Thursday November 6, 2008
A volta in Malta
“Can a country really be this small?” That’s the first thing you think when you’re flying into Malta – especially when you’re in an Emirates plane more suited to transcontinental journeys than the two-hour hop from Larnaca. But for a small country, it packs a massive punch.
Almost as soon as we arrived we were greeted by the kind of thunderstorm the Mediterranean is famous for – short, sharp and dramatic. We sat in Marsaxlokk harbour under an umbrella, watching the forked lightning streak across the sky behind the fishing boats, and I felt like the narrator in Zorba the Greek – sheltering from the rain in Piraeus, waiting for something to happen, just as the irrepressible Zorba wanders into his life.
We met no Zorbas but did encounter some Greek-style drivers as we drove in failing light and driving rain to our hotel. Malta’s overcrowded road network is like a mini-Scalectrix set, with extra potholes for good measure – it’s impossible to go seriously fast because of all the bends, but that doesn’t stop the Maltese from tailgating and undertaking at will. The biggest problem, in fact, is the lack of visible road markings – the Maltese know where the stop lines are supposed to be, but when you don’t, you could be in trouble – as we were when we found ourselves narrowly avoiding a head-on smash with a Merc.
Fortunately, cars are banned from Mdina, the dramatic medieval town where, mapless, we eventually tracked down our hotel – the Xara Palace. The hotel was a highlight of our trip – an 18th-century palace set into the city walls, with views across the whole island. We found a special rate of €450 all-in for our three-day stay – a bargain, considering the service and the atmosphere, not to mention the chance to stay in Mdina after the tourist hordes had gone home.
Next morning we visited the Maltese capital, Valletta. It’s a beautiful mish-mash of a city, with influences from all over the world: its restaurants remind you of Italy, but its centre feels like the Barrio Alto in Lisbon, its rough-and-ready areas like Tangiers, and to watch the yellow, 1950s cars and buses making their way through the city streets, you might even imagine you were in Cuba. But then, of course, you stumble across a UK-style postbox or naval store, and you remember the island’s long maritime association with the UK.
For me, the links with the UK were personal – my grandfather, a Pompey man, had been part of the Malta convoys during the War – and had been stationed here in the 30s before returning home after the conflict.
Across the Valletta are the “Three Cities”, which protect the inlets of the Grand Harbour on its eastern side – and we were lucky enough to find a Saturday-night festival taking place in Vittorioso, the biggest of the three. Although late at night, it was very much a family affair – with beer and pork sandwiches being sold at street stalls, a brass band playing in the main square, and despite the late hour, all the museums open for business – including the 16th-century Inquistors’ Palace, and a maritime museum which reminded me of the one in Portsmouth.
If you ever get the chance to visit Malta’s second island, Gozo, then do. It’s a complete change of scene – and offers a chance to visit Malta’s only serious beach, at Dwejra. The sun came out and I had a go at snorkelling – before visiting the island’s medieval capital, Rabat, amid another bout of driving rain.
Despite the small size of the country, I left feeling that Malta was somewhere I could live. If I didn’t already live on an even crazier Mediterranean island, that is.
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