I grew up in Żebbuġ, a village that still breathed freely when I was a boy. About sixty years ago, nothing fenced us in. We walked unhindered to the cliff edges that looked east towards Marsalforn, Qbajjar, and Xagħra, west towards Għarb and the lonely lighthouse, and south towards Victoria. Those edges shaped our horizons and sharpened our curiosity. They also framed a childhood that knew Christmas before electricity, before glare, before noise, and before merchants learned how to package wonder.
When I jog my memory, I do so with enjoyment and gratitude. I thank the Lord for allowing me to live that version of Christmas, untouched by modern commercialism and free from the opportunism that now crowds December. I shared those days with my village friends, who matched my age, my restlessness, and my hunger for adventure. We lived simply but imaginatively, and our world felt small in geography, yet it felt vast by experience.
Christmas meant preparation rather than consumption. Each of us wanted to assemble the most genuine crib possible, not the most expensive one. We gathered local stones patiently, choosing shapes that suggested walls, paths, or grottoes. We laid sand carefully to form valleys for the pasturi, the small figurines that transformed ordinary surfaces into sacred landscapes. Candles mattered more than bulbs because candlelight breathed life into the scene. It flickered, warmed the stones, and created shadows that felt alive.
After a rainfall, we ventured through nearby passages in the fields that sloped down from the village. Rain revealed clay patches, soft and workable. With no tools except our hands and boundless imagination, we shaped our own figurines. They lacked symmetry and polish, yet they carried our fingerprints and pride. We shaped shepherds, sheep, and sometimes vague forms that only we understood. What mattered lay in the effort rather than the result. That effort rewarded us with a joy that money could never match.
The anticipation of Christmas did not wait until December. It began in November, quietly and patiently. We took cotton from our mothers' first-aid boxes, found spare cups or saucers, and planted gulbiena (vetches) seeds. We watered them regularly, but kept them away from the light. Over time, delicate silvery shoots emerged, pale and fragile, stretching upward in search of what they could not see. That transformation felt like magic that answered our care. The gulbiena became the soul of our crib, resting delicately among stones and paths.
Other decorations came from things we discarded without thought. Toffee wrappers glinted in silver, or gold and we collected them obsessively. With simple folds, we turned them into bows and suspended them above the crib with thread. They caught candlelight beautifully and shimmered with movement whenever the air stirred. Angels cost money, which we measured carefully. We bought them in sheets of five small printed faces with wings barely larger than postage stamps, and they supervised our work proudly.
As Christmas approached, we rode our bicycles to Victoria. We window-shopped along Vajringa Street, where shops stood close together, each displaying many pasturi. Local artisans shaped them by hand from clay, and every piece carried subtle differences. We pressed our faces against the windows, studying expressions, poses, and colours. Breakages haunted us because repair lay beyond our means. A broken shepherd meant grief, not inconvenience, and it taught us care and respect for fragile things.
Above them all, the single decoration crowned the rest. We gathered wild thyme from the cliffs nearby. Today, people protect it rightly after decades of careless exploitation. Back then, access to the cliffs gave us abundance. Thyme grew generously in crevices, resilient and aromatic. It brought greenery and scent into our homes, transforming stone and sand into living landscapes. Its smell mingled with candle smoke and formed a fragrance that still defines Christmas in my mind.
Gozo offered no discos or nightclubs, while Żebbuġ offered even less distraction. The church became our meeting place and our anchor. Despite our youth, we found pleasure in attending midnight mass. Darkness wrapped the village as we walked, footsteps echoing faintly against the stone. After mass, we rushed home with excitement and reverence mixed. We lit the crib carefully and watched it in silence. Candle flames danced gently, and the room felt suspended between heaven and earth.
After several minutes, I blew out the candles. The soft smell of burnt wick lingered and followed me to bed. Sleep came lightly and patiently as I waited for Father Christmas, wondering whether he would visit and whether he would understand my hopes and wishes. I usually wished for a small toy car or a train. In the morning, my mother made sure that joy greeted me. I rushed outside immediately, carrying my treasure.
The street filled with laughter and pride. Every boy displayed what the night had delivered. Comparisons mattered less than shared excitement. We gathered later in small groups, often four at a time, choosing quiet corners on the zuntier (church parvis). There we played scuttles with chestnuts collected over days. The game required skill and focus, and it brought arguments and reconciliation in equal measure. It also belonged entirely to us.
But in Zebbug there is still the crib of Bastjan, a quiet local village artisan. He hand-carved each figure from soft, local limestone. This warm, golden "ġebel tal-franka" also built our homes and churches, and he gave his pasturi the same dignity as the village. This crib did not rely on colour or excess; it relied on form, texture, and patience, and it stood apart because nothing about it felt bought or borrowed. The crib, over a century old, is the only one on the island displayed year-round. It's carefully preserved by Ġużepp and Stella Borg. It embodies a lost era where faith, craft, and place were naturally connected.
Christmas lunchtime in Żebbuġ followed the same humble rhythm that shaped the rest of the season, and it carried meaning far beyond the plate. Families gathered around simple dishes of macaroni, lamb, or poultry, often prepared at one of the village's two bakeries, one serving the upper streets and the other anchoring the lower part of the village. Turkey rarely appeared on the table, not only because it strained household budgets but also because it never matched local tastes shaped by familiarity and necessity. What mattered was not abundance or variety, but the quiet ritual of sitting together as a family, sharing time, conversation, and warmth. A slice of locally made fruit cake closed the meal, sweetening an occasion that drew its richness from presence rather than plenty.
That was our Christmas that carried restraint, patience, simplicity, and meaning. It lacked abundance but overflowed with imagination. Looking back, I would choose that time again without hesitation. Today's Christmas dazzles without warming and distracts without nourishing. Commercial outlets dominate December, pushing consumption where contemplation once stood. They relegate the Christmas spirit to fantasy while they sell replicas of joy.
I feel lucky, profoundly and permanently, for having lived those years. They belong to the past and will not return. Yet they live vividly within me, untouched by switches, screens, or slogans. They remind me that wonder once grew in darkness, flooded by patience, and illuminated by candlelight rather than neon lights.
A joyful and peaceful Christmas to all readers and TMI management.