If the fireworks of a primary village feast have a decibel of gunshot, then the secondary, almost insignificant feast, will have a decibel of jet plane. Photo: Chris Sant Fournier

Summers in Paola are a constant bombardment of firework mortars from all the nearby towns and villages. But a couple of weekends ago, the shaking of the ground was a bit too much even by our standards – it all felt like an earthquake in our backyards.

A colleague had the answer: “It must have been a secondary feast then”. He was right, it turned out to be the feast of Tad-Dutrina in Tarxien, a small feast celebrated by, um, not more than two families.

“You can tell when it’s a smaller feast because they make the louder noise,” said the colleague. If the fireworks of a primary village feast have a decibel of gunshot, then the secondary, almost insignificant feast, will have a decibel of jet plane.

“Secondary feasts are always the underdog,” he went on, “but unlike in football, in festas the underdog is always successful”.

They are organised by the village black sheep – the odd-ones-out who give their all for a minor celebration.

“If a normal feast is organised by a hundred people, these small ones would be run by a handful of people who decorate the entire village, organise band marches, outdoor entertainment and a grand fireworks show. But they are usually the most determined people in the village.”

So because I have a soft spot for the (real) underdog, I started seeing things from a different perspective. And when last week I found myself at a dinner-in-the-pjazza in Żebbuġ to celebrate (the secondary) St Joseph feast, I was besotted.

People from all walks of life sat at the makeshift tables: from pensioners to politicians, restaurateurs to film makers, businessmen to jugglers. Whatever their language, whatever their income, it did not matter, all were united by the tradition of attending this feast year in, year out, and then celebrating it with a fenkata. The sense of belonging was pleasantly palpable – something that only an underdog fest can ever give.

From now on I firmly believe we should all plan to start trawling these little feasts, and while we’re at it, convince the organisers that it’s all right, we love their feasts just as they are – and that actually we’d love them even more if they made less noise.

• Firework mortars are not the only thing I’ve been grumbling about this summer. I have not stopped complaining about, well, the summer that isn’t. It’s July and I am still waking up at dawn to switch off the fan and cover up with a blanket. It’s July and I still need a couple of hours to thaw in the sun before I brave a dip in the chilly sea. It’s July and the wind is permanently stuck on Force 6, which essentially means no boating trips.

The other day, as I ranted on about the weather for the umpteenth time, my British friend rolled her eyes: “Honestly, what’s with you and all the Maltese? Look at this, it’s nice and sunny: who cares about the wind”.

Humph. Expats. They just don’t get it. Their weather standards are way too low. Who has ever heard of rain in July? It drizzled three times already.

Only last Saturday, while swimming at Mġiebaħ bay, the weather turned gloomily grey, the northeast wind started blowing out of nowhere and two-metre waves pounded against the rocks.

The whole scenario, together with the sad chaotic goings-on around the world, made it all seem like it was apocalypse now.

Secondary feasts are always the underdog, but unlike in football, in festas the underdog is always successful

“This weather was predicted,” boomed a friend’s voice while at a barbeque in a garden, where we all had to put on extra layers of thick sweaters.

“It’s the irwieġel,” he said, raising his eyebrow for maximum effect.

Now, thanks to my sister’s next door neighbour in Rabat, I happen to be quite familiar with these irwieġel, or as they are known in English, calends. This neighbour, who very conveniently tells my sister whether she should hang up her clothes outside or not, and which beach she should head to for the day, is an irwieġel expert.

They are the rules of the weather, adopted by farmers in the days before weather forecasts and satellites and TV graphics full of threatening floaty clouds which we can never understand anyway.

The irwieġel start on December 13, the feast of St Luċia, and each day thereafter until Christmas Eve corresponds to a month in the next year. So the weather on December 14 will predict the weather in February. If it rains it means that whole month will be generally rainy.

Of course, this year they looked rather odd. “Har, har, har,” said my sister when she checked the irwieġel for summer and found that they forecasted nothing but depressing weather.

“Yeah right, no summer, Alla jbierek. That can’t possibly be.”

But reader, the irwieġel have been spot on so far. And it’s not looking good for Santa Marija either. September looks the worse for wear: we’ll be celebrating the Vittorja and Independence Day in our wellies.

Summer, where art thou?

krischetcuti@gmail.com
Twitter: @KrisChetcuti