950s. On reaching the rooftop and looking north, the location of the school becomes clear for the very first time. We are just a little south east of dockyard creek, and looking towards the grand harbour. The view of anything from the playground is blocked by the massive double redoubt of the Margarita lines. To the eastwards the elegant Doric columns of the old Royal Naval Hospital, constructed in 1830. For some reason this was where my dad was admitted for his SMR nasal operation. My brother and I visited him in the hospital, and while mother spent time with him in the ward, John and I used our new fly swatter to kill 263 flies with it in half an hour. So much for the hygiene. Further inland is the Mosta dome, and churches, churches everywhere. What were once easily discernible separate villages now merge into one another due to Malta’s gross overbuilding and lack of meaningful town planning. Over the north of the island an impressive thunderstorm is playing. Finally, when everybody has had a chance to explore wherever they wish, we get back on the coach and head off down to a restaurant beside one of the creeks where we have lunch. The tables are organized in groups of four, and fortunately we manage to secure places with Lesley and Stewart, her husband. So the meal passes pleasantly, but then it’s time to call a halt to the nostalgia. Lindsay and I are not attending the dinner which is due to take place the following evening. Lesley and Stewart drop us back to Sliema and then we are off to Gozo!
An interesting parenthesis at the school is the presence of Anne Mintoff. I don’t remember her at school, she was quite a bit younger, but my mother did. Mother said that she was quite a nice little girl. On one occasion Anne injured herself in the playground and mother had to take her to the hospital. Ms Mintoff doesn’t seem to remember this when I tell her, and gives a fairly strong implication through her attitude and body language that most of the attendees here at the school are a bit beneath her. Looking at the group photographs taken in front of the main building, it’s interesting to note how ambivalent her feelings are, there she is skulking around at the side of the group, not really in the picture at all. I guess that if you are the daughter of Dom Mintoff, Malta’s anti-British labour prime minister, you aren’t able to embrace ex-colonialists with open arms. I don’t remind her however that I am perfectly aware that Mr Mintoff sent her off to an English public school... The aged Dom, now apparently 94, makes the papers the next day when it is announced that he has had a fall at his home and has been admitted to hospital. Odd how these straws in the wind seem to crop up. Another one – a ship aground- off Bahar -i-Caghaq, bringing recollections of the Star of Malta.
As we drive north towards Cirkewwa, the port for the Gozo Channel, the roads seem much as they were 50 years ago, with short exceptions of ultra smooth tarmac where large signs proudly announce ‘Part funded by the European Union’. The system at the ferry works very well and in beautiful late afternoon sunshine we are off. As we approach Gozo, it’s possible to notice that the skyline which is decked with flagpoles carries all its flags at half mast. This is another uncanny parallel with the past. A week before we arrived in Malta, a small fireworks factory in the tiny village of Garbh in Gozo is blown to smithereens, killing virtually an entire family – a total of six deaths. There is the usual agonizing and soul searching in the Times of Malta, pointing out how the Maltese love f fireworks has resulted in many such disasters in the past. When we lived here, being a munitions officer, one of my father’s jobs as a British civil servant in the Admiralty was to go on a tour of inspection of the Maltese fireworks factories. I have dim memories of him pouring himself a gin and tonic after these trips, with mother telling me how he was ‘white as a sheet’ and shaking on his return. I understand that in those days, they even permitted smoking on the premises, so it’s no wonder that he was terrified.
We move up the hill from Mgarr harbour and off to Victoria, the capital of Gozo. Onwards towards the West of the island, passing through the outskirts of Garbh and on to San Lawrenz, where the Kempinski hotel is situated. This proves to be an oasis of relative peace, with not too many guests, and several swimming pools, with children being banned from the main one – hooray! On our first evening, we eat at the hotel, which is good but expensive, and there are plenty of other restaurants around in Gozo, including one only a few minutes walk from the front gate. There is a Happy Hour for cocktails, which is good news. Some of these are better value than others. A scorpion for example, contains white and dark rum, brandy, triple sec, lime juice and orange juice, four times the amount of liquor in a simple Pimms, and is only 1 euro more at happy hour!
The next day we elect to do one of our big walks. The purpose of this diary is not to itemize every nuance of our visit, but more to talk about the reunion, and the past, another country. In modern day Gozo however, it’s still possible to get away from it all – once the courtesy bus has dropped us in Marsalforn, and we head westwards round the northwest of the island we are essentially on our own, a landscape of limestone, prickly pear cactus, saltpans, deep creeks, dark deep seas, and the weirdly beautiful sculpted shapes of the globigerina limestone, which in places gives the only shade available, as it has been worn by wind and waves into an overhanging Art Deco cliff, just a few feet above our heads. On our last day of walking we tackled the southern and south west segments, from Sannat along the coast to Xlendi (O Xlendi how thou art changed), an exciting scramble up the rocky walls away from the village, and onwards back to Dwejra, Fungus Rock, the inland sea, and the Azure Window – a huge arch in stone over the sea.
Looking back from the south coast of Gozo, my mind goes back to our second day, the Marfa Ridge circuit, starting from the Red Tower, above Melieha bay. We chose this walk, of about eight or nine miles, in order to get back to our Sliema hotel in time for the introductory drinks party. After the walk west to the edge of the island, and taking care with the giant fissures in the rock, extending like crevasses deep into the bedrock, we descend to Paradise bay, a small bay to the west of the ferry terminal. Lindsay has discovered when at Verdala that Roy Jenkins and some of the other teachers used to come and stay here, and enjoy all night parties on the beach, recovering just in time to get back to school for the next day’s teaching! To celebrate this, Roy and his wife, now a one zimmer frame family, are coming here after the reunion for a period of two weeks.. Presumably they won’t be up all night on the sands this time. How little we children knew of what went on!
On our last morning, Lindsay and I decide to go back to Qbajjar bay near Marsalforn for an early morning swim, but changing plans en route we take the slightly longer journey through Zebbug to Ramla bay, still unspoilt after 50 years. It was here that as a family, the McLeods camped for a week in early summer 1958, to see if we could manage our planned six week camping trip between Naples and Le Havre. We sat on the beach in the early evenings watching, and at that age listening, to the bats swooping around the foothills. The trip was a success, allowing us to cram ourselves, our tent, our Primus, our sleeping bags, and all our clothes into our Morris Minor Traveller and make our way home. The only loss that week was our pet tortoise, which wandered off into the hinterland. Somewhere in the gorge among the bamboos, an enormous tortoise is still lurking, or so we hope. The beach remains a wonderful place to swim, with its extraordinary almost russet gold sand. So our holiday comes to an end. It has been a great success, with new experiences and enjoyable nostalgia in equal measure. We’ve made new friendships, and enjoyed revisits to places I haven’t seen for 50 years. I am sure we will be back, but next time, we will move on again.
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