The stadium was bright and empty, but in a few hours, I knew it would be something special.
It wasn’t the kind of special that came with roaring crowds and foam fingers or the thunder of a championship game. No, this was a quieter special. Stranger. Tender in the way only history can be tender when we remember the good things that happened.
The seats, patterned in reds and blues and yellows, like a mosaic of sunlight on water, waited patiently beneath the open sky. Two dark screens hung above the pitch like closed eyelids, resting before the moment of waking and flickering open. The grass was trimmed, manicured even, with ceremonial care, the centre circle perfectly drawn, as if the planet itself was holding its breath.
In the middle of that circle, engineers had placed a landing mark; subtle, silver, almost delicate. A starship did not need a stadium, not really. But we did. Because we wanted somewhere big enough for gratitude.
They were coming back today.
The first children to leave Earth. The brave, impossible dreamers who boarded colony ships with raucous laughter in their mouths and silent fear tucked behind their ribs. They went to a planet so far away that time stretched thin between here and there. They built cities under an alien sun. They planted gardens in strange soil. They raised families in domes of glass and hope.
And now… now they were returning as grandparents.
Not because they wanted to. But because their grandchildren had decided they were no longer useful. The colony had become efficient, modern, sharp-edged. There was no room for slow hands or old stories. The elders were shipped away like outdated equipment, their heroism archived, their bodies inconvenient. So they were sent back to the cradle of humanity.
To Earth. To us. To this stadium.
We had prepared apartments for them, small and bright, with soft beds and warm kitchens and windows that looked out onto parks instead of endless red dust. “All mod cons,” the mayor kept saying, as if comfort could patch the wound of exile. As if you could furnish away rejection.
But we could do something else. We could welcome them.
By noon, the stands filled… not with sports fans, but with families holding banners painted in careful, childish letters: THANK YOU. WELCOME HOME. HEROES.
The air shimmered with anticipation. Somewhere, a choir and a band did their dress rehearsal. Many old people clutched photos of their siblings, who had left fifty years ago.
Then, at last, the sky changed.
A shadow passed over the stadium, and every face tilted upward. The starship descended like a slow miracle, engines humming low, almost respectful. It settled onto the grass with a sigh of displaced air.
For a moment, there was silence. Then the doors opened.
And the heroes stepped out; wrinkled, silver-haired, smaller than the legends we had made of them, but carrying the weight of worlds in their posture.
The stadium erupted. Not in noise for a game. But in joy for a homecoming.
In reverence for those who had once been children brave enough to colonise the stars… and who deserved, finally, to be held close again.
Colour, texture, taste, appearance, ingredients… where do I begin?
It was recently decreed that a tinned pasty is the same as a pastizz. Just like a candle is the same as the sun, or even a 1,000 watt bulb, and instant coffee is the same as Panama Geisha or Ethiopian Yirgacheffe.
Actually, a tinned pasty and a pastizz are categorically different foods, and definitley not variants of the same thing. Pastizzi are constructed on laminated, hand-worked dough that creates shattering layers through folding, re-folding, and fat distribution. That structure is essential to how they eat, and how they smell, and how they sound. Just for the record, the word pastizz was officially added to the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) in its January 2026 update. It never was a ‘cheesecake’, anyway. The word was first recorded in English as early as 1910.
A tinned pasty has no lamination in any meaningful sense. Its casing, which does not really deserve to be called pastry, is structural containment, not a crafted architecture.
One is engineered to fracture; the other to survive transport and indefinite storage. This is a difference of design philosophy, not just quality.
Freshness is a by-word, a defining property, where pastizzi are concerned. You buy them, and you eat them standing up, from the bag, in the middle of the street. Or else, you order them with your coffee at the corner café, and eat them at your leisure as you watch the world go by.
Pastizzi are a time-sensitive food. Their ideal eating window is measured in minutes after baking. Room temperature, let alone staleness, are failures. On the other hand, a tinned pasty is defined by shelf stability. Its success is measured in months, or years, or even decades. That alone puts them in different culinary classifications.
Pastizzi are the here and now; ephemeral and immediate. Tinned pasties are the needs-must-when-the-devil-drives of food; preserved, deferred, a last resort.. necessity over preference. Pastizzi rely on fat that melts explosively in the oven, steaming the layers of pastry apart. This process leaves the pastry dry, but rich. Tinned pasties rely on fat that remains stable at room temperature, and migrates into starches over time, probably emulsifying into the filling.
The mouthfeel isn’t just “different”; it’s governed by entirely different fat physics.
In a pastizz, the filling and pastry remain distinct, be it ricotta, curried mushy peas, spinach and anchovies, or any of the new-fangled stuffings. It is contained, not absorbed, and some leakage is a bonus – acceptable, even desirable.
In a tinned pasty, the filling and casing partially merge, because moisture migration is unavoidable. Homogeneity is a feature, aided by the ‘gravy’, not just a flaw.
One celebrates contrast. The other accommodates compromise. Pastizzi are intended to be held in one hand, with a beverage or a book in the other, and bitten from multiple angles, according to preference. Tinned pasties are shaped for sitting down and having a go at them with a knife and fork, or even a spoon, if they have turned into gloop and the stuffing has partly emulsified with the casing.
Sound and fracture are not just the poetic explanations for a pastizz. A fresh, hot, pastizz crackles. You hear it before you smell it before you taste it. That audible fracture is part of the experience. A tinned pasty makes no sound worth mentioning, except the gasp, and wheeze, and final wet slurp as it leaves the cannister. This almost-silence is not chance; it’s the result of moisture and compression.
Pastizzi are traditional social, habitual, cultural… and delicious, tied to bakeries, not packaging. Tinned pasties are emergency food, lazy food, transport food, storage food, existing for when life does not go as planned. Both are made of pastry and filling, but that’s as far as the similarities go.
Pastizzi are made to be a good moment in time, and tinned pasties contingency plans, made to exist in aeternum.
Getting at least halfway across the bridge was my only hope, but they were closing in rapidly.
The taxi-driver was one of those garrulous ones who tells you what he would do if they were President, Pope, Prime Minister, or Dear Leader.
I answered him in monosyllables, and laughed and sighed and grunted and exclaimed when he expected it of me. I didn’t even correct him when he showed off and mispronounced Wǔhàn Chángjiāng Dàqiáo differently, each time he said it.
All the while, I kept looking at the side-mirror, hoping my pursuers would get a puncture, or crash, or fall into the river. They had switched off the cherry lights and the sirens, so as not to draw attention to themselves, as soon as they passed The Wuchang Uprising Memorial.
Anyone with an ick of sense would have recognised the vehicles for what they really were, nonetheless. Beat-up Ford Escorts that are more suited to stock car races, than to Mafiosi chasing an informer, are a tad out of place in China. They stood out like a sore thumb, but everyone assumed they were crazy tourists having fun.
They didn’t actually know who they were looking for… the last time they saw me, I had hip-long, black, straight, hair with a fringe that covered my eyebrows, and perfect saubhaya makeup. I was wearing a distinctive oriental red silk dress with slits halfway up my thighs, and teetered on stilettos.
Now, I sported my own gamine blonde haircut, jeans, and a Barney the Dinosaur t-shirt I had picked off the floor in my son’s room, after I got the coded phone-call that told me they were on to me. It smelled of Nutella, butter, and rancid sweat… but I didn’t care.
I wanted to put as much distance as possible between me and them, just in case one of the minor staff at the hotel was a spy who had seen me make a run for it.
They knew they would be powerless to act once I crossed Wuhan Yangtze River Bridge, and that is why they were heading that way. It was an educated guess. Not that they could be called educated, by any stretch of the imagination… but you know what I mean.
A traffic jam… just my luck.
Fifty yards? Shall I make a dash for it? Or will the sight of someone running trigger their responses? What if they have a sniper rifle with a telescopic sight?
The thought lodged itself in my skull and refused to move, like a brain-worm bad lyric you can’t stop humming. I imagined a red dot blooming on the back of my neck, just below the hairline, a delicate little flower of death. I hunched my shoulders instinctively, as if that might help, and the taxi-driver mistook it for impatience.
“Bridge always like this,” he said cheerfully, gesturing at the snarl of traffic ahead as if it were a beloved family trait. “Government say fix it. Government always say fix it. If I were Government, I would…”
I grunted agreement and stared out of the window. The Yangtze lay beneath us, broad and indifferent, carrying silt, history, and secrets eastward. Revolutions had begun here. Empires had bled here. It seemed absurd to imagine that my own small, ignominious end might take place on the same stretch of water, felled by men who couldn’t even be bothered to visit a barber.
The bridge, all steel and concrete confidence, was strung with cables like the ribs of some vast mechanical beast. Once across, jurisdiction would blur. Paperwork would burgeon and phones would stop ringing and the internet would be patchy at best. Favors would suddenly be owed instead of demanded. They knew it. I knew it. That was why this stretch felt longer than the whole journey before it.
The taxi jerked forward a few feet, then stopped again. I risked another glance in the mirror. The Escorts were still there, nosing forward impatiently, drivers hunched low, eyes hidden behind cheap sunglasses bought in bulk at some motorway service station half a world away. I looked away quickly, heart hammering.
I tried to slow my breathing, counting the seconds between the blinks of the indicator lights ahead of us. I told myself that panic was a luxury I couldn’t afford to show, that fear-breathing was noisy, and noise attracted attention. If I bolted now, I would really become a problem that needed solving. If I stayed still, I was just another tired foreigner stuck in traffic, wearing a ridiculous shirt that advertised a purple dinosaur.
The taxi-driver launched into another story; something about his cousin, a failed restaurant, and a misunderstanding involving the only authentic recipe for Peking Duck. I clung to the normality of his voice. Every word he spoke was a thread anchoring me to the ordinary world, the one where bridges were just bridges, not links to life, and traffic jams were just inconveniences, not threats.
The car rolled forward again. Slowly, inexorably, the midpoint of the bridge crept closer. I felt a curious lightness spread through me, not relief exactly, but resolve. Whatever happened next would happen quickly. There would be no more disguises, no more borrowed clothes, no more mirrors.
I straightened in my seat, wiped my hands on my jeans, and fixed my eyes on the far side of the bridge.
Fl-aħħar kienet reġgħet waslet il-fiera tal-Artiġjanat tal-Imdina. Fleur u Lee kienu ilhom jafu biha, u li n-Nanna Kitty kienet sejra mal-grupp ta’ Mrs Marie… u li jekk ilestu l-ħomework kollu sal-Ġimgħa filgħaxija, imorru magħha. Għal xi ħaġa hekk, Lee ma kienex jitnikker sal-aħħar minuta.
Is-Sibt filgħodu, sebħu joqomsu bl-eċitament. Missierhom wassalhom sal-Barrakka t’Isfel, u bil-mod il-mod bdew jinġabru dawk kollha li kienu applikaw biex imorru.
Tal-minibus waqqafhom fid-daħla tal-Imdina, u bdew mixjin ‘l ġewwa. Kien hemm atmosfera tassew sabiħ; geġwiġija ta’ nies, banadar ikkuluriti, u tilari mimlija xogħol imprezzabbli, kollox magħmul bl-idejn. Ħafna minn dawk li kien hemm armati kienu qegħdin jaħdmu x-xogħol tagħhom dak il-ħin stess.
Imma din id-darba l-arja donnha kienet differenti. Fl-arja kien hemm riħa ta’ rand u bużbież taqsamlek qalbek, qisu xi ħadd qed isajjar il-patata l-forn.
Quddiem il-Kattidral ta’ San Pawl kien hemm xwejħa qegħda taħdem il-biżżilla. “Qishiex dik il-mara li ngħidulha z-Zija Stella?” staqsa Lee lil Fleur.
“Kos, Vera!” wieġbetu.
Ix-xiħa semgħethom, u tbissmet. “Kumbinazzjoni, jien Stella jisimni. Dak isem tal-familja, għax anki ommi, u n-nanna, u l-bużnanna, u iżjed ‘l hinn, kollha Stella jisimna…”
Għajnen ix-xiħa kienu jleqqu bħalma jleqqu l-ħjut tal-ħarir taħt il-bozza tal-elf. “Se titgħallmu xi ħaġa illum,” qalet, b’leħen ħlejju, filwaqt li ħarset lejn it-tewmin u lejn in-nies l-oħra li kienu qegħdin jinġabru madwarha.
Kollha kemm huma resqu iżjed qrib, jaraw iċ-ċombini jilgħabu fuq it-trajbu, iċekċku b’melodija ħelwa. “Dawn huma l-għodda tiegħi,” kompliet hi, “flimkien mal-imħabba, l-paċenzja, u l-ħjut, u t-trajbu. Din li qed nagħmel jien m’għandiex x’taqsam mall-bizzilla tal-magni tal-lum; dik tidħaq bin-nies, għax tixtriha bil-metru, tgħassadha fl-ilma, u mbagħad idub it-tessut ta’ madwarha, u tiġi bizzilla. Sabiħa kemm tridha, imma bla ruħ.”
Fleur għamlet sinjal lejn is-sett taċ-ċombini. “U dawn, nanna… għaliex qishom kollha differenti?”
Il-mara tbissmet. “Dawk magħmula bit-torn, skont il-fantasija ta’ min jagħmilhom. Ġeneralment ikunu mill-injam tas-siġar tal-frott, jew, forsi, jekk ikunu antiki ħafna, tal-ivorju jew tal-għadam.”
Qabdet erbgħa ċombini, u wriethom kif jinqabdu bejn il-swaba’ u jdawru l-ħajt biex jifforma d-disinn ħelu ħelu. “F’kull tarf ta’ linja, tpoġġi labra, biex tibqa’ soda l-bizzilla.
Il-bizzilla Maltija hija unika għax ittewwem il-preċiżjoni ta’ qafas ġeometriku ma’ disinn organiku, u jistgħu jinħolqu xeni ta’ storja u stejjer ta’ kultura Maltija.”
Lee beda jdawwar subgħajh fl-arja, qisu qed jaħdem il-bizzilla. Fleur bdiet iċċaqlaq rasha mar-ritmu taċ-ċombini, qisha qed tisma’ l-mużika. Stella bdiet tgħanni bil-mod, hi u tħaddem iċ-ċombini. Waqfet, u qalet, “Bilħaqq… metru kwadru bizzilla jieħu aktar minn 200 siegħa biex jitlesta. Il-bizzilla trid il-ħin u l-paċenzja. Trid tkun moħħok hemm, lim ma tmurx tinduna b’xi żball kwarta wara li tkun għamiltu…’
Semmiet lil Lady Hamilton Chichester, u kif kienet ġabet magħha il-Ġenoviżi biex jgħallmu t-teknika tal-bizzilla, u ftaħret li l-Maltin addattawha għal Malta; żiedu s-salib ta’ tmien ponot, iż-żbul tal-qamħ, li jirrapreżentaw l-abbundanza, u ħwejjeġ oħra li jagħmlu l-bizzilla tabilħaqq Maltija. “Il-bizzilla hija Malta, u Malta hija bizzilla…” Ħarset lejn Fleur u Lee. “Intom tewmin, żgur mhux forsi. Ara, ħa ntikom tifkira ċkejkna tal-lum…” Gerfxet fil-basket u tathom tliet ċombini kull wieħed.
X’ħin qabduhom f’idehom, ir-riħa tar-rand u bużbież f’daqqa waħda saret iżjed qawwija, u t-tfal sabu ruħhom bi ħwejjeg differenti, u quddiem mara li kellha t-trajbu mimdud, mhux wieqaf.
“Ara Fleur u Lee, hawn. Kont qed nistenniekom. Jien Stella, il-bużnanna ta’ Stella…”
Bla kliem, Fleur urietha ċ-ċombini li kienet għadha kif tatha Stella l-oħra. Din tbissmet, imma ma qalet xejn. Lee kemmex wiċċu u qal, “Dawn il-ħwejjeġ riħa ta’ boċċi tal-kamla.”
Fleur u x-xiħa daħqu bil-qalb, u Stella l-antika qaltilhom, “Ara, dawn l-istess ċombini ta’ Stella l-ġdida, imma kif qed tarawm għadhom ġodda… Nimmaġina li Stella qaltilkom li l-insiġ tal-bizzilla mhuwiex biss xogħol tal-idejn li jrid dedikazzjoni inkredibbli għad-dettall, iżda xogħol ta’ mħabba u identità kulturali…
Fi żmien il-Kavallieri, kien hawn domanda kbira għall-bizzilla… Fl-1851, il-bizzilla tagħna kienet esebita Great Exhibition ta’ Londra, u affaxxinat l-udjenzi internazzjonali, minn Londra sa Vienna… saħansitra fl-istatwa tar-Reġina Victoria li hemm il-belt, tidher liebsa xalla tal-bizzilla ta’ Malta. Kellha ħamsa minnhom, fil-fatt. Naf x’nagħmel… ħa ntikom tliet ċombini jien ukoll, biex ikollkom nofs tużżana kull wieħed…”
U hemm kif newwlu idhom għaċ-ċombini, Flerur u Lee reġgħu sabu ruħhom l-Imdina, quddiem Stella l-ġdida. Bla kliem, Fleur urietha ċ-ċombini li kienet għadha kif tatha Stella l-oħra. Din tbissmet, imma ma qalet xejn…
Meta kienet għadha tifla n-Nanna Kitty, kienu ‘moda’ il-penfriends. Kellha wahda miċ-Ċzechoslovakia, pajjiż li ma baqax jeżisti mill-31 ta’ Diċembru, 1992, ‘l quddiem, għax inqasam fi tnejn – is-Slovakkja, u r-Repubblika Ċeka.
Imma Zuzana Kováčová u n-Nanna Kitty baqgħu ħbieb, tant li dan l-aħħar giet taraha, u ġabitlha ikona ta’ San Pietru u San Pawl. Meta rawha, Fleur innotat is-simetrija u d-dettalji, u Lee beda’ jgħadddi l-kummenti dwar id-dehra tal-qaddisin.
In-Nanna Kitty qaltilhom li fi Triq l-Arċisqof, bejn Triq il-Merkanti u Triq ir-Repubbika, hemm il-Knisja li kulħadd isehilha ‘Tal-Griegi’, li fil-fatt hija ddedikata lil Sidtna Marija ta’ Damaxxena, li fiha ħafna ikoni sbieħ.
Lit-tewmin kielithom il-kurżita, u xtaqu jmorru jarawha.
B’xorti tajba, inzertaw lill-Papàs Vito Borgia, bniedem ta’ ħlewwa u għerf liema bħalhom, qiegħed jixgħel ix-xemgħat qudddiem l-ikoni, u kif rahom staqsihom jekk xtaqux li jiggwidahom biex jifhmu is-sinifikat tad-dettalji u tal-ilwien tal-ikoni, u dawn ħatfuh fil-kelma.
‘Il-kelma Griega għal ikona hija, “Αγιογραφία,” li tinqasam f’żewġ kelmiet: Άγιο, li jfisser Qaddis jew tas-Smewwiet, u γραφία li tfisser ikteb. Għalhekk, ma ngħidux ‘inpinġu’ ikona, imma ‘niktbuha’. Dan għax kull nitfa li qed taraw, qisha kapitlu ta’ ktieb mingħajr kliem, għax miktub bil-kuluri, u f’forma ta’ talba. Ikona mhijiex stampa tal-passat, imma tieqa tal-preżent etern.
Nibdew bil-kuluri. Dak l-isfond tad-deheb huwa s-simbolu tal-eternità, u d-dawl tas-sema.’
‘Jimporta nieħdu xi noti?’ staqsiet Fleur.
‘Anzi, aħjar li tagħmlu hekk,’ wieġeb. ‘L-ikoni jesprimu l-Fidi Ortodossa, it-tagħlim, u l-qima. Araw il-ħarsa u l-uċuħ tal-figuri. L-għajnejn huma kbar biex jaraw il-ħwejjeġ spiritwali. Il-widnejn huma kbar u x-xofftejn żagħar, biex jenfasizzaw il-ħtieġa li tisma’ lil Alla fis-skiet u l-ġabra. L-imnieħer twil huwa l-ħajja fl-Ispirtu. L-ikona hi tieqa tas-sema, f’nofs id-dinja tagħna. Meta ras Marija tkun mdawra lejn Ġesù, dan ikun sinjal ta’ mħabba u umiltà. Meta l-uċuħ ta’ Marija u Ġesù jmissu, din hi l-imħabba bejn omm u iben.’
‘U l-kuluri?’ staqsa Lee.
‘L-ikħal ifisser il-bniedem, u l-ħolqien. L-aħmar hu d-divinità u l-ħajja. Mela naraw li Marija spiss tkun liebsa libsa ħamra b’mantell ikħal, imma Ġesù jkollu l-ikħal taħt, u l-aħmar fuq barra.
‘Araw kif il-persuni aktar spiritwalment importanti f’kull ikona huma akbar fid-daqs mill-oħrajn. Ma hemmx dellijiet, għax fil-ġenna ma hemmx dlam. Il-qadddisin, jikitbu minn qudddiem,imma nies oħrajn ikunu fil-profil…’
Fleur ħarset lejn l-arloġġ, tat daqqa bil-minkeb lil Lee, u qamet bilwieqfa. ‘Papàs, sarilna l-ħin biex immorru għand in-Nanna Kitty, għax dalwaqt jiġu l-papa u l-mama biex nieklu…’
‘Meta tridu, erġgħu ejjew, għaax baqali hafna u ħafna x’ngħidilkom,’ qalilhom. Bierikom, u ta ikona tal-Madonna ta’ Damaxxena lil Fleur, u oħra lil Lee.
Kienet waslet l-aħħar ġimgħa tal-iskola.
Miss Marija bdiet taqla’ l-armarji. Kellha drawwa ħelwa li kull nhar ta’ Ġimgħa, din tagħti ktieb lit-tfal tal-klassi. Kellhom għażla – jew iżommuh, jew iġibuh lura biex jerġa jitqassam. Taċ-Charity Shops u tal-Bażarijiet kienu drawha, u għalkemm ma kienux jgħidulha biex ma tħossiex tistħi, jien naf li kieku jerfgħulha l-isbaħ kotba li jidħlu.
Bir-riħ t’hekk, saħansitra Olivia u Marla kienu saru jħobbu jaqraw – fejn qabel jekk imissu ktieb, dan kien ikun biss biex jaraw l-istampi.
M’għandniex xi ngħidu, fl-armarju kien għad hemm ħafna kotba, u Miss Marija, bħas-soltu, kelha pjan f’moħħa.
“Ara tfal…” qalet, kif kienet tagħmel is-soltu. “Tridux intikom ftit ħomework għas-Sajf?”
Inħallikom taħsbu x’pandemonju qam. “Baqax, ukoll!” qal Zak. “Mela s-sajf qiegħed biex niktbu u nistudjaw?” “Jien irrid immur ngħin lin-nanna Doris fil-ħanut!” ġabet skuża Romina.”Jien sejra man-nanna l-Italja…” ftaħret Sabrina.
“…u kieku biss…” qabeż Lee, “sen’oħra ma nkunux f’din il-klassi, allura x’hinu l-iskop li nagħmlulek il-ħomework, Miss Marija?”
“U ajma, mela l-ħomework għall-Miss tagħmlu, kemm int kiesaħ!” widddbitu Josefa.
“Hawn donni qajjimt battalja,” tbissmet l-għalliema. Imma li kelli f’moħħi ma kienx li intm tagħmlu xi pataflun somom, tafux. Jie kont ser inqassam il-kotba li baqa’ – għal minirid, ta’, mhux għal min ma jridx…” u hawn hemżet lil Josefa, “u min irid,jagħmel qisu scrapbook. Iktbu, pinġu, waħħlu l-istampi… insomma, intom tafu. Imbagħad, meta tibdew is-sena, naraw…”
“X’naraw, Miss?” staqsa James, bħas-soltu l-iżjed wieħed kurjuż. “Min jistenna’, jithenna!” Nibitu Fleur, li kienet diġa f’moħħa mliet fajl daqs illum u għada bl-immaġinazzjoni fertili tagħha.”
“Insomma, Miss, jien kieku rrid il-kotba kollha li ngħandhom x’jaqsmu mal-karozzi!” qal Clint. Għax kieku, nieħu r-ritratti u nwaħħalhom fl-iscrapbook ukoll, u…” “Qabeż hu,” interrompih Christian. “Mela aħn’hekk, naqbdu u nikkmandaw x’għandha tagħmel Miss Marija?”
U Miss Marija tbissmet, ġhax wara kollox, hi li riedet kien li tiqajjem diskussjoni.
“Kif kont qed ngħid, intom – insomma, min irid minkom – jagħmel scrapbook. Jew ġurnal, qisu djarju. Fih tiktbu xi storja li tivvintaw, jew dwar xi ktieb li tkunu qrajtu. Forsi tpinġu xi ħaġa. Forsi twaħħlu xi biljett tal-karozza tal-linja, jew xi weraq niexfa li tkunu sibtu barra. Twaħħlux weraq friski għax jimmuffaw. Forsi tiddiskrivu lil xi ħadd li tafu sew, jew xi qattus li taraw fit-triq tagħkom, u tpinġuh ukoll. Qiskom qed tagħmlu magazine, insomma. X’taħsbu? U bilħaqq, jekk hawn min minkom imur xi Summer Club, jew tgħinu f’xi volontarjat ma’ ħutkom il-kbar jew mal-ġenituri, iktbu dwar dan, ukoll… U għandi nifhem li ser tgħinu iżjed milli tagħmlu bħalissa, fil-faċendi tad-dar… hemm, ħa, għandkom ħafna dwar xiex tiktbu! Anki min isiefer, bħal ma ħa tagħmel Sabrina, jista’ jikteb dwar i-pajjiż fejn ikun mar. Imma jekk ser tużaw xi ritratti, qisu li dejjem tieħdu permess mingħand i-kbar qabel ma twaħħluhom fl-iscrapbook.”
Rosiane, fejn rari kienet titkellem, qqalet li dik kienet tassew ideja tajba, imma Jade tkerrħet xi ftit, għax għliha s-sajf kien jiġi biex titla’ tas-Sannat għand in-nanna Dulcie, u tgħaddi sajf qisha qegħda l-ġenna.
“Issa, min irid xi ktieb jew tnejn, jew anki iżjed, jgħolli jdejh… Naf li dan is-sajf ma tistgħux tmorru għand in-nanna ta’ Sabrina għax ser tkun imseifra, imma forsi għal darba issibu x’imkien ieħor fejn tiltaqgħu… Tafux, tfal, li jien għad għandi l-iscrapbooks li kont nagħmel ta’ kull sajf? Meta tikbru, taf kemm tieħdu gost iġġeddu l-memorji?”
Kważi t-tfal kollha għollew id waħda – u kien hemm min għollihom it-tnejn. Miss Marija stenniet ftit, biex tara x’ser jagħmlu. “Imma Miss…” qalet Georgeanne, “nistgħu nagħmlu scrapbook jekk ma nkunux ħadna kotba?”
“U żgur li iva. Il-kotba toħduhom biex jekk ma jkollkomx fuqhiex tiktbu, itukom xi idejat…”
U Georgeanne u Karen għollew idejhom.
Miss Marija sejħet lit-tfal. Għamlu serbut sal-armarju fejn kien hemm il-kotba, u għall-ewwel, kulħadd ħa wieħed, biex jaraw kemm kienu ħa jservu.Li ġara kien li x’ħin dawk li baqgħu bilqegħda raw l-entużjażmu ta’ sħabhom, huma wkoll qamu għal sehmhom.
U bħad-dqiq u ż-żejt tal-armla li temgħet lil Elija, dawn il-kotba qishom bdew joktru, u kien hemm biżżejjed biex kulħadd jieħu milli inqas tnejn.
Miss Marija kienet bi ħsiebha tagħti rigal żgħir lil kull min juriha imqar erba’ karti f’folder… imma għalissa, ma ngħidulhom xejn lit-tfal tal-klassi tagħha, biex jieħdu sorpriża ħelwa.
Kos, hux, min jaf li kieku kelkom tagħmlu scrapbook intom ukoll?
It was a dull, dreary, dismal Saturday afternoon in November.
‘I’m bored,’ whined Lee in the voice that set everyone’s teeth on edge.
‘Surely you have a test to study for?’ asked his mother.
‘I know everything,’ he smirked.
‘It’s too squally to go out,’ said Fleur. ‘And I’ve finished all my homework, and I don’t feel like doing crafts…’
Their mother smiled. She always had a trick or two up her sleeve, and today was no exception. ‘I have just the thing for you…’ she said. ‘But you have to go to Sylvia…’
The cute old woman who lived round the corner was one of the twins’ favourite people. She was a feisty soul, currently housebound while recuperating from her hip replacement operation. She doted on the twins, and they, in turn, referred to her as their ‘not-granny’.
Fleur decided it was not too gusty to go out, after all, and Lee brightened up and ran upstairs to bring the anoraks and boots. Their mother packed a container with some beef stew and another with baked rice, and called Sylvia to say the twins were going to visit her. By the time they arrived she had hobbled to the door to welcome them.
‘Ma said you have the solution to our boredom…’
When Sylvia smiled, her face lit up and her eyes sparkled. ‘I have a lot of things that belonged to my husband in the Seven Days in the spare bedroom,’ she said. ‘I think that you will like looking through them. Then, when it is time for you to go home, just put everything back in its place, and you can take one thing each.’
Fleur and Lee squealed with delight. ‘But what is a Seven Days?’ asked Fleur.
‘As you know, my husband was Italian, and he called it settegiorni. It’s just a chest of drawers with a fancy name – it has seven compartments, traditionally one for each day of the week. You would call it a semainier in French, from the word for week. The idea was to organise a week’s worth of clothing or accessories, but of course not everyone did that. You’ll see that the top drawer has a split front, as if it’s two drawers, and you can lift the top up, like a lid…’
Lee was hopping from foot to foot. He couldn’t to see what there was in the drawers. ‘Ma said we can only stay for one hour, because it won’t do to tire you out…,’ said Fleur.
‘That’s fine with me,’ said Sylvia. ‘You can always come back another time. Do you want to take a glass of milk and a slice of my carrot cake with you, in case you get peckish?’ Lee, of course, nodded, and Fleur prepared the tray, while Sylvia sat down on her armchair.
Carefully, very carefully, Fleur went up the stairs, holding the tray, while Lee bounded up them two by two and waited for her on the landing.
The room was like a filmset, frozen in time – a place for everything, and everything in its place. ‘That’s it,’ said Fleur, pointing to the unit to the far end of the room. She set down the tray carefully on the dressing table, removed a candelabrum from the top of the Seven Days, and opened the lid.
There was a bundle of letters, an envelope filled with sepia photographs, a pocket-watch, four pairs of old spectacles and two magnifying glasses, a pocket watch, and a wristwatch. ‘If I don’t find anything more interesting, I will take a magnifying glass…’ mused Lee.
In the second drawer, there were shells and minerals, and a collection of advertising pencils, a couple of old magazines, binoculars, a collection of rosary beads all made from different types of seeds, and a chess set. Fleur wondered if the box of minerals would count as just one item.
In the third drawer, there was a stamp album and Instruction Manuals for things long gone, cassette tapes, and reel-to-reel tapes.
‘Look at this!’ Lee squeaked, holding up a snow-globe that had swirls of light in it, apart from the usual whirly bits.
‘Careful!’ said Fleur. ‘That looks very frag…’ Before she could finish the word, the snow-globe jumped out of Lee’s hand, bounced twice on the tiles, and broke into a thousand pieces.
The room glowed brighter than hundred neon lights. Fleur and Lee tumbled headlong through the twirling sparkles into a snowdrift. They landed upside down in a soft, cold heap. Snowflakes, big and lazy like drifting feathers, floated down around them.
‘Brrr! Where are we?’ Fleur rubbed her hands together as they sat up.
‘Not at Sylvia’s house, that’s for sure.’ said Lee, looking around him.
Just then, twins about their age, wrapped in a thick parka with fur trimming, glided up on sled-skis made of polished bone. They had eyes the colour of twilight and smiles from ear to ear.
‘Hi,’ said the girl. ‘We are Aput and Akiak. We saw a cloud fall, and we came to see what had happened…’
‘Nice names. We’re Fleur and Lee,’ answered Fleur.
‘Aput, that’s me, means snow, and Akiak, that’s my brother, means the brave one,’ said the girl.
‘Our names mean Flower,’ and Lee pointed at Fleur as he said it, ‘and meadow.’ He pointed at himself.
‘Oh, we have flowers in the summer; tiny ones, and they bloom really fast before the snow comes back. But we don’t have meadows like yours, but when the snow melts, we get green places too, where the caribou graze.’
‘Interesting,’ said Fleur.
‘Can you help us? We’re lost.’
Aput and Akiak nodded solemnly, as if they met many people who were lost, every day. ‘You must be cold. Let’s build an igloo.’
‘Oh, that would be fun,’ said Lee. ‘But from where will you get the ice?’
‘We build the igloos from snow, not ice, which is not suitable at all.’ Aput handed each of them a snow saw. He showed them how to cut neat blocks of packed snow, just the right size to stack like sugar cubes in a spiral.
The first few blocks of Fleur and Lee lopsided looked like melting marshmallows, but soon they got the hang of it. Building an igloo, Akiak explained, was more about teamwork than perfection.
As they worked, Aput explained, ‘Even though it’s made of snow, the inside of an igloo is warm. The snow blocks trap the heat; like a vacuum flask, actually. Your body heat, a tiny lamp, even just the sun outside helps.’
Fleur blinked. ‘So, snow can keep you warm?’
‘Yup! Snow is full of air pockets. It’s actually a great insulator. Ice blocks, on the other hand, would freeze solid and keep the cold in,’ Akiak said.
Soon, the igloo stood proudly like a giant upturned bowl. They crawled inside through the tunnel door, and Aput lit a tiny seal-oil lamp that gave off a gentle glow. The walls shimmered like frozen candyfloss, and it really was cosy.
‘Wow,’ Lee whispered. ‘It’s like a snow fort… but magical.’
Akiak chuckled, and reached into his leather pouch, which, like a Cornucopia, seemed to contain everything he needed at any given moment. ‘Since you’re visitors, you should take a keepsake.’ He handed them a Rubik’s Cube that had Inuit symbols on it, instead of coloured sections. ‘When you play with these, you will remember us,’ he said.
Fleur looked at the toy and smiled. ‘Thank you, Aput and Akiak,’ she said.
The Inuit twins bowed slightly. ‘Thank you for helping us build the igloo. It was fun. We must go now, because our parents will be wondering where we are…’
Lee looked at his watch. ‘Oh, we must be off, too, because…’ but Aput and Akiak had already left the igloo. He looked at Fleur, and pointed at the lamp. Its soft light was becoming colourful and brighter, and it began shimmering and swirling around the inside of the igloo. And just like that, Fleur and Lee were once again inside Sylvia’s spare bedroom, still clutching their cubes.
‘It’s time for us to leave,’ said Fleur. ‘We have just enough time left to drink the milk, and we can take the cake with us, because it smelled too good to simply gobble it up.’ But the glasses were empty, and there was not even a crumb of cake left on the saucers.
‘Now that’s weird,’ said Lee.
They went downstairs, and Sylvia said ‘I don’t recall ever seeing those games.’
‘Actually…’ began Lee, but stopped short when Fleur trod on his toes.
‘We still have four drawers to riffle through,’ Fleur said, to change the subject. ‘There were so many interesting things to see…’
‘That’s all right,’ Sylvia said. ‘I am sure you won’t mind coming again.’ The twins laughed. With hugs and promises to return, Fleur and Lee put on their anoraks and boots, placed the Cubes into their haversacks, and ran home.
It was one of those stultifying, stifling summer days, when you could probably fry bacon and eggs on the pavement. But for Fleur and Lee and the rest of the passengers on the bus, this was not an option.
Nanna Kitty had got them tickets for a tour of the Romano-Punic Towers; some of the old people in her group had dropped out, and the organiser asked whether any of the group members could manage to fill up the empty seats to offset losses.
The twins’ father drove them to Valletta, and Mrs Marie gave them the itinerary:
Ta’ Wilġa – Mqabba;
Tal‑Bakkari – Żurrieq;
Ta’ Ġawhar – Safi;
Ta’ Ċieda – San Ġwann;
Għajn Klieb – Rabat;
Tas‑Santi – Rabat.
When the tour ended, they would eat at their favourite restaurant.
It seemed that no sooner had the bus left Mqabba that the oldies began to grumble; the trip was taking too long; they needed to stop for aa snack; it was too hot; one pile of stones looks much like another… and so forth.
Mrs Marie was highlighting the history behind the towers, and their role in Malta’s defence system; however, not everyone was paying attention. Some were playing with their devices, some closed their eyes for a catnap, and some were catching up on the latest gossip.
Fleur and Lee, who had been allowed to sit in the first row of seats behind the driver so they could have the best view, drank in every single word.
When they got to Rabat, Lee ‘suddenly’ remembered the Charity Shop they had visited the last time they were in Rabat, and mentioned that they ‘might’ have marbles. Fleur wanted to tag along, just in case they had more stickers and stationery. Nanna Kitty gave them permission to go – as long as they were seated for lunch at 12.00noon sharp.
The twins hurried downhill, not wanting to waste a single second.
This time, the shop had a curtain made of clay beads, which tinkled happily when Fleur moved them aside so they could enter. Th shop was different, somehow. There was a faint caprylic smell… easily explained when two friendly goats walked up to sniff at the children.
Inside the shop was a boy, who introduced himself as Linus. The resemblance between him and Lee was remarkable; and the three children were not in the least surprised when Linus’s twin sister Flora walked into the shop from the backroom, and she happened to look like Fleur.
‘I’d like to buy some marbles,’ said Lee.
‘And I would like to get some stationery,’ said Fleur.
‘What?’ asked Flora and Linus in unison.
Fleur and Lee looked at each other with that here-we-go-again look.
‘Never mind,’ said Fleur. They ended up getting a wooden puzzle each, instead.
‘We were just about to have a snack,’ said Linus. ‘Not too many customers today… do you want to join us?’
‘Actually, we are supposed to…’ began Fleur.
‘Of course,’ said Lee.
‘I hope you like sourdough flatbread with cheese,’ said Flora.
‘Ah. Like focaccia or white pizza…,’ said Lee.
‘Pizza?’ asked Linus.
‘Never mind,’ said Fleur. ‘In any case, you haven’t got tomatoes, yet, because they’re from the Americas. Tomatoes didn’t arrive in Europe until the 1500s, well after the fall of the Roman Empire.’
‘Tomatoes? Americas? Fall of the Empire?’
Ever mind – if you have cheese, and rocket?’
‘Rucola. Eruca sativa. Yes.’
Fleur had an idea. ‘Do you have strawberries?’
Flora nodded. ‘We have fragaria vesca; small, wild strawberries. Quite tart. Our granny makes conserve from them. She says it helps digestion. Let me fetch you a jar so you can taste it.’
‘Just the ticket, then.’ Fleur’s eyes lit up. ‘Where we’re from, I once made salmon with a strawberry sauce.’ Please let me make the topping, just for today…’
Linus made a face. ‘Fruit… on bread?’
‘Trust me,’ said Fleur. ‘You already put dates on bread, and honey. You will love this.’
Fleur diluted the conserve with some olive oil, and mixed in the fresh, creamy, and tangy goat cheese and a few rocket leaves for a sharp bite. In the yard, the Roman twins had a small version of the communal thermopolium, where everyone took their dough and traded gossip while waiting for a turn. Wood was stacked neatly nearby, dry olive and pine branches crackling merrily in the open hearth. ‘We sometimes use charcoal too,’ Flora whispered, ‘but it smokes, and smells horrid.’
Minutes later, almost-pizzas were ready. The two pairs of twins sniffed the air appreciatively.
They bit in. Linus blinked. ‘I never expected it to be this good,’
‘I love it,’ said Flora.
They all laughed. ‘Oh, we haven’t paid you for the puzzles,’ said Lee.
‘You can have the for free,’ said Linus. ‘Consider them fair exchange for the recipe…’
‘We really have to go, because Nanna Kitty will be waiting for us,’ said Fleur.
They hugged Flora and Linus, ad ran uphill to join Nanna Kitty and her friends, just as the waiter was bringing their ravjul to table.
I have only seen them in David Attenborough documentaries – hulking, white, giant drifting solemnly through icy waters. Icebergs. Statuesque and mysterious, sculpted by Poseidon himself when he had nothing better to do.
They float. They loom. They collide with ships. Their silent beauty is lethal. They star in cautionary tales and postcards alike. But what are they really?
First and foremost, they are a paradox – icebergs are made of water and yet, they float on water. It could be an existential metaphor, a basis for a thesis; but there is also a logical scientific explanation for it. Frozen freshwater is less dense than liquid saltwater. Ergo, ice floats, smugly, as ice floats in lemonade and whiskey. Like the self-effacing, reticent child in class, who knows all the answers but says nothing unless asked.
What we see above the surface is only a sliver of the whole story. Roughly 90% of an iceberg is submerged. Hidden. Concealed. Minding its own glacial business beneath the waves. Are they hiding something? Of course. Just like people. Our fears, our regrets, our dormant volcanoes—we keep most of that below the surface, don’t we? Icebergs are introverts. Cautious and colossal, and yet content to let the world misunderstand them.
They’re cold, yes. But do they have feelings? One suspects they might, on a molecular level. Perhaps not joy or sorrow… but what about the slow ache of the molecules unable to float free of restraints, having to ‘stick’ to the others in their eternal dance? What about loneliness? If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, it still makes a sound. If an iceberg drifts for decades, cracking and creaking in solitude, does it not groan, like a heart burdened with unspoken grief?
To some, icebergs are the ultimate threat. Ask any sailor who has studied the North Atlantic shipping routes charts, with trepidation and caution. But to many, they are home. Seals sunbathe on their backs. Polar bears leap from floe to floe like retired gymnasts. Penguins parade around them like dignitaries wearing tuxedoes, on a diplomatic mission. One creature’s hazard is another’s haven.
Could you build an igloo with blocks of iceberg ice? Technically, yes; if you could cut and transport it. But traditional igloos are built with snow, not ice, which insulates better and is less slippery to stack. Ice is harder, heavier, and more likely to turn your cozy hideout into a deathtrap when it shifts. Unless you are a polar bear with a PhD in civil engineering, it is best leave iceberg housing alone.
One might think, floating as they do in salty seas, icebergs would be salty too. However, icebergs are made of compressed snow, often ancient, which fell long before it had a chance to soak in sea brine. So they are made of freshwater, crystalline and pure. The kind of ice you would want in your granita, if you are the type to sip orange juice like an emperor, or iced coffee like a fashionista.
At a pinch, you could crush iceberg ice and make a granita. But maybe, just maybe, consider the journey that ice has taken before it ended up in your cocktail. Born of snowflakes, pressed by centuries, cracked by time and tide, and now resting in your glass, releasing its last breath in swirls of condensation.
Iceberg ice is denser and colder than your average freezer cube. It is old. Patient. It is not the showy clatter you pull from your fridge tray, and replace in the blink of an eye. It is the kind of ice that has been waiting for centuries to be noticed. It sinks deeper in your glass, if you had to use it, just like a thought that is more persistent than the rest.
An iceberg is not always solid through and through. Some icebergs contain hollows, caves, and caverns, which have been formed by melting, cracking, motion, or time. Polar bears might shelter there, momentarily safe from storms or prying eyes – or poachers. Some adventurers claim to have crawled inside, but this is risky business. A creaking iceberg is a dangerous host, since it can roll, split, or collapse like a shelf with too many tomes.
It is best to admire an iceberg from a distance, preferably with binoculars… and insurance. It is foolhardy to walk on an iceberg. But if you insist on being a hardy fool, use crampons, not the tennis-racquet-style snowshoes, which are for soft snow, and definitely not slick, uneven ice. Nailed shoes? Only if you want to go tail over teakettle after a couple of steps. Stability and grip matter, as in life.
Let us for a moment imagine that by some freak of geothermal theatre, a volcano erupted beneath an iceberg. Would the lava freeze, or would the ice melt? The answer is simple – both would happen. Lava would initially harden, as it does when it meets the sea, but the iceberg would ultimately lose the fight. Heat always wins. Even the coldest hearts, when pressed hard enough, might melt a tad. There is a moral here.
Just for the record – the Romans did not use iceberg ice to cool their wine; they gathered snow and ice from mountains, simply because the Alps were nearer and handier. They stored it in underground pits and used straw as insulation. Clever.
The Inuit call an iceberg ‘piqaluyak’. It loosely translates as ‘the thing that has broken away’. Sublime; a fragment that left something larger. Perhaps not unlike us.
We are all a bit like an iceberg. A visible tip hiding untold depths. Cold to some, comforting to others. Heavy with history. Capable of melting. Capable of damage. Capable, even, of sheltering those who need refuge.
Icebergs, when all is said and done, are not really frozen.
Miss Marija said that the assignment would have to be handed in on the first day the Class returned to school after the Easter Holidays.
However of course, by the time lunchbreak arrived, Fleur had already mustered her team [Lee, Sabrina, and Frankie], and allocated them their share of the work.
Their brief was to document a beautiful area in Malta. Fleur, chose the general area of Ġnejna and Għajn Tuffieħa, with the Qarraba promontory between them, even though she knew that the clay paths could be dangerous. She had always wanted to go there, and now she had the perfect reason [and excuse].
Early on Saturday morning, they packed their haversacks; maps, snacks and juice and water; papers and pencils; cameras; slide rules; plaster of Paris; sunscreen… They caught the 42 and 238 buses, arriving at Mġarr.
During the journey, they looked out of the bus windows and ate the chicken and carrot wraps that the twins’ mother had prepared the evening before, for the four of them, to the chagrin of the woman sitting in the seat behind them. She complained, to no one in particular, that today’s children only ate fancy rubbish, full of additives… so no wonder they were all hyperactive. In her day…
Lee was all set to say something, but Sabrina dug her elbow into his ribs, and he thought better of it. They drank some orange juice, and saved the rest for later. They were not supposed to be eating on the bus – indeed, the driver saw them, but he didn’t reprimand them. They had agreed with their parents that they would check in every half hour.
With an old-fashioned map in hand, the four of them set off toward the coast. The path grew narrower and rockier. Occasionally, they stopped to take a close-up of a flower, or of a snail, or of a particularly lovely leaf. Their excited chatter was filled with the anticipation of the breathtaking views that awaited them. As they descended the slope, the sea grew from a thin line to a vast, shimmering expanse that stretched to the horizon.
Huoh-huoh-huoh, huoh-huoh-huoh, cried the seagulls circling overhead. The children’s hearts quickened at the beautiful sight, and they tried to photograph the birds. But they only managed to get blurs dotted against the sky. ‘Like UFOs,’ Sabrina said, and they all laughed.
They began their descent toward the sea. They had read about this area, and they had seen many photographs, but the reality was more stunning than they could have ever imagined. They could practically taste the scent of wild thyme and rosemary, it was so strong.
Lee, chasing a lizard, tripped over a loose rock, sending a cascade of stones down the slope. Fleur screamed, and the sound reverberated in the stillness, making them all laugh nervously. ‘Let’s stick together, guys,’ she said.
Sabrina nodded solemnly. Frankie, on the other hand, rolled his eyes. ‘We’re not babies,’ he said.
Ġnejna Beach is a cove of pristine sand, nestled between two outcrops of rock. The sea is a brilliant turquoise, and the beach is a slice of heaven. The children rushed down the final stretch. For a few moments, the group stood in awed silence. Then, almost at once, they sprang into action. Cameras clicked, pencils sketched, and notes were jotted down as though they were researchers on a mission from the National Geographic, their laughter mixing with the cries of the seagulls above, who were probably hoping for a snack.
Frankie tried to play ducks and drakes with a pebble. It sank with a plop. ‘Ooops,’ teased Sabrina. ‘We have a job to do, and the clock is ticking…’
Fleur’s eyes widened. ‘Could it be a pirate’s den?’ she wondered aloud, her imagination running wild. ‘Or maybe it’s where the local smugglers used to hide their contraband.’ The thrill of discovery set their hearts racing as they clambered up toward the mysterious opening, loose stones crunching underfoot.
Inside the grotto, the cool, damp air smelled faintly of salt and earth. The low, narrow entrance widened into a chamber, dimly lit by shafts of light filtering through cracks above. Lee’s torch beam danced along the ground, and then stopped.
‘Look…’ he whispered in awe.
The floor was littered with strange, swirling patterns embedded in the stone; delicate spirals, ghostly shells, and what looked like tiny coral fans frozen in time.
‘Fossils,’ breathed Fleur, kneeling for a closer look. ‘Hundreds of them.’
Frankie frowned. ‘But… how did they get here?’
Sabrina traced a finger along a whorled imprint. ‘This cave must’ve been part of the seabed, millions of years ago. Before Malta even rose from the sea and became the bridge between mainland Europe and Africa…’
Fleur looked around, her voice hushed with wonder. ‘We’re standing on the memory of an ancient ocean.’
Lee was already taking photos. ‘Cool. I wish I’d brought a hammer and a chisel with me…’
Fleur shot him an ominous look. ‘No. Don’t even think about it. You remember what Mr Zahra said during the field trip to Għar Dalam? Removing fossils is illegal. ‘They belong to the nation, not the collector,’ he said.’
Lee shrugged. ‘But there are hundreds of them, and surely…’ The looks his friends gave him made him stop mid-sentence.
They took photos of the cavern floor from every angle. Frankie pulled out the plaster to make moulds, while Lee set up the tripod for a panoramic shot.
Fleur whipped out a notebook from her bag, and read: Malta’s rock is mostly from the Oligocene to Miocene periods (23–5 million years ago). It is possible to find marine fossils such as like sea urchins, bivalves, gastropods, bryozoans, and foraminifera in the island’s marine sedimentary rock layers, like the globigerina limestone or blue clay.
Globigerina limestone is named after Globigerina, a genus of planktonic foraminifera, and often preserves fossils of these and other marine organisms.
Caves can form in these layers, and tectonic uplift over millions of years could bring ancient sea beds above sea level, meaning a cave floor could plausibly be a former seabed, rich in fossils.
They packed away their apparatus and work, and moved on toward Għajn Tuffieħa, clambering down more slippery clay paths and giggling each time one of them slid on their backside. Lee, inevitably, was the worst. ‘I have more clay on me than the cliffs,’ he said gleefully.
Between the four of them, they had enough material for ten projects. They sat on a flat rock, sharing the last of the snacks.
‘Do you think we’ll get a good mark?’ Sabrina asked.
Fleur smiled. ‘Definitely. We didn’t just do the project. We lived it.’
‘And we followed the rules,’ added Frankie, wiping his hands on the front of his t-shirt. ‘Miss Marija always gives points for that.’
They made their way back to the bus stop, tired but satisfied.
Later, at school, Miss Marija would call their presentation exceptional, and the head of science would ask if he could include their fossil documentation in the school’s annual magazine.
But for now, the only reward they needed was the memory of the sun on their faces, the scent of thyme in the air, and the knowledge that they had explored something ancient.
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