The stories of my life on a little island in the middle of the Mediterranean sea ... and my occasional adventures beyond these shores.

Thursday, 23 June 2016


Before I got married I lived in the same place, for thirty years, in a town on a hill; a town with ancient roots. It is called Rabat, from the medieval Arabic name for 'suburb' or ‘a fortified place’, but people have lived there since pre-historic times.
It has a variegated history – but you can find that information on any website or even on my other blog (that I have sorely neglected this year). But there’s more to life than history. There are the personal stories; the everyday tears and laughter that no one will ever record or write about. And scattered around this town are little pieces of me: pieces of my history; my story.
Although we lived in the suburbs, I know the old town well. I could walk blind-fold through its winding streets and ancient alleys. But I don't, I walk with my senses all a-buzz, hunting out forgotten doorways; mysterious windows. And here and there, the echoes of yesterday’s laughter reverberate in the silence of my head. I gather them to me, these moments suspended in time, and wear them, like a soft shawl, hugged tightly to my body, to warm my heart on days when life seems bleak: memories of childhood games in shaded alleyways; shadows and whispers of those who have gone but whom we still love; snippets of conversations from balmy summer nights of long ago; teenage giggles in secluded corners – they are there, like a bridge between what was, what is and what will be.
Home, home, home my heart seems to sing as the echo of my footsteps ricochets off of tall buildings in narrow streets. I can still feel their presence, those people who were old when I was just a child. They seem to be here still, benign reminders of the passage of time. There are some whose names I remember - names which sound so strangely archaic now – but others are just faces etched on the canvas on my mind. Maybe that’s what makes a place feel like home, when the ghosts are familiar and the air is thick with memories of half-forgotten yesterdays.
They say that home is where the heart is. But home is more than that. It is a place where the soul lingers long after the body is no more. And, sometimes I wonder, whether after I’m gone, I’ll come back, to join the kindly spirits who wander the streets of that town on the hill.
Querencia: a  place from which one’s strength is drawn, where one feels at home; the place where you are your most authentic self.
Location: Rabat, May 2016


  1. It looks beautiful (and very Italian) where you grew up ! Last year I visited where I spent my childhood, nice memories came back, but everything which seemed to me so big when I was a child was so little in reality now as an adult. The houses were not big but very small, the streets too, it was very strange coming back.

  2. Beautiful way to think of one's home roots.

  3. Beautiful words and heart. I love the meaning of the word, "querencia."❤️

  4. Loree, this is beautifully written. Thank you so much for making me think about what makes a place feel like a home.

  5. This was written in such a poetic manner...I love this post - both the words and the pictures.

  6. I loved taking this stroll with you, and also love the definition of querencia - beautiful!

  7. Loree - such a wonderful post that shared your home. I can envision the young girl who ran through the streets and found joy in this lovely place. As always your writing touches my soul and heart. Take care friend and have a lovely day. Hugs!

  8. YOUR PHOTOS ARE as BEAUTIFUL as your writing!


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