Tag: blogging

11th Hour, 11th Day, 11th Month

I’ve always loved the poetry from WWI, not for some macabre reason, but I think we should never stop being a witness to what happened, and importantly, to keep those memories alive. A lot of it is incredible poetry in its own right, and I’ve read all of Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon’s works over the years. They’re probably my two favourites. 

But I have another reason for my interest, as at least three of my family fought in WW1, and another was a code breaker stationed overseas. My grandfather was in France as an officer, but as a qualified chemist he had the job to go and blow up any bridges that intelligence had told them the Germans would be advancing across. He also went in behind the lines to plant explosives on other enemy, war-critical installations. 

My grandfather’s cap badge

‘Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you’ll never forget.’

by Siegfried Sassoon.

My grandfather was a bit of a writer, maybe that’s where I get it from, he wrote every day in his tiny diaries, the little ones the reps used to bring to the factory he later worked in, or that his father had brought home. He also kept war diaries and note books, with details of Morse code and translations, trench and bridge diagrams and little sketches and annotations. 

Transcribed from a coded signal from my Grandfather’s War Notebook

A sketch from my Grandfathers War Notebook

I also have a map he drew of the area just to the north of the Somme where he was stationed, as well as his signing-up notice. I am so thankful I have all of this, so I can keep in my memory the incredible things he achieved as well as the fact he was one of the kindest men, and also very dashing with his moustache and uniform. 

My Grandfather’s battalion, he is seated centre front row, holding his riding cane.

My godfather, also my great uncle, had a different story, he was much younger and hadn’t finished school yet or gone on to college or university. But when war broke out, he went to sign up. He was however a year too young and when he got into Manchester to join up, they realised his age and his mother came and got him back. But a year later he was old enough and he served in the infantry in the Manchester Regiment. 

My godfather, aged 17.

After training he was sent to the front and stationed in France. It makes me cry even now thinking of what he saw and felt. During one battle in the Somme area he was crossing the battle field along with his battalion, and he slipped into a shell crater, losing his footing as they fought their way across the battle field. Another soldier was lying in there, in screaming agony with the severity of his godawful wounds, he’d lost a leg and was bleeding out everywhere. My uncle went to give him some comfort in his dying moments, and realised he knew him – it was his cousin. In desperation to try and save his life, and with enemy gunfire whistling past, screaming rounds overhead and a field full of mines and barbed wire, he carried him out and to where he could get some help. He was awarded a medal for bravery. He was later gassed in the trenches (mustard gas) and was sent home to recover. 

But the impact of what he saw and experienced was for him and so many, many others absolutely unbearable. We can only guess at some of what they truly witnessed. But for years later he suffered with heartbreaking levels of PTSD, he had appalling nightmares and would awake on my grandmother’s sofa drenched in sweat, often screaming and sobbing. Having been a victim of gassing, he later developed throat cancer and died barely a year after I was born. The war stole this precious, kind man away from me, and a chance to get to know him, and have some memories of someone I know my father loved so much that he made him my godfather. Years later I walked across London all night to raise money for cancer research, I had his name and photograph pinned to my running number. 

My uncle and grandfather, weren’t the only members of the family to be in the Great War, there was another relative who I also want to mention, he was William Forster, born on the 28th of November 1892 in Jesmond, Newcastle. He later went to school at Downside and then to Cambridge where he got a BA and LLB. But war broke out and like many of his generation he was enlisted. William was a private, in the Royal Fusiliers, 8th Battalion. His military service number was 10497.

William was killed at the Battle of the Somme on the 7th of October, 1916 during the Attack of Bayonet Trench; he was only 23 years old. He is buried at Thiepval Memorial in France.

He is also remembered in De Ruvigny’s ‘Roll of Honour 1914-1918’ and in ‘The Valley Remembers’ by Sandy Hunter. William also has his name inscribed on a stained-glass window at All Saints Church, Thropton, Nr Alnwick. 

Image from the Attack at Bayonet Trench where William was killed. (Getty archive)

This is for my grandfather, for my godfather and also for William, and all the hundreds of thousands of lives, on both sides that never made it back. 

May we remember them all today, at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month.

No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
 
By Wilfred Owen, from ‘Anthem for Doomed Youth’

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Three and a Half Lions

Cats and me we go way back. Aged two, and Lion number 1; the fam were on a camping holiday in Europe, we went to Barcelona zoo where, as a tiny tot I managed to breach the fence and get into the lion’s enclosure. Cue a security alert and my mother losing her shit while wardens went in with precautionary stun darts, to whisk me out.

Dinner Time

Years later we had a tabby cat show up with its face pressed against the French doors. I’d been begging my 11-year-old arse off to try and persuade my parents to let me have a cat, they’d stoically declined. We’d had goldfish, budgies (which are seriously boring btw) and a hamster which had escaped, chewed through an electric cable and fused the boiler. My father in a bid to save her little life, dosed her up with half a Junior Disprin and some whiskey administered from a thimble. Still not responding he proceeded to give it heart massage, aka prodding gently with his finger. Right… we all know how this ends, she carked it. So armed with a family ability to not look after pets so well, my incessant bidding was declined. 

But by now the cat distribution system had spoken, and there she was miaowing at the drawing room windows. ‘You’re not to feed her, you’ll encourage her,’ was the stern warning. I went off to school and so this went on for several days, me rushing home to see if she was still at the windows, looking hopeful. Then one day I got back from school a bit early, it was summer so I popped open the fridge in search of something cool to drink and oh my days there in the door was not only a can of cat food, but it was open and half empty. Hmm… didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to suss that someone was feeding the cat. The story didn’t stop there, turned out my papa was feeding her out of the boot of the car and my mother had said can on the go in the fridge. Anyway, Matilda, and for this story, the half lion, was with us for many years, as you’ve no doubt worked out, she was shortly allowed inside … forever. 

Time passed and several cats later, as clearly one wasn’t enough, and while working for a tea company in my 40’s, I came up with a stellar idea to set up a charity arm to my employer and give back to the part of the world from where the tea originated: southern Africa. I was responsible for setting up a fundraising campaign which ran in various guises for 16+ years,  raised money for boreholes for 10 villages for the Kalahari Bushmen, a school, an art & literacy project amongst others, and I had some of the most incredible life changing adventures in Namibia and Botswana. On one of them I was with a group from Barclays who were on a leadership management team building thing, during which we visited an art project in Botswana. I’d seen some of their work online before we went out, but seeing it in real life, meeting and talking to the artists, left a massive impression on me.

Gamnqoa Kukama at work

Art is something that should make you feel something whether it is laughter, tears or OMG that belongs in the charity shop up the high street. Feel something you should. I did. As I sat talking to them and looking at their work stacked against the walls of the tin roofed studio in ridiculous heat, I made them a promise – to not only come back but also to bring their art to London for an exhibition and tell their stories.

Ancient Bushman Rock Art – Cederberg Mountains, South Africa

It took a while to persuade the boss and also make a couple more trips out to build a set of paintings and lino prints, to fill an exhibition. Along the way I also discovered an art project in a township in South Africa, they make incredible pieces using tea bags. Well that was too good an opportunity to miss and so I got them a ton of tea bags sent direct from our supplier in South Africa and we began working on some ideas to incorporate them into the exhibition. Now before lion number 3 comes along, I need to tell you about lion number 2, need to keep this stuff in sequence and all that. 

It was after one of my trips to Botswana and I was doing the long drive south from Ghanzi to Gaberone, for my flight. If you’ve ever driven over there, you’ll know those endless roads, and much of Botswana sits on a flat plain. The roads are unlit and animals from donkeys to you’ve guessed it, wander around and cause some horrible accidents, particularly in the dark.

One of those long dusty Botswanan Roads (cow subbed for lion)

I was trying to reach Gaborone before dusk, but after a day at the project I was really hungry so I stopped to buy a bucket of chicken wings and some cola. Rather than eat inside I quickly ate a few in a lay-by a little further down the road. Picture a lovely warm African evening, and I was eating my wings and watching the sunset in my rear-view mirror, and the driver’s window was down to let in the slowly cooling air. Something caught my eye, just moving almost out of view. Now a lot of wildlife has been perfectly created to blend in with their natural surroundings, lions not being any different. A quick glance and I couldn’t see anything more than some wafting grass. Back to the chicken and then …OMAFG there she was right by the door, (window still open btw) and eye-balling me and the chicken. She was a stunning adult and hungry lioness, and as much as I wanted to stop, take a photo and enjoy being that close to her, I donated the chicken at speed out the window and hit the pedal. I didn’t so much as stop for a pee all the way to Gaborone. 

Now then, lion no. 3… back to the tea bags, and Imizamo Yethu, in Hout Bay. They were going to produce some large pieces of art for us and would be shipped over to London in time for the exhibition. But as, and I believe these things happen for a reason, I was contacted by another charity, one that works with lion rescue and protection. They were about to do a fundraiser with a set of around 30 life size lions; would we like to support one? Didn’t take me long to say yes and as luck would have it (no coincidences in this story), they were being produced in South Africa. Rooi as he came to be known (meaning red in Afrikaans, like the colour of tea) was delivered to the tea bag art project, and while I was kept up to date with the design and it’s creation, what arrived in London (thank you Kenyan Airways for flying it back to London for us), was incredible. Rooi took a focal point in the art exhibition and his auction on the opening night raised thousands of pounds, in addition to the quite beautiful collection of wildlife paintings from Botswana.

The Beautiful Lion, ‘Rooi’ at the Bushman Art Exhibition.

Bushmen believe that during their trance dances, shapeshifting into a lion’s form is one of the most powerful and spiritual forms they can take. They believe that they turn into an actual lion, travelling between the heavens and the earth. The exhibition focused on the importance of wildlife to the San peoples across Namibia and Botswana, and as one of them told me, ‘Wildlife is part of who we are, our art lifts us out of the darkness.’

‘Hush, my darling, don’t fear my darling

The lion sleeps tonight’ 

Originally written in the Zulu language, The Lion Sleeps Tonight was recorded by Solomon Linda in 1939 in South Africa, but called ‘Mbube’. It wasn’t until the 1960’s that it became a global hit with a new title, by The Tokens

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A Sign of the Times

An Otterly Brilliant Sign

I’ve always loved a good signpost, I think it’s the geographer in me, that loves maps and navigating and they’re all wrapped up together. That and my ironical innate sense of any direction, makes them vital markers in my brain. The word ‘sign’ itself is derived from the Latin signum, meaning “mark” or “signal’. But signs aren’t just about the ones telling you the train is coming, to stick to the footpath, how many miles it is to the next town, or when to turn left. They can be as vital as sign language or even those small things that you see and then interpret; the look on someone’s face, their tone of voice or that they are always late, return your calls on time, always know what to say … the list is endless. We all have our little markers in life those signals, that tell us what we feel we need to know or understand. Star signs, a white feather, road signs, up in the bloody air signs, they are all around us. Hearing your neighbours arguing continually through the walls, can be a sign it’s time to move house, or the summer waft of grilling burgers may be your sign that as a barbecue enthusiast, you have landed on your upturned burger bun-loving feet. 

But what are my signs? Well for one, I’ve been thinking a lot of a friend of mine lately, she died a few years ago of the unmentionable C-word, she was a life force and my lasting memory of her is dancing on the stage at the Breast Cancer fashion show, while Tony Christie belted out “Is this the way to Amarillo.’ But more than that, she loved rainbows, and since she’s gone whenever I see a rainbow I feel she’s here giving me a little sign. She was hugely encouraging, when I first started seriously thinking of moving to Italy, and her fierce bravery for life is one in which I often seek comfort. 

For Rachel

The seasons here in Umbria are shifting, a couple of storms later and while it is still toasty in the high 20’s during the day, the mornings up here in the mountains are swathed in mist, making it seem like I’m living in the clouds. It’s quite beautiful and worth getting up early to witness.

But it’s a sign that winter is coming and cooler nights (hallelujah) and finally I can think about wearing the jeans I brought with me 5 months ago.  But those few rainy days, brought some stunning rainbows, and if I needed it, a sign that I am where I am meant to be.  The fields that were full of sunflowers in June are drying and being harvested, another sign of shifting daylight hours as those golden heads darken and droop. Did you know sunflowers are a sign of our condition of being?

And weirdly for some reason I’ve been feeling more anxious lately, the purchase of the apartment I am buying is seemingly endless with complications. I’ve never moved house, without there being some delay, major stress or nightmare survey, I am sure this has played a part, too many bad experiences. While this one isn’t falling into that pot exactly, I’ve noticed that I’ve begun to check my phone a lot, for any updates or replies, and how that’s been making me feel, tense and worried. Time is ticking along. That was my sign to find a way to relax, so while I still had my phone in my hand, I booked myself into a hot spring spa about an hour away in Tuscany for an afternoon of relaxing. The last few months have been fun but also exhausting; navigating bureaucracy in another language that I am far from fluent in, but also solo. We all need to pay attention to those signs that it’s time to switch off, and I had a super afternoon for the sum total of 29 Euros, floating in hot natural springs. It was fabulous. 

A Sign to Relax

Italians seem to love signs to the point of oblivion and confusion. Pretty much every road junction and bend in the highway is cluttered with a stack of often conflicting signposts, don’t get me started on when there are two facing opposite ways for the same thing. But my point here is don’t let those signs in your head stack up like a mad Italian crossroads, listen to them as they are rarely ever wrong. 

Sign, sign

Everywhere a sign

Blockin out the scenery

Breakin’ my mind

Do this, do that

Can’t you read the sign?

Song and Lyrics by – Five Man Electrical Band

PS If you need a sign to go exploring one night in the dark, drive up to that hilltop and wait for the lunar eclipse to appear through the soft clouds on the horizon. This is my sign to you to not miss those experiences. 

Lunar Eclipse over Perugia

PPS This could be your sign to ask me to do some content writing for you, I can be reached at writeupymystreet@btinternet.com

Follow me on IG: @write.upmystreet

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Augustus, Hot Augustus

The arrival of August in Italy sees the approach of one its biggest holidays, namely, the 15th August, or Ferragosto. The term itself, Ferragosto, comes from the Latin term, Feriae Augusti or Augustus Holidays. Back in 18 BC, the then emperor Augustus, decided to create a public holiday, to not only glorify his name into history, by naming it after himself, but also to give the empire’s workers a well-deserved day off, after months of hard labour in the fields. 

The First Roman Emperor, Augustus.

Back then, people would pass by their patrons houses to greet them, collecting a small tip for their troubles, before heading to one of the many horse races held across the Roman Empire – one of the most famous and indeed oldest, still survives today  – the bi-annual palio in Siena. (James Bond fans will recall the palio featuring at the start of The Quantum of Solace.)

Siena’s Bi-annual Palio

While the empire’s horses didn’t enjoy the day off, its other beasts of burden did. Oxen, donkeys and mules were temporarily relieved from carrying all the heavy shit about, and decorated with flowers and garlands—usually a sign of their imminent sacrifice (this was the start of the Roman Empire, and we all know how things panned out for the Christians a bit later on), but on this occasion donkeys were a welcome addition.

Ferragosto however, was not traditionally held on August 15th but on August 1st (the first day of the month that Augustus himself introduced). It was the Catholic Church that pushed the event back in the calendar so that it coincided with the Assumption of Mary. Assumption Day is now a public holiday in many countries where they have strong roots in Catholic or Orthodox traditions.  But while the Feast of the Assumption was introduced in the 5th century by Bishop Cyril of Alexandria, it was not until the 6th century that the tradition was adopted by the Eastern Church and recognised by the Western Church as a Holy Day of Obligation. I digress a little, but just to wrap that bit of history in an appropriate loin cloth.

Ferragosto during the Fascist Period

It doesn’t end there, Benito Mussolini’s Fascist regime popularised the tradition of travelling during Ferragosto, implementing the idea through corporate ‘associazioni dopolavoristiche’ (‘After-Work Associations’, which controlled the after-work activities of Italy’s workforce).

From 1925 onwards, Mussolini’s regime organised hundreds of trips to Italy’s major cities as well as its coastlines and mountains, facilitating travel for Italy’s working classes through heavily discounted train fares. Valid on the 13th, 14th and 15th of August, the offer consisted of two options: one-day travel within a radius of 100km or three-day travel within a radius of 200km.

The ‘Popular Trains’ of Ferragosto

In terms of kickstarting domestic Italian tourism, the initiative was a roaring success. Many Italian families were able to visit the artistic cities of Venice, Florence, Rome and Naples for the first time while landlocked families were able to visit the coast; and families living on the coast were able to venture into the mountains. It really was a great idea put into practice on a national scale.

Today in true Italian style, and remember this is a nation for whom a 3 hour lunch break is a ‘religion’ not to be tampered with, Ferie as it has now become known, extends for at least half if not all of August. Even the banks are on short hours, I kid you not and many businesses close altogether to give their staff a chance to head to the seaside with their friends and families. If you go to Rome on the 15th August, you will find it as quiet as it can be, as most Romans are out of town, laying on their towels or sun loungers, basking in the cooler mountain air, having a stiff Aperol or chilled glass of wine. 

As this is the first time I have been in Italy for the entire month, I’ve noticed that literally every town and village, no matter how small or large are having parties and festivals. These get advertised, if they are well organised, on Facebook, or even just with a poster papered to lampposts and town notice boards, right next to the funeral and birth notices. Every night the sound of Euro music beats out across the countryside, fireworks blast upwards into the night sky and endless piles of Italian street food are scoffed. Everything from prog rock, 80’s disco to Italian classics are go, vans serving porchetta and torta di testa, (an Umbrian flat bread, filled with pretty much anything) can be found in the hands of hungry locals. 

But for me the atmosphere and the holiday/party vibes of unbelievable conviviality have stuck in my mind for ever, seared in with the heat that has been this summer; which has included fire breathing acrobatics, alongside old-fashioned fairs, parades and food as far as the eye can see. They embrace August, just like the first Roman emperor intended and they’ve rolled out the 15th into the entire month, of their summer holiday season.  

My nearest local hill town is small, around 500 inhabitants, they had a week long festa, with a parade of medieval costumes, music until 1am or later each night and some serious food carts.  They embodied one of the reasons I wanted to move here to live, their passion for fun and celebrations, while respecting history and tradition.  It rained heavily at the weekend, along with a stunning and loud storm, but nothing that would dampen the Italian holiday spirit. Tonight, I am off into town for skewers of fish kebabs, a cup of wine and a band playing into the night. Happy August wherever you are. 

Spegni le luci della città

Cosi che il cielo s’illumina

Balliamo l’ultima volta, ma

Lyrics & Song by Cesare Cremonini

(Turn off the city lights, So that the sky lights up, Let’s dance the last time)

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Vroom, Boom, Boom, Boom

Am drifting back to an earlier Clint inspired post here, but you know when you watch an old spaghetti western, when the desert heat is palpable in those hot, dusty and sweat drenched, exhausted faces; that lingering quiet in the highest temperature of midday, just as a dried husk of tumbleweed rolls and bounces past. 

Well, in case you’d not been reading the news, Italy is in the midst of an unprecedented heatwave since early June. It’s normally not this hot until mid-July, but day after day it’s been hitting the 40s centigrade or very close. Your skin feels like the moisture is being desiccated by the second and on top of that the mosquitoes have been out in force. My back looks like a join the dots map of Italy and I’ve been eyeing the spare cheese grater as a means to reach those places in the middle of your back, you know the ones where only those with arms like an orang-utan could have a hope of reaching. 

Mosquitoes, the world’s most pointless insect after wasps.

Once the sun sets and the air cools a few meagre degrees, windows are opened to let in any semblance of cool night air. I’ve got a fan running non-stop to keep my two cats at a comfortable temperature. Although after one of them took to sleeping in the bidet I bought her a pet cool mat.   On the upside my laundry bill is minimal as unless you are going out, seriously who wants to wear anything more than the essentials in this heat. 

In other news I’ve been sweating my way through appointments at the local municipality office as I went through applying for Italian residency, while on the other side of the security screen there is a whirring A/C, my face is dripping. I’m literally sweating like a nervous dog. But some good news, I am now officially a resident here, and one step closer to Italian health care and have been able to sack off hiring a car and buy one. Having finally stopped getting rinsed each month, I’ve splashed out and bought a little Fiat 500 in pale blue. I am pretty sure Avis are glad to see the back of me, as two weeks ago I was driving down the hair pin bends from my apartment to the main road below when an old man was coming the other way and didn’t see me swerving out the way or honking my horn like a loon, and smashed into the front of my car. My driver’s side door wouldn’t open, my leg was whacked against the steering column (nothing cut or broken so phew…) and I now have a smashing (‘scuse the pun) bruise and a bump on my shin. But thank the car hire gods for reminding me to take the extra insurance as all covered, as it was close to a write off. I had a few days of feeling the shock and felt a bit wobbly inside, but I spent the weekend making deserts for a friend’s barbecue and helping out with the catering at a pizza party, which helped to take my mind off it all. 

Pear and Gorgonzola Pizza (which was divine)

I’ve also been house hunting and had found a lovely apartment made an offer which wasn’t accepted but was told the owner would only take full price. So, I upped it and then he decided he couldn’t be arsed to sell and took it off the market (silent inward screaming).  

Back to the drawing board… and I found a little Cielo-Terra (means sky – earth) in a hill town. About 500 years old and restored, lovely … however, the ground floor rooms were so damp the plaster was coming off, the owner is an architect so he should know better but he not only hadn’t got permission for all the alterations he’d done to a very historic building, but he’d also neglected to get a certificate of habitability. We all know what happened next… back to the drawing board. 

I’ve now found another apartment near the lake here in Umbria, and the other day got the magnificent news that my offer has been signed and accepted and should be moving in late September. It needs a good decorate and freshen up, but I will have all the time to do it up and make it home.  I will be sitting on that veranda with the lake in the distance having a well-deserved Aperol.

Lake Trasimeno

It’s 3 months since, I arrived, and it’s been baking hot, tiring and at times bewildering; the cats are slowly accepting the new billet, (little do they know we’re moving again) and Jack as per the pic below, has taken to sleeping in the bidet when it gets super hot.

But my Italian is slowly improving thanks to weekly lessons, and I have not once regretted coming here and taking that enormous leap. So, you could say, car crashes aside, Italy so far has my heart.

Ricordo ancora il suono: “Click, boom, boom, boom”
Senti il mio cuore, fa così: “Boom, boom, boom”

Lyrics By Rose Villain

(I still remember the sound, Click, boom, boom, boom

Feel my heart, it goes like this, boom, boom, boom)

————————————-

Follow me: @write.upmystreet

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Heart to Heart

While I am no scientist, although I did used to read Gray’s Anatomy in the bath, as there was invariably a copy lying about the house, and once I dressed up my brother’s skeleton on the dining room table. That aside, my skills are more on the right side of the brain, I’m the arty creative one in the family. But that doesn’t stop me from having a huge heart and wanting to use my skills to improve patient to physician communications, to encourage better understanding of treatments, drugs and ultimately to improve the health and lives of others.

Grays Anatomy

Years ago, I spent a year studying anatomy and physiology, then another two years training as an aromatherapist and complementary healthcare practitioner. Consumer health for me is a page that should not be left unturned. I spent many hours while living in New York as a First Responder and was part of my towns Emergency Rescue Squad. Weekends saw me driving the ambulance and supporting the crew on everything from bar brawls to transporting critical care patients to high level facilities. 

While working for a herbal tea company for about 18 years, I promoted it’s health giving properties – notably for digestive issues and benign skin conditions. I collaborated with dieticians, herbal practitioners, writing and even speaking to nursing staff on continence care. I raised thousands for causes in South Africa, where the tea originated, aligning with key UN Millennium Development Goals around healthcare – in particular, HIV, Malaria and TB. I also volunteered for a year helping a London women’s charity, with their social media on FGM. It was harrowing interviewing and meeting women who had been cut, but each time it just reaffirmed to me that I was using my writing and marketing skills in the right way. 

Eventually the pull was so strong that I made a huge decision to step away from the brand world and retail marketing and step into working for health agencies as an Account Director. It’s been tough during Covid (timing wasn’t my strong suit!) but the ingenuity of the teams that work across medical education, digital platforms, media, new drug launches, patient and practitioner campaigns, is endless and never ceases to amaze me and to feel incredibly proud to be part of changing patient outcomes.  It has without question given me a fundamental sense of purpose, a long day becomes something incredibly worthwhile, an early meeting has focus, all the while working with a team of like-minded people. 

My advice to you is that you should always follow those dreams and passions. Because those goals are what you aspire to be or do, they give you a sense of meaning and purpose.

Your dreams are something that drives you on those long days. By following your dreams, you’ll become a better and happier person all in that one process.

‘Let your heart guide you…it whispers so listen closely. ‘

WALT DISNEY

Sometimes it may feel that your situation doesn’t allow you to fully pursue your dreams, but often there are some tiny steps that you can make – and many tiny steps are as good as one big step. My tiny steps were training in anatomy and physiology, finding ways to use my love of the written word combined with marketing skills to support those in need of better healthcare. Remember when it feels hard that this is your dream and inspiration.

Find what not only makes your heartbeat but what knits your heart and mind together. 

And do it.

Knitted heart by Laura Cameron

Contact me at: writeupmystreet@btinternet.com 

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Where do we start?

“The beginning is the most important part of the work.” – Plato

I’ve recently had a new start, of sorts that is. My mother’s side of the family are by and large Maltese, with a bit of Italian, Portuguese and we think North African thrown in somewhere back in the ancestral brew.

My mother died several years ago now, and although she was born in Gibraltar she had a strong connection to her parental line and family in a little village called Zejtun. Her father had smuggled himself on board a ship as a young man to Gibraltar, in search of a better or new life. He was sort of adopted by a Maltese family, they took him under their wing as it were, as a fellow Maltese. He fell in love with one of their daughters, my grandmother and the lady who gave me part of my name.

My mothers’ side of the family.
My grandmother, is back row on the right in front of the tree

Family is also important to me, I have three brothers and a long list of nieces, nephews and a godson. But making that link back to Malta is a thread I began a couple of years ago. I’ve spent hours on-line and scouring microfiched documents of time-faded, priests writing in scribbled ledgers, dating back over 100 years. I needed to find and secure three generations of family certificates to begin my part of this story. Over the course of several months I managed to get all the information and documents I needed. There were some sad stories in there; my great, great grandfather Salvatore, died at Gallipoli, before his daughter my great grandmother was born. The ravages of war never getting any easier. But by way of balance, a funnier tale was that my grandfather was a coal heaver, he carried hefty sacks of coal daily onto the steam ships in Gibraltar dockyard. Years later he was permanently bow-legged from the weight and duration of his job. But back to the here and now, when his marriage certificate came back, a hasty admin clerk had clearly misread his employment and he was down as a goal keeper. Which given the state of his legs, never mind the lack of a football ground in Gibraltar in the early 1900’s made this ironically, very funny. He was a particularly colourful character throughout his life and he would have laughed his head off at this typo.

Coal Heavers in the Gibraltar Dockyard
(Gibraltar History Archives)

But onwards to why I am telling you this story, I wanted to make that connection to my roots, our past weaves it’s way through into who we are today. From the stellar Maltese family eyebrows to an arm full of aunts who hugged you and pinched your cheeks and an uncle who had the most amazing handlebar moustache and would drive me around southern Spain in his taxi, singing while we played his Maria Callas cassettes over and over.

Last year I finally gained my Maltese Citizenship, the next step towards my passport was to go and register my birth in Malta. I made a quick trip over last week, to do just that. Sat in the waiting room with my ticker-tape number in the queue and in scenes not un-reminiscent of the Netherworld waiting room in Beetle Juice, I sat and waited with a folder with my apostille certificates.

Beetlejuice Netherworld Waiting Room

I’ve only ever met one other person with the same name as me, and technically he was a Mario Angel, but the lady who saw me at the registration desk was also a Marie Angela. Then she told me, my birth date was the same as her brothers, and we began chatting like old friends. That’s the Maltese for you, we all make each other feel like family.

Haberdashery in Valetta,
my aunts used to spend hours making lace.

So my point is, there is always a day and a time to start over again, in some way or another. Not just to know who you are and where you are from, which is one thing, but to have that certainty that as Plato once said, ‘the beginning is the most important part of the work‘, and I’ve just had a new one.

As they say in Malta, ‘għandi pjaċir’

(nice to meet you)

Contact me at: writeupmystreet@btinternet.com

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