Big Hearts

He had bees but the hornets got them. He still has chickens. He likes to cook and experiments with ways of ageing beef that don't include actual time. He makes his own gin which is smooth and exquisite. He despises Maltese wine and will only countenance Italian. His flat is full of religious iconography, Archangel Michael taking pride of place. He fed us pistachio linguine, large enough to be a meal in itself rather than a starter, then came the main, then the two cakes. He offered us a stay in his flat if we ever came back, and made each of us a small cream of scar/spot remover and a larger amount of his home-made moisturiser, all based on beeswax from said lamented bees. Later, he texted instructions: these were copious and comprehensive.

( Beauty Advice )

Clearly I need more help than I realise, less a weary ageing recoverer more the wreck of the Hesperus. But whatever the implication re the state of my skin, the advice was well meant and so far very good; I haven't done great things with oats, potatoes, cucumber, and yoghurt yet but the cream seems effective, couldn't make out too many usual harsh lines under my eyes at all this morning. Then again maybe the caster oil on my eyelids has softened my gaze, like vaseline smeared across a camera lens. I count myself lucky not to be stuck to my bedsheets.

He is part of a group involved in shark conservation on the island. We met him courtesy of our friends who had already introduced us to other group members at a Shabbat dinner. I have never attended one of these before. Our hostess lit the candles, blessed the food and then it was time to tuck in, her husband an affable chap who plonked what looked like a magnum of red wine on the table then polished off plenty of it without need for help. He was up for showing us the house, and I would loved that had I not received prior warning that any such offer should be deferred as it entailed 3 and a half hours of explanation and the ruin of dinner. Still, the house was fascinating. It's huge and old, much of it around 400 years in the walls and some parts closer to 700. The house had that romantic sense of dilapidation where the chandelier is vast and gorgeous and glittering but random bits of plaster departed walls and ceiling some time hence. There's hoarding here, and art, and precious mementos and junk and history, all ready to be dug out, but the lady presented a delectable chocolate cake made with oranges from her own garden tree and curiosity gave way to more immediate appreciation. Our hosts offered us room in their house too, should we decide to come back.

What it all leads to, I guess, is the realisation that however terrible things may seem or be, the world is full of people who have big hearts and will do anything for you, even if they barely know you. It's random of course, and one can't just expect it, but beyond all the screaming klaxons there's a lot of kindness out there. Worth holding onto that thought.