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Showing posts with label EU. Show all posts
Showing posts with label EU. Show all posts

Saturday, 1 April 2017

Beaking News from Niggez, Malta



SHOCKING DISCOVERY

‘It’s the only diplomacy they understand!’ says whistleblower.

Exclusive from Maria Caruana, roving reporter for Niggez (The Sting), Malta

He told me his name was Alfredo Ropoli, but I doubt if that is the whistleblower’s real name. I responded to his whispered mobile phone call and at dusk we met outside a large warehouse at the far end of Marsaxlokk that juts into the harbour. ‘I work there,’ he told me. ‘It is highly secret – for now.’
            As he instructed, I left my smart phone and tablet in the car.
            Considering what he said, I was surprised at the poor security. He flipped a coded card at a reader and the door slid open. Inside, the place was cavernous, as I expected. There were only about five people going about their business, some on the boats, others attending to complex consoles. There were six boats floating in the water. But I’d never seen anything like them before.
            Each boat was about two metres long and a metre across the beam. Smooth rounded nacelles protruded from each side. Looming over the two-man cabin were three narrow towers with propellers on top. They appeared to be very large drones, capable of floating or flying. Now, I only wished I’d brought my smart phone with me.
            Alfredo was nervous, understandably, so we didn’t linger.
            Once outside again, I asked, ‘What are they for?’
            ‘Those nacelles are powerful rockets. Mini-tridents, they call them.’
            ‘Are you sure?’
            ‘So the coordinator told me.’
            ‘What else did he say?’
            ‘He told me in confidence they are the new-style British gunboats. They already have names for them: Henry V, King Arthur, Lord Wellington, Viscount Montgomery, Sir Francis Drake and Gloriana.’
            ‘But what are they for?’ I repeated.
            ‘If the EU doesn’t play ball and the Brexit talks fail, the gunboats’ll be sent in. The coordinator said, “It’s the only diplomacy they understand!”’
            
***
Redo April Fool

Maria Caruana can be found in Chill of the Shadow, as she investigates black magic and vampirism in Malta.

CHILL OF THE SHADOW

In her search for truth she found love – with a vampire!

This cross-genre thriller is set in present-day Malta and has echoes from pre-history and also the eighteenth century Knights of Malta.
            Malta may be an island of sun and sand, but there’s a dark side to it too. It all started when some fishermen pulled a corpse out of the sea... Or maybe it was five years ago, in the cave of Ghar Dalam?
            Spellman, an American black magician, has designs on a handpicked bunch of Maltese politicians, bending their will to his master’s. A few sacrifices, that’s all it takes. And he’s helped by Zondadari, a rather nasty vampire.
            Maltese-American investigative journalist Maria Caruana’s in denial. She can’t believe Count Zondadari is a vampire. She won’t admit it. Such creatures don’t exist, surely? She won’t admit she’s in love with him, either...
            Detective Sergeant Attard doesn’t like caves or anything remotely supernatural. Now he teams up with Maria to unravel the mysterious disappearance of young pregnant women. They’re also helped by the priest, Father Joseph.
            And there are caves, supernatural deaths and a haunting exorcism.
            Just what every holiday island needs, really.

Where there is light, there is shadow…

… a strong structure and is full of rich writing and action. The plot has page turning twists and the main characters are likeable, especially the female lead. I hadn't read a vampire book in a while and was reminded of how intensely gruesome they can be. While this one has its squeamish moments it's not atypical for the genre, and I can't help liking a well written book! The Malta setting was perfect, making this a great escape read.’


Saturday, 17 December 2016

Crime – Across borders


Illegal immigrants are being moved into UK by criminal groups taking advantage of the open borders of the EU.

Last month, the leader of one group was arrested in Barcelona. He was in possession of over 100 fake Polish ID cards and passports. He’d helped immigrants enter the Schengen Zone then housed them here in Spain, also France or Belgium and thence to Dublin.

More than a hundred immigrants were arrested at Spanish airports, including Barcelona, Madrid, Palma de Mallorca, Ibiza, Santander, Tenerife, and Alicante. Over the last couple of years it is believed the group has helped at least 6,000 Ukrainian immigrants enter the UK illegally.

The group was nabbed due to collaboration with Europol and Belgian, French, Polish, Spanish and British authorities. This collaboration will continue post-Brexit.

Human trafficking is being used by a Spanish group in my thriller Blood of the Dragon Trees.

“Laura Reid likes her new job on Tenerife, teaching the Spanish twins Maria and Ricardo Chávez. She certainly doesn’t want to get involved with Andrew Kirby and his pal, Jalbala Emcheta, who work for CITES, tracking down illegal traders in endangered species. Yet she’s undeniably drawn to Andrew, which is complicated, as she’s also attracted to Felipe, the brother of her widower host, Don Alonso.

“Felipe’s girlfriend Lola is jealous and Laura is forced to take sides – risking her own life – as she and Andrew uncover the criminal network that not only deals in the products from endangered species, but also thrives on people trafficking. The pair are aided by two Spanish lawmen, Lieutenant Vargas of the Guardia Civil and Ruben Salazar, Inspector Jefe del Grupo de Homicidios de las Canarias.

“Betrayal and mortal danger lurk in the shadows, along with the dark deeds of kidnapping and clandestine scuba diving…”

See also SPANISH EYE



Thursday, 28 July 2016

Book review plus - LIFE IN RUSSIA


Michael Binyon’s view of Russia, published in 1983 is useful for my research purposes, as I certainly wasn’t able to go there at the time (since I was serving in the RN). Binyon was a correspondent for The Times 1978-1982.

Naturally, since the wall came down in November 1989 and the USSR dissolved in December 1991, much has changed. Yet the people are probably not that different now.

The book is written with genuine warmth for the Russian people. He uses the term ‘Russian’ to simplify the fact that the USSR is a vast mixture of countries, cultures and ethnic groups. Some of the statements are prescient, though at the time of writing Binyon never conceived the breakup would occur. ‘The Soviet Union is a world of its own. But it is a world its rulers ever fear will fly apart into disparate fragments unless they keep a very tight grip.’ (p4)  Here and elsewhere, with hindsight you could easily substitute the European Union to observe strong parallels!

The recent doping scandal relating to the Olympics springs to mind when I read this entry:
 ‘Russians respect power and authority, and most have a bully’s instinct to walk all over anyone who is servile and obsequious. The best way of doing business is to make your position and determination clear from the start, negotiate toughly but politely and ensure that face is not lost…’ (p4)

And this has bearing, perhaps: ‘To a Russian, saving face is of great importance, and this Eastern characteristic colours not only individual actions but policies and attitudes in dealing with other countries. Indeed, many national policies can only be understood by reference to the Russian character.’ (p136)

For many years I was puzzled by the British trade unions’ affectionate dalliance with the USSR. Naturally, the Soviet authorities were keen to foster disruption in the West, and even suborned certain trade union members to do their bidding. Yet the picture, beyond the ‘official’ image presented to visiting union comrades was far removed from the freedoms enjoyed in the West:

‘Not one of the estimated 130 million Soviet trade unionists has ever gone on strike.’ (p27) One has not to wonder why. In 1977 a number of sacked workers got together to form an ‘independent’ union. The KGB exiled the leaders from Moscow, questioned, harassed, arrested and sent several to psychiatric hospitals. Three years later, the rise of Poland’s Solidarity movement caused Brezhnev to launch an attack on union officials for laziness and indifference to their members’ needs, turning the union leaders against their unions, using the unions to police their members in effect, for the communist cause. This was typical Russian double-think.

The union can be a deadening influence, stifling innovation, free thinking. ‘The task of the officially organised unions of artists, writers and musicians is not to promote their members’ interests, but to ensure their members stay in line.’ (p113) ‘All land in the Soviet Union is nationalised’; people can own homes, but not the land.

The propaganda had it that the country benefited from full employment. Yet there were thousands of workshy (many with false documents who have abandoned families and responsibilities). ‘Factories are only too glad when poor and disruptive workers quietly disappear. Rather than report their absence,  they allow their names to remain on the factory register, thus conveniently enabling the factory to draw state money for salaries, which are diverted straight into the management’s pockets to be used for the inevitable bribes and pay-offs.’ (p33)

I wonder how many 1980s Marxist-Leninist students would have been keen to study in the USSR. ‘University or college graduates are sent to remote villages for the obligatory two year first posting which every Soviet student faces at the end of his studies. For many, it is like banishment.’ (p196)

I was also interested to read: ‘The Academy of Medical Sciences has long been carrying out full-scale research into para-psychology, telepathy and bio-rhythms, a favourite topic of popular scientific journalism.’ (p53) See my earlier blog posts on Soviet psychic research.

Drunkenness was a big problem and accounted for absenteeism and accidental deaths, and marital and family breakdown.  ‘In the Ukraine, several mines run daily checks for inebriation among the miners as they report for work. Traffic police have also urged tougher penalties for drunken driving, which is already severely punished, and in recent years a number of people causing fatal accidents while drunk have been shot.’ (p63) Severe punishment indeed – but did it reduce the incidence of drunk driving? The book doesn’t say – and doubtless statistics were not available.

The Russians are avid readers, though found it difficult to get their hands on books (other than official tracts, presidential speeches and the like. I can’t imagine poets filling Wembley Stadium, yet Poet Andrei Voznesensky gave a reading to 80,000 people in a football stadium. ‘His latest collection was published in an edition of 200,000 and sold out immediately.’ (p109) Sales to dream about, indeed!

Voznesensky would retreat to the Georgian village of Peredelkino, south of Moscow. This is the official writers’ colony. Pasternak lived here for many years and is buried in its cemetery. Binyon spotted a man in a grey raincoat standing near the monument (to Sergei Yesenin, poet, Isadora Duncan’s lover); the man took off his hat and recited some of Yesenin’s poems. Others present clapped. This echoed in my mind – scenes from Fahrenheit 451.

Greek myths and Herodotus were best-sellers; new editions of Tolstoy sold out immediately. ‘Even during the anniversaries of Tolstoy’s birth, or Dostoyevsky’s, their works could not be found. Pushkin, Gogol hard to find…The most heavily forested country in the world has to limit its newspapers to four or six pages because of the paper shortage… painful lack of toilet paper, a commodity that has achieved an almost mystic value to those who tire of the discomfort and irony of using Pravda..’ (p170)

Surprisingly, perhaps, the Soviet press was campaigning, hard-hitting and effective, not afraid to hound racketeers and the guilty – according to the party line. Appeals in the paper Pravda could work: a resident of a village where the only shop was closed complained; a party delegation investigated and within hours a shop was opened there…

Soviet historians estimate 20 million Russians perished in The Great Patriotic War (WWII). In the Ukraine alone 20,000 villages were destroyed. ‘Even now at least half a dozen elderly people are shot each year for war crimes or collaboration with the Nazis.’ (p125)

Party members and grandmothers alike state: ‘Let there be no more war’ and the toast at every official dinner is always ‘to peace’. I’d be inclined to believe that this is still the same now; the people don’t want war, but they don’t want to be walked over either…

Binyon wrote about the little Byelorussian village of Khatyn where The Black Death SS herded 74 adults and 75 children into a barn, doused it with petrol and set it alight. One man was away at the time; Joseph Kaminski returned to find his young still alive among the charred bodies. He picked him up and the boy died in his father’s arms… a bronze statue of Kaminski carrying his dying son and staring in blank horror straight ahead stands at the entrance to Khatyn (where nobody now lives).  This is not to be confused with Katyn, where Polish officers were massacred by Stalin! (p126)

Most Russians accepted the official version of the war: it was a Russian victory over fascism, and the Soviet intervention in Manchuria forced the Japanese to surrender; there was no mention of the atomic bombs… Little or nothing was ‘said or written about the extensive American war aid, or the British convoys to Murmansk. No official memorial has been erected in that Arctic city to the allied sailors who lost their lives.’ (p127) [Since this was written, Russia pressed for the Arctic convoy veterans to be honoured with a Russian medal, but government intransigence didn’t permit it – until 2013, a year after they were belatedly presented with the British Arctic Star.]

Binyon refers to a book Through Russia on a Mustang (1891) by Thomas Stevens and offers a brief excerpt, which offers traditions, beliefs, and adventures of a witty character. It was out of print when quoted. Happily, there are several reprints available now; here’s one

There’s a brief mention of Mikhail Gorbachev, ‘the young agricultural expert in the politburo, has distanced himself from the food programme, and is presumed to have pushed for something more radical.’ (p199)

The following two passages strongly suggest the malaise that is the European Union (replace ‘communist party’ and Soviet Union with ‘EU’, perhaps: ‘The communist party is a single, monolithic organisation, and local government has only limited powers. But the Soviet Union is the world’s largest and most diverse multi-national state, and without a very firm structure and tight control at the centre, it would probably split apart into dozens of separate competing units. Regional and ethnic nationalism is strong and is growing, and despite the much-trumpeted official picture of a big, happy, harmonious family, there are tensions and quarrels beneath the surface, which are suppressed only with difficulty.’ (p206)

‘From travels in nine different republics, my impressions were strongly reinforced that the diversity and variety is such that no amount of centralisation can mould a single type of ‘Soviet man’, even if that were the aim – which increasingly is recognised as unrealistic.’ (p206) Homogenising people doesn’t work – they have their culture, belief systems, traditions and history.

Another example comes from Latvia: Russians, Ukrainians and Belorussians flooded into Riga because of the higher standard of living, and brought Russification in their wake. When the non-Latvian population reached 800,000 out of a total of only 2,500,000 in all Latvia, further immigration was stopped.’ (211) Freedom of movement within the USSR (by party pressure) created an immigrant crisis.

And we’ve seen how Russia deals with the fundamentalist Islamic issue. The State’s atheism does not sit comfortably with Islam.  Science and Religion said the home mosques supported social customs that were incompatible with modern social life, including blood feuds, the abduction of brides, the marriage of underage girls and polygamy…’ (p245)

This is a fascinating and thought-provoking book, a glance back in time, when the Cold War was thawing then heating up, as East and West attempted to accommodate the other, neither side wanting more global conflict. The Soviet Union could not sustain its vast empire and it took the realist Gorbachev to understand that. What followed was another completely different ball game – but throughout the period, from the time of this book to the present, the Russian people have found the changes in their lives bewildering and unsettling. Certainly, the independent states seem keen not to go back.







Saturday, 2 July 2016

Book review - The Electric Crocodile




D.G. Compton’s science fiction novel The Electric Crocodile (1970) depicts a near-future Britain that’s subsumed within the Federal European government, the centre being Switzerland, with the flags of the member nations fluttering (p37). The currency is in marks. We don’t know when this future is, though there’s a hint: ‘Pavlov found out how to interfere with its (the brain’s) function over seventy years ago.’(p153) As Pavlov received his Nobel Prize in 1904 (he died in 1936), the story probably takes place in a ‘future 1970s/1980s.’

As with any near-future novel, some inventions are not going to happen in the real world and of course some inventions won’t have been thought of by the author. This doesn’t matter; it’s fiction, an alternate reality.

Matthew Oliver is married to Abigail. It’s significant that they both have Biblical names. Abigail is a devoted Catholic, Matthew pays lip service. Churches are virtually social clubs. Yet there’s an underlying current of God vs machine in the subtext.

At one point, Matthew drives past ‘a shopping complex and a self-service battery station. A hundred or so batteries were on charge in open-fronted racks’. (p37) Matthew’s car had been on charge all night and had a good thirty hours of life in it. So predictions of electric cars were viable then, anyway; they’ve just taken longer to evolve into practical use. Other things in this ‘future’ include laser pistols (Matthew has a license for one) and access passes that are checked in a scanner. Smoking is not frowned upon, since ‘the health risk has been beaten.’ (p51) And cancer was controlled (p93). Now, London is a Limited Traffic Zone… The big Italian manufacturers’ lobby had forced through safety legislation in Geneva that made 80% of not-new cars illegal. (p52) The television is shortened to ‘the tell’. And, perhaps surprisingly, people still write and sign cheques. And they use landline telephones, which are capable of producing ‘phonoprints’. Now, the Nevershave hormone treatment was available, which promised that – you’d never need to shave again!

Matthew has been recruited to join the Colindale Institute, which is guarded by a force field fence, which could withstand the onslaught from a two-metre laser. All workers there and their families must accept the presence of microphones in their homes and anyone leaving the grounds is to be accompanied by a so-called tail, in Abigail’s case, Mrs Foster.

The Colindale project, non-political, belonging to the European Federation, financed by central government, collects scientific information, catalogues and freely disseminates it, aimed solely at improving the welfare of humanity… (p47) That’s the official version, anyway. There have been two suspicious unsolved deaths; Matthew is replacing one of the deceased.

The computer Matthew and the team work on is called the Bohn. It still uses tapes and its output is via teleprinters. Their work is secret, involving intelligent imaginative extrapolation. As the Director of the project, Professor Billon states, ‘People in a democracy dislike being told what is good for them.’

Apparently,’ the social balance is precarious, sustained by oblique oppression. Democracy is eroded almost beyond recognition… We’re leaderless…’ Billon believes that the Bohn can supply that leadership, and can meet the need of the people. (p151)

Middle-aged alienees were demanding the vote back, with placards ALIENATION NO CRIME, and PENSIONERS NOT OUTCASTS.  ‘People in general had little sympathy with alienees and their conditional pensions – being alienated was no more than an excuse for being bone idle. The idea that work was a good thing in itself lingered tenaciously, no matter how much the experts told people it was out of date… Usually alienees demonstrated against compulsory education for their children or in favour of better housing.’ (p92)

The title is gleaned from this: ‘In 1933 a laboratory was built for the physicist Pyotr Kapitza. For its façade he ordered the head of a crocodile in steel. “The crocodile of science cannot turn its head. Like science it must always go forward with all-devouring jaws…’ (p96) A more prosaic explanation can be found here

And perhaps the Bohn can manipulate scientific discovery, change the future even?

So, an interesting socio-political science fiction novel that deals with commitment, love, betrayal, hubris, paranoia and the soul-crushing homogenous federal state.
***
Compton’s most successful novel is probably The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe, a highly affecting piece (which was made into the film Death Watch); it was one of my favourite science fiction novels (though I have many favourites!)

D.G. Compton was born in 1930 and his last published work was in 1996.

Style: Straight-forward. Certain sections switch viewpoint and we snatch the occasional comment twice, but perceived from a different listener; like echoes; it’s a neat little touch and isn’t overdone.

Cover (1976): I’m not a great fan of psychedelic covers. The title perhaps suggests something like this, but I don’t find it appealing.

Tuesday, 28 June 2016

Dismantling comfort and shelter


In May 2010 we bought and erected a metal pergola with linen roof and curtains. It stood on the patio in front of the double glass doors of the day room, and supplied comfort and shelter from the Spanish sun, though sometimes the afternoon winds could be so strong that the curtains resembled full-blown galleon sails.

Today, I spent two hours dismantling the pergola.

There was serious rust erosion at the roof supports. Left untended, it was liable to cause an accident.

It’s possible if the metal structure had been made of British steel it might have lasted longer than six years. Still, the intense climate (heat, the cold winter nights and the rain in Spain) conspired to attack the structure over time, despite touching up the joints with anti-rust paint (merely first-aid measures, as it turned out).

I removed the protective plastic nuts from the fixing screws and nuts. A few screws were untainted, but others revealed rot – rust - so some protection worked, some didn’t. This rot was most severe at the top (we could see through some metal), but its very presence meant the whole edifice was unsound.

The top had to go.

This meant climbing a short set of steps. Unscrewing had to be done with care, to avoid any section toppling and causing collateral damage to tiles or nearby windows. These pieces were put to one side for eventual recycling.

Take sides next.

Then the metal sides that joined the six uprights were unscrewed, four in all, again with utmost care, and the pieces taken away for subsequent recycling.

Finally, the six posts were unscrewed, one by one, and also removed to the recycling heap.

The dismantling was complete.

Admittedly, there was a sense of having lost that comforting overarching shade.

Yet the view from the day room was much improved: an open aspect to the rest of the garden.

Other means of comforting shade can be obtained at a fraction of the original cost, if necessary. 

For now, I’m quite content to take in this new vista.

***

Any suggested allusions to the dismantling of the European Commission would be considered too fanciful…




Tuesday, 6 May 2014

Shameful illegal killing of birds in Malta

Naturalist Chris Packham is in the news, having been interviewed by police in Malta regarding the filming of his self-funded YouTube programme exposing the illegal killing of exotic birds that arrive over the islands. Tens of thousands have viewed the item; there are about 10,000 hunters in Malta killing or trapping migratory birds; the hunting lobby is strong and resorts to intimidation or worse; there's a petition of over 44,000 Maltese seeking an investigation into this flagrant flouting of EU law. There is much to love and admire about Malta - but definitely not this.

Montagu's Harrier -Wikipedia commons -
one of several species of birds slaughtered

His article in the Guardian is worth reading: here

This report here states: “In April 2008 the European Court of Justice ordered the Maltese government not to allow Spring hunting and in January 2009 trapping should be illegal too, when a derogation allowed when Malta joined the EU in 2004 expires.  Even with these activities illegal, enforcement is poor and political will to act against illegal activities is weak.” [My italics] And this is why Chris Packham felt impelled to go and help the bird lovers of BirdLife Malta.

I highlighted this very thing in my novel Death is Another Life (now out of print, awaiting a new publisher): 

Count Zondadari was tall, with a patrician nose and high cheekbones. He had a high receding hairline that suggested intelligence and dark arched eyebrows. The laughter lines around his sensual mouth and flint-gray eyes softened his appearance. Those eyes shone, as if amused by life. Here was a man with supreme confidence, someone who lived life to the full. There was something other-worldly about him; oddly, she was reminded of Wilde’s Dorian Gray.

The two-story villa was squat and long, the walls constructed from a variety of stonework. “This plot of land has been in my family since the 1560s.” He waved his walking stick in an arc. Prince watched obediently, alert. “We’ve tended to rebuild here and there, as the mood dictated, yet we have tried to preserve the features we like – hence the porch.” It was imposing, a pillared portico, with curving marble steps leading up to the heavy oak panelled door which sported large brass ornamentation and a fish-shaped door-knocker.

“It’s beautiful,” Maria said and meant it. The stone walls, dun and drab, were haphazardly clothed in creepers, bougainvillea and begonia. The green of leaves was a striking contrast, and softened the privations of time. The Arabic designed stonework round the roof and windows seemed to blend with nature. The place appealed to her artistic eye. “The blossom will be absolutely gorgeous in a few weeks,” she added.
       
“Yes.” He smiled down at her. “Some of the stonework is sixteenth century, so it seems to be rejuvenated every year when the flowers bloom. The place really comes alive then.”

It could have been a trick of light, as they climbed the steps, but she thought his face had darkened momentarily, the shine inexplicably absent from his eyes at the mention of nature’s renewal. And the scar-tissue glowed red. But she could have imagined it – her imagination seemed to be on overtime these days.
         
As they approached it, the door opened silently: but no-one was there. Her step faltered.

And he noticed. “My family may be ancient, but we keep up with the times. I’m not averse to hi-tech, Miss Caruana. Computerized video identifies me and opens the door. Simple, really.”
 
The entrance hall was spacious, tiled in arabesques. She welcomed the coolness here, in contrast to the heat outside.
 
“This is simply gorgeous,” Maria said. “Can I do a ‘Better Homes’ article?”

Count Zondadari smiled and pointed to the corner opposite the door where an elliptical staircase began: “That was designed by Gerolamo Cassar in 1586. He tried the design here then made a larger version for the Verdala Palace.” An aspidistra looked quite at home in the shadows beneath the stairs.

Maria made suitably impressed noises.
 
Panelled doors were on both sides and a passageway led off to their right. Prince the dog loped past them down the passage.
 
“The kitchen calls, I suspect!” he chuckled and opened the nearest double-door on the left. He ushered Maria into a lounge appointed with luxurious furniture, paintings and sculpture.

As they kept moving, she had little opportunity to study anything, but gleaned an impression of stolidity, of antiquity and repose, the whole room redolent of a more leisurely era: restful and full of peace.
 
Instinctively, she felt he was an art-lover, that these artefacts were not merely investments or brazen advertisements of his wealth. She would have preferred to linger. “It must have taken an age to acquire so many beautiful things.”
 
“Yes, quite a while,” he smiled. “But please, call me Michael,” he said, bowing slightly. He guided her through the room and slid open a patio door.
 
As she stepped out after him, the barrier of warm air was quite startling, even oppressive after the fresh atmosphere inside. Her reaction was a slight surprise since it was not unusual for her to move from an air-conditioned office to the heat of the day or vice versa, and took the temperature changes in her stride. Maybe her senses were too highly attuned today.
 
Grass and cedars bordered the patio. An intricate wrought-iron long table stood on the stone flags, the top inlaid wood blocks forming a mosaic of Neptune and his sea-horses, all covered by tinted glass. There were high-backed chairs at each end.
 
They both leaned on the balustrade facing the sea.
 
About fifteen meters away, the cliffs’ irregular shape sliced into the Mediterranean. This part of the island, the land tended to step gradually down to the rock-strewn surf-line, yet for this particular section it was as though a fissure had opened and land had tumbled into the sea, leaving forbidding steep cliffs. To the right she could just glimpse St. Paul’s islands.

Maria noticed a few specks of movement in the cloudless blue and raised her binoculars.
 
“A flock of sparrows,” he said, squinting in their direction. “Foolish creatures, they’re swerving away and heading for the islands.”
 
“Yes,” she agreed. “It really saddens me to think we’ve killed all our own native birds.”
 
“Indeed. The hunting season may be short, but it’s devastating. Only unwary visitors fly here, now, Maria. It fits, though, for such a place – with its prehistory of curious death-oriented religion.”

- Death is Another Life, pp84-87