Horses of Salt and Wind: The Ephemeral Sculptures Galloping Across Malta’s Cliffs

Horses of Salt and Wind: How Malta’s Coastline Became an Open-air Sculpture Stable
By Hot Malta staff

On a blustery March evening, the stretch of golden limestone between Għajn Tuffieħa and Ġnejna Bay looks less like a beach and more like a theatre. Waves slap the cliffs, the scent of thyme hangs in the salt air, and—if you squint—half-buried silhouettes rear out of the rock: horses caught mid-gallop, necks arched, manes frozen by the wind. They are not ancient Carthaginian relics, nor props left over from some Ridley Scott production. They are the “Horses of Salt and Wind,” a community-driven land-art project started by three Maltese childhood friends who wanted to re-claim their shoreline for something other than sunset selfies.

The concept is disarmingly simple. Using only clay from the slope above, seawater, and the razor-sharp mistral that barrels across the islands in early spring, volunteers sculpt horse heads directly onto the cliff face. Nothing is fired, nothing is sold. Within days the sculptures crack, flake, and finally blow away as ochre dust, re-coating the rocks with the very earth they borrowed. The ephemerality is the point, says co-founder Luke Caruana, 29, a part-time geography teacher from Rabat. “We’re not building souvenirs; we’re borrowing time. Every sculpture is a love letter that self-destructs.”

From Trojan myth to the Knights’ marble coats-of-arms, horses have always cantered through Maltese iconography. But here the animal becomes a metaphor for impermanence—something islanders understand viscerally. Phoenician harbours sink beneath modern hotels; 19th-century limestone balconies flake like stale bread; even EU accession feels like yesterday’s news. By carving horses that vanish before the first tourists drop their towels, the project reminds viewers that Malta’s real constant is change itself.

Local impact has been unexpectedly profound. Farmers from nearby Mġarr donate wooden pallets so volunteers can reach higher ledges safely. Scouts from Dingli bring kettles to boil sea-water for stronger clay slip. A Gozitan baker known only as “Tat-Tiġieġa” supplies ftira still warm from the wood oven, accepting payment in leftover clay she later moulds into miniature stallions for her shop window. In a country where coastal land is usually fought over by developers and boathouse squatters, the horses have created a temporary commons where age, passport, and political colour mean nothing. “I sculpted beside an 83-year-old man who remembers when this bay had no road,” says volunteer student Marta Vella. “He cried when the nose of his horse collapsed. Said it felt like burying his youth all over again—except this time he chose to let go.”

The project has also nudged environmental awareness. Because the clay must be free of plastic shards and cigarette butts, participants spend the first hour of every session collecting litter. Data collected by the group shows that the weekly clean-ups remove an average of 42 kg of waste—mostly bottle caps and frayed fishing line—that would otherwise choke marine life. “We’re not green-washing,” insists co-founder and marine biologist Rebecca Zammit. “But if people fall in love with a place, they’re less likely to trash it. The horses seduce first, educate second.”

Not everyone is neighing with delight. Some hunters complain the weekend gatherings scare away game; one Facebook commenter dismissed the sculptures as “hippie sandcastles.” Yet even critics recognise the tourism potential. MTA officials quietly attended last month’s full-moon session, smartphone cameras rolling. Sources inside the authority say a mini-documentary is being edited for the Maltese Islands’ official Instagram, though no branding will appear—an attempt to keep the experience “authentic.”

Will the horses ride on? Winter storms will erase the last nostril-shaped groove by April, but the trio already dreams of expanding: clay dolphins at St. Peter’s Pool, maybe a herd of goats in Wied il-Għasel. “Malta is small,” Luke shrugs, wind whipping his hair into its own wild mane. “But our coast is an endless canvas—if we agree not to sign our names.”

As the sun sinks toward Filfla, a new group arrives clutching reusable buckets. Someone tunes a radio to Radju Malta; the traditional għana ballad “Il-Baħar Jgħidli” mingles with the crash of waves. Tonight another horse will be born, muscles rippling under salt skin, eyes wide to the African horizon. By next week it will be gone, grains of Rabat red mingling with Saharan dust in the first sirocco of the season. And that, ultimately, is the Maltese condition: beauty carved between two continents, forever galloping into its own disappearance.