church-side wisdom and wonder

I emerged from the south entrance of the church at Z, there to find two elderly men leaning against the wall, drinking in the view of a tour bus disgorging slow-moving Britons. I studied them studying the world, and then noticed what seemed to be stone cannon jutting from high up on the church wall. Typically you'll find bronze cannon on the church porch, but these were sculpted stone barrels. "to what end," I asked the senior pair, "are these cannon up there?". They chortled at the question: these are gutter-spouts, they explained. Where in Northern Europe you would find vomiting gargoyles clamped onto Gothic cathedrals, here these stone muzzles shoot out water when the rains are heavy, and the church roof is draining. Limestone, baroque aggression sent a completely different message from the granite demons of the North. This church was like a caravel, a warship, a castle. The yellow guns spoke of aggression, paranoia, and fear subsumed under brash bombast and declarations of might.

The two old guys, having gifted me a fact, insisted that I remain for "one more", a saying in Maltese. "If anyone asks you, tell them that El B from from this town told you this one" was the preamble and set-up, and then: "the lazy man enjoys the riches of the hard worker" and finally filthy laughter from the pair of them. the coda: "in life it's not how much you have, but how you pass the time!" and more grins, flashing occasional teeth.

After thanking them for the local lore and universal wisdom, I wheeled away, one boy in tow and the other on my back. The men vocally delighted in the blonde hair and the "obviously English" boys mutely shadowing me. And off we went.

Epilogue:

Retreating from the church, a slow encounter with three approaching lasses evolved into a dumb show, a mute display of amazement and wonder. They spoke neither to me nor to each other, but pointed, touched, beckoned and gasped, all in perfect silence. The blonde boy holding my hand was the lure, but the grand surprise, the jack-in-the-box, was the Julian on my back; each stared, drew breath, grasped her nearest comrade, and put a hand to her mouth. This was pure delight. And so they moved on, sharply dressed, to church.