Whitman, it recently transpired, was so hard up that he was forced to supplement his literary earnings by secretly writing a self-help book entitled Manly Health and Training, which contains the following (loathsome) advice: ‘Rise at day-break, rapidly wash the whole body in cold water, rub dry with coarse towels, and use a flesh-brush to put the skin in a red glow. Take a brisk walk before breakfast.’
Personally, I don’t believe in taking any exercise before breakfast, but, if I must, I eat my breakfast first. Anyway, as I say, Charlie roused me out before dawn and then drove me at breakneck speed to Xemxija—sorry, I should have mentioned sooner that I am writing this column from my apartment in Malta—where he parked (badly) and in the half-light dragged me up a steep, stony path.
Despite my annoyance at being abroad quite so early in the day, I admit I was pleased by Charlie’s choice of a walking route, because it took us past something I have been meaning to visit for years: one of the oldest apiaries in the world. Possibly Punic, but probably Roman, its creators carved dozens of individual stone hives into the side of the hill, with access tunnels at the back for the beekeepers and tiny, insect-sized entrances at the front for the bees.
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