| Church bells commence early in the morning and continue throughout the day, pealing from different directions, each church having its own unique timbre and pitch. They don't, like a cuckoo clock, denote the hour of the day (I've counted and it doesn't match). Sometimes they are melodic other times cacophonic. And it seems that the churches don't overlap. Perhaps the various parishes, with their proud and grandiose basilicas that seem rather oversized for the populations, have an agreement to set their bell clocks to slightly different times or it is just a happy accident. My best guess is the bells follow a schedule set by the 7 canonical "hours" of matins and lauds, prime, terce, sext, none, vespers and compline (thank you Google search). It would be really interesting if these were accompanied by the Islam calls to prayer broadcast through the day but, other than the Arabic roots of Maltese language, Islam was thoroughly replaced by the Knights of St. John's militaristic devotion. We have seen a few women with head scarves and one in a full black chador who, on first glimpse I perceived as a Catholic nun, however it is clear that Islam is not a dominant religion here. The language is interesting for an outsider, as it sometimes sounds very Arabic and sometimes very Italian. We also oftentimes hear very British English, perhaps from tourists or ex-pats. We started another of our "slow walks on a small rock" life art project only to have to return to the apartment for a change of footgear. Jo saved on weight and space during packing by leaving her hiking boots behind in favor of her cross trainer shoes regularly used for biking. It turns out that the fit is just a bit too tight which created some hot spots on her feet on our previous day's trek that flared up immediately. A change to the looser, slip-on boots she had worn on the plane and we were off. Our route retraced the start of yesterday's path before veering slightly east so we were able to identify both Ta’ Għammar hill and Ta' Ġurdan Lighthouse from slightly different viewpoints. Past terraced agriculture and through some rather posh areas with impeccably maintained and very tall rock rubble walls until we reached the Wied il-Għasri Gorge. Descending the rock-hewn stairway we reached a very narrow inlet to the sea with impressive limestone walls and the sound of small round rocks rolling against each other. The tourist literature comments on how impressive it is during rough weather, which seems an ill-advised time to visit, but it would be magnificent. Nearby the salt pans commence, a series of shallow flat pools where seawater is allowed to evaporate, interconnected by a series of hand dug channels. Some seem ancient, from the Roman times, and others are contemporary as they continue to serve the salt harvesting economy. There is something akin to the Sutro Baths of San Francisco as the pools appear almost as an elaborate healing spa but the numerous signs warn against going into the pools, holding barbecues or leaving trash that would contaminate the salt. The channels and linked rectangular pools inhabit an eerie, somewhat lunar landscape of smooth, soft rock surface. Walking along the coastline we were impressed at the extent of the salt operation as the pools continued far beyond what the pictures and descriptions in the tourist literature prepared us for. We reached Marsalforn, filled with dive shops to explore Calypso's Cave and apartment buildings constructed with modern, economical methods. We were now on the return leg of our walk, with the highlights of the hike behind us. The blisters on Jo's feet were a bit too angry so, in spite of the nagging feeling that we were breaching some sort of code of the flâneur, we took a Bolt (the Maltese version of Uber) on a five-minute ride back to the apartment. |