I was the non-speaking, unseen third tree in our village play

I was the third tree, a nonspeaking part, in the village play. As a child, you’re trying to find your place in the greater scheme of things and when Eva Carson got the role of the first tree and had two whole lines of speech to perform, it felt very unfair to me.  The main actors, who had to memorise quite long dialogues, had already been picked. Obviously, the best looking, most articulate of the children in our village were in these roles. 

There was a pecking order with the stage manager and director along with costume designer and stagehands to change backgrounds between acts.  Lower down still, were the people in the background a waiter, bystanders or crowds.  They didn’t get to speak but they got to move around and mutter, cheer or shout on occasion.  Then, there were the two ushers who showed people to their seats and were much envied as they both had torches and seemed to relish their power over members of the audience arriving in the darkness.  At the very bottom of the pecking order were the three trees. The first tree had a few lines to say. Nothing epic but at least her tree contributed to the story of the play. The second tree was Tim Dicks and he didn’t have to speak but had a card with some words that he held up at the end of the play to close the whole show. Finally, right at the very bottom of the entire social hierarchy was me, the third tree, a non-speaking role with not even a card to hold aloft.  

All three trees were wrapped up in brown painted cardboard with our faces peeking out painted brown like the trunk of a tree. Finally, attached to our heads were green leaves to create the impression of foliage. We were not an impressive sight as we shuffled onto the stage, behind the curtain, for the opening night performance. I’m ashamed to admit I was envious of both Eva and Tim. How dare they get bigger parts than me? I knew enough of my position in the grand scheme of things not to aspire to be a bystander or an usher but I really felt I could’ve managed to be a tree with a few lines. Too late, I felt the deep embarrassment of my lowly position as the curtains were about to be opened and the whole set revealed. A packed audience was watching, as always. Nothing guarantees more bums on seats at a village performance than doting parents wanting to watch their offspring stagger on and off stages in their moment of glory. 

The director, an English lady with a very posh accent, had eloquently introduced the play which bored the entire audience. They didn’t care who wrote the play, what it portrayed, the hidden meaning or the eloquence of the plot. They wanted to see their children perform. So, when the director finally left the stage and the curtains actually opened there was riotous applause and even some stamping of feet in excitement. The show was on!

Unfortunately, the stage curtain had not been pulled completely open the whole way.  So, although tree one and tree two could be clearly seen stage right, I could not.  I stood a bit bewildered, looking straight into a black curtain while the play started on the stage with actors speaking their lines loudly. As a child, you just accept such disasters. First, the humiliation of being a nonspeaking tree then you become an unseen, unspeaking tree. Questions popped into my mind almost metaphysical in nature. If you are a tree, who can’t speak and can’t be seen do you really exist in the play at all?  Perhaps, I had been overly aspirational in trying to be a third nonspeaking tree and the universe was letting me know “No, you don’t even deserve this miserable role!”

Then, there was a flurry of loud footsteps and the curtains were suddenly roughly drawn open by my father who had marched all the way to the front from his seat further back in the auditorium. He beamed at me as he carefully positioned the curtain so that I could be seen by all, before noisily stamping his way back into the darkness. Now, my questions were suddenly answered. Was there anything worse than being a non-speaking, non-seen third tree?  The answer to that question was, yes! Much worse was standing in front of a whole audience with tears running down my face in total humiliation. I’m not sure what the audience thought. If there was any justice there would’ve been a favourable review in the local paper reading something like,

“This production was mesmerising and the show-stealer was the third tree whose deep continuous sobs and distress epitomised the pain, loss and suffering that inflict us all. Her constant tears remind us of our helplessness and total acquiescence in life’s mighty drama!”

But no such report was written and instead yet another deep and abiding humiliation was carved into my adolescent heart. To summarise simply, the first tree had words, the second tree had a card and the third tree was lacerated in public view.

For the information of those of you who inhabit the Internet, such entertainment as these performances used to fill our days in the village. Amateur shows were regular events in between beetle drives (you will have to google that one).  There was a particularly favourite party piece that was used regularly on stage. Two characters, usually old farmers, would appear and the dialogue would be as follows,

First farmer: “My son has joined the RAF”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s good, that’s good, that’s good!”

First farmer: “It’s not so good at all he has to go up very high in a big plane.”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s bad, that’s bad, that’s bad!”

First farmer: “It’s not so bad at all because those planes have two engines.”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s good, that’s good, that’s good!”

First farmer: “It’s not so good at all because both engines stopped working.”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s bad, that’s bad, that’s bad!”

First farmer: “It’s not so bad at all because he had a parachute.”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s good, that’s good, that’s good!”

First farmer: “It’s not so good at all because when he jumped out the parachute wouldn’t open.”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s bad, that’s bad, that’s bad!”

First farmer: “It’s not so bad at all because there was a big haystack down beneath him”.

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s good, that’s good, that’s good!”

First farmer: “It’s not so good at all because as he fell he could see the haystack had a pitchfork in it.”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s bad, that’s bad, that’s bad!”

First farmer: “It’s not so bad at all because he missed the pitchfork”.

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s good, that’s good, that’s good!”

First farmer: “It’s not so good at all because he missed the haystack too!”

For some reason, this was greeted with hilarity each and every time it was related. Its very familiarity made this performance more popular.  Years later, I discovered it’s a genre found the world over and its actual message is quite deep.  Here is one example from the east.

There is a Taoist story of an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbours came to visit. "Such bad luck," they said sympathetically. 

"Maybe," the farmer replied.

The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. "How wonderful," the neighbours exclaimed. 

"Maybe," replied the old man.

The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbours again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. 

"Maybe," answered the farmer.

The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son's leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbours congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. 

"Maybe," said the farmer.

I have learnt a lot from these tales and consider them valuable lessons in life. Sometimes you feel being the third tree on a stage is a humiliation too much to bear. Then, years pass and you face both worse and better experiences that force you to recalibrate. Eventually, you begin to realise that, whatever life brings, the only thing that really matters is how you deal with it.

Malta - reconstruction, recollections and reflections

 

St Julian’s in Malta is a picturesque spot.  Walking to the love statue along the coast from Sliema is a therapy for mind and body.  The scene of the colourful boats lying at anchor add to the colour and drama of the occasion.   

But if you could have only seen it a couple of centuries ago perhaps you would have been more impressed still.   Before the onslaught of modern hotels, businesses and contemporary apartment blocks there was a beauty that was unique.  However, when you think of the hammering Malta received during the war it is amazing how much still remains to be admired.  The extent of this bombing is difficult to get your head around but some old photos do speak volumes.

So I suspect we should be grateful for the beauty that remains. But some of the slightly older photos of St Julian's show us another side to this familiar spot that deserves remembering.

This aerial view of the approach to St Julian's from Balluta bay is still recognisable despite the age of the photograph.  But other photographs of St Julian's suddenly begin to show the changes that have occurred.

In particular, the lovely old buildings on the other side of the bay look stunning and I suddenly see what this area has lost with time.  There is a simplicity and loveliness in this shot that surprises and the two boys with their bicycle seem from another more innocent age.

Going back a few more years this close up of Spinola Palace shows that it is missing the crown on its facade that had been removed in 1798 during Napoleon's visit to signify the Knights Hospitaller of St John's expulsion from Malta. The palace itself was originally built in 1688 by a certain Fra Paolo Rafel Spinola, Grand Prior of Lombardy, on a piece of land he obtained from his brother Frangisku Nupuljan Spinola de Roccaforte, Marquise of the Holy Roman Empire.  

Fra Paolo Rafel Spinola's nephew was appointed Ambassador of the Order to the Court of King Philip V of Spain, to the King of Sicily and to the Court of Pope Innocent XII. In 1733 the Palace was passed on to him and he enlarged and embellished it. This later construction was designed by Romano Carapecchia, and is considered a masterpiece. We can see his original plans for its construction below.

This building also had at the time of its construction a number of ancillary buildings including two boathouses, a church, a belvedere and a building serving as stables. They still survive today belonging to different private owners, with the palace belonging to the Maltese government. Originally the building had also large extensive gardens, including baroque gardens and vineyards.  Over time these were reduced to an enclosed back garden and a small front public garden. Today the palace is barely visible from the bay, being obscured by apartments and other modern buildings.  Which is a shame as it is still an impressive building.

The original church, across the road, is also still there but has a new facade.

The stables are now inhabited by Pizza hut and have undergone considerable reconstruction.  However, the original belvedere still exists.  I had no clue as to what this was, but have since looked up its definition  "an architectural structure sited to take advantage of a fine or scenic view".  It looks a little neglected but still an impressive building.

Spinola palace's original wine cellar now houses the L-Għonnella Restaurant while the two boathouses, whose structures largely remain, host two other restaurants as well.  The original boathouses can be seen more clearly in the photograph below.

The Palace has had a colourful history passing to the church and then in the 1830s, it was used as a residence by the artist Charles Allingham (c.1778-1850).  The British military rented it for £20 a year as a hospital and during the 1860's it became known as Forrest Hospital.

It was after named Dr John Forrest who was the Inspector for Hospitals of the period and it served soldiers and was divided into nine wards on different floors. Following the cholera epidemic of 1865, when three patients there died, a sanitary report pointed out that the building was not suitable as a hospital as the building had serious issues related to a bad drainage system and poor ventilation. The following photograph shows the building with its extensive gardens still in existence.

In the 1940s, the Palace was used as a shelter for people whose homes had been destroyed by aerial bombardment in World War II.  Following its restoration between 1984 and 1986, it was used to host the Museum of Modern Art rather unsuccessfully and then by the Ministry for Tourism for a period. Spinola Palace was restored once again between 2006 and 2007 and this time the crown on the clock, which had been missing since 1798, and the expulsion of the Order was reconstructed in 2012.  The following photograph is not a very old one but shows the Palace still clearly visible in St Julians before it became largely hidden by new buildings.  The two boathouses can also be clearly seen here at the waterside along with the traditional buses in the foreground.

I find it a little sad that Spinola Palace is not really visible from this perspective today and it is perhaps reflective of much that has been knocked down, built on and obscured in the rush to commercialise. When Malta's heritage was demolished by bombs during World War 2 there was a need to rebuild and reclaim in a tangible way what had been lost.  But in modern Malta, the pace of change seems so very fast that there is almost no time to appreciate what we have before it is cemented over and lost.  The beauty and bravery of Malta and the Maltese deserves to be remembered and respected.  Sometimes it is by looking back we find the things we value and also the parts of ourselves that need preserving in order to create the future we truly deserve.  In these odd, unpredictable days of a pandemic perhaps we all need to dig deep and reflect on the individuals, communities and institutions that Malta needs now.

"Therefore strive that your actions day by day may be beautiful prayers."

Bahá’í Writings

The Trip of a lifetime by hot air balloon - London to Constantinople via Malta

It seems an excellent offer, a wonderful adventure which would start at Charing Cross in London and then you would travel by air balloon to Lisbon for a stopover, followed by a quick balloon trip to Gibraltar, then the balloon will continue its flight first to Malta to dine and finally, the last league of this entrancing balloon adventure would be to Constantinople.  Then, the whole journey will be repeated in reverse. Imagine being able to float above the countryside and over the sea exploring countries at your leisure, all spread out beneath you stopping to dine at such extraordinary venues.  

Even now it makes the mouth water and seems an exciting idea.  Unfortunately, this offer has expired. I hasten to explain before the online booking begins in earnest.  It is an offer from The Times dated April 6, 1785.  So, it actually expired well over two hundred years ago.  Seems incredible, doesn’t it?  I actually spend a large part of my free time combing through the archives of this newspaper as they have past editions from 1785 all available online.   I know it is an odd habit for which I can only apologize but the joy of it is that occasionally it turns up interesting little snippets that surprise and delight.

Here is the advertisement in case you doubt me.

 

The article is tricky to read so I will give a text version below.

INTELLIGENCE EXTRAORDINARY.

To Travellers

A new real Air Balloon Poft Chariot, to carry- four passengers in two days to Constantinople, is to set off, at six o’clock precisely, on Monday evening, from Charing-cross, and to breakfast next morning at Lisbon, dine at Gibraltar, and sup and lie at Malta; to set out from thence time enough on Wednesday morning, so-as-to arrive at four in the afternoon at Constantinople – from whence it-is-to return exactly at six on Thursday evening, breakfast on Friday morning at Malta,: dine at Gibraltar, and sleep at Lisbon; to depart next morning soon enough to arrive at the Hotel Dieu in Covent-Garden, at four in the afternoon. To be performed (if God permit) by Signor Zampango and Co. 

N. B Each passenger will be allowed to carry fourteen pounds weight as luggage. 

This seems an incredible journey considering air balloons were only discovered fairly early in the 1700s.  The earliest mention of a very small balloon lifting is on August 8, 1709, in Lisbon, Bartolomeu de Gusmão when a paper balloon full of hot air rose a mere four meters in front of King John V and the Portuguese court.

A more effective balloon was the world’s first hydrogen balloon launched by Jacques Charles and the Robert brothers on 23rd of August 1783, in the Place des Victoires, Paris. This balloon was still quite small, a 35-cubic-metre sphere of rubberised silk (about 13 feet in diameter), and could only lift around 9 kg.  So obviously no passengers allowed!

The exciting news of this startling attraction drew such a huge crowd that on the 26th the balloon was moved secretly by night to the Champ de Mars, now the site of the Eiffel Tower some four kilometres away. On August 27, 1783, the balloon was released; Interestingly Benjamin Franklin (Founding Father of the United States) was among the crowd of onlookers. 

The balloon flew northwards for 45 minutes, chased by excited spectators on horseback, and landed 21 kilometres away in the village of Gonesse.  Here the presence of the balloon created a huge amount of fear and the terrified local peasants attacked the ‘floating demon’ with pitchforks and knives, and destroyed it. A successful first flight with a rather deflated, disappointing ending.

On 5 June 1783, the Montgolfier brothers demonstrated an unmanned hot-air balloon 35 feet (11 m) in diameter. On 19 September 1783, their balloon ‘Aerostat Réveillon’ was flown with the first (non-human) living creatures in a basket attached to the balloon: a sheep, a duck and a rooster. This remarkable demonstration was performed before a considerable crowd at the royal palace in Versailles, in front of King Louis XVI of France and Queen Marie Antoinette. The flight only lasted around eight minutes and travelled only two miles (3 km), but reached an altitude of about 1,500 feet (460 m). Thankfully the craft plus its three reluctant animal passengers landed safely after flying. 

The first untethered flight with human passengers was on 21 November 1783. Jean-François Pilâtre de Rozier, along with the Marquis François d'Arlandes, piloted the balloon. In 25 minutes the two men travelled just over five miles. Jean-François Pilâtre de Rozier, would later also try to fly across the English Channel in June 1785 but died in the attempt the very first casualty in balloon flight.

The challenge to fly across the English Channel was accomplished on January 7, 1785 by Jean-Pierre Blanchard.  However, these early trips were full of challenges and the two balloonists who successfully crossed the English Channel ended up almost naked trying to keep their balloon aloft.  Here is an interesting account of their trip.

The technology of these early balloons, as you have seen, was not sophisticated, and many things did go wrong. Tullamore, Ireland was the scene of a balloon disaster on 10 May 1785 when a hot air balloon took off from the centre of the rural town and got snagged on a chimney. This collision brought the balloon down, which crashed and set a hundred homes alight.

By now like me you are probably wondering if these firsts were being achieved in terms of managing to cross the English Channel in 1785, how on earth does this advertised flight appear in The Times, from London to Lisbon to Gibraltar, Malta and finally Constantinople and back, seem possible in 1785?  Something doesn’t seem right about the timeline.  I am still scratching my head but am wondering if this article is an early scam by someone attempting to get money from naïve passengers excited by the thought of balloon flight.  If the flight occurred, then surely there would be more mention of it and secondly, in 1785 the direction of flight was still difficult to control.  In these early days, balloons generally went whatever direction the wind blew so how could the pilot achieve five cities in different countries in so short a time?  Perhaps the exciting experience mentioned was simply being swindled by Signor Zampango?  I would love to know the truth and if there is some detective out there willing to examine a 235-year-old case please feel free give it a go.