Born and bred in the more cosmopolitan town of Sliema, one would think that a renove to a rural village would present a little bit of a culture shock. Yet it is with incredible ease that one is made to feel at home in a village like Siggiewi. The village itself is truly beautiful. Situated on a plateau just below Mdina, Siggiewi was formed pretty much in the same pattern as most other villages.
Before the arrival of the Knights of St John in 1530, there were thriving little hamlets in the area which grew and became absorbed in Siggiewi, Today, the secluded chapels of these hamlets stand proud to remind us of the existence of these farming settlements.
Siggiewi was made up mainly of hard-working farmers. It prospered and grew and in 1797, the newly elected Grand Master Ferdinand von Hompesch was invited to attend the village feast which took place on December 6. Following an official plea from the parish priest of the village, Don Salvatore Curso, the Grand master bestowed upon the village the title and privileges of a city and Siggiewi became known as Citta Ferdinand.
It is impossible to visit Siggiewi without passing through the village piazza (square) with its imposing, Baroque parish church. It was erected between 1676 and 1693 out of the toil of the villagers who raised the necessary funds, and dedicated to St Nicholas of Bari. The church was originally designed by the well-known Maltese architect Lorenzo Gafa'. The pjazza itself is one of the largest on the island and is still pretty much the centre of village life with all the main cultural, political, social and sports clubs within easy reach.
While house-hunting, I would explore the winding streets and alleyways with my family, marvelling at the countless religious niches at practically every corner of the old part of the village. These niches, some of which date back to the middle of the 17tl1century, are a sign of devotion. Most promise an indulgence if a prayer is said while passing by. It is not uncommon to see one of the elderly villagers whispering a silent prayer in front of St Joseph, St Mary, St James and, of course, Saint Nicholas.
I purchased my 400-year-old farmhouse just a stone's throwaway from the church. Initially, I would not let my friends or family near the place. The property was in ruins, and I knew nobody would share my vision. There were times when not even I was sure of what I had got myself into. Once conversion work on the property started, I was befriended, if not adopted, by the surrounding neighbours. I was introduced to them by their name and their family nickname and, I believe, it was while being force-fed home made pie that I was given my very own nickname, "Tal- Germaniza", which roughly translates into "belonging to the German", in spite of the fact that I am wholly Maltese. This, of course, is due to the fact that my beautiful wife is, in fact, German.
We moved into our new old home in the spring of 1995. The first few nights we were kept from sleeping too deeply because of our proximity to the church, whose bells peal loudly keeping track of the time. Today, we are totally used to them and actually find them quite reassuring. I remember one incident when I was returning home at around 5.45 a.m. on a Sunday morning following a particular heavy night out. I parked my car and was amazed to see the village square alive with the hustle and bustle of a small northern European city. My initial thought was that something had happened. But, no, this phenomenon is quite normal. The first Mass is at 5.30 a.m. -after that everyone is out and about shopping for bread, exchanging news and preparing for the day.
I recognised one particularly ancient neighbour of mine pushing a baby pram and I thought it would be a good ice-breaker for me to coo appropriately at the infant. I stuck my head in only to find the largest timpana (baked macaroni) on its way to be baked at the local bakery. It is a regular custom here for the baker to kindly make space for family meals in his large ovens. Polite greetings and toothless smiles were exchanged and I thought I got away with my head held high.
By 11 a.m. my neighbour was on my doorstep holding out half her Sunday lunch to me.
Grip