Gozo: Is the Grass Greener?

In writing any book, there are people along the way who knowingly or otherwise, contribute to the work. Such is the case with Gozo; Is the Grass Greener?

I am indebted to my husband, Steve, who offered his unconditional love and encouragement once again. I am also indebted to our sadly missed lurchers, Ollie and Ralph, who provided me with so much love and material, and who come alive again through the pages of this book.

Special thanks must go to all our wonderful friends in Gozo, whose influence and input are woven throughout this story. A big thank you goes to Mark Cassar for his part in the story and to Manwel Zammit, our manager and dear friend, thank you for everything.

I am particularly pleased that the illustration on the front cover has been designed by Michael Martin. Michael illustrates Alex Graham’s Fred Basset and has provided a wickedly accurate illustration for Gozo: Is the Grass Greener? It is exactly as I imagined it would be: perfect. Many thanks, Michael.

Thank you to our good friend, Neil Whittaker, for sharing his amazing photographic skills and providing beautiful shots of Gozo for this book. Thank you also for the wedding photos to our dear friend, Jeff Cox, who has now sadly passed away.

Finally, a wholehearted thank you goes to Faraxa Publishing for supporting me by publishing this work, in particular to the director, Joanne Micallef.

Hay field in Gozo

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Gozo: Is the Grass Greener?

Chapter 1 – March 2010

Chapter 2 – Aug 2010

Chapter 3 – Dec 2005

Chapter 4 – Sept 2010

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10 – Ollie

Chapter 11 – Ralph

Chapter 12

Chapter 13 – Gozo

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18 – The Proposal

Chapter 19 – The Unexpected

Chapter 20 – The Wedding

Chapter 21 – Bipolar Disorder

Chapter 22

Chapter 23 – The Blue Shoes

Chapter 24 – Dog Deaf

Chapter 25 – At the Chemist's

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33 – June 2014

Epilogue

About the Author

Other FARAXA Smashwords Ebooks

FOREWORD

What would persuade a (normally) fairly sensible woman to walk out on 27 years of marriage, become a professional singer, marry a man who performs as Elvis and move 1700 miles to another country – where, by the way, she became a bestselling author? Curious? Then read on . . . . .

Statistics indicate that there are certain life events more stressful than others. In the top 10 of stressful events are moving house, divorce, marriage, illness and the death of a loved one. Between 2006 and 2015, my husband, Steve, and I lived through all of the above in one form or another, along with a host of other interesting experiences. From such a personal history, I have created a story that I hope will resonate with you and have wide appeal. Who among us has not known the heady excitement of a new love or the tragedy of bereavement? The joy of owning a pet or the bitterness of divorce?

Gozo: Is the Grass Greener? is a book about love and life. It is not intended to be a travel guide about the island of Gozo in the Maltese archipelago. It is an honest book, written from all our years of personal experiences, with a narrative of events – some humorous, some sad or serious – all recounted with candour and sincerity. In it, a question is raised: Is the Grass Greener? Not only in relation to moving to another country, but in our newly formed relationship.

There are many reflective anecdotes, which provide background to the story. We make the leap from singing on the circuits of club land in the UK, to singing under the stars on a Maltese island only 3.5 miles square. We move away from the stresses of the rat race in England, to a gentler and more peaceful way of life among the welcoming people of Gozo. We experience highs and lows as we adjust to our new life, making good friends along the way.

Through my writing, Steve shares his painful struggle with the depressive side of bipolar disorder and I reflect upon my unexpected role of carer. On a lighter note, you can read about many of the unique and often humorous experiences we had day-to-day, which left us smiling and saying, Only in Gozo.

Gozo as an island has seen a marked rise in visits from tourists, some more famous than others. The tiny bay of Mġarr ix-Xini, which was one of our favourite haunts, was, at the time of writing, used as a film set for Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s latest movie. If you have never been to this jewel of an island, it is my sincere hope that in reading this book, you may decide to see it for yourself.

For now, I invite you to discover whether or not, for us, the grass really was greener.

Freya Barrington

On the bike in Gozo

Chapter 1

March 2010

I guess when it came down to it, I had Sky TV to thank for our decision to move to the beautiful island of Gozo, part of the archipelago of the Maltese Islands in the Mediterranean; although it could just as easily have been BT, British Gas, Orange, O2, Severn Trent Water or any of the other utilities and ‘services’ I had done battle with over the phone. In the end, the final straw award went to Sky TV. Let me explain.

The day began like any other day. It was raining, cold, dark and miserable. I had a to-do list which included phoning up Sky TV as they had charged me for additional channels I knew for a fact that I had cancelled. You know the kind of thing I mean: they ring you up, offer you three months ‘free’ movie channels and as long as you cancel by a certain date, there is no charge. The only catch is that if you are anything like me, you inevitably forget and end up with charges. There then follows a three hour phone call or more to a call centre 5000 miles away and a great deal of hassle to cancel the free offer.

On the day in question, I had received such a call and laughed. I distinctly remember the laughing part: it was a kind of wise, all-knowing laugh with a sarcastic edge.

Oh, I don’t think so, I added in case the woman failed to interpret the subtlety of my laugh. I’ve done this before and got caught out. You see, I always forget to cancel it and end up getting charged.

I could positively hear the woman consulting her crib sheet of Ready-made answers for disgruntled customers.

No, no, ma’am. This won’t happen, she soothed. You see, we’ll write to you 10 days before the date so you won’t forget.

I paused.

Really? I asked. You’ll actually write to me, to remind me?

The woman could hear me wavering from 5000 miles distant and she knew she had me.

Of course, ma’am. We understand about our customers forgetting, so we’ll do this for you. There’s no need to worry.

I considered this option and had to admit that it seemed pretty failsafe. I mean, I was going to get a letter, the nice lady said. Hook. Line. Sinker. She reeled me in with relatively little effort.

However, determined not to get caught out, I got my 2010 Elvis diary and wrote under 2nd June, in a gold sparkly pen, CANCEL SKY. Ha! NOW I would be sure to remember. I sat back smugly and got ready to enjoy three months of free movies, confident in the knowledge that they would truly be free, this time around. And I would wait for the nice lady to write.

The 2nd June eventually arrived. The movies had been watched, enjoyed and discussed. Not least in the discussions featured the marvellous freeness of it all. I noted with mild irritation that the nice lady seemed to have forgotten to send me the letter, but never mind. I had it all written down in my Elvis diary, with a gold sparkly pen, so I initiated the call to cancel.

Now, if you ever had the misfortune of having to ring up Sky TV, you know the drill: press #1 if you want to subscribe and we will answer your call double quick to take your money. But if you press any other number, we know that means:

You have a problem;

You wish to complain;

You wish to cancel your subscription.

As we have no interest whatsoever in dealing with any of those issues, we will make you wait upwards of 40 minutes to demonstrate our chagrin, in the hope that you will:

Lose the will to live;

Give up;

Hang up and continue to let us take your money.

As I wanted to cancel something, I had to endure the obligatory wait, complete with increasingly annoying messages telling me just how important my call was and how valuable a customer I was. Like many of you, I am sure, I found myself yelling into the phone.

I’m not THAT important, am I? No, I’ve been on hold for 20 minutes now. No, I don’t want to visit your website. I want someone with skin on, to pick up the phone.

Usually, when I am in full rant, someone will answer with a smooth, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.

And like most of the population, I will respond, Oh, it’s okay. No problem.

That is due to fear – fear that if any manner of complaint is voiced, it will result in the person hanging up and I will have to start over, like a bad game of Snakes and Ladders.

Eventually, I got through that day, although my jaws were aching from the amount of passive-aggressive teeth grinding. But I got through. I explained my situation and was told that the movie package had been cancelled. I needed to do nothing else.

Are you sure? I asked, nervously. You see, I’ve had this before and you’ve gone on and charged me.

Off the receiver at the other end went into another soothing speech.

No, no, ma’am. There’s no need for concern. It’s cancelled now, it’s all taken care of.

I remained sceptical.

You’ve made a note of it then? I reiterated.

Ma’am, I’m looking at your screen right now. Hear me typing, it’s done.

I strained my ears and fancied I could hear a faint tapping.

Oh, okay, but you didn’t write to me like you said you would, I added somewhat petulantly.

Is there anything else I can help you with, ma’am? asked the voice from far away.

No, that’s it. But I hope it’s cancelled as I’m going to be really annoyed if I have to ring up again.

Five thousand miles away, the woman trotted out a final affirmation.

I assure you, ma’am, it’s done.

I got the Elvis diary out again. To be sure, I made a note of the day and time I made this call – good job that I did. You know what is coming, don’t you?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They charged me! With a wearyingly depressing inevitability, they charged me!

The trouble was because I paid by direct debit and because I banked online and did not get statements, and because I did not check my bank account, they managed to wangle two months of payments out of me before I noticed. Needless to say, I got on the phone again, indignation at an all-time high. Of course, I had to repeat the painful charade, only this time in triplicate. My middle-aged, grumpy old woman rage was unsurpassed and I was passed around a variety of people before I finally got hold of a supervisor. Our discussion went something like this:

Me: I knew this would happen, I knew you’d charge me. I was told someone would write to me, to remind me about this.

Supervisor: Ma’am, it’s not our policy to write to people, to remind them to cancel their subscriptions.

Me: Whaaat?!

Supervisor: Ma’am, we have millions of customers. We could not possibly write to them all to give reminders.

Me: But I was definitely told by someone that I’d get a letter 10 days prior to the date I had to cancel.

Supervisor: I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s not our policy to write to customers in this way.

Me: Well, someone DID tell me that. But, anyway, it’s irrelevant. I have the date here in my Elvis diary. I rang on 2nd June, spoke to someone and cancelled this. And now you’ve carried on and charged me, which I knew full well you would.

Supervisor (pretending to consult the screen): I’m sorry, ma’am. We have no record of a call from you on 2nd June or any other date. This is why you’ve been charged as you haven’t cancelled by the due date.

By now, the whole scenario was like a very bad movie. I felt as if the entire situation was a conspiracy to drive me over the edge – no doubt orchestrated by my ex. It was a test to see how long it would take me to turn into Michael Douglas in Falling Down where he loses control and shoots everyone in sight. I opened my mouth, but no words came out; they had literally failed me. I felt my blood pressure rising and a pulse in my neck, and another at the corner of my eye, beginning to jump – and I knew, in that very moment, how crimes of passion were committed.

Eventually, I got a grip on my sanity and the conversation continued:

Me: You’re lying! I know you’re lying and you know you’re lying! You say you record all phone calls? Right, I insist you go through every call made on 2nd June until you find mine, because I know I rang.

Supervisor: Ma’am, even if we did find a record of the call, you would not be privy to that information.

Me (slightly strangled): What?!

Supervisor: I’m sorry, ma’am, but there would be a £10 surcharge for you to listen to any calls made to Sky TV.

Me: Are you making this up?? Let me get this straight: if you discover I DID make a call cancelling the movie channel, you won’t let me listen to it? And to actually listen to it, when you found it, you’d make me pay even more money??

Supervisor: That’s correct, madam, you’re not privy to that information unless you choose to pay the surcharge.

And that was it, RIGHT THERE, the straw that broke the camel’s back. That sanctimonious That’s correct, ma’am; blah, blah, blah . . . . . that was the one. I knew I was utterly and completely done with the UK, but not before I rightfully received a refund from Sky TV . . . . . well . . . . .

Hell hath no fury like a woman kept on hold.

Chapter 2

August 2010

So why Gozo? Of all the places in the world, Gozo? We had been told that we would love it and were assured that our first experience of the magical island of Calypso as it is sometimes known, would be unforgettable. After all there was beautiful weather, friendly and welcoming people, it was not expensive to eat out and had a charm of its own. Having visited the main island of Malta in the archipelago on three occasions without a hop-over visit to Gozo, we were encouraged to try out this tiny jewel in the Mediterranean as a standalone holiday destination. We were assured it was quieter and less crowded than its big sister, Malta. Yes, it would be a truly unforgettable experience.

Thus in August 2010, we agreed that we would rent an apartment in Gozo for a week and after some internet searching, we settled on the sleepy-looking Xlendi Bay. We also agreed that we would take Steve’s 14-year-old daughter, Sabrina, with us. Unforgettable? We had absolutely no idea what we were in for.

I pause here to shake my head and sigh at the foolishness of that particular decision. Anyone out there with a teenager will no doubt be shaking their head and possibly even wincing as they marvel at our naiveté. Did we really think that we could take an almost stereotypically perfect example of a dissatisfied generation to a small, quiet island where free wi-fi was as remote a possibility as my ever becoming a size 8 again? – bar the starvation diet, of course, where I could actually make it down to an 8. Like most teenagers, Sabrina had a serious dependence bordering on addiction to internet social websites – not to mention her iPhone, laptop, iPod and junk food. What were we thinking?!

In hindsight, it was not the best decision we ever made. Mainland Spain or even Florida in the States would have been better options here, but Gozo it was. And I omitted to mention that in addition to the addiction to all things internet, we had four years of stored up, brooding resentment directed at myself as her dad’s evil, new partner who had ruined her life, to add to the mix.

Anyway, as a glass-half-full kind of person, I was determined to make the best of it, so I set about planning and organising the flights, transfers and so on that accompany any holiday. Steve was texting Sabrina regularly to advise her of what she needed to bring along – lots of swimwear, shorts, tee shirts, something to go out in at night; that sort of thing. He would send her long lists of things needed, painstakingly spelling out every word in longhand as all adults of a certain age tend to do. The texts that came back without fail, however, would just say:

K.

K? Steve would ask me with a frown. What the hell is K?

I think she means okay, darling. She’s agreeing with you, I would explain.

Well, why doesn’t she say so then? would come the scowling, Neanderthal reply.

It’s just the way they communicate, darling. It’s shorthand, I would add.

Well, it’s stupid, he would growl in return.

I was already captivated by the photographs of Gozo, with its hidden coves and bays, and the crystal clear waters surrounding it. I could almost taste that local cuisine: the pizzas handmade in front of you, the locally produced wines and cheeses . . . . . mmm, it was going to be a treat! I wondered vaguely if Sabrina would eat ġbejniet – goat’s cheese.

The earliest hint of real things to come was when we got to the airport. It transpired that despite her father’s longwinded, repeated, clear texts of instructions as to what to bring, Sabrina did not, in fact, possess a bikini or swimming costume of any kind – not that pencil thin, teenage girls wear swimming costumes, but you know . . . . . Sabrina announced the issue with that marvellously sullen, stone face which humans only possess between the ages of 13 and 17 years – dead eyed, expressionless and said in a manner which somehow managed to apportion blame to both her dad and myself.

Steve’s response was to ask me, Can we sort something out for her?

My response, however, was to look as if I had just begun to suck a lemon. Actually, it was more like two lemons, a grapefruit and a generous slice of lime.

I took a deep breath to prevent words coming out such as, Why, WHY don’t you have a bikini with you?! I mean your dad told you enough times to bring one.

I avoided saying such things for two reasons:

The words would fall on deaf ears; and

It would not have made the slightest difference.

Instead, I swallowed the cocktail of citrus fruit and propelled said teenager towards one of the airport boutiques. Now, for those of you who have never had the dubious pleasure of shopping in an airport boutique, a word of warning: any sign which reads DUTY FREE is to be ignored. It is a lie; a complete lie. It should be translated as follows:

This is probably the most expensive shop you’ve ever been into. You cannot possibly afford anything in here and the experience will leave you penniless for the rest of your holiday.

In my life, I have had to stop going into those brightly lit, wonderfully smelling and alluring shops, which drew me like the proverbial moth to a flame, as I was heard to say loudly:

"Duty Free? Duty Free?? I can get this cheaper at Boots the Chemist. Look at the price of this Toblerone! And Tesco’s are doing a 2-for-1 on this. £10! £10 for a box of Roses! I don’t think so."

You get the picture, right?

Anyway, I digress – and we had not even left the UK yet. There we were in exactly such an establishment, waited on by women who looked as if they had applied an entire box of Elizabeth Arden product to their faces in one go. The chosen bikini resembled a plaited bootlace crossed with a spider’s web – and it cost £35. I tried hard not to imagine what a similar item might have cost at Primark or TK Maxx, but I could not help it.

As we left the shop, Sabrina’s internal fashion radar picked up on a trilby-type hat and I saw the slightest glimmer of light in her eyes. Pouncing on an opportunity to be popular (damn you, repressed Grammar School behaviour patterns), I asked her brightly if she would also like that hat –and just like that, I found myself £55 lighter in total. I strongly suspected that I was no more popular than I had been 10 minutes earlier. But hey, I tried!

Eventually, after the customary three-hour wait at the airport, a flight lasting three hours 20 minutes, a 45-minute taxi transfer to the ferry, a 25-minute ferry ride to Gozo and a final 15-minute ride to the apartment, we arrived. There we also became about another 50 euros poorer as Sabrina possessed a fascinating need to be fed and watered at every available opportunity. I began wondering if she had an inbuilt sense of an impending, worldwide food shortage or something as I had never witnessed a child, a teenager, with quite such a capacity for junk food.

There had been an almost non-stop mantra of, "I’m hungry, I need a