The weather continues to be vile here, wind, rain, grey. As a result I had been putting off my trek to the shops, but my food supplies dwindled to the point of subsisting on olives and water biscuits, so nothing else for it but to brave the elements. Wandering up the lane towards the shops, admiring the spring-like abundance of green which has sprung up since the rains.
'Hey, English!' I hear. Looking around I see only fruit trees and small fields of vegetables. 'English!!'. I look closer into the trees and see a small, old man beckoning me. I wondered how he could know I'm English, I'm an inch over six foot which puts me a good six inches above most Gozitan men, but then I could be Dutch, or Danish, German even. I'm a little disturbed it's that obvious. As I got closer I could see he was probably well into his eighties, with a black cloth cap, a face as brown and weathered as the earth I stood on, and a moustache which had gone way beyond Poirot and was heading for Dali.
Everyone in Gozo I had previously met spoke English, but it became obvious we were to rely on gesticulation and speaking slowly with small words. He pointed to an ancient and rickety ladder which leaned against the battered tree beside him, pointed at me and made a gripping gesture with his hands. He then pointed at himself, then the ladder, then skywards towards the treetop. Finally he picked a pruning device from the floor, consisting of an array of levers and handles, and took a murderous-looking billhook from behind the string which held up his trousers.
'My wife', he said, and shrugged. It wasn't clear whether she was to have been supporting his ladder but had artfully found something else more indoors and less wet to do, or whether she'd informed him under no account was he to be going up that ladder unaided. Either way, I was apparently the first person to come wandering past and my duty, despite our linguistic differences, was clear.
Up the ladder he went, clutching his medieval torture instruments, as I steadied the base. The rain poured down, as did twigs, leaves, insects, birdshit and the layer of Saharan sand which coats everything here when the wind blows from the south. A wild flurry of activity and foliage followed, accompanied by what I can only assume was Maltese cussing, and back down the ladder he came not ten minutes later.
'Grazzi', he said, as he returned, much to my relief, to solid ground. He indicated we walk to the side of his patch, so over we traipsed to where the rest of his belongings lay, which included a box of recently harvested vegetables. He began insisting I took some for my troubles, I humbly refused with shakes of the head and 'it was my pleasure' hand gestures, he nodded firmly and took no notice. So I returned home with an enormous cabbage, two spears of broccoli the size of bowling balls, and as many oranges as would fit in my pockets. Six, as it turned out.
'Hey, English!' I hear. Looking around I see only fruit trees and small fields of vegetables. 'English!!'. I look closer into the trees and see a small, old man beckoning me. I wondered how he could know I'm English, I'm an inch over six foot which puts me a good six inches above most Gozitan men, but then I could be Dutch, or Danish, German even. I'm a little disturbed it's that obvious. As I got closer I could see he was probably well into his eighties, with a black cloth cap, a face as brown and weathered as the earth I stood on, and a moustache which had gone way beyond Poirot and was heading for Dali.
Everyone in Gozo I had previously met spoke English, but it became obvious we were to rely on gesticulation and speaking slowly with small words. He pointed to an ancient and rickety ladder which leaned against the battered tree beside him, pointed at me and made a gripping gesture with his hands. He then pointed at himself, then the ladder, then skywards towards the treetop. Finally he picked a pruning device from the floor, consisting of an array of levers and handles, and took a murderous-looking billhook from behind the string which held up his trousers.
'My wife', he said, and shrugged. It wasn't clear whether she was to have been supporting his ladder but had artfully found something else more indoors and less wet to do, or whether she'd informed him under no account was he to be going up that ladder unaided. Either way, I was apparently the first person to come wandering past and my duty, despite our linguistic differences, was clear.
Up the ladder he went, clutching his medieval torture instruments, as I steadied the base. The rain poured down, as did twigs, leaves, insects, birdshit and the layer of Saharan sand which coats everything here when the wind blows from the south. A wild flurry of activity and foliage followed, accompanied by what I can only assume was Maltese cussing, and back down the ladder he came not ten minutes later.
'Grazzi', he said, as he returned, much to my relief, to solid ground. He indicated we walk to the side of his patch, so over we traipsed to where the rest of his belongings lay, which included a box of recently harvested vegetables. He began insisting I took some for my troubles, I humbly refused with shakes of the head and 'it was my pleasure' hand gestures, he nodded firmly and took no notice. So I returned home with an enormous cabbage, two spears of broccoli the size of bowling balls, and as many oranges as would fit in my pockets. Six, as it turned out.