When Pigeons Plan: The Great Gozitan Olive Heist

The Beginnings of Bizarre

In the serene town of Victoria, Gozo, where the citadel stands watch like an old headmaster over the playground of fields and houses, the locals woke to a ruckus unlike any other. Dun Filippu, the unofficial ‘mayor’ of Ta’ Kola Windmill farm, had a problem that set the village square abuzz—one that involved his precious olive trees, a flock of scheming pigeons, and missing buckets of olives poised to become the season’s finest olive oil.

Dun Filippu, a stout man with a moustache as thick as ħobż biż-żejt on a Sunday morning, discovered the oddity when he noticed his prize olive tree, affectionately named ‘Oliviera,’ bereft of the plump fruits that were just yesterday hanging like little green lanterns. No storm had passed, no thieves had been spotted; it was as if the olives had sprouted wings.

Uwejja! Dun Filippu exclaimed, scratching his head and adjusting his flat cap. “Where in the blue Mediterranean could they have vanished to?”

The Plight of the Pigeon Syndicate

As improbable as it seemed, the answer lay with a certain feathery faction known to the locals as “Il-Banda tat-Tumbarelli,” a mob of unusually plump pigeons led by none other than a clever bird named Beppe with a penchant for shiny things. These winged marauders were tired of scavenging for scraps and had taken to grander schemes.

An Olive Branch of Conspiracy

“Ejjew hawn, you lot,” Beppe cooed, perched atop Mdina’s bastions as he briefed his cohort. “This year, we’re quittin’ crumbs. We go big—we go olives! I’ve seen how humans treasure ’em, like they’re the diamonds of the soil. We lift the olives, and humanity will bow to our beaks!”

The flock nodded in feathery fervor, their minds set on the luscious spoils of Gozo. They’d watched the farmers tirelessly cultivate the olive groves, so they knew precisely where to deploy their aerial heist.

Operation ‘Ħarġa Tal-Mużew’

Back at Ta’ Kola Windmill farm, Dun Filippu rallied a motley crew of local characters to solve the green-tinged mystery. There was Carmena, the sharp-eyed nanna who could spot a ripe fig from three fields over, and Salvu, the part-time fisherman who swore by the lucky charms dangling from his luzzu that had helped him navigate through tougher storms.

As they combed through the groves, leaving no stone or olive leaf unturned, Salvu’s gaze drifted upwards. “Mela, don’t pigeons usually feast on seeds and insects? Those buggers overhead look… uncharacteristically well-fed.”

Flights of Foil

The plot thickened as Carmena squinted and made an astonishing discovery. “Miskin Oliviera! Them birds ain’t interested in the usual scraps. They’ve got the taste for olives now, and I bet my boot they’re the culprits!”

Dun Filippu’s jaw dropped. “A pigeon heist? Kollox is possible, but this?” he muttered, as the others nodded in semi-belief, semi-bewilderment.

Salvu grabbed his worn-out cap, slapped it against his thigh, and declared, “Time to set a trap—a feast they won’t forget. We’ll catch ’em red-clawed!”

The Showdown at San Lawrenz

The townspeople, armed with nets, pots of rabbit stew (decoy for the scent of olives), and a mountain of stale bread, gathered at the central square of San Lawrenz, betting pastizzi on the outcome of this whimsical warfare.

As the orange sun bid its adieu, the birds descended. The scene erupted into chaos as townsfolk leaped from their hiding spots, waving nets and throwing bread like confetti at a riotous wedding.

Beppe, the mastermind pigeon, found himself a spectacle. He saw Dun Filippu looming overhead, pot of rabbit stew in hand, a wry smile plastered on his face. “Gotcha, ya flappy thief!” Dun Filippu exclaimed, as he scooped Beppe up.

The Feathered Fallout

The pigeon heist was no more, and peace returned to Gozo’s gentle groves. Beppe, having struck a deal, switched sides and became a tour guide, much to tourists’ delight, narrating the tale of ‘The Great Gozitan Olive Heist’ in a series of coos and pecks.

Dun Filippu, forever known as the man who outsmarted a pigeon syndicate, learnt never to underestimate those with wings, or a Nanna’s intuition. As for the pigeons, they went back to their simple diet, eyeing the village’s ħobż biż-żejt with a newfound respect—and a touch of longing.

And in the heart of the ‘Times of Mela,’ the story was already being spun into folklore, the tale of when pigeons planned and a small town in Gozo laughed all the way to the olive press.