History has honoured Malta with praiseworthy appellations: Nurse of the Mediterranean, George Cross Island and Indomitable Aircraft Carrier.

All are deserving expressions of truth. However, my favourite is the Italian Fior del Mondo. It is right and most fitting if this is applied to dominant rural areas in Malta.

In this country the bucolic countryside has nurtured an idyllic environment that dates back to times immemorial.

Verdant expanses of grass are dotted with olive trees, evergreen carob and ficus giants, mauve jacarandas and ancient pines and, above all, the national tree known as Tal-Għargħar. Other botanical delights fill passionate eyes with the rainbow colours of a myriad flower blooms – some visible all year round – such as hibiscus, oleander as well as the geranium and the transient petunia.

The wandering humanity in valleys, hills and humble abodes smell the divine ambrosia, a reminder of their Creator.

The terraced fields and reddish brown soil are held tight by ropes of rubble walls.

Covered in yellow sheaves of corn, they make the staple diet of hard working folks.

The farmers’ toil and trouble produce vegetables, fruit and dairy products.

They appease endemic hunger of young and old alike. The heavens’ wintry tears, poured in bucketfuls, nourish them and fill the underground aquifers, the reservoirs of a thirsty nation.

How can a bone-headed creature erase man’s nourishment needs and pleasurable joys?

How can he stoop so low to rape the virgin land?

How can he sully his repute to gain a transient lucre?

This land belonged to our forefathers. They had bequeathed a heritage to all their progeny to have and to hold till death make them part.

Their progeny is still alive and all agog to protest and protect their inheritance.

Listen, listen, listen.