One of the things that appeals most to me is seasonal routine that, by its nature, is also linked to places. No matter how small and well-trodden, these familiar haunts turn out to contain the world, so to say. By way of recent illustration, Al Alvarez’s Pondlife is about a small pond near the author’s home in Hampstead and also about life broadly defined.

My routine for winter often includes a stroll at San Anton gardens. Simply put, the more often I go there the less I want to see of other places. Until March or so.

San Anton follows the ancient pattern of a hortus conclusus, a walled garden. As such it presents a very particular experience. Walled gardens essentially envelop their inhabitants and insulate them from the surrounding townscape. Compared to say, a place like Hyde Park, where garden and road merge, a walled garden is reclusive by nature and invites an introspective contemplation.

The cause is helped by the treacherous nature of the walkways. Depending in part on the type of trees that line them (some trees give off moist substances while others seem to dry the stone), the stone walkways tend to be very slippery indeed. Judging by the number of signs that urge caution, this seems to cause headaches to the people who manage the garden. But it’s fine by me, since slippery paths encourage one to stroll and take things in at an unhurried pace.

My favourite reading spot is at the so-called Fountain of Masks, a space which is entered through a grand arch which doesn’t fail to live up to its promise. The fountain is ringed by four benches, one of which is strategically placed to catch the late-morning winter sun.

It is a seat to which I feel I have a de facto right of ownership, just by dint of having sat on it long enough. Even on the most condensation-heavy of mornings, the bench is dry by 9.30am or so.

The fountain itself is not exactly beautiful. The one thing that makes it tolerable on the eye is a set of four masks, one at each corner. Tourist guides are fond of telling their cultural wards that it is ‘the famous Fountain of Masks’, and that the carvings were originally salvaged from the ruins of the opera house in Valletta.

The second bit sounds credible enough to me. The masks do have a theatrical quality to them and the workmanship looks fairly urbane. As for the repute of the Fountain of Masks, I’m not so sure. I suspect the guides nicked the honours from the Fontana del Mascherone in Rome. We did after all import a whole Blue Grotto from Capri.

The dubious nomenclature doesn’t seem to bother the two dozen or so huge turtles that live in the pond around the fountain. Technically known as red-eared terrapins, they probably started life as children’s pets and were smuggled to San Anton when they got too big for their bowls.

Ecologically, the turtles are a disaster. Their menu includes the water boatmen, pond skaters, tadpoles, and other examples of pond life that fascinated me as a child. Still, they seem to be among the most gaped-at and photographed objects at San Anton. They also like to gather in a tight group around one of the masks, which makes them look like a congregation that’s found its god.

Speaking of animal magnetism, San Anton makes all the right noises. The most popular seem to be the cats, of which there are about 20 confiding characters, some of whom regularly put up positively ham performances. The swans, on the other hand, are improbable enough not to have to bother with doing much. The fact that they live surrounded by hideous-looking ducks helps no end.

The garden’s many blocked-up entrances and forgotten corners make it a palimpsest of history

San Anton has been synonymous with peacocks ever since I can remember. Formerly kept in the aviaries, they now roam free and occasionally end up in some fuming neighbour’s garden. Where they’re not busy fluttering over the boundary wall, the males strut their splendour about as any male would who was called ‘peacock’.

The aviaries are a bit of a waste of space these days. I remember two depressed and depressing baboons that once lived there. The popular understanding was that they, together with a camel and a gazelle, had been a gift from Muammar Gaddafi. Presumably they served as totemic species to Dom Mintoff’s prowess at getting things for free.

I’m not sure what today’s leftovers are a totem of. One of the aviaries says it was a gift from the A.L.E. unit of the police force and of the ‘fight against animal cruelty’. The fact that that aviary contains a row of finches cooped up in tiny cages (gabjetti) compounds the irony.

San Anton isn’t really managed for wildlife. Still, to walk there in winter is to experience a sample of nature in its adaptive incarnation. The three rows of lantana shrubs teem with bees and butterflies. The clump of white lantana in particular is in full bloom as I write and a magnet to red admiral butterflies. Normally fairly elusive, they appear intoxicated by the nectar and can be approached to within a few centimetres.

On one occasion two years ago the lantanas were literally smothered with migrating painted lady and white butterflies. And San Anton is one of a few places where it is possible to spot the rare and impossibly beautiful cleopatra butterfly.

Birds, too, seem to rather like the place. Such is the cacophony at this time of year that the stroller would be pardoned for thinking that a million different types inhabit the treetops. It turns out that most of it comes from a single species that has a talent for mimicry. Starlings sit out most of the day perched among the olive branches churning out imitations of all sorts of bird sounds.

Such is their prolific talent that it can be hard for one to tell the real thing apart. But this past week I’ve seen (and heard) serins, chaffinches, thrushes, and blackcaps, among other things. Most of these are wintering birds drawn to the twin promise of safety and berries.

The garden’s many blocked-up entrances and forgotten corners make it a palimpsest of history. It invites the kind of vertical travel that Iain Sinclair and Will Self respectively would call ‘deep topography’ and ‘psychogeography’. No matter how hard the tourist guides try to package it, the experience remains intensely subjective and personal. Which to me is the whole point really.

mafalzon@hotmail.com

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