Villa Frere Gardens in Malta, as they were in 1930s

John Hookham Frere (1769–1846) was an English diplomat, writer, scholar, and translator. He served as Britain's envoy to Spain and Portugal in the early 1800’s and became well known for his work in both diplomacy and literature. 

John Frere

He studied English, Greek and Latin literature at Eton and Cambridge and was also fluent in Italian, French and Spanish. As Britain's ambassador to Spain during the Napoleonic Wars he became well known for his work in both diplomacy and literature. On 12 September 1816, John Hookham Frere married Elizabeth Jemima Blake aged 46, the former Dowager Countess of Erroll. For a time they lived in Frere’s home, Roylands in England but her tuberculous necessitated a warmer climate so Frere moved with his wife to Malta in 1821. 

Elizabeth Jemima Blake had married George Hay, in 1790 aged 20, 16th Earl of Erroll becoming Countess of Erroll but by the age of 28 she was widowed with no children. However, in Malta, John and Elizabeth adopted a four-year-old girl called Statyra, a Greek child orphaned during the Greek War of Independence (1821–1829), and raised her as their daughter at Villa Frère.

Statyra

Typical of Frere’s linguistic ability during his stay in Malta he would go on to learn Maltese and Hebrew! He created Villa Frere in Pietà and designed extensive gardens in the English landscape style but adapted to Malta's climate and terrain. Elizabeth died in Malta on 17 January 1831 after ten years of happy life on the island. One reason Villa Frère is such a poignant place is, following her death, Frere ensured the garden became a memorial landscape dedicated to his beloved wife. Indeed, he deliberately carefully planned clear views from the garden towards the spot where Elizabeth was buried in Msida Bastion Cemetery. In the following fifteen years of his life, he never remarried and instead worked on improving the garden in an act of devotion to his wife. 

They became one of the most celebrated gardens on the island appearing in the Magazine Country life in 5th July 1930. The following photos are AI colour generated from the original black and white photos in that issue) and give a glimpse of the beauty of the garden.

The villa attracted many distinguished visitors, including the novelist Benjamin Disraeli. Frere also had strong links with leading literary figures such as Lord Byron and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

Mikiel Anton Vassalli (often called The Father of Maltese language) was one of the most significant friendships in John Hookham Frere's Maltese life. Frere actively helped Vassalli secure a position at the University of Malta as the first Professor of Maltese and Vassali would go on to publish important works on Maltese grammar, proverbs and language studies.

While creating the upper gardens in 1839, workers employed by John Hookham Frere uncovered a natural sinkhole hidden beneath the rocky ground. It was about 19 metres (70 feet) deep, reaching almost to sea level. 

It had become filled with clay and debris over many centuries but Frere had it excavated and cleared. Instead of simply leaving the sinkhole exposed, Frere did something extraordinary: he cut through the rock, which allowed visitors to walk into and view the sinkhole from inside. The tunnel had cleverly turned the geological feature into a romantic garden attraction. 

There were also several Queens who were known to have visited the Villa Frere gardens in Malta. It is possible that Queen Adelaide (1838–1839) visited in Frere’s time at the villa. Queen Mary (1912) and Queen Marie of Romania (1924) were later visitors. 

Queen Marie would, after her visit, design her own gardens around Balchik Palace in Bulgaria obviously inspired by what she saw in these gardens.  

The gardens are maze like with corners with benches and chairs to sit in the shade and wonderful vistas everywhere.

Part of the beauty of the garden is its many levels that have been cut into the slope and the myriad of paths that allow you wander into each corner.

The charming spontaneity of the place constantly surprises and the range of plants, trees and flowers constantly stimulates.

The many stone staircases beckon you forward to another level to explore.

During World War II the estate suffered minor bomb damage, and later much of the garden was lost due to the expansion of St Luke's Hospital, helicopter landing site and nearby school buildings. As a result, the gardens are one third of the size they used to be and Frere Villa itself in a state of decay. Fortunately, thoughtful restoration work is now being carried out by Heritage Malta and the Friends of Villa Frère and its beauty is even now quite stunning. The photos below are from an outing today Sun 14th June 2026 and indicate what still remains of this garden.

The little summer house has already been repaired and has an audio visual presentation on the history of the Villa Frere and its gardens.

This video shows the summer house and the courtyard. 

The gardens are open one day a month usually the first Sunday of each month and the guides are abundant, polite and friendly.  It costs 5 Euros to enter they provide lovely live harp music as you wander around. I highly recommend it. Please don't expect the Country Life version as you will be disappointed. But if you come to explore and enjoy thoughtful restoration by a great team you will gain insights on a place and person that should be celebrated.

PS Frere seems to have fallen out with very few people and, by all accounts, was remarkably good-natured towards almost everyone he encountered, regardless of their religion, nationality, or social background. Such a quality is rare in any age. Yet I did discover one individual with whom he most certainly did not get along. The rarity of such a conflict in Frere's life made me look more closely at the man in question.

While serving as British envoy in Madrid from 1802 to 1804, Frere clashed with Manuel Godoy, the powerful favourite of King Charles IV of Spain. The disagreement became so severe that Frere was recalled to Britain and lost his diplomatic post. Yet history was not kind to Godoy. By March 1808, he had become perhaps the most hated man in Spain. An enraged mob attacked his residence, forcing him to hide in an attic for two days before he was captured and eventually driven into permanent exile.

Frere, meanwhile, was honoured by Spain with the Grand Cross of the Royal and Distinguished Order of Charles III, one of the highest civil distinctions the Spanish Crown can bestow. 

Perhaps the true measure of a person lies not in the applause or condemnation of the moment, but in what remains after they are gone. At Villa Frère, the Malta Horticultural Society was founded, and Frere gave support to the great Maltese scholar Mikiel Anton Vassalli in his efforts to secure recognition for the Maltese language. Although the magnificent views towards Valletta have long since been obscured by the construction of a school and a hospital on parts of the former gardens, Frere himself might well have approved. He was a man of learning, public service, and practical benevolence, and would perhaps have been pleased that these buildings contributed to the education, health, and well-being of future generations.

Beautiful gardens in Malta have suffered

Over ten years ago, I visited San Anton Palace in Malta and wrote a piece about its connection with Queen Marie of Romania and how she spent her happy teenage years there. Her father was Prince Alfred, Duke of Edinburgh (son of Queen Victoria), and her mother was Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna of Russia (daughter of Tsar Alexander II). (See link: san-anton-palace-and-romanov-connection

I thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful gardens surrounding the palace. You might also recognise the gardens from Game of Thrones, in the memorable scene where the despicable Joffrey took Sansa Stark to see her father's head on a spike. That scene was filmed in San Anton Gardens.

In those days, visitors could not only enjoy the gardens but also walk through parts of the palace and visit the kitchen gardens behind it. There was a petting zoo, an immense children's playground, and a huge café that was very reasonably priced, with lovely seating both indoors and outdoors.

This month I returned to enjoy the gardens' quiet beauty and perhaps a coffee, only to find that they had been allowed to deteriorate. Stone paths were breaking up beneath my feet, all the turtles had disappeared from the lovely pond, and signs of neglect were evident everywhere. 

The palace was closed to the public, as were the kitchen gardens, their grounds, and the café. It has remained closed since August 2024 for extensive refurbishment and restoration works, with no confirmed reopening date.

Today I revisited another old favourite of mine, Sa Maison Gardens on the Floriana Bastions. (See my blog post: sa-maison-gardens-remembering-lady.html) Sadly, this beautiful garden was also in disarray. It has been fenced off since last year because of structural restoration works on the eighteenth-century bastion walls and the conversion of the grounds into new shaded and coastal botanical zones.

It saddens me to think of the loss of all those lovely trees and plants that had a history stretching back to Lady Lockwood's time in the 1840s. For some reason, the lemons from the main trees had an extraordinary fragrance; when scratched, they released a scent reminiscent of the most expensive men's cologne.

I know that Malta faces a constant challenge in maintaining and repairing its vast stock of historic buildings and landscapes. There is so much beauty and history that requires care, nurturing, and investment. However, sometimes when we fix things, we do not preserve them—we destroy them. Clearly, investment continues to be made. It is also clear where the priorities lie, and sadly, historic gardens seem to rank rather low on the list.

City Gate / Parliament / Opera House  €100 million

Fort St Elmo                                          €15.5 million

Fort St Angelo                                  €13.4 million

Marina di Valletta                                  €7.5 million

St Elmo Breakwater Bridge                  €2.8 million

One can only hope that when both these gardens eventually reopen, they will still retain some of the character, charm, and living history that made them such special places in the first place.

Consider the flowers of a garden: though differing in kind, colour, form and shape,.. this diversity increaseth their charm, and addeth unto their beauty.

‘Abdu’l-Bahá

Who was this intruder on my boat?

I was wandering along the sea front in Sliema when I spotted my boat in the marina with all it hatches open! Obviously some rogue was on board! I was furious who was on my yacht Lotus eater? It suddenly became apparent to me that all the years of walking through this marina admiring this particular yacht,  had gradually created a false sense of ownership in me. I laughed but have to admit a lingering resentment. 

Isn’t it strange how the brain can play tricks on you. There was me thinking I was merely admiring the beauty and her lines but slowly a very odd sense of ownership had obviously developed. I do admire boats especially beautiful ones like this. But I am no fool, I had a landlord in The Isle of Wight who owned three 10-20m long wooden yachts and I knew that their upkeep relied on him being a full time shipwright working non-stop to maintain them. If you don’t have those skills you would soon become bankrupt trying to maintain even one of these beauties.

I tried to find out who the owner was, but with little success. Apparently it used to belong to John Paul a rather shady millionaire businessman who originally had property in Soho and links with criminals. In the 1970s, he was one of the first developers on Camino. His ex-wife had been shot in Essex and although two thugs were found guilty of her murder they refused to say who had paid them for the killing. The British government wanted him extradited but the Maltese authorities refused. 

The strange thing is whenever I tried to find out who owns it now I came up with a blank. Probably some corporation or other. There are some strange names to boats along the marina. For example one is called Lucky Guy. Given that the owner is involved in betting companies it probably vaguely appropriate but really annoying. Even more irritating is a huge motor cruiser called Loose Change. Now that is just too smug!

Further along the coast towards Valetta there is another ship. It was originally called Black Opal and later renamed The Black Pearl in Malta. The ship was built in Pukavik, Sweden, in 1909 as a wooden trading schooner designed for Baltic cargo work and harsh northern waters. It had a double-layered oak hull to survive Baltic ice conditions and was about 150 feet long with three tall masts. Originally it carried cargoes like: timber, coal, and grain around Scandinavia. 

What happened afterward is almost implausible: The Black Pearl sailed toward Australia as a luxury vessel, but suffered hull problems, and caught fire near the Suez Canal. Following that it sank in Malta and was salvaged from 70ft deep water and went on to appear in the Popeye movie starring Robin Williams.  Weirdly, it sank again then was permanently restored ashore at Ta’ Xbiex as a restaurant. For years the schooner has sat perched beside the marina at Ta’ Xbiex and has become a landmark restaurant/pub/event venue with views over Valletta harbour.

There is rumoured to be a connection between the Black Pearl and the famous actor Erol Flynn however these are not substantiated by solid facts. After all he owned his own schooner the Zaca shown below, another beautiful ship.  

"Strong ships are not conquered by the sea; they ride the waves! Now be a strong ship, not a battered one." 

'Abdu'l-Bahá

My Precious!

Shall I confess my weaknesses? How often they lie hidden, even from ourselves — especially from ourselves. Then, at certain moments, they reveal themselves with startling clarity. Moving house is one such moment, particularly when the move is abroad. Suddenly, painful decisions must be made. Do you pack this? Give it to a charity shop? Pass it on to a friend? Or simply throw it away? The pressure of time only sharpens the difficulty of every choice.

At such moments, we are forced to confront our own peculiar attachments — our little fetishes. Mine are notebooks, pens, and anything remotely connected to calligraphy. Even when my drawers and suitcases are already overflowing, I still linger longingly in stationery shops, tempted to buy more. Pens and pencils seem to call out to me irresistibly. Never mind that I already own a vast collection of fountain pens, complete with cartridges in every imaginable colour, alongside pencils ranging from soft 2B to velvety 6B. I buy ballpoint pens too, usually with an ultra-fine 0.35 mm tip. Once, I even bought a heavy rotary pencil simply because I loved its look and weight, only to spend weeks scouring the internet for the rare oversized 2B lead it required.

Another, perhaps more alarming, obsession is toiletries — anything connected with showering, shampooing, lotions, or potions. Every house I have ever left has contained at least three large crates filled with such things. I seem to accumulate them with effortless speed. Still, on the bright side, I have little interest in clothes, shoes, or handbags, so perhaps some restraint remains.

By now, you are probably thinking of your own particular guilty obsession. You know exactly where to buy it, which make you prefer, and how oddly reassuring it feels simply to have it close at hand. Like the wheels on a suitcase, these obsessions keep us moving forward. They comfort us in ways only we fully understand. When preparing for a major move, we mentally clear space so that the things that truly ring our bells can be given pride of place.

Letting go of possessions is painful, though often necessary. Yet certain objects cling stubbornly to our fingers, transforming us momentarily into Gollum — that wretched creature from The Lord of the Rings — clutching our treasures and hissing defensively, “My precious, my precious!”

Birdsong, seedlings, hammered into something by life

 

When did I begin to notice birdsong?

Or pause in quiet wonder as a tender seedling lifts itself from the dark earth into the light?

Now the beauty of nature can suddenly bring tears to my eyes.

Perhaps it is because, with age, one has witnessed so much sorrow and heartache that the spirit itself becomes softened and worn thin by life. 

Beaten and hammered on both sides until it grows almost translucent.

So delicate that even the song of a bird can pass straight through it and touch the very core of the soul.

The Dangers of Laughing gas

I used to work in a highly specialised, controlled environment designed to manufacture semiconductor devices and integrated circuits on the tenth floor of the Ashby Building at Queen’s University Belfast. It was a clean laboratory where continuous filtration achieved 99.99% efficiency in removing even the smallest particles.

The air we breathe is a precise mixture of gases:

Nitrogen 78%, Oxygen 21%, Argon and trace gases 1%, and Carbon dioxide 0.04%.

On one occasion, an alarm sounded to warn that oxygen levels in the lab had risen too high, and we were instructed to evacuate until they returned to normal. It served as a powerful reminder of how vital—and how finely balanced—this mixture is for life. Disturbing it, even slightly, can have serious consequences.  So imagine my surprise when, this morning, I found something quite different on the doorstep of my apartment block, left out with the usual rubbish for collection.

There were around six blue canisters labelled Miami Magic—nitrous oxide. While commonly used for whipping cream, it is increasingly misused by young people for recreational purposes. I doubted anyone needed to whip that much cream and wondered who was using this substance here in Malta.

Nitrous oxide is now considered the third most commonly used drug among 16–24-year-olds in the UK, after cannabis and cocaine. Other surveys suggest that between 10% and 20% of teenagers and young adults in some European regions have tried it at least once. A global survey in 2021 estimated that nearly 24% of people aged 16–24 had used it. In the United States, poison centres recorded a 1,332% increase in annual cases of nitrous oxide poisoning over a 20-year period, with a particularly sharp rise from around 2023.

How it is used recreationally

Typically, the gas is released from the canister into a balloon—direct inhalation from the canister is dangerous due to the pressure and extreme cold. The user then inhales the gas from the balloon to experience its effects. In some places, young people pay around five euros for two balloons. As always, where there is demand, there are those willing to profit from it. Recent local reports have highlighted the growing use of this gas among young people in Gozo.

The Effects

Often called “laughing gas,” the effects are almost immediate but short-lived, lasting only a minute or two. They include light-headedness, euphoria, giggling, and altered perception. Because the effect is so brief, users often repeat the process multiple times in a session, increasing the risks. The name itself tends to downplay the seriousness of the substance.

Immediate risks

Nitrous oxide reduces oxygen availability in the body, which can lead to fainting, loss of consciousness, or, in extreme cases, death. The gas is stored under pressure and expands rapidly, which can cause cold burns—freezing the skin, lips, or throat if inhaled improperly. It can also affect heart and breathing function, particularly when combined with alcohol or other drugs.

With repeated or heavy use

Nitrous oxide interferes with vitamin B12, leading to deficiency. This can cause nerve damage, resulting in numbness, tingling, weakness, and difficulty walking. In severe cases, it may lead to long-term damage to the spinal cord or brain. Mental health may also be affected, with symptoms such as mood changes, confusion, and cognitive impairment. Some studies indicate that damage can develop within weeks or months of repeated use.

In response to these risks, governments are increasingly taking action. Malta has now officially banned the recreational use of nitrous oxide as of Wednesday, 29 April 2026. It is hoped that this measure will help reduce its use and prevent the harm it can cause—particularly among the young.

Chinese Empress Wu Zeitian's lost gold plea for forgiveness in 700AD found after 1300 years

There was only ever one woman who ruled in her own right as a Chinese empress in the entire history of that land. Her name was Wu Zetian, and her reign lasted from 690 to 705 AD.

She entered the imperial palace as a relatively unimportant fifth-rank concubine, but over time she rose in influence until she came to govern the entire empire. She did much to promote Buddhism in China; for example, the famous Longmen Grottoes bear witness to this patronage.

To reach such heights of power, she had to eliminate many rivals. She was known to be ruthless, even toward family, friends, and foes alike. According to one account, she smothered her newborn daughter and accused Empress Wang and Consort Xiao of the crime; both women were subsequently executed. With these key figures removed, her ascent to supreme power was swift.

In her seventy-seventh year, seeking forgiveness for the wrongs she believed she had committed, she had a golden tablet made—36.2 cm long and composed of 96% gold—inscribed with words including:

"I ask that my sins be forgiven and beg that my wrongs be erased."

This tablet was cast into a crevice on Mount Song in Henan Province around the year 700 AD. It remained hidden and lost for some 1,300 years until it was discovered by a farmer gathering herbs in 1997.

"With fire We test the gold, and with gold We test Our servants"

Bahá’í writings

Murdered in Malta

On 2 January 2022, Paulina Dembska, a 29-year-old Polish student, was found dead in Independence Gardens in Sliema, Malta. Investigations revealed that she had been raped and murdered—an act that profoundly shocked the nation. Paulina was known to visit the gardens in the early morning to feed and care for the cats there, a quiet reflection of the kindness and compassion that defined her life. Those who knew her remember her as a deeply loving and gentle person.

She had done nothing to deserve such violence. She did not know her attacker, who had reportedly assaulted two other individuals near the gardens shortly before the crime. In the days and weeks that followed her death, vigils and memorials were held across Malta, as people came together in grief and in a shared call for justice. Today, benches and walls in and around Independence Gardens bear her name and image, a lasting tribute to her memory.

The suspect was arrested soon after the murder and has remained in custody awaiting trial ever since. At the time of the offence, he was already on probation and had a history of criminal behaviour dating back to his youth. In 2025, while in custody, he reportedly carried out another violent attack, stabbing a fellow inmate in the eye with a pen. Yet, more than four years later, no trial has taken place. For Paulina’s parents and her five siblings in Poland, the wait for justice—and for some measure of closure—continues. It is difficult to understand how such delays can persist in a case of this gravity.

“The structure of world stability and order hath been reared upon, and will continue to be sustained by, the twin pillars of reward and punishment.”

— Bahá’í Writings

Each day, as I pass the memorials dedicated to Paulina, I find myself asking why justice moves so slowly. What message does this send to victims of violence, past and present? What does it signal to those who might commit such acts? Justice delayed risks becoming justice denied—not only for Paulina, but for all who look to the system for protection and accountability.

At one of the vigils in 2022, Paulina’s family shared a poem she had written. It remains a powerful reminder of her voice, her humanity, and the values she held:

“You came naked, you’ll go naked away.

You came defenceless and weak,

you’ll be so weak and vulnerable again when you leave.

You came without money or material things.

You will also leave without money.

Your first shower was when someone washed you.

In your last one, some person will wash you.

That is what being a human being is like.

So why so much pride?

Why so much malice?

Why so much jealousy, so much hatred,

resentment and selfishness?

We have limited time on earth so why do we waste it so senselessly?”

— Paulina Dembska

Please remember Paulina, and keep her family and loved ones in your thoughts and prayers.

Cell Death: Not All “Zombies” Are the Same

Apoptosis – “Planned self-destruction” Cells don’t always die in chaos—sometimes, they exit quietly and efficiently.  Apoptosis is a controlled, orderly process where a cell essentially decides it’s time to go—usually because it’s damaged or no longer needed. The cell shrinks, breaks itself into small, tidy fragments, and these are quickly cleaned up and recycled by the body. 

One cool example of apoptosis occurs in the formation of fingers.  Early in development, your hands actually start as paddle-like structures—with no separate fingers. The tissue between the future fingers is removed through apoptosis.  Cells in the “webbing” receive signals telling them to self-destruct.  They shrink, fragment, and are neatly cleared away.  This creates the spaces between the fingers.

There’s no inflammation, no mess—just a smooth, silent removal.  Like a building being carefully demolished and its materials reused.

Autophagy – “Self-cleaning / recycling” Autophagy isn’t really about dying—it's about survival.

In this process, the cell breaks down and recycles its own worn-out parts, especially during stress (like a lack of nutrients). It’s a way of conserving resources and staying alive. However, if stress is too severe or lasts too long, this self-recycling can eventually lead to cell death.

Like cleaning your house, repurposing old materials to keep things running.

Necrosis – “Accidental cell death”. Necrosis is the opposite of tidy. It happens when cells are suddenly damaged—by injury, toxins, or lack of oxygen. The cell swells and bursts, spilling its contents into the surrounding area. This triggers inflammation and can damage nearby cells.  Gangrene is an example of necrosis. The blood supply gets cut off, so cells don’t get oxygen and the tissue dies. The affected area can turn: dark purple → brown → black.

Like a building exploding—causing chaos and collateral damage.

Pyroptosis – “Fiery, alarm-raising death”. Pyroptosis is dramatic and purposeful.  When a cell detects infection, it sacrifices itself in a loud, inflammatory way to alert the immune system. The cell swells, bursts, and releases signals that call in immune defences. 

An example of this is infection with Salmonella (food poisoning bacteria). Here Salmonella infects macrophages (a type of immune cell). The infected cell detects danger using inflammasomes (like a built-in alarm system). Then pyroptosis happens and creates a strong immune response to fight the infection.

This isn’t quiet or neat—it’s a deliberate alarm system.

Like pulling a fire alarm to warn everyone that danger is near.

Not all cell death is the same:

Apoptosis = clean and controlled

Autophagy = survival through recycling

Necrosis = accidental and messy

Pyroptosis = loud and defensive

Together, these processes keep the body balanced—removing damaged cells, fighting infection, and adapting to stress. It strikes me that such cell deaths has parallels in our own lives.  We too have to decide to get rid of stuff in our lives, we have to decide what we can reuse or recycle, sometimes we get badly injured which can be messy to ourselves and those around us and finally sometimes we need to pull the alarm loudly on abuse to defend the whole community.

Big Rollers, Who knew?

A week ago I was visiting relatives in Manchester, and they very kindly took me on a day trip to Liverpool. The last time I had been there was fifty years ago, when I was a sulky teenager on a family car trip to Blackpool.

It was one of our last holidays all together, and we were at that awkward age when we felt far too grown up to still be travelling with our parents. I remember deliberately walking a good distance behind them, as though that might somehow disguise the fact that I belonged to them. Then I noticed that even further back, my two older brothers were doing exactly the same—each of us pretending we were not with the others at all.

Now, having lost both my parents, the memory makes me wince. I could almost cry at the selfishness of it. At that age I truly believed myself to be the centre of the universe, and the constant battle with facial spots felt like a tragedy beyond endurance. As someone once put it so well: “Youth is wasted on the young—because they are too busy thinking of themselves to notice it.”

Returning now as a pensioner, I found Liverpool vibrant, energetic, and full of life. The crowded streets, the noise, the sheer abundance of things to see and absorb—it was all quietly exhilarating.

One thing, in particular, caught my eye: the curious and wonderfully unapologetic habit of women wearing large hair rollers in public. From restaurants to buses, from shops to the airport—you could see them everywhere. I had no idea this was even a thing.

What struck me most was the confidence of it. In many places, people—especially women—feel an unspoken pressure to appear “finished” before stepping outside. Here, that expectation seemed to be gently mocked. The rollers were worn openly, almost cheerfully, as part of the process rather than something to be hidden.

I later learned that this is part practicality, part tradition, and part identity. The rollers are setting the hair in readiness for the evening ahead producing a big hair look for a night out—while they tackle daily tasks as usual. But more than that, it feels like a small, defiant celebration of self: a distinctly local style, worn with humour and pride.

And perhaps that was what I enjoyed most—the sense of ease in it. A kind of confidence that I suspect my younger self, so busy worrying about appearances, would never have understood.

Rhodes Memories, from decades ago

No Arms

Six year old Daniel had a bad dream last night and came in to check if I still had both my arms. In his dream I had lost one, and he was very anxious to make sure they were both still there!

A few weeks ago in the market there was a man begging for money. He had only one arm and a terrible hole in his head with awful scarring. That must have been where Daniel’s dream came from.

Braless

We went down to the beach and had a swim. Nason’s ball drifted out to sea, blown along by the wind. I stopped him from going after it and quickly changed into my bathing suit and swam out myself.

My stroke has improved and I’m becoming quite a fast swimmer. However, after about five minutes I realised there was no chance I would catch the ball, so I let it go. Within minutes it had drifted far out to sea.

When I swam back to shore I realised that, in my hurry to get in the water, I had forgotten to take off my bra. Not only that, but I had somehow put the bottom of my bikini on with the leg hole around my waist! I had to laugh at the sight I must have made.

Puppet Show

At a summer school Lewis performed in a puppet show and was very good. At the very end, however, a bigger boy—about fourteen—snatched his puppet monkey away and finished the performance himself, completely spoiling Lewis’s final moment. Lewis was very upset and burst into tears.

I was furious and asked the children’s teacher for the boy’s name. She was a very sweet, polite seventy-year-old English lady and at first said she didn’t know for sure.

“Bollocks,” I said.

She got the message and admitted that she did know the boy and would speak to him.

The next morning she came to tell me there had been a misunderstanding and that the boy hadn’t meant to snatch the monkey or take over the ending.

“Bollocks,” I said again—this time a little louder. A very useful word bollocks!

After an awkward silence she tentatively suggested that perhaps I might like to speak to the boy myself. That was exactly what I wanted.

At break time she brought him to me: a tall, gangly fourteen-year-old wearing a peaked cap, smirking as if he couldn’t care less what anyone thought.

I explained that sometimes we do things that cause offence to others, and it is important that we understand the consequences of our actions.

“For instance,” I said, “if I knocked your hat off—”

At that point I gave his cap a sharp smack and sent it flying off his head.

“You might find that offensive,” I continued, “and if you did, I hope you or someone else would tell me.”

The smug expression disappeared from his face and he backed up against the wall. By the end of our conversation I think he took the matter a little more seriously.

Sometimes you need a little shock to get someone’s attention.

To be honest, I was so angry that if he had kept up his ‘couldn’t-care-less’ attitude I was within inches of head-butting him. Perhaps children sense these things.

What happens if we die?

A couple of days ago Daniel asked me again what would happen if Vessal and I both died. I reassured him that his Granny and Granda from Northern Ireland would fly out and take him back to Portrush to live with them.

He looked much happier and, when he remembered how close he would be to all his cousins, he positively beamed his happiness.

Then, he added apologetically, “But I shall miss you!”

I had to laugh—the rascal.

Tenderness

It may seem crazy to some people what we are doing here on this Greek island, but I wouldn’t exchange my life for anyone else’s.

Since we came here, when I pray I sometimes feel an indescribable tenderness welling up inside me that brings tears to my eyes and makes me feel very close to God. It was never like this before, and I am deeply grateful for such sweet moments.

Failing Greek Lessons

Greek class was tough. I had asked one of my Greek friends to do my homework so all I had to do was read it out.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t read her handwriting. It was dreadful. Talk about bad luck.

The teacher had been away on holiday the previous week, so I told her it was an Irish tradition for teachers who go on holiday to bring back a sweet cake for their students. I only said it in mischief—but blow me down, she brought a cake to class that evening!

It obviously pays to be bad sometimes.

Flying Persian Carpets

I spent two hours today hunting for our Persian carpet in the neighbours’ gardens. I clean the carpets with soapy water and a brush, then hang them over the balcony railings to dry. Sometimes they blow off into the gardens below.

Vessal hates this, as the local dogs immediately pee on them.

Anyway, while secretly searching the gardens for this carpet—which had been missing for days—I enlisted Nason to help. After looking around for a while he came upstairs to inform me that the carpet had been in our back corridor the entire time.

I had spent days hunting for a carpet that wasn’t missing.

I’m definitely cracking up.

Squashed insects

The other day I drove all the way to school on my scooter, taught for four hours, and returned home to find an insect squashed flat on my forehead.

My only concern was whether I had collided with it on the way to school or on the way back.

The thought that I might have taught four hours of classes with a large insect plastered across my forehead is quite amusing.

Faxs of Earthquakes, big birds, rough classes, death and big birthday parties

I have been reading old faxes I sent home from the island of Rhodes to my parents. Certain memories leap off the page. I have tried to place each one in context. Together, they feel like snapshots from our ten years there.

We experienced a 5.7 magnitude earthquake on Rhodes, and it truly shook me. I had never known anything so powerful. In the UK one feels blissfully distant from such events. However, even there, shale gas hydraulic fracturing — fracking — has triggered small earthquakes. Fluid injections into fault zones at Lancashire sites in 2011, 2018 and 2019 caused several minor seismic events, including a 2.9 magnitude tremor in 2019, which ultimately led to a moratorium on fracking in England.  To put it in perspective: a 5.7 magnitude quake produces roughly 630 times more shaking than a 2.9. No wonder I was rattled.

One of my faxes reads:

“I am eating like there’s no tomorrow. I suppose if there is another earthquake tomorrow, at least I’ll have no regrets that I didn’t have that last packet of crisps or bar of chocolate!”

Humour, even slightly hysterical humour, was clearly my coping mechanism.

An unexpected gift arrived one day.

“Our friends from the village arrived today with a gift — a live chicken in a box. We are meant to kill it, but at present this ridiculously large, healthy brown hen is on our flat’s balcony, clucking happily! What on earth shall we do with it? I think we will find it hard to do away with this beautiful bird.”

We kept her on the balcony and fed her until we could find someone with land where she could roam freely. In the meantime, I constructed elaborate, almost Fort Knox–like enclosures to protect her from the neighbourhood cats.

Years later, I confessed this to the villagers. They laughed and told me no cat would dare tackle one of their birds. Village hens roam wild and would be more than a match for any feline. Who knew?

Birthday parties provided their own cultural education.

“I took Lewis to another birthday party yesterday. This little boy was the one who once got Lewis a sandwich and, after placing it in front of him, told him not to eat it. Talk about torture — obviously a real bad egg! Lewis wasn’t keen on going but didn’t want to miss out on any goodies. I told him to make sure he ate more than the price of the present we’d bought. I meant it as a joke, but when he returned he proudly informed me he’d eaten at least 3,000 drachmas’ worth — and the present had only cost 1,000! I didn’t think he’d take me quite so seriously.”

Another memorable party took place in a vast mansion where the eight-year-old birthday boy had an enormous suite to himself. The food was exquisite, but my Greek friend Mary complained bitterly that the child’s suite was larger than her entire home.

Not all memories are light-hearted.

“One of my students — he’s nineteen — lost his father to a heart attack a year ago. But no one has told his grandmother, who lives in northern Greece. So this poor woman carries on unaware that her son is dead. They think the news would kill her. Imagine the effort required to sustain that illusion, and the strain it must place on every relationship involved. What people will do in the name of love, they would never contemplate doing to their worst enemies.”

That story stayed with me for a long time. 

Our children entered Greek primary school without a single word of the language, straight from a village school in Northern Ireland. The adjustment was difficult. One child took two years to feel truly fluent. Yet they all eventually mastered the language and were blessed with many excellent teachers and loyal friends.

Though not all teachers were quite so admirable.

“Daniel’s class was so naughty today that the teacher declared she would have nothing more to do with them! She refused to speak to or teach any of them. Daniel says Spiros, one of the cleverest boys, proceeded to teach the lesson himself, covering both language and mathematics. My friend’s son Niko was almost in tears when he left, as the teacher had been so very angry. But Daniel reported that Spiros had done an excellent job — and assigned far less homework than the teacher would have. Certainly not the worrier our Daniel!”

Looking back, these faxes capture the texture of those years: fear and resilience, generosity and misunderstanding, humour and cultural surprises. They are small windows into a decade that shaped us all.

There are moments when we falter

There are moments when we falter—when confidence slips and we feel defeated. Not by life’s great storms, but by the tiny, unseen pebbles beneath our feet.

We long to believe that life is an epic struggle between right and wrong; that our integrity, like the waves, will wear away the harshness of every huge rock before us. Yet it is often the smallest, unnoticed stones that cause us to stumble.

Not the grand endeavours, but the quiet, careless acts of hurt or neglect shape the course of our lives. Over time, they guide where we stand, who we become, and what we leave behind of true worth.

May your footsteps in the pebbles of life leave a glorious imprint.

"Were man to appreciate the greatness of his station and the loftiness of his destiny he would manifest naught save goodly character, pure deeds, and a seemly and praiseworthy conduct."

Bahá’u’lláh

Irish Bread and its Lessons on life

Across cultures and centuries, bread has often been the measure of whether a household is secure, whether a day will be endured, whether a community will hold. In Ireland, we have unique breads not found anywhere else. Not only do they look and taste different, but these breads also have valuable lessons baked in. I shall focus on four favourites of mine: soda bread farls, veda bread, wheaten bread, and potato bread.

Soda bread farls

Soda bread involves no waiting for yeast to rise and requires no oven. You simply use plain flour, baking soda, salt, and buttermilk. The farls are quick to make on a griddle, though getting the mixture just right takes practice. I have watched my mother make soda farls every week of my life for sixty years, yet I still cannot replicate her bread. Now in her nineties, she continues to produce these delicious farls. She cuts the dough into four by rolling a small side plate through it — she’s the only person I know who does this.

lesson learned:

When you don’t even have an oven, you can still make bread. It’s been said that “Appreciation is yeast, lifting the ordinary to the extraordinary,” yet soda bread farls need neither yeast nor oven — and still taste extraordinary.

Veda bread

Veda bread is a traditional malted loaf most strongly associated with Northern Ireland. However, it originated in Scotland, where a baker developed a bread using malted grains (cereal grains soaked in water to encourage germination, then dried with hot air to halt the process) and malt extract. Veda is darker than ordinary bread, naturally sweet without added sugar, and soft and easy to eat.

Allowing grain to sprout sends it a message: “Time to grow.” That message activates enzymes which break down stored compounds, making the grain easier to digest. A seed must be buried — hidden and unseen — so that growth can begin in stillness and darkness. A dry seed is closed and inert. Water softens it; only then can it change. The seed already contains everything it needs, but it must break open to grow.

There are many lessons in this bread:

• Periods of waiting, obscurity, or difficulty are not wasted. Transformation often begins before anything visible happens.

• Growth requires openness. Rigidity protects, but it also prevents transformation. Softening demands humility, love, and hope to trigger inner change.

• True purpose unfolds through self-sacrifice, not self-preservation.

Wheaten bread

My mother makes soda bread farls in our home, but I am the wheaten bread maker. It helps that wheaten bread is quick and easy to prepare. Because it uses whole wheat, it retains the entire grain kernel — the fibre-rich bran, nutrient-dense germ, and starchy endosperm. As a result, it provides significantly more fibre, vitamins, minerals, and antioxidants. Refined white flour has most of these removed, resulting in lower nutritional value and faster blood sugar spikes.

Instead of yeast, wheaten bread uses baking soda for lift, so it comes together quickly and has a tender, slightly crumbly texture. But without the oven, the dough remains unfinished.

Lessons learned:

Sometimes, taking things out of wheat reduces the benefits the bread brings. In life, keep it simple — don’t overcomplicate. Often, rewards come not from what you take out of life, but from what you leave in.

Trials refine us. Heat does not destroy the bread; it fulfils its purpose. Wholeness comes through unity, transformation, and service, and spirituality is expressed in small, daily, faithful acts.

Potato bread

Potato bread speaks of ingenuity in times of scarcity. Very few cultures make bread from potatoes, but some do so out of necessity when grain is scarce. The Irish are among the few who eat potato bread as a staple. Imagine, then, the absolute disaster of the potato blight.

This disease (Phytophthora infestans) arrived in Ireland in 1845, causing potatoes to rot both in the ground and in storage. At the time, the population — 8.5 million in 1841 — depended almost entirely on potatoes for food. The repeated crop failures, which came and went for seven years, were catastrophic. Around one million people died from starvation and disease, and another one to two million emigrated. Ireland’s population fell by roughly 25%, a loss from which it has never fully recovered, almost 200 years later.

Sadly, this experience is not uniquely horrific. History offers many other examples.

Lessons learned

When you don’t have wheat to make bread, take what you do have and make bread. If even that is taken from you, flee before you die.
When huge numbers of people flee their country, always ask why — and show the compassion you would hope to receive in their situation.

Flawed motherhood

Some people come to motherhood very well prepared. Either by inclination, exposure, or sheer experience, they enter this stage of life with a wealth of useful skills at their disposal. I had none. Not only was I the youngest in my own family, but I had never even held someone else’s baby. Probably other mothers’ sixth sense warned them that I was flawed and lacked the requisite abilities.

So, when my first child arrived, I knew nothing, had zero experience, and was terrified of the responsibilities that were now mine. I remember, in hospital, asking the midwife to put the baby back in his cot, as I wasn’t sure I could walk and carry him successfully at the same time. In my defence, new-borns are weirdly floppy, particularly their heads. It was my first day of being a mother, and it was evident to me that I sucked at the whole business.

There was, however, an abundance of love for this tiny entity, and the universe seemed to have swung on its axis. But as we left the hospital with this vulnerable little baby, it felt as though the entire health system was vastly overrating our ability to keep him alive. I really felt someone sensible should have stopped us.

Thankfully, he was an easy baby who slept, ate, and grew normally. Heaven knows how I would’ve coped if he hadn’t been so very reasonable. Not that I didn’t make mistakes. When holding my six-month-old baby in a queue at the nearby post office, I was ridiculously upset that he would hold out his arms and lean into any passing person. On some level, I assumed he sensed my total incompetence and was hoping some random passer-by would rescue him. In reality, he was just a remarkably friendly chap who beamed at the world with infinite good grace.

One day he would not settle. I tried changing his nappy, feeding him, winding him, and even carried him around to no avail. Exhausted and somewhat exasperated, I put him in his cot and let him cry. He was obviously becoming spoiled, I told myself. But his cries drove me to distraction, and I decided to give him a bath to try to settle him. When I undressed him, I discovered that the zip of his baby suit was lodged tightly in the flesh under his neck. That was the reason for all the tears. The poor chap had been in agony. The baby suit had zippers at the legs to allow you to change the nappy without removing the entire suit. My guilt was epic. Surely no one deserved a mother like me! Fortunately, once I freed the zip from his red, sore flesh, he didn’t take long to return to his normal, good-natured self.

I suspect that as parents we often fail our kids—thinking we’re doing everything right while inadvertently choking the very life out of them. It’s all the things we miss, mess up, or misinterpret. I suspect every child could construct an encyclopaedia of their parents’ failings. Thankfully, my children have shown no resentment. They remind me of the walks, laughs, and fun we had too. The truth is we all come to things in life either incompetent, expert, or somewhere in between.

The journey of life as a parent is awesome. You experience a huge love that erupts, volcano-like, when they enter your life, and then you get to accompany them as they learn new skills and abilities. There are some tricky years when they seek independence and weather the tumultuous rapids of hormones, but finally the adult emerges. If you’re lucky, you discover that they are a much, much better human than you could ever hope to be. Then gratitude becomes the only appropriate response for this epic privilege of having children.