A cull of the best of us

 

The table is set, the tree decorated slowly by stiff, twisted fingers and even red cushions added to make a festive statement.

But no faces around the table, because of love.

The Christmas cards from loved ones hang in the hallway. These cardboard tokens of love from all are cherished.  Each one re-read with news of the passing year. 

But no conversations face-to-face, because of love

The box of children’s toys, from decades ago, remain packed away in the garage.   Stored with a custodian’s devoted care. No squeals of great-grandchildren as they rediscover their parent’s playthings. 

But no cheeks pressed against wrinkled faces, no hugs to give energy to old bones because of love.

Christmas music is not played this year. Familiar songs of shared times somehow hurt the spirit in this season of suffering.

No singing of old favourites with others because of love.

Presents are left on the doorstep, while their givers stand 2 meters away. Strange for those of so many, many decades to remember these rules, after a lifetime of love and hugs. 

They are no longer allowed because of love.

Christmas dinner is delivered to the same doorstep with all the trimmings including dessert. Made with care, a real expression of love.

But they cannot hug those that share these gifts because of love. 

Behind the glass boundaries, there is an aching void.  Age already has taken so much away. Memories evaporate. Joints stiffen in pain and simple tasks become fraught.  Bowls of pills become one’s daily fare.  Breathing is constricted without inhalers. They must work harder just to cope but the years have taught them its lessons of endurance and steadfastness. These later years are ever tough and now the grim reaper has reached their field. 

Yet habits ingrained of care and devotion continue because of love.

Even in these days of Covid-fear, the elderly still think of others. Relatives, friends and neighbours they hold them tenderly in their failing hearts. 

Their hearts are lacerated by the suffering of refugees or children in far-off lands because of love.

Sometimes I think we are losing the best of us. A horrid cull of those who have amassed so much valuable knowledge and experience. In their place,  an army of social media, internet intoxicated fools, who know everything not worth knowing.

"The second half of a man's life is made up of nothing but the habits he has acquired during the first half."

—  Fyodor Dostoyevsky, 1821-1881, Russian writer

Gasses gather inside you as if your own personal air balloon is being inflated

This plane is far too full. Given the many precautions of the airport with careful separation of passengers by means of floor signs, sealed off areas, seats taped over to enforce distancing and even the queueing policy and masks mandatory there was a sense of these people know how to make this Covid-safe space. But even in the airport, despite all appearances, there were obvious flaws. Every single hand cleansing dispenser was empty. I knew because I’m paranoid enough to insist on using them all. That should’ve given me a heads up that all was not what it seemed. However, it was only when I entered the departure lounge that everything went really pear-shaped. My gate was absolutely packed with the queue snaking right around the entire hall. People were trying to keep a safe distance but the room was just not big enough. 

Then, we were jammed into the airport buses, on route to the plane, like sardines. Gone was any pretence of social distancing. We were packed far too tightly to permit even a bulky handbag to separate us. I consoled myself with the thought that the plane would be better. After all, the last time I flew on this route, in Covid times, there were only 16 people on the whole plane. I actually managed to stretch out and sleep across three vacant seats for the first time in years. Not this time! The plane rapidly filled to the brim. Obviously, being a Christmas flight, many were returning to Dublin for the festive period. I initially thought I would be the only fortunate person on the plane to have vacant seats on either side of me. Unfortunately, once the door of the plane closed there was a rapid reshuffling and a man took one of the empty seats in my row. I briefly contemplated the social etiquette of pointing out he should sit in the seat indicated by his ticket. However, since there was by now a massive reseating going on all over the plane I decided making a fuss was not in order. At least I didn’t have the chap two rows ahead beside me. He was wearing a mask so small it did not cover his mouth or nose, more of a chin strap. Who does he think he is fooling? Never mind I put my head back and try to relax. The stewards came around to take the food order and I politely declined. I have purchased an expensive FFP3 mask for this flight and I’m not risking removing it to either drink or eat. But darn it the people all around me are suddenly removing their masks so they can stuff their faces. Perhaps I should just relax after all I have had Covid already in May. 

On that last trip, I had flown to Ireland from Malta and brought a packed lunch to eat on the plane during the journey. After the flight, I got onto the bus for the long journey to Belfast. On that particular last leg of the journey, I did not feel at all well. In fact, by the time it arrived in Belfast, outside the Europa hotel, I barely managed to stagger off the bus before vomiting on the pavement. This startled me as I rarely ever vomit. As I’ve mentioned before, even in the face of food poisoning (a dodgy Chinese family meal) all vomited but my dad and I.  Then, when sailing with friends in rough weather, who were vomiting in unison either side of me, I managed to still enjoy my Mars bar. So, it was weird for me to feel so bad. I recovered once I had emptied my stomach. But within two weeks my mum and I both had Covid. Did I catch it on the plane? Somehow two weeks seems too long. Who knows, it could have been from a supermarket trip, getting petrol for the car, a neighbour who came too close to talk.   I’ll never know but Covid was horrid. I had a mild but nasty period but my poor 87-year-old mum was eventually hospitalised and had to have oxygen. Thankfully she fought her way back to health despite her age, damaged lungs and asthma and came home safely. Mind you, both of us are convinced our brains are just not the same. 

So, the reason I’m a bit paranoid on this plane is because I’m heading once again to be with my mum and I’m frankly terrified I’ll pick up the virus on route. The science is rather vague about how long antibodies and T cells remain in your system after you’ve been exposed to the virus and recovered. A few months was mentioned initially but then it seemed to depend on the severity of the original infection. Those who with the milder symptoms seem to lose their immunity faster. Then, there’s also vagueness about whether you yourself could be immune but still carry the virus to others. Just the possibility of that has generated a longing for 2m between me and all my neighbours on this flight. The younger generation seems much more relaxed about this disease. The young man behind me is chatting up a pretty girl in the seat beside him. They have that excited nervous first conversation, not exactly flirty, but each wanting to put their best foot forward. I’m wishing they would talk less as they’re too close to me. 

There are only two elderly people on this flight and I can tell they are panicking. Both wear a visor and a mask to protect themselves, a smart move I should have thought of. When the old man had entered the plane he had started a heated argument with a young man with a crewcut seated in 1A. The elderly man was sure this upstart was sitting in his seat and argued loudly while hitting his boarding pass with a red pointed finger. The air steward intervened as the young man searched for his boarding pass on his phone. It took time for the truth to emerge as the elderly man behind his mask and visor couldn’t hear the steward very well. It turned out his boarding ticket was in row three not row one and he and his grey-haired wife were eventually persuaded to move on down the plane to their real seats. In the middle of the confusion, his wife took a severe cramp in her calf and had to stop and rub it while groaning in pain. I have real sympathy with this getting older. Along with more pain, it makes mistakes more likely. There really should be compassion for the elderly. Remembering to wear masks is tricky once you get past a certain age. You can easily forget. 

In Malta, masks are mandatory everywhere outdoors and I have managed to get a block from home before remembering to pull a mask from my bag. Why is it so tricky? It’s because it’s foreign. The younger generation can adapt to change but older people have their life long habits engraved in brains of cement.  When you periodically lose your train of thought, can’t find that word and miss place inanimate objects with depressing regularity then obeying brand new regulations is really tough. There is a video of a pensioner online, entering a supermarket and mistaking a drink dispenser for an alcoholic hand spray and pouring the brightly coloured sugar drink over both palms and then rubbing in the sticky stuff earnestly. One’s heart leaps in real sympathy. When they hand out fines for not wearing a mask I think old age should be a valid excuse! 

Travelling had already become harder, even before Covid hit and was becoming very tiring. The distance covered by travellers in the airport has become longer, time standing in queues in steep stairways adds to the torture. The steps on a Ryanair aircraft are rickety and narrow with steps that are smaller than normal-sized feet. You end up coming down the steps on your heels with most of your foot projecting out mid-air. The whole structure moves like a rickety ladder and there’s no room to carry a suitcase by your side. Instead, you have to hold it in front of you pulling you forward dangerously over your toes. The fact that these ladders fold into the plane has to be convenient for the airlines but it’s a real liability for the elderly/pregnant/parent with small children. 

Another couple in front of me is also courting across the aisle. I suspect young people are desperate to socialise. Planes are replacing nightclubs, pubs and other social venues. We older ones avoid such unnecessary exposure to germs.  The young are excited to have these hours to get to know someone new at last. I cannot blame them. After all, they are young and feel invincible. Their immune systems are humming along nicely. Fighting off infections like crack troops. Ours are a withered bunch who have been whittled away by chronic conditions. Our systems often already need medication to keep our troops in line and in order.  These elderly troops seem less vigilant and effective.  I can remember getting deep cuts in my knees, when younger, and they healed so quickly. Healed and left no scars. Now marks remain for years and can even grow to form deep creases. Opportunistic growths appear in unlikely places and these old bodies view these invaders as bedfellows that just have to be endured. Decisions are sometimes made to rip such opportunistic growths off a shoulder or back but need to be weighed with the scar that will be left. Deciding to go for the scar or just ignore this new tenant have to be thought through.  In fact, with time you are a bit embarrassed by your battlefield body.  Once a nurse was worried by a huge bleeding sore on my forearm when I had decided this particular growth had outgrown my tolerance for it.  On my next visit to a health clinic, a different nurse was horrified by the size of an unsightly growth on my wrist.  As I made my way home I was trying to work out which had caused more distress in medical staff.  To rip off or leave alone, difficult to decide?

The other change that age brings is that you are more sensitive to stress.  You’d think with experience you’d be able to weather difficulties better.  But the truth is with age you long for peace and quiet and toxic atmospheres corrode your wellbeing.  Unexpected stress freaks you out.  As do last-minute changes or having to rush because you are late.  Responsibilities weigh more heavily.  You sweat over grandchildren.  Worry about their safety, fear you will fail them through inattention or carelessness.  Knowing how tricky inanimate objects have become, like jar lids that won't open, you are freaked out by these active strong-willed characters.  Their minds are like quicksilver and you feel like a heavy-footed cart horse.  These bones don’t move so fast anymore and these old brains don’t process thoughts so well.  There are benefits. Strangely emotions grow stronger with age.  A beautiful landscape can move us to tears.  As can a child’s smile or a sweet memory of an old friend.

Sleep changes. When you are young you can do without sleep all night. Function pretty well all the next day before collapsing the next night. When you are old, sleep becomes something you keep track off like a bank balance. Every morning you will enquire of everyone you live with if they slept well. It is a subject of interest to you as sleeping has become a hit or miss affair. No more total collapse into a blissful full night’s sleep. Instead, bladder trips pepper the night and often sleep does not follow these outings. Then the night shift of bedroom roof inspection begins.  Tired of the horrible thoughts that bubble up in a sleep-deprived mind I generally get up and have breakfast at 3 am. With a full belly sometimes sleep comes as an unexpected desert. With such varied experiences at night no wonder the elderly have daily conversations about sleep. And that doesn’t even cover the dreams. In old age, you can find yourself back in stress-inducing situations that years ago you might have faced. But now, at this stage in life, the stress is hyper experienced and unbearable.  You wake up traumatised by an experience you manage to wade through with difficulty in your prime but is now played in your dream as an awful sequel. When an older person asks you with genuine concern ‘Did you sleep well?” Know in what context they ask.  They know what a bad night feels like, the emotions that rip open wounded hearts. So, out of love, they want to be reassured that your sleep was sound and blissful. It pleases them to know someone is getting a good night’s sleep.

My romantic neighbours behind me are on their second meal of this flight. They consume vast quantities of drink that we older travellers would never challenge our bladders with. These young people after hours of flight look remarkably fresh. It reminds me of two friends of mine who went into the local maternity ward at the same time and gave birth on the same day. Amused by the synchronicity of this event, photos were taken of the two friends with their new babies on the ward. The young mother in her 20’s looked like a model in her nightgown with a freshly flushed complexion glowing with happiness. My 43-year-old older friend held her baby like an anchor that was too heavy to hold and looked like she had been through 20 rounds of a vicious heavyweight boxing match.  Even her hair seemed freaked out. The contrast between the two mothers in the photograph had us all roaring in laughter and sympathy. As I look around this plane I can see a similar phenomenon.  The young look exactly as they did when they entered this plane. We oldies look like we’ve been dragged through bushes backwards for several nights. Eyelids are closing independently of their owners and mouths seem to be pulled by gravity into grimaces that speak of back pain that has reached intolerable proportions. Old bones shift uncomfortably and long to be flat on orthopaedic mattresses. Cramps come and go in unlikely places and vague indigestion has begun to brew. Gasses gather inside you as if your own personal air balloon is being inflated.  The noisy happy flirtatious chat of excited young people has become like dentist drills in our heads. We admire their energy and commitment but long for our own oblivion in a deep sleep. Our bank balances are running extremely low and being polite to others takes incredible effort. Excited chitchat from youngsters is like fingernails on the blackboard. 

But we must endure.  That’s what age teaches you. Patience with yourself and others, the flaws, the worries and the pains. It’s a hard-won quality and it makes you wish for all onboard this plane a safe journey and a good night sleep at the end of it. Because isn’t that what we all long for at the end of these lives of ours.

In the darkness, we must learn to find the light

It is a lovely day for late November. Still a warm sun and blue skies. Malta is a good place to chill these days. You do have to wear a mask when outdoors so I’m finding walks less enjoyable. There is a strange suffocating feeling that despite three weeks of practice has yet to shift. But if you sit at an outdoor café with a drink you can take your mask off and breathe in the sun and the sea. This particular café is right on the shore overlooking the sea. Quiet and well away from the busy road. The staff are what they call in Northern Ireland dour but okay. There is zero customer service apart from the wiping of tables between visitors to attempt to make the zone Covid-free. For that I am grateful! But my request for a decaf cappuccino at the counter, no waiter service here, is met with a shoulder shrug that is faintly dismissive. My uncle once described his accommodation on the island as baa – sick (basic) and somehow the pronunciation in a thick Northern Irish accent makes it sound even more rudimentary than just the word on its own. Sometimes changing the order of words can be even more effective than an accent in accentuating the power of a well-used phrase. When I was at school my friend Caroline never used the label ‘litterbug’ to describe those who dropped any litter in her presence. Instead, she would scream at the offender “bugger litter!” This was much more effective and generated a bigger response from the target of her venom.  

Mind you I’ve been conscious of how venomous so many exchanges seem to be these days when insulting language has become routine.  Watching online content even from news outlets has become unexpectedly abrasive. It seems the world has embraced extremes and whether it is politics, religious or social etiquette there’s been a coarsening that irritates. 

Even the mainstream news has invective targeting world leaders, insults traded between opposing political sides, details of sordid sins of the powerful or the perverted or those who manage to be both with equal relish. Major events worthy of a headline are relegated even if that happens to be genocide or famine. 

It is as if the media, in general, has become a grotesque Punch and Judy puppet show with sticks being brandished and insults shouted in piercing tones “Oh, no he didn’t! Oh, yes he did!” All the while in the background human suffering around the globe goes unnoticed. Centre stage are these characters that neither inspire nor uplift but leave you feeling vaguely unable to look away and strangely satisfied that you have not sunk to their low-level. When, the show stops, and the puppets are all packed away we are forced to contemplate our own endeavours and feelings. Exactly what value have we accomplished in this day? What are the relationships we have with those around us? Have we, like the puppets, become all show and tell? Fixated on the superficial and befuddled as to priorities? 

Some say there is nothing like a pandemic to focus the mind on the real priorities in life. But history tells us that just is not the case. Most major pandemics and plagues were accompanied by tidal waves of ignorant prejudice that meant minorities were targeted as scapegoats. This sickness of “othering” allows anger and despair an easy way to vent. Like the husband angry with his wife who goes outside to kick his dog in frustration. Such inappropriate responses can feel like a maelstrom that carries societies into dangerous waters.

Fortunately, there have always been heroes who held their footing in dangerous tides. They sensed the undisciplined dictates of a frenzied mass and choose a different path. 

Some paid for it with their lives like the woman mathematician Hypatia born in the 4th Century AD who was a philosopher, astronomer, and mathematician, living in Alexandria, Egypt, a part of the Eastern Roman Empire.  She was a great teacher and a wise counsellor much loved by pagans and Christians alike in the city.  Hypatia taught students from all over the Mediterranean at the Alexandrian school which was famous at the time for its philosophy and she lectured on the writings of Plato and Aristotle.  Two of the greatest philosophers of the age. Aristotle was Plato’s student and colleague for 20 years at the Academy in Athens.  The words of these wise stoics echo down through the centuries and still inspire respect today.  What a privilege and illumination it must have been to be educated by someone as brilliant and erudite as Hypatia on their writings.

“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light.”

Aristotle

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.” 

Plato

She excelled in mathematics and was also an extraordinarily talented astronomer. Early writers recorded that Hypatia was "exceedingly beautiful and fair of form".  Unfortunately, in those dark days, there were many who were afraid of the light that Hypatia brought. A mob of religious fanatics attacked Hypatia's carriage as she was travelling home and dragged her into a church where they stripped her naked and murdered her using roof tiles, cutting out her eyeballs before dismembering her.  What an incredible loss to society at a time when her abundant skills both intellectual and compassionate were so needed. Fortunately, it is Hypatia who is remembered and appreciated by history, not the mindless zealots that took her life.

People like Hypatia remind us that behind the Punch and Judy show, with which we are all mesmerised, lie many such examples of nobility that resonate within us. They tell of human fortitude and steadfastness in difficulties. I find myself hugging the memory of such people close. They feel a safer lifeline to hold to in dark days. Most of all, because they awaken in us, our desire to accomplish something today and to reach out to those around us with more compassion and awareness. We are all here for a reason not for show. So, before we like the puppets, are put away in a box at the end of the show let’s do and say something worth remembering. In the darkness, we must learn to find the light.

“step out of the darkness into the light and onto this far-extended Path of Truth.

The Báb

 b   

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.

 

Lise Meitner, a physicist who never lost her humanity

 

In 1963, at the age of nearly 85, Lise Meitner gave a talk in Vienna entitled “Memories of Fifty Years in Physics”. She looked back on her memories of her experiences as a scientist. She started by expressing her gratitude to the field of physics and the many wonderful characters she had been able to work with and learn from. 

Her scientific work was key to the growth of atomic physics and so many famous names were part of that world and included her professor, the theoretical physicist Ludwig Boltzmann, Max Planck and Albert Einstein who referred to her as Germany’s Marie Curie.  It is frankly surprising that she is so little mentioned or known nowadays.  She was the first woman to become a professor of physics in Germany. Her research involved the early years of radioactivity the discovery of nuclear fission and beyond. Meitner spent most of her scientific career in Berlin, Germany, where she was a physics professor and a department head at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute.

Meitner achieved so much and was one of the few women to excel in this field.  It was unusual in those days for a woman to even attend lectures at university.  Max Planck when they first met did not favour higher education for women at all. He became so impressed by her that he would make her his assistant five years later.  Another colleague, Emil Fischer, did not allow women to even enter his chemistry institute as he feared they would set fire to their hair!  Fisher would eventually appoint Meitner as head of the Physics Department of his institute. 

Lise Meitner in her talk, in 1963, looking back on her life, was grateful for all those who gave her opportunities and did not mention her struggles or that for many of those early years she worked without position or pay.  During one period as a younger scientist, she was only allowed to work in the woodshop within the Institute, which had its own external entrance and was not permitted to set foot in the rest of the building or even the laboratory space upstairs. If she needed to go to the toilet, Meitner had to use a toilet in the restaurant down the street.  None of this was mentioned by Lise Meitner in her reflections of her life in physics. Neither did she mention the even worse treatment she had to endure as a professor of physics when she was forced out of all her academic positions in the 1930s because of the anti-Jewish Nuremberg Laws of Nazi Germany.  Things reached such a pitch that in 1938 two Dutch friends, the physicists Dirk Coster and Adriaan Fokker helped her to flee to Sweden. 

The timing of this was unfortunate as in mid-1938, Meitner with chemists Otto Hahn and Fritz Strassmann at the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute had discovered that bombarding thorium with neutrons produced different isotopes.   Meitner managed to continue her research in Stockham and in late December, Meitner and Frisch (her nephew) determined how this splitting of the atom occurred and were the first to name the process "fission" in their paper in the February issue of Nature in 1939. This principle would eventually lead to the development of the first atomic bomb during World War II, and ultimately other nuclear weapons and nuclear reactors.  However, when Meitner was asked to join Frisch on the British mission to the famous Manhattan Project at the Los Alamos Laboratory, she declared 

"I will have nothing to do with a bomb!" 

Meitner received many awards and honours late in her life but did not obtain the 1944 Nobel Prize in Chemistry for nuclear fission, which was awarded exclusively to her long-time collaborator Otto Hahn. Several scientists and journalists have called her exclusion "unjust". According to the Nobel Prize archive, she was nominated 19 times for the Nobel Prize in Chemistry between 1924 and 1948, and 29 times for Nobel Prize in Physics between 1937 and 1965. 

Max Perutz, the 1962 Nobel prizewinner in chemistry commented on Hahn’s being given the Noble prize without due recognition of Meitner’s contribution, "Having been locked up in the Nobel Committee's files these fifty years, the documents leading to this unjust award now reveal that the protracted deliberations by the Nobel jury were hampered by lack of appreciation both of the joint work that had preceded the discovery and of Meitner's written and verbal contributions after her flight from Berlin." 

It spoke volumes about how fellow scientists viewed Meitner in that they made a point of inviting her to attend the Lindau Nobel Laureate Physics Meeting in 1962.

To make amends for being overlooked for so long it was fitting that in September 1966 the United States Atomic Energy Commission jointly awarded the Enrico Fermi Prize to Hahn, Strassmann and Meitner for their discovery of fission. Unfortunately, Meitner was by that stage too ill to attend the ceremony.  She died on 27 October 1968 at the age of 89. Her nephew Frisch, with whom she had collaborated so well, composed the inscription on her headstone. It reads:

Lise Meitner: a physicist who never lost her humanity. 

“Excellence is never an accident. It is always the result of high intention, sincere effort, and intelligent execution; it represents the wise choice of many alternatives - choice, not chance, determines your destiny.”     

Aristotle