Malta 2 – Royal Navy Hospital at Mfarta

The young man sitting next to me on the number 51 bus to Mfarta said he was a local and would tell me where to get off for the Royal Navy Hospital. He added that his sister had been born there before it closed, and it was not a place usually visited by tourists. I explained that my late husband, who was Scottish, had spent ten months at the hospital, as a dietary cook, when doing his national service years ago.

It would, in fact, have been hard to miss the hospital – the building is huge. It looked sadly deserted, with a tall wire fence as if to keep people out, but I noticed there were cars parked in the grounds and the gate was open, so I took this as an invitation to enter. I prowled around the front of the building first of all, looking for anything that might relate to Bill’s experience, and was startled to find this etched on the wall:

1950 happens to be the year Bill served at the hospital and so my discovery gave me quite a tingle. (In retrospect, of course, the date probably relates to work that was done on this wall.)

The Royal Navy Hospital was built before World War I and later became the main hospital for military personnel in the eastern Mediterranean. Its name was changed to The David Bruce Royal Naval Hospital some time in the 1950s and that is still the name above the main entrance.

Having entered, I found that the huge building, which would have buzzed with doctors, nurses, patients, military personnel when Bill was here, was seemingly deserted. I walked the corridors, discouraged to see whole wings closed off. Then I climbed some stairs and found an area that was not only renovated but had a receptionist. I explained my mission and asked if he had any idea where the hospital kitchens might have been. ‘Yes’, he said. ‘We were shown the hospital plans recently. I think the kitchen was at the foot of the stairs you’ve just climbed up.’ He assured me I could view the plans for myself if I went to the National Archives in Rabat, a short bus trip away. He wrote down the address for me, and also satisfied my curiosity as to the nature of the business he represents – it is educational, and there are a few other such businesses in the building.

I found nothing resembling a kitchen at the foot of the stairs, but I was reluctant to leave the complex and so I wandered the grounds, taking photographs. This photo shows two of the hospital wings, with Mfarta in the background.

 On alighting from the bus in Rabat, I realised I would need to ask for more directions. (Would Google Maps loaded onto a smartphone have helped geographically-challenged me? Unlikely – and besides, that would reduce the number of interesting people interactions.)  I stepped into a small shop with an ‘information sign’ outside. The proprietor was patiently working on the stuck zip of a tourist’s shoulder bag. When it was my turn to be served, I posed my question and he took me outside and pointed to a narrow street between tall white buildings on the far side of the square. He said to ask for St Francis if I got lost.

The National Archives, housed in a building with the name of a saint above the door, and a discreet sign in Maltese announcing archives, were not easy to find. Once inside, however, and having presented my credentials, I was able to view detailed plans of the hospital – plan after digitised plan. And yes, here at last was the kitchen where Bill would have spent much of his time – not just a kitchen, but a whole block. The kitchen, bread store, milk store, milk pasturing area, all had white marmor terrazzo floors. Within the kitchen was a beef tea extractor, an open roaster and a carving table. The block also featured a scullery, vegetable scullery, grocery store, cooks’ room, cooks’ cloaks, not to forget specialised yards outside. Bill would have been well used to kitchens that were on a grand scale. He had spent the years 1946-1948, at ages fifteen to seventeen, as a commis chef at the North British Hotel in Edinburgh.

I could have purchased these plans on CD, but I contented myself with making a sketch. I had got the feel of the place, seen plans for the kitchen block and the rest of the complex, and I was satisfied.

Postscript:

About a month before he died, Bill had a yen for kedgeree. He said that one of the nursing sisters at the hospital, who had spent much time in India, used to ask him to make it for her. Kedgeree wasn’t part of my repertoire – Bill was the chef in our marriage – but I tried several variations including Delia Smith’s. Bill appreciated my efforts, but I could see that none of my kedgerees lived up to his memory of the consummate dish.

The following year, 2016, I did a poetry course for beginners, and we were asked to write a poem beginning with the words ‘So Much Depends Upon’. This was my effort:

The elusive kedgeree

So much depends on

the butter

Ruth said when I asked

for the secret

of melt in the mouth

kedgeree.

Use lashings of butter

folded right through.

My husband when dying

had craved the dish

he'd once served

to military nurses in Malta.

At his memorial service

I learned at last

what to do.

Bon appétit,  mon amour.

Yes, I got the butter tip too late, but as I said, Bill appreciated my efforts.

This blog post is by Ann Barrie, author of 'Deserter : a novel based on true events'.

Malta 1 - first impressions

I am in Europe for two and a half months -- an opportunity to recharge my batteries and prepare for the next phase in my life. I've been in Germany and Malta, am currently in France, and will go to England and Scotland in July. Whereas many of the postings on this blog will be about my travels during the five years I was writing Deserter:  a novel based on true events, I've decided to write some posts about Malta first of all.  Malta is where my late husband Bill, one of the three men to whom my novel is dedicated, did ten months of his national service -- as a dietary cook at the Royal Navy Hospital at Mtarfa. During our forty years together I persuaded Bill to travel to seventeen countries with me, but I never thought to suggest Malta. It was poignant to travel there on my own, but very special, too.

On the taxi ride from the airport to Valetta I had a series of surprises. The first -- how dry and arid Malta is. The second -- people drive on the left here. The third -- the crumbling limestone buildings. The fourth -- the steepness of the streets in Valletta. And there was a fifth, six, seventh, eighth surprise, too.

My apartment, in an old renovated building in Ursula Street, was long and narrow with cool white limestone walls and tall windows. There was a kitchen, and so I set out in search of the small convenience store I had been told was nearby. As you see from this photo, I had to climb steep steps, but how reassuring to have two saints watching over me at the top. And observe the vivid blue of the sky.

I arrived at the store to find half a dozen people waiting, and the proprietor pottering round doing other things. Eventually, I asked a fellow customer if there was something wrong, and she said, 'No.' A lesson in patience for me. In due course I came out of the store armed with orange juice, milk, sliced bread, marmalade and eggs, all local, plus Irish butter. Walking even a short distance in Valletta you notice the craziness of the traffic. There are small cars everywhere, negotiating their way past each other on the narrow streets or, if necessary, on the footpaths.

Back in my apartment, another surprise – the wall plugs were all British three-prong, but the appliances European two-prong, which necessitated liberal use of adaptors. The television had a hugely complicated system of wires and switches, and so I kept it permanently tuned to Sky News UK, which meant that I got very full coverage of the tragic events in Manchester.

The apartment building had an internal courtyard with coloured lights, and on the fourth floor there was an outdoor swimming pool where I swam some evenings. It was so small that two strong strokes got me from one end to the other, but I loved the view of white buildings and pale blue sky beyond.

Often during the day, I would hear loud music from the radios of workmen who were chipping away at restoring and repairing old buildings that had notices affixed, advising of work in progress. Perhaps these would become more apartments to accommodate the many tourists, particularly British, who come here.

At five o'clock on a balmy Saturday evening, with the windows of my room flung wide open, I sat listening to the bells calling the faithful to Mass. Valletta is full of beautiful old churches, many of them baroque. One of my favourites was the Church of St Paul's Shipwreck (the Acts of the Apostles describes how St Paul was shipwrecked on Malta). The church was up the flight of steps in my photo and then partway up the slope beyond.

This photo shows not only the glorious ceilings, but also a conservator (or technician) patiently chipping away at the cheap plaster that someone had used to mend cracks in the tiles. Elsewhere in the church, a Belgian man who was leading a tour group pointed out to me how much moisture these walls hold.

In my next post I'll write about my visit to the Military Hospital at Mfarta.