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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

Matthew Scurfield Turning the Stone, all rights reserved.

TURNING THE STONE  by MATTHEW SCURFIELD CHAPTER THREE

Thrown from pillar to post, a stage drawn vagabond, trying to make a living best way he could, pinning his hopes on a dream, humiliated down the exchange, stealing refuge from broken relationships, avoidance, running, with a decent job, in trepidation of getting caught! I don’t remember a time when he wasn't in the outside lane, sprinting in the opposite direction… at fault, thwarted in some way… like he’d let his family, his country down.


By the light of a broad mistake, I guess I didn't do so badly.  


Fuelled by bursts of adrenalin, tons of bluff and speed – I spent the first sixteen years of my illustrious life in Cambridge. Shortly after that I moved to Barrow-in-Furness, earning an Equity card on route. Followed by a stint in Paris, I landed in London, where I caught a glimpse of the world’s end, taught yoga, forged lifelong friendship and saw some success, as an actor on stage and screen. Twenty odd years later, I moved out of the big smoke to Shropshire, renovated a derelict mill, with my wife, Lena, in which we raised our son Mick, and camped out, for over a decade. In my late fifties, still sprinting, I made the dubious decision to drop my career, as a working actor in the UK and set up home, with my family, on the island of Gozo.


On a clear day, it is possible to see Gozo from Sicily, across the strait of Mediterranean Sea. Gozo makes up part of the Maltese archipelago, Malta, Gozo, Comino, Comminotto, and Filfla, a combined landmass the size of inner London, one of the smallest and most densely populated countries in the world. Gozo, with a painter’s light, telling landscapes and ancient, weather hewn, shorelines… biting cold for a few months and warm to baking hot for the remaining year. I’m not complaining… no big deal... unless...  


People, particularly the gallant cohorts I’ve hung with, ask why, “why choose such a cultural backwater”?  Suppressing a flush of resentment toward my homeland, I mumble something about a disillusioned actor needing a quiet place to write and the financial equation making sense at the time.


Defensive? Maybe. Challenged by such an abrupt question, I found that kind of reasoning offensive, not just to my ear, but to the complexities and intrigues of a significant community, who have lived here forever. Nowadays, I realise the question says more about the questioner than it does about this tiny island, with its thirty-seven thousand inhabitants.


Turn the byway from any road, to find prehistoric signs, of human habitation on the Maltese islands... dated around 5200 BC, Sicilians were the first migrants to settle and work the land... older than the pyramids of Egypt and Stonehenge, the Ġgantija Temple, on Gozo, was built as a place of worship, in homage to our Mother Earth, thousands of years before a small team of activists founded Greenpeace. Seven miles wide and twelve long, the centre of Gozo maintains two theatres today, that often find world-class opera, performed to packed auditoriums. Along with cracker-rich street festivals, concerts, dance, and drama, are favoured with excitement and verve, among locals and foreigners alike. Maltese, or Malti, is the only Semitic language, based on an Arabic vernacular, spoken in Europe. As well as their native tongue, most Maltese are fluent in English and Italian.


I would say the Maltese and Gozitans are shrewd survivors, steeped in culture, with a rich and long lived history to boot.


By force, or marriageable intent, from the Phoenicians, Romans, Moors, Normans, Spanish, French, to the British, Malta’s key position in the Mediterranean, has attracted power hungry empires throughout millenniums. To this day, many Gozitans shudder at the thought of the Ottoman Empire enslaving most of their ancestors, in the great siege of 1551. As a former colony, Malta and Gozo had been used, abused, maimed, scarred, overtaken, pillaged, measured and put in place, by those hell bent on stamping their seal on world. The British Empire, called in at Malta’s behest, to rid them of the French, came to be the most influential, in cultural dominance, governance and in law. The port of Valletta, also known as the Grand Harbour, was a prized asset for the British, especially after the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869. Malta’s proximity to the German, Italian and Japanese shipping lanes in 1942, saw more bombs dropped in two months, on this tiny country, than the entire London Blitz. The Axis resolve to flatten and starve the islands into submission, in World War II, brought the people of Malta and Gozo to the brink of extinction – economically devastated, emotionally and physically starved, they were awarded the George Cross, for their endurance and heart-placed heroism.


Certainly, whichever way I came to be here, I made the choice, the decision to settle. I knew from experience that it didn’t matter where I planked my body, which way the house was built, or how the furniture was spread, those wretched demons were waiting to imbibe their place wherever I laid my head. And, in moving to Gozo, perhaps I fooled myself into thinking I was attuned, mature enough, for what I was letting myself in for.


Takes twenty-five minutes to get across the channel, on the ferry, from Malta to Gozo, meanwhile, locals and government, argue and debate the construction of a tunnel under the sea, to make the journey faster. Overshadowed by its older brother, Gozo, with its apparent lack of a slick doorway to Malta, and the outside world, is inhabited by a populous torn from old ways, doubting they will ever catch up with the new. Going out of their way to find work, they hope, watch, wait, while they rush forever forward, leaving these shores, to fix a dream, lay it down, with the stronger crowd.


Increasing the need for speed, in the time of the motor car, our cultural heritage is well short of cutting ties with its natural and native, habitat… if nothing else, Gozo holds the mirror up to my lot.


I’m not claiming for one minute that time is not of the essence, or the climate and comfort of a nice home and extraordinary landscape, doesn't make a difference, it obviously does. But the environment, school and work place often left me with a sense of deep isolation and, like the Gozitans, I was overshadowed by the requite to dampen the screams of injustice.


Taking the semiconscious shift, toward this new sphere of island life, the various psychological and physiological mechanisms that went into adjusting and surviving, seemed vague, hard to see coming. With the operative of time on my side, it became apparent that I did lack a connection to some form of cultural exchange. Aside from an actor in chaotic transition, I couldn't for the life of me pinpoint what it was.


I began to let my guard down, unwind, among local life and custom, and gradually came to see a theme, something familiar about the people of Gozo that I recognised, fundamentally, as a struggle within myself. Then one fine day, conversing with a neighbour, it hit me between the eyes!


Gozo wasn't a dress rehearsal, it was the main event!


I was in deep, landed a metaphysical prison that can bring the hardiest soul and the toughest spirit, to break. The little I knew of incarceration, I might just as well have been banged up in a bricks and mortar jail.


The imposed ramifications, the process of being locked up, wasn’t apparent until I surrendered, ministered the reprise, the given space to breathe, to befriend the child within, in kind.


Consistently trapped, by the hunger of a systemic, incessant, need, rooted by the strong arm of an imposed will, head down, work hard, for his art, for capital, following leads, with eyes closed, to the letter of indoctrination; he came within a hair’s breadth of losing the world.



CHAPTER FOUR