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.