The Lure of the Dingli Cliffs

 So far Dan, Theo and myself have spent all of our time in Malta in Valletta, the capital. This morning we decide to branch out and visit the small village of Had Dingli that dates back to prehistoric times. It is approximately eight miles away and known for its scenery, most specifically the sweeping vistas of the sea.  

Less than 4,000 people live there. For years Had Dingli was connected to Rabat, Malta, but when Malta was divided into small parishes, Had Dingli came into its own. 

Had Dingli is also known for--and you spot them right away--the super high cliffs. It is actually the highest place in Malta. Which most likely explains why Had Dingli is still semi-rural, with little to no public transportation to get there from Valletta. 

 

I'm glad we're seeing these cliffs from a distance. No one has any desire to climb onto those giant stone rocks for a better view. We can see imaginary signs for danger all around.

Except Theo. He's been squirming around all morning. Not content to be carried safely in a backpack to see the scenery. As always, he wants to be on the ground, sniffing.

"What do you think?"

I shrug. There's only so much you can do to keep a cat happy. They always seem to have their own agenda. Which, of course, they'll never admit to. Dan puts him down.  

I issue the usual warning. "Stay with us, Theo, and stay away from those cliffs."

We slowly walk around and continue to explore. Theo is sniffing behind us. I continue to look back, just to make sure he has no intention of making a mad dash toward the boulders, that now seem like they're getting closer. Or are we getting closer to them?

We seem to be walking in a diagonal direction. Unconsciously, we've been trying to stay near Theo, 'close enough to scoop him up' distance, while he's been slowly but surely making his way toward the boulders, ie. the cliffs. 

I whisper to Dan, "Do you see what he's doing?"

Dan smiles, supremely calm. "He's either moving closer to the cliffs or the cliffs are moving closer to us."

"And moving closer to him." (Referring to our gangster cat.)

Sometimes it seems as if we speak a secret language to each other. Dan's eyes widen--a sign that he's about to take action.

"I get you."

Dan wanders over to Theo. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out our secret stash of dried cat food. Theo looks up and comes over. We have a small portable, rubberized bowl that flattens for easy carrying. But now Dan punches it out to be a bowl. We pour the food. Theo sniffs his way over. Danger is averted. For now.

There is one more thing we want to see. An ancient, tiny chapel--St. Mary Magdalen Chapel--overlooks the Dingli Cliffs. No one knows when it was originally built but there is a reference to it dating back to 1446. It was used by the local farmers. It is of simple construction with one door and one window. By 1575 it collapsed, but it was rebuilt in 1646. There's an inscription--dating from hundreds of years ago--above the door that this chapel was not awarded the usual "ecclesiastical immunity". That was changed years later.

We can't go inside, but we learn that the altar is made of limestone and behind the altar there's an altarpiece depicting Jesus forgiving Mary Magdalen.  

I stand in wonder--in awe of the Dingli Cliffs and the ancient chapel that in one form or another has been around for almost 600 years. Theo is about to take a nap. And so it goes. 

Theo Visits a 400 Year Old Cloister

 Valetta can be brutally hot in summer. As a tourist, you don't want to be roaming the streets in the afternoon. Even Theo admits--it's too hot, so we make a unanimous decision to find refuge, in much the same way as orphans did 400 years ago. St. Catherine's Monastery for female orphans, founded in 1575, still stands today. It no longer houses orphans, but it is still the refuge for a small group of nuns who live there. It is maintained by volunteers who come on a daily basis and tend the lovely garden, feed the animals that live there, and do whatever has to be done.

There is an interesting back story to how the orphanage came about. A marquis and his wife donated the building, formerly their palace Casa Vanilla, to say thank you to God for saving their son during a plague. They built a cloister and donated all their belongings after their death.

Entering this cloister is like walking back in time. Before electricity and running water and toilets, before radio and TV, before the internet, you can peek into the past and see what life was like when people made the decision to get away from it all.

Theo wants to go straight to the garden. He wants to sniff the flowers and trees. Dan and I, on the other hand, don't want to miss a thing so we decide to follow the placards carefully posted that identify the various rooms so we can see this old-fashioned world.

Our first room is where washing of clothes and linens were done. No, there is no washing machine. Instead, they used a large stone basin. 

Some of the brick walls are filled with religious photos. Now a days the walls also contain photos of the nuns who lived in the cloister.  We continue walking and discover a room filled with wash basins. When girls entered the convent to become a nun, part of the expected dowry from their family was often a zinc wash basin or a small wardrobe.

Girls did not always come willingly. Sometimes they were dragged to the cloister kicking and screaming by their families, who hoped living in the cloister would control their behavior. The cloister had a room called a control room where the troubled girls were kept until they conformed. It is small and sparse. 

 

Theo, ignoring the rope (where the door would have been) that says stay out, sniffs the basins and tables, trying, as we are, to make sense of a place that existed in a time that believed a girl's future could be determined by her family, that she might have little say in it.  We move onto the next area, but Theo stops with a pleading look in his eyes. 

"Okay. Okay. We'll visit the garden."

It is perfectly placed in the center of the cloister. The rooms surround it. You can access the garden from several doors. The sun shines in, and it is all greenery and flowers and fountains and statues. 

There is a small fountain. Water trickles from a spout to a wider basin below. Theo hears the water and rushes over. I'm thinking it is like our fountains at home that all the cats drink from, and Theo is  thirsty. But no, Theo stops and stares for another reason. 

Turtles. Two turtles live in the small basin. They blissfully swim around until they're tired and pause momentarily on the stones. They soon take off again, swimming faster than you would imagine, considering how slow they walk on land. 

Theo is mesmerized. He climbs to the top of the basin and leans over to get closer. There are times when I can read his mind.

"Do not go in that water."

He acts like he doesn't hear me. 

"Theo, if you go swimming in that water, you'll freak out the turtles. So don't do it."

Theo looks up, but I can't tell if he's agreeing with me or not. I wait. He continues to lean over and watch the turtles. 

I pull out my iPhone to take a video, but decide to take a moment to appreciate how peaceful and restful the garden is. I imagine the women who lived here during the centuries, how they must have enjoyed this space--the planting of vegetables and herbs, the fruit trees, the quiet and solitude of sitting on a bench . . . 

I hear it before I see it. The splash of water. It is either the turtles trying to escape or . . . I can't believe it. In that split second when I focus on taking the video, Theo jumps into the water. He misses one of the turtles by an inch or two. The water isn't deep, but I suspect that Theo didn't think it through. He jumps in, and now he panics. 

This is the kind of thing that can get you thrown out of cloister. It is a miracle that Theo is allowed to walk around and be a cat. Usually places say--only service animals allowed--and we sneak him in. But this is Valetta in Malta. 

It is not difficult to rescue Theo. Dan grabs on and lifts him out of the water, totally dripping. We have a few tissues with us but not enough to even begin to dry him off.

But Theo, a cat after all, gives a few shakes and the water shoots off in all directions. The front of Dan's shirt is soaked. Somehow I manage to avoid looking like I got caught in a rain shower.

All's well that ends well. "It actually feels quite good," Dan says. 

I secretly wish Theo had sprayed me. 

And, Theo? He doesn't care that he almost drowned a turtle. He doesn't care that he's leaving water spots on the stone floor as he traipses along, in search of another adventure. And that's the beauty of being a cat. He doesn't care.

   STAY TUNED TO PART 2 OF THE CLOISTER NEXT WEEK 

 

Theo and St. Bart's Thumb

 We drag a love sick cat with us to the island of Lipari. Theo doesn't want to leave Sorrento and Ms. Cow. We lure him with a promise of extra snacks and a peek into one of the most famous churches in the area, famous because of a thumb--a relic of a saint--that is now there.

Imagine--we are in the Tyrrhenian Sea with incredible views before we land on the largest island in the archipelago that sits offshore near Sicily.  Theo is not interested in the view; he only wants to see the thumb.

We love the idea of visiting Lipari. Yes, we want to see the thumb--more on that in a minute--but we also want to see one of the best sides of Italy--unspoiled, less touristy, with narrow cobblestone streets, and raw balconies, the old intermingled with the new. 

We walk the streets, take in the sea views, and enjoy the sights, ever aware that Theo is not a happy camper. 

"Where is the thumb?" he wants to know.

We enter the Cathedral of St. Bartholomew, and Bart is everywhere.

 

One source says the thumb rests within a silver arm container for holy relics in the cathedral. It is only exposed for veneration during the feast days of the saint. What? We don't dare tell Theo that.

Another source says St. Bart's thumb rests within the red porphyry basin (a reddish purple rock, very rare, considered the royal rock) that supports the main altar of the Cathedral di San Bartolomeo. So that's where we're headed (with trepidation) to the main altar of the Cathedral.

"There it is," we say, keenly aware that Theo actually wants to see the thumb. Up close and personal. Maybe even sniff it. He doesn't want to imagine that the thumb is encased in some container that he can't see. He doesn't want to know there is a rope that prevents visitors from getting too close.

"First, you have to hear the story of St. Bartholomew so you'll have some appreciation of why his thumb is so important."

Theo gives us the stink eye.

We persevere: "Bartholomew was a preacher in Asia who converted many people to the Christian faith. That's why he was killed by the pagans in Armenia in the most horrific way. While he was still alive, they removed his skin. Then they beheaded him."

Theo is slightly interested. This is a story that he can appreciate--the sheer ghoulishness of it. 

"The local people prayed to him and reported that there were miracles in his name. So the locals became more devoted which angered the pagans who then put Bartholomew's remains in a marble chest and threw it out to sea to get rid of him once and for all."

Theo yawns, but he's still listening.

"The chest didn't sink but instead floated on the top of the water and was carried by a current to Lipari. The local bishop, who was warned by an angel in a dream of Bartholomew's arrival, welcomed his remains. The local population, honored, decided to make St. Bartholomew the patron saint of the Aeolian Island."

Theo has closed his eyes. Is he asleep? Dan motions me to keep on talking. Maybe this is our way out. We'll just tell him he missed the thumb when he wakes up.

"So," I continue, "over the centuries, the people called on their patron saint to save them from earthquakes, plagues, and barbarian attacks. Then the remains were stolen and sent to Rome. But still the people believed. They took up a collection and built a silver statue in his honor in 1728 which is on the main altar of the Cathedral of St. Bartholomew. Today his thumb is the only relic that remains."

There is no one else in the Cathedral. We are standing in front of the altar. I feel bad for what we're about to do. Dan slowly lifts up a sleeping Theo and we leave.

As we are on our way back to our ship, Theo opens one eye.

"It's such a shame you missed the thumb, Theo."

Theo looks at me with a great deal of skepticism. I feel guilty.

"It wasn't that great. We hardly saw anything. In fact, come to think of it, I might have blinked and missed the thumb completely."

The poor boy looks disappointed.

And then a partial miracle happens. We pass by a bowl filled with stones, but not ordinary stones--pumice, which is what the island is also known for. "Look, Theo, pumice."

Yeah, it's not a thumb, but the kid has a chance to sniff the pumice, and we feel vindicated. Well, sort of.

Theo Falls for Italian Cow

 We are still in Sorrento and to our delight are invited to visit a family that lives outside of town and have lunch with them. 

All we know is that this extended family lives together--their houses are side by side and they spend a good deal of their time together. The Nonna, or grandmother, has her own small apartment. Her daughter lives in the adjacent larger house with her two daughters who attend college and high school. A younger male cousin lives down the street and spends a lot of time with the family.

Their joint house is painted a pale yellow. Nonna cooks in the kitchen, making the pasta and sauce. The mother and father both go to work. The family supplements their income with their farm animals--chickens, pigs, and a cow. They are not pets. Milk, cheese, eggs and eventually the pigs will be sold.

Their extended backyard is their garden. They grow everything you can think of from tomatoes and peppers to beans, eggplant. The list goes on. They buy their wine at the local cooperative. 

There is a long communal table in their dining room draped in a bright yellow tablecloth with sunflowers on it. The family eats most of their meals together. This is where they sit and talk about their day. 

Nonna speaks very little English but we are still able to talk to her, despite the fact that she speaks in a local dialect. The mother speaks a little English and can understand us if we speak slowly. Both daughters learned English in school. The oldest daughter is the most proficient. 

We talk mostly in English but are curious about the grandmother and try to speak some Italian slowly so we can engage her in conversation. 

Theo wants to know where the animals are and impatiently stomps around, sniffing everything. He can smell them. He is meowing. 

"Geez. Give us a minute." 

I'm curious about the house, the role that Nonna plays, how the family survives economically, what is considered a typical Italian meal, but Theo insists we look at the animals first. 

Their land is not flat. The animals are kept on the higher portion so we need to climb some wooden stairs to get to the top. 

"Can we see your animals?"

The two daughters act as guides. We climb the stairs. It is rustic. There is nothing fancy about this operation. It is very functional and pragmatic. 

First we see the chickens. There are a slew of them, milling around in the cage. Very chatty and when Theo steps up to the cage to get a better sniff, they react. They become even more skittish. 

And there are the two pigs who want to sniff Theo as much as he wants to sniff them.

We then saunter over to where Ms. Cow resides.  She is a real beauty as far as cows go. She's been part of the family for years. Theo is very interested.

We lift Theo up to get a better look at her. She glances over, not particularly enamored of a cat and we're about to go, but Theo objects. He likes what he sees. He wants to get closer. 

"It's almost time for lunch. Nonna is cooking the sauce." The two daughters climb the stairs. Dan follows.

I'm hungry and can't wait to eat, but Theo has other ideas. He wriggles and wriggles and I put him down. He gets closer to the large pen and seems to be looking for a way in.

"Theo, what has gotten into you?"

Over on the side, there is an opening. He stands there and waits and sure enough Ms. Cow comes over. She leans down, curious now. 

Theo sticks his paw through one of the openings. 

I step away. "Theo."

But there is no budging this cat away from this cow. He sits down, quite comfortably on the cement floor. 

"So you'd rather stay here and eat?"

It's easy enough to pour out some dried food in a pop-up plastic bowl I carry with me. 

I start to climb the stairs and glance back. Theo hasn't touched his food. He's staring into the pen. 

Oh my gosh, is he in love? With an Italian cow? Will wonders never cease? And, no, we're not taking Ms. Cow back to America.

Sorrento - What Is It Like Really?

 Sorento, Italy--what is is like really? Theo, the gangster cat, wants to know. We only have a day to walk around and visit this wondrous cliff side city that hovers over the Bay of Naples, renowned for its nature and culture. This is the city where mythical sirens with their sweet singing lured sailors to shipwreck on the rocks. Even the great Ulysses wanted to hear the songs, but he was smart enough to block his ears, commanding his men to tie him to the ship's mast so he could avoid catastrophe.

The night before we sail into the harbor, we are greeted by a lovely sunset. The sky is ablaze in pink. We listen carefully for the siren's call. Theo seems especially animated. Can he hear something we can't. We hold him tight, fearing he may leap off our ship. 

We are primed for a great walk around. The town is as quaint as you might expect: cobblestone streets, flowers everywhere, ancient buildings dating back to the 11th century, people on motorbikes cruising through the narrow streets, and a famed uneven landscape which gives you a unique perspective to see the town. 

We have to stop to see the Basilica of San Antonino, the oldest Catholic Church in Sorrento. Legend has it that the church was built to commemorate San Antonino when he saved a small boy who was swallowed by a sea creature back in the 6th century. The church is quite majestic inside:

But the most fascinating part is a red wall containing silver talismans, each representing the part of the body that was cured after praying to San Antonino. 

But we have arrived with a purpose. One of the oldest traditions of Sorrento is its Wood Inlay Carvings. Most of the old masters are no longer alive, and the town is filled with workshops and galleries located along S. Cesareo Road, but we are on our way to see a masterpiece within the walls of the Museo Bottega della Tarsia Linnea or the Inlaid Wood Museum. 

Inside this museum, there is a wood carving that defies description. It is quite remarkable considering that it was carved long ago, with what we would consider crude tools. It must have taken these artisans years to create this scene, and we are in awe.

Have you ever seen a scene so delightful, you wish you could jump right into it by some magic process. This is my only explanation for what happens next. Theo, who is content to look on and admire the scene, suddenly, with little or no provocation--other than the work of art itself--pushes off against my stomach with his fierce hind legs, and tries to make a jump for it. Into the scene. Aiming directly for the table with the food: 

Did he think it was real? I am appalled. I hold on tight and manage to keep him from committing the worst kind of atrocity. I try to keep calm and stare at the heart of the nativity scene: 

"You can have a snack if you're that hungry, but you can't eat the wooden food."

His efforts foiled, Theo, of course, pretends that he had no intention of eating the wooden food. But once a gangster, always a gangster!