08.31 TIPPING TREES

Sundown. We are racing the clock to arrive at Dwejra in time to watch the sun disappear beyond the sea. Along the road, tilting trees rooted sideways in the ground appear to bow down to the setting star. Like pagan worshippers the bow down and invite an evening reverie.

08.30 SEA URCHIN

I have a thing for sea urchins. The word “urchin” is a latin word that describes a hedgehog. Doesn’t that make this littly guy seem just a little more fuzzy and cute? I would liken the sea urchin more to the rambutan fruit that I first discovered in Australia or one of those tacky fluorescent key chains that were popular a while ago. Come to think of it, there is a striking resemblance between this ocean dweller and an Incredibly Persistent Gapper from Frip. Does anybody out there reads George Saunders?

(If you don’t read George Saunders, this is a good time to stop reading this senseless blog and pick up one of his books.)

Back to sea urchins: Before we trashed the ecosystem, at a time when sea urchins were thriving, my dad used to pluck the creatures off of rocks in the sea, slicing them in two and eating their raw meat.

Inside the prickly shell, called the “test,” lies a goopy globular jelly with the texture of the inside of a passionfruit. I never really cared for passionfruit – or for urchinfruit – but I am still fascinated by the sea creature.

A stroke of its spine and the sea urchin, an awfully motionless creature is brought to life. It retracts almost before I am even in contact with it, each spine flattening away from my finger every slowly. Amusing. Enough to keep me occupied from swimming until I consider that my endearing attention to this particular sea urchin might actually be torture.

I drop it back in the water. I am not far behind, joining the odd creatures under the sea for a swim.

08.29 TOMBLA

It is the Novena. This nine-day countdown to the Feast of Our Lady of Victory in my parents’ hometown is celebrated with daily services followed by late-night activities in the town square. Tonight, a few rounds of Tombla – Maltese for Bingo – have been organized to raise funds for the feast. I joined the devoted gamblers content in knowing my money will contribute to a more spectacular fireworks show for next years feast, when I plan to visit.

“Fatah!”

It was only a line and somebody else has also called it. I rake in a mere pound-fifty. About three bucks. Enough to treat myself to a rum and coke and last the final round.

08.28 LUNAR ECLIPSE

Tonight a Lunar Eclipse will be visible from our hemisphere. The Sun, Earth and Moon will align perfectly and our planet's shadow will cast upon a full moon. It happens twice a year.

Here it is once. It is still early and the moon will begin to dissapear in our shadow overnight.

At eight o’clock in the evening the big pizza-pie is bronze, glowing high in the north-east sky above the town of Nadur.

Its a pretty wicked view from our place.

08.27 MORNING FOG

This is the clouded view from my parent’s home this morning. The haze, a warning that it is going to be a scorcher today, gets me up and out the door for a run in a hurry. The longer I wait the hotter and more humid the island will become.

It is my last long training run before the Nottingham Marathon. I am running ten miles, my legs already tired from running that same distance just last night. I had to split the twenty mile distance or otherwise sacrifice my lower limbs to Gozo’s hot hilly pavement, possibly becoming immobilized for the remainder of my holiday because of torn muscle, aching joints and heat exhaustion.

Without an air conditioned environment to escape to here, I have gotten a real feel of climate change. But an air condition powerful enough to cool me off would only worsen the stifling air quality. Instead of conditioning the air, I am left to condition my body to the environment. I wonder how quickly mitochondria proliferate. Not fast enough. Even standing still and breathing is difficult this morning.

A few weeks ago when I arrived it was even more difficult. Training effects. I wonder if habituating my lungs to filter the saturated air is even healthy. This though makes me hesitate as I double-know my shoe lace.

Physiological changes take time, but the hardest part is conditioning my mind to the forecast. It’s not looking good for the long-term and its not about to change over the next ten miles.

08.26 MORE FESTA

I’m cheating. I took this photo two weeks ago at the Feast of Saint Lawrence. Nearly every week a different feast is celebrated on the islands during the summer, each inviting a visiting marching band to join local musicians in a parade around the local square. The church is strung with lights and the town is alive with chants and cheers for their patron saint.

I could easily have taken a similar picture today when I visited the feast of Our Lady of Loreto in a town called Gajnseliem, but I happened to like this photo in particular and wanted to fit it in someplace. This is not to suggest that a feast is a feast is a feast. If I were to utter that thought I would be shipped off of the island on the next available sinking raft. While each celebration follows a similar ritual, different towns add a characteristic twist to their particular feast.

Gajnseliem’s feast is known for its glitzy fireworks display, which left me with a kink in my neck from looking at the sky this evening. Perhaps a more suitable photo for this feast might have captured the colourful explosions. But I couldn’t take my eye off of the incredible show. I guess I’ll have to keep that picture tucked away in the memory bank.

08.25 IM-QARRUN

Im-Qarrun (pronounced im-ar-oun) is a baked pasta dish and a staple of the Maltese diet. Traditionally it is prepared in advance and taken to a local stone oven bakery where it is cooked. I remember lugging the heavy dish of pasta and bolognaise sauce up the street to Carmel the Baker’s as a kid, watching as he carefully slid the pasta platter alongside loaves of bread and home made pizzas. Fresh bread always smells good, but the aroma at Carmel’s bakery was intoxicating. After a few hours, I’d head back to the bakery with my mom to find our Im-Qarrun cooked perfectly to a crisp. We’d grab a loaf of bread in the meantime and head home for lunch with our warm pasta.

The Not-So-Secret, Simplified Recipe:
(For the Secret and More Advanced Recipe, beg my mother)

3 Cups Bolognaise Sauce
1/3 Cup Ricotta Cheese
4 Eggs
1 1/2 Cups Parmesan
500 g Large Penne Noodles

Boil the pasta until it is aldente, rinse under cool water. In a large bowl combine the ricotta cheese and eggs. Add the Parmesan and stir until creamy. Mix in the Bolognaise Sauce a third at a time. Pour mixture over the penne to combine all of the ingredients and stir.
Place in a greased, deep dish and bake, covered, at 400 degrees for 45 – 60 minutes. Remove the cover from the dish during the last 15 minutes of baking to crisp the top.

08.24 GOOD-BYE

Ciao. Sayonara. Adios. Arrivederci.
Doesn't matter how you put it. It sucks to say good bye.
It's especially hard when a reunion is not planned.
The next time I see my sister she could be thirty.
I’m glad I didn’t remind her of that.
It might have caused a flash-flood of tear shed.

08.23 LAST SUPPER

It’s the last night my family will be together for a while. For an indefinite while. Clair and Mark will be taking off for Toronto tomorrow and I will leave for the UK in a week or so. We enjoyed a last supper of traditional Maltese Ftijra (pronounced Ft-ee-rah), a stone-baked open faced crust. Sort of like a traditional, but fancied up, pizza.

The past few nights have been about story-telling. My parents revealed intricacies of their early years together, of their struggle to build a Canadian home away from their beautiful home in Malta. Their sacrifices are disconcerting and impossible to recompense. Their adventures are incredible to learn.

I consider how differently my life would have unfurled had I been raised on these islands. I consider how changed my life might have been if my father, having a plane ticket from Malta to Winnipeg, had not disembarked at Pearson Airport instead.

I might have been a Prairie Girl.
Lucky break.

08.22 HEAT WAVE

The temp is 30 celcius without the humidity index.
And rising.
Heat wave.
Not my kind of wave.
I prefer this sort of wave.
Can't imagine surviving without the sea.

08.21 TAL-FELLIES

I joined my dad along a trek through his family-owned farmland. The plot of land rests along a terraced hillside in an area of fields called Tal-Fellies. Barren and dry, the land hasn’t been cultivated in years but a few surviving almond trees still bear fruit. A sign that there is life on this earth is enough to instil hope that it will not continue to go to waste for long. If I lived here I’d certainly take a hoe to the ground and get some figs growing and tomatoes going.

08.20 VALLETTA

We toured the capital city today. Valletta is an ancient fortress town overlooking the grand harbour, which is a major port for cargo and cruise ships alike. The city’s main arteries extend from St. John’s Co-Cathedral built by the Knights of Saint John in the 15th century. This ornate edifice houses original works by the rogue artist Micahelangelo Carvaggio. He was exiled to Malta where he produced some of his greatest paintings.

The town, also a major marketplace and shopping district is bustling with tourists. In a startling contrast, antiquated buildings house brand name shops and fast food joints -including McDonalds- are packed with hungry patrons.

On a tight budget and a strictly Mediterranean diet, I opted to avoid the tourist hub and instead explored the residential side streets of Valletta. Just a short walk from the city centre, narrow cobblestone streets seclude residents from busy traffic. Their houses and flats are built skyward, providing a shaded refuge on this, the first day of a forecasted heat wave. It is 35 degrees and I realize that getting lost in the streets of Valletta with only a small bottle of Perrier is like trekking through the middle of the Sahara.

Without straying too far, I was able to find a quiet street way leading down toward to the harbour. A concave stairway carries me along a stretch of jagged houses with colourful doorways and laundry strung from balconies. The asymmetry gives the street a surreal appearance, as though it is a Tim Burton creation, only not so creepy.

It is quaint residence, inducing a slight claustrophobia unless you have an upper level flat allowing a view of the harbour which opens to the sea. I considered this for a moment, but realized that I can’t imagine living in this quaint ancient town. It is so far from the spacious, symmetrical neighbourhood spread that I am used to.
I followed the roads leading up from the harbour to find my way back to the city square. Just enough Perrier to get me back to (pseudo-modern day) reality.

08.19 SIESTA

Everything in Malta shuts down after one o’clock. It is the afternoon siesta.
Even the stray cats find a shaded spot in my grandparent’s yard and chill for a while.
It’s not quite 11 o’clock though.
But then nobody around here (and certainly not the cats) pays much attention to the time.

08.18 BEACH WORM

I have found no better place to enjoy a good book than in the Red Sand at Ramla Bay. Current Read: The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell. It's in-depth and pretty interesting if you're into sociology and cultural studies stuff. One chapter to go.

08.17 FRESH CATCH

I spent the day on an old wood paneled yacht, called the Barborosa, cruising around the islands Gozo and Comino with a group of my cousins. About twenty of us had the enormous sailboat to ourselves and (as if this wasn’t enough space) the limitless boundaries of the Mediterranean horizon in our view.

The crew was generous and accommodating as most Maltese are. After lunch, I went into the cabin for a glass of wine just as they were preparing their own meal. A portion of beer battered Lampuki and Gringa along with grilled onions and tomatoes picked fresh from the captain’s garden were immediately plated for me, and I spent some time getting to know the Barborosa Crew.

These sea men are a practical bunch, making a living off the tourism industry in the summer, and returning to local jobs in the wintertime. One of them is a teacher, the other runs a hot dog stand by night. The third works in the shipyard year round, maintaining yachts.

This evening, they were fisherman. As we cruised along Gozo’s coastline one of the crew spotted a large fish afloat in the water. It was dead, but clearly fresh, with a hook left in one fin to indicate it was another fisherman’s loss. Without hesitation our yacht’s chef dove into the deep sea toward the floating fins and bare-handedly claimed his prize: A 30 kilo Acchula. A monger will buy this delicate whitefish from the crew, leaving them with the equivalent of three hundred or so dollars at the end of the day. Nice bonus.

I was hoping they’d whip up another fish fry. But I can’t complain – I definitely got my money’s worth from today’s adventure at sea.

08.16 CARL

This is Carl, my second cousin. He is outgoing and engaging, a very sociable three year old. He has to be. His parents own and run the very successful Saint Andrews Hotel and Restaurant in Xlendi Bay and it is peak season for tourism in Malta.

Every day, Carl encounters travellers from across the globe, visiting Malta and seeking accommodation at his family’s hotel. If the luxurious rooms and exquisite restaurant overlooking a spectacular rockfaced bay at Xlendi doesn’t reel guests in, the amicable and informal doorboy will.

08.15 FESTA

It is a national holiday and the biggest feast day in Malta. Santa Maria is celebrated in the streets of six towns across the islands. Here in Gozo, the festival takes place at the ancient Citadel in Victoria. People gather to party and pay homage to their female deity. The celebration starts at dusk when a life-sized statue of Santa Maria is carried out of the church on the backs of six dutiful and devout men who tour the effigy throughout the city streets, followed by a line-up of bishops, priests, and clergy men and a local marching band. It is a long, sweaty parade.

After touring the streets for a few hours the back-broken men carry the statue into the church, lit up like the Griswold Family home in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. An impressive show of fireworks further lights the sky as hundreds crowed Victoria’s square to welcome their patron mother with fervent applause, and a somewhat drunken rendition of Ave Maria.

The party continues in the town streets, until the wine has run out and the beer tap is dry. Johnny’s hot dog stand makes a killing, and a line up of ice cream trucks can’t scoop fast enough to keep up with hungry patrons.

Il festa-tajba.

08.14 GALEA-MOBILE

This is the Galea-mobile. It’s a 1987 Renault. Makes me feel young again.
And it makes us all feel a lot taller too. Mark can barely squeezes his 6’2” self into the back seat and its even a tight squeeze for my sister and I, a foot shorter than he is.

My parents bought the rickety old auto about four years ago and are driving it to the dirt before they have to replace it with something that is hopefully bigger and better, and perhaps with power steering this time.

With a full load and in lowest gear, the old engine can barely haul us up the steep slopes of Xaghra, stalling here and there and often just at the crest of a steep hill. Relieved to reach any destination, the lot of us pile out of the car like a clown show at the circus.

My dad confessed to have replaced the windshield washer container with an old plastic detergent bottle and there is a spatula under the hood that holds this mechanism together together.
It’s no wonder I walk myself to the beach every day.

This car can turn even the laziest person into a pedestrian.

08.13 GALEA CLAN

There are twelve of us. Thirteen in spirit if you count Fiona who passed away suddenly ten years ago: Rueben, Wayne, Irving, Aaron, Tracy, Sephora, Victoria, Glynn, Scott, Allison, my sister Clair, and I. We are branches of the Galea Family Tree, cousins descended from a Brady Bunch of six: My paternal grandparents had three girls and three boys.

Despite our common ancestry, we are each very different in appearance and character. We all celebrate, with pride, our Maltese heritage, although more than half of us were born outside of the country where we reunited this evening. It has been over 15 years since we were all together.

Wayne still looks like a young Harrison Ford.
Glynn and Irving are nearly impossible to tell apart.
Victoria and Sephora are ten years younger but a few inches taller than me.
Aaron and Tracy are going to be married next year. Allison has been married twice.
Scott and Wayne are both expecting babies.

Buds on the branches of our family tree.

08.12 HOLDING UP THE FORT

Resting atop Mark’s palm is the ancient fortress town of Rabat, or Victoria. The foundations were established in Neolithic times. During medieval times it became the traditional business hub of Gozo, where merchants once gathered for trade and where fresh goods are bartered and bought today.

The city is hidden within an enclosure of limestone walls, stories high. From atop this structure, the brave Knights of Saint John battled Turkish warriors imposing on the islands, which were a key access point to the Mediterranean. Those who managed to catapult themselves overtop the fortress walls were soon lost in a maze of narrow cobblestone streets. The Knights easily cornered and bludgeoned their Saracen enemies.

Eventually the Ottoman Empire succeeded in taking over the Maltese Islands, reigning for centuries until the Roman Empire conquered the archipelago. During this period, captors left a legacy woven into the traditions and culture of the Maltese. Today, delicious Turkish Halva is eaten without remorse, the infrastructure reveals an Eastern Mediterranean influence looking much like Greence and Turkey, and the Maltese pleasantly greet one another in a language akin to Arabic.

Although they eventually lost their battle, the island warriors fought bravely to hold down their fort. It was not as easy as Mark makes it look.

08.11 LAWS OF GRAVITY

“The faster we get there the sooner I can get back to bed.”
That’s the spirit, I tell Ryan after asking if he wants to slow the pace at all.
Ryan is visiting Malta with my cousin, and his fiancée, Tracy.

We met just after the break of dawn for a hilly, I should say mountainous, run around Gozo.

On Gozo, the terrain is challenging making even a slow pace tough to maintain uphill. Running here is testimony of the counter to Newton’s Law of Gravity - Tracy and I remind Ryan that what goes down, must come up.

08.10 NANNU MIKILI

This is Mikili Galea. After the axis finally stopped dropping the bombs on Malta, he emerged from an underground shelter to marry the dashing Vittoria Sultana. Together they produced six babies. Boom. Just like that.

My dad was one of them, born in a neighbourhood called Nazzarenu in 1946. He was named after the town he was born in; Reno for short. I’m glad my parents decided against Fontainbleu. Do I look like a Fontainblue to you?

At the age of 93 Nannu Mikili recalled stories from the war, told tales of my aunts and uncles growing up, and had a name for each of the dozen plus stray cats he feeds in his yard every day. He loves animals

He is 94 now. It has been only a year since I saw him last, yet he doesn’t remember my face or name. “I’m your favourite grand daughter from Canada,” I remind him “the one that always buys you the liquorice candies.” He digs into his trouser pockets, unbuttoned and secured instead by brown suspenders, and hands me a yellow and red coloured candy from his pocket. It’s his last.

I am tempted by the familiar smell of black liquorice as the cellophane wrapper is opened. But I insist he save the candy for later and promise to bring a bag full from the city market. Our conversation will dissolve from his recollection, but I will stay true to my word.

His memory is failing.

He is set free from the haunting memories of wartime, hunger and illness. But along goes the recollection of familiar faces, of neighbours and friends, and of the family he raised in Nazzarenu.

They say smell is the sense most strongly associated with memory.
I’m hoping the bag of liquorice candy I deliver hits a cerebral cord.

08.09 THE GROCERY TRUCK

Lawrence is the mobile grocery guy. He swings through our neighbourhood every day with fresh fruits and vegetables along with a selection of local preserves and wines. There are several supply trucks that loop around Xaghra (pronounced Sha-ra), the mountaintop town where we live. In addition to Lawrence’s groceries, we have a regular supply of chickens and also fish when the catch is good.

It’s so old fashioned, but it still works. And I love it.
Malta has grocery stores, but even the town supermarket is about the size of a Seven Eleven.

Like the ice cream truck familiar to so many North American kids, each mobile grocer has a distinctive horn, although you can smell the fish truck coming in case you have potatoes in your ears and can’t hear it. This morning, my mom and I both went running out to the truck as though Lawrence was handing out ice cream cones for free. Even better, he had a stock supply of local honey, vine ripe tomatoes and fresh figs. After a day of relying on in-flight service, eating what was on the menu only out of sheer boredom, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on something substantial.

This hit the spot.

08.08 GAUDOS

I am on the Ferry from Malta to the smaller island, Gozo. The origin of the word Gozo is Greek and is derived from Gaudos meaning, “Enjoy Life.”

I have barely arrived on my parent’s homeland before I am already enjoying the lifestyle. Here, locals are laid back, enjoy frequent siestas, weekly fiestas and spend summers at the beach.

I plan to immerse myself in this culture over the next few weeks.

08.07 RE-EMPTYING THE NEST

Hopefully this is the last time I move out of my parents place. I wouldn’t describe the situation as a Failure to Launch, but rather the result of a Boomerang Effect with every catapulting exodus.

Twice, I moved out with the intent of returning home after spending a summer on Pelee Island and following my exchange overseas to Australia. When I finally packed the van and hit the highway to Hamilton we all though that this was it; I had emptied the nest.

But I returned last fall, after completing my studies, not really certain what I would do with a master’s in health psychology. The seemingly logical step is to go back for more. In an effect it is another sort of boomerang effect following one degree after another. I don’t plan on this becoming a chronic pattern.

The nest is emptied for at least a year and a half.
The next thing to clear out is the Nest Egg.
Since I’m moving to England, this should be no problem at all.

08.06 LILY POTATO

This is Lily. At merely eight months she was already walking and at one year Aunt Casey, balancing her by both hands, takes her for short sprint-running bouts. She’s a strong kid, and this is probably why I didn’t hesitate to sweep her up and carry her in my arms.

I am usually pretty uncomfortable with babies, especially newborns who appear especially fragile. With my arms folded awkwardly, I will hold a baby as though suffering an acute and premature onset of rigor mortis. But the helpless little thing realizes my discomfort and typically cries out for release before anybody actually needs to call an ambulance to revive me from the stress-induced heart attack that is sure to follow a baby-hold one of these days.

Time and time again, I have been told that babies are robust, that they can be carried and punted around like footballs. I refuse to believe this and don’t plan on finding out for myself. But from the looks of her, I think Lily could be tossed around like a Hot Potato and she would be just fine.

Maybe this is why Casey calls her Lily Potato.

08.05 WOAH JESUS!

In the beginning, there was a replica of The Last Supper in the basement of Tuna’s parent’s house. I wasn’t present at the genesis of the Woah Jesus stance but understand that it originated under the influenced of some herbal hallucinogen.

That night, after scrutinizing the painting like a bunch of DaVinci de-Coders, one of the girls noticed that James, the guest to the left of the Host with the Most appeared to be holding his hands up in dismay, as if to exclaim, “Woah Jesus!”

And so, on this day, the girls saw that it was good. And Landry does St. James' impression really good.

08.04 RECEIVING ROOM

Meredith and John bought a home together on Wintermute Street. It’s a strange name for a street. What on earth is a Wintermute? My guess is it describes the momentary speechlessness after somebody winds up and wheels a snowball hard and fast at your face.

Their house on Wintermute includes a Receiving Room which they just painted red. Again, what on earth is a Receiving Room? Is it a glorified vestibule? None of us are really certain of the formalities that are supposed to take place in this allocated space. Should I have brought the new homeowners a housewarming plant that they could have received here? Or maybe I was supposed to let myself in through the front door to find Mer- and J-Lo waiting here to receive their next guest.

We stood for a while considering the receiving room. I suggest they refurbish a bunch of their shower gifts and maybe last year’s Christmas presents and call it a Giving Room. At least that way they’d be Receiving a lot more company all the way out in Belle River…

08.03 THE LAST STRAW

It’s girl’s night out and you’re hopping bars downtown as best you can in high heels and a mini skirt. After batting a few eyelashes you sneak past the line into Jack Rabbits and just as you’re about to tear up the dance floor (again, as best you can in high heels), you bump into your boyfriend hitting on another girl who can hold her own in stilettos.

You finally put your shoes to good use by taking one off to throw it at his head, now deflated from the ego-tearing rant you sputtered while he tried his best to look innocent. Then, in an effort to gain impetus you search for the straw that links your mouth to your fuel and suck back the frozen rock bottom of your daiquiri. There is a final gurgling slurp before you run out of juice and aggressively slam your glass down on the bar beside you.

He has a smirk on his face. Your anger turns to fury.
But why doesn’t he seem to get it?
It must have been the straw.

Tuna argues that it’s impossible to look angry while drinking from a straw.
So we tried to. It wasn’t easy.
What do you think?

08.02 DAIRY FREEZ

Casey, Jen and I took a road trip out to the county this afternoon. Our first stop, in Wheatley, was (Casey’s) Aunt Heather’s shop. She sells all sorts of decorative odds and ends…fancy knickknacks and things. Aunt Heather is a Leamington resident but knows the ins and outs of the W-dot and eagerly suggested all sorts of things to do while visiting Wheatley. So, we ventured down to the dock which harboured a dozen or so industrial and fishing boats and drove up to the beach (which I would liken to an uncontained sand box) before we exhausted ourselves of the small town and made our way to Tomato Town.

Here we bought all the fixings for a picnic but took it to Jen’s grandparents apartment with the plan to hop in their pool after lunch. Instead, we ate until we could just barely stuff in the perfectly ripe and oversized local peaches they had just picked up from a neighbour’s roadside stand.

I thought I had had a good old fashioned trip to the county, until we passed the Dairy Freez where, to Jen and Casey’s flabbergastedness I had never eaten. This place is a landmark to Essex County, having been established for decades and never ever changed a bit. It’s apparantly not a proper trip to the county without a pit stop for a soft cone with chocolate sauce. We endulged before finally returning to the city, exhausted and stuffed silly.

I’m only warming up to the tourist mode.

08.01 MOVEMENT SCIENCE

With a background in Kinesiology I should have more confidence in physical therapy practices. It wasn't until my right limb had me teetering precariously with every step before I made arrangements to see my friend and physiotherapist Charlotte Loaring

In a single treatment she identified the potential cause of my right limb pain as a weakness in my gluteus medius. Time to get my butt in gear according to this prognosis

Limited strength around my right hip is causing this joint to drop with every step, throwing my gait out of line. The result is a cascade of mild injuries resulting from chronic stress. Damn marathon training.

A second and unusual problem spot is my right big toe. Instead of grounding my foot to balance every step it departs from the ground placing most of the impact on my already pancaked arch.

Its an ugly sight to see me run in slow motion.

After adjusting my ankle joint, stretching my metatarsals, and performing acupuncture along my right limb, Charlotte sent me off with a series of balance and strengthening exercises which should keep my injuries at bay at least until my training slows.

A reminder to this BHK that movement is indeed a science.