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Rather oddly, given how the island enchants me, I have not been to Gozo for a long time. I remedied that last weekend, which coincided with the village festa I like most, that of Ghajnsielem. The homage paid in the external celebrations (no doubt in their heart, too) by the people to the Madonna ta' Luretu is incredible.

Once I had joined the Saturday evening band march with my wife, grandchildren and friends, I found that the gap of several years had merely heightened the revelry, displayed with a touching innocence free of the tensions that used to - and sometimes, still do - spoil certain village festas in Malta.

I was born and brought up in Qormi, which boasts two of the biggest festas around, in honour of St George in one parish and St Sebastian in the other. It continues to amaze me that in Ghajnsielem, which is about a tenth the size of Qormi and roughly a fifth of its parishes, the extent of the celebrations easily matches those in the village of my birth and upbringing.
I do no measure that by the old yardstick of Saints and Fireworks set by Jeremy Boissevian in his studies of the Maltese Islands decades ago, though the fireworks display in Ghajnsielem is no mean thing.

What always strikes me is the level of easy fun the revellers display, whether in their own houses, letting loose scores of balloons from their balconies on the bandsmen and those walking alongside or behind them, enjoying their fine playing of traditional evergreen band marches, or in the streets and - the peak of the evening - in the square that houses the 'new' church with its huge parvis.

It is a rare pressure, in that spot and at that time, to hear the band playing a beautiful march dedicated to the Madonna, and the crowd uniting in a great chorus, opening with the words Viva x-Xemx! Viva x-Xemx, since the Madonna is called "The Sun", and swelling into an overwhelming tide to start the words of praise for Our Lady - Viva l-Madonna ta' Luretu! (Some Ghajnsielem villagers who retain the local accent, similar to ours at Qormi, add lovely flavour by pronouncing it Viva l-Madunna ta' Luretu!)

The substitution of the vowel "u" for the "a", which was one of the features marking people like myself as being village, not city, folk, and so by some strange linkage uncouth, is diminishing. Whenever I come across it still in practice, along with other old pronunciations, my spirits rise, and that not only because I'm taken through the many decades to my own childhood.

The 'proper' and 'polite' way of speaking, which smoothes so many local variations of speech, are taking from the rich bowel of diversity, without replenishing it with anything truly better.
A highlight of our trekking in the incredible heat that gripped the island where Ulysses lingered without having to be pressed much to do so was a visit to Xaghra. It must be not only one of the loveliest but also one of the busiest villages in Gozo, and Malta too.

The village is blessed with having the ancient temples of Ggantija within its precincts. The temples, we found out once more, attract a strong flow of tourists. To listen to the variety of languages used by the guides, not infrequently addressing the same group, obviously of mixed nationalities, is amazing.

Another specimen of years gone by, if one much more recent than Ggantija, is Il-Mithna ta' Kola (Kola's Windmill). The windmill has been carefully restored to house a museum displaying tools and implements of old crafts, some of which have died out, like that of the blacksmith with his huge forge and submissive anvil.

Its carers, whose courtesy is of the ancient type that shows no sign of going out of fashion, keep it impeccably clean, always ready to receive the next small group whose curiosity and thirst for the old and the traditional leads them there. The flow could be stronger, though the windmill itself can accommodate few visitors at a time. I was pleased to be told, at least, that groups of Maltese and Gozitan schoolchildren are taken to Kola's Windmill from time to time.
The flow of visitors to Scerri's Cave and Ninu's Cave, with their examples of stalagmites and stalagtites discovered when the site owners were boring holes to access precious water from underground springs, is thinner. Nonetheless - I was told and could also observe - it is steady enough in this peak season.

Again, the courtesy and warmth of those greeting their visitors was a welcome change from the abruptness that lurks about so conspicuously nowadays.
The energy supply decided to give its own display of abrupt and brusque behaviour over the weekend, though not such as to attract as much attention and criticism as in the next couple of days.

On Saturday night, addictively trying to catch up with the late international news after enjoying a tiny part of the Madonna ta' Luretu festivities, the cable service suddenly fizzled into a screen of grey grains. Eight hours later that was again what came on when the children displayed their own, more innocent addictiveness to cartoons.

Later on a troubled duty manager explained to the hotel's guests that he and his staff had been trying to contact the Melita Cable office, but could not get through. The afternoon steamed in, along with returning guests like ourselves who could no longer brave the exhausting heat outside.

They included lovers of tennis, who were looking forward to a couple of hours following the US Open, if Flushing Meadows was not submerged in the wrecking rain, and also some Mancunians who, along with local guests like this columnist, were prepared to endure whatever was in store for United against Southampton.

The cable service remained off air. The duty manager now could explain that Melita Cable had told him they had put right whatever failed at their end, but that there was a continuing failure in the supply from Enemalta Corporation.

Melita Cable's service has not been brilliant recently. Among other things, apart from great difficulty to get through by telephone, the sports channels so frequently offer only the fare of one or another of the leading English and Italian clubs. In this particular case, blame should be justly apportioned.

Tennis and football may be the least pressing on people's minds when there are power failures in a heatwave. There should, at least, be courteous - that word again - and reasonable explanations, rather than putting it down to inadequate capacity, instead of reflecting whether there may have been inadequate planning.

One thing that I felt had changed since we last visited Gozo was the state of the roads. We Maltese tend to say that Gozo has a more interesting topography and better roads than Malta. The former is definitely the case, but I am not so sure about the roads nowadays.

A boatman at Dwejra - grandiloquently called the Inland Sea, but which is certainly one of the islands' most intriguing sites, attracting thousands of visitors - asked me whether I was still one of those who thought roads in Gozo where better than those in Malta.

He felt differently, for one very good reason - the road down to Dwejra could do with a new layer of tarmac, which should not be too difficult, particularly beyond the point used by heavy construction trucks. I had to answer that the better Gozo roads, though still with an edge over similar roads in Malta, were looking the worse for wear.

The local councils and central government could do worse than get together and explain what is being planned about that.
On the way back we had to tell our grandchildren that one thing had not changed. Contrary to the time of my post-war childhood there was no longer the fear that our boat could run into some sea-mine still not swept away two or three years after the hostilities were over. But neither were there any dolphins cavorting in the vicinity of the boat as they used to in the Gozo Channel of gone-by years.

Where have all the dolphins gone? They did not all become brass knockers, did they? Even if Gozo remains there, enchanting as always and mercifully without any causeway linking it to Malta, would it not be marvellous if the dolphins were to be enticed back?
Even if they do not return, I do not intend to let another long gap develop before I go back. It is the turn of the younger grandchildren to discover the fuller meaning of the Maltese Islands, anyway.

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