Malta 3 – Rabat, Golden Bay & Gozo

Soon after my arrival in Malta I purchased a bus card that allowed me twelve trips on Malta and Gozo islands, with a free transfer if taken within two hours. One of my first excursions was to the Royal Navy Hospital in Mfarta and then the National Archives in nearby Rabat, as described in my last blog post. After finishing at the archives, I asked a man on the street if he could recommend somewhere to dine – it was well after one o’clock – and he suggested the Club Partit Laburista in the square.

The first thing that caught my eye when I entered the dining area, was the ceiling:

I ordered a cool beer to accompany my breaded fish, and felt in no hurry to leave – the décor in this place was pleasing: bright and modern. There were not many other customers, and I couldn’t help noticing the man eating his meal at the next table. A chubby character, he shovelled food into his mouth, with copious amounts escaping down the front of his T-shirt, and his table companion seemingly oblivious. Eventually, the manager of the dining area approached with broom in hand, and a rueful smile in my direction. The manager pointed to the mess on the floor and admonished the diner who lurched to his feet and, accompanied by his companion, made for the panelled wooden door of the ‘club members area’. He seemed to lack a belt, and it was only his broad hips that stopped his trousers sliding down to the floor.

After finishing my lunch, I contemplated going to nearby Medina, the ancient capital of Malta, but decided that three towns in one day was too much. I had noticed a sign indicating the Wignacourt Museum, and I spent some time there instead. Being alone, I paid two euro extra for an audio guide. (I tend not to do this when I’m visiting museums with a friend – either the friend has been here before and is keen to show me the highlights, or, if we’re both first-timers, we can compare our insights.)

The museum is in a baroque building built as a residence for the Chaplains of the Knights of Malta. It includes an underground level which has catacombs with a complex of around fifty rooms that were used as shelters during World War II. The museum also allows you to go down through an underground passage to St Paul’s Grotto, the place where the Apostle Paul was believed to have stayed after getting shipwrecked in Malta.

I emerged from the museum, and was searching for the bus stop, when I noticed other tourists, guidebooks in hands, talking about a nearby baroque church that would open for visitors at 5.00 p.m. Although I felt tired, I was intrigued and decided to remain in Rabat a little longer. I found a shady bench, and sat down to wait.

I entered St Paul’s church as soon as the doors opened. Volunteers were still gliding around turning on lights. And how glorious the church was!

I am a keen swimmer, and so one morning I caught a bus to Golden Bay. It was a treat to slip discretely into my bikini on the crowded beach and wade out into the sea. The sand was golden, the surrounding hills clothed in dry grass and old ruins to one side, and hotels to the other; and there were little businesses selling strawberries, oranges, lemons, ices, coffee and snacks. It felt a little sad to be on my own, as the Maltese islands lend themselves to enjoying the good life with others, but I knew I would soon have plenty of company in France.

I wanted to visit Malta’s ‘little sister island’ of Gozo at least once, and so, around eleven o’clock on the Saturday, I caught a bus to the ferry terminal at Ic-Cirkewwa. What a mistake it was, to go so late! The bus crawled through huge traffic jams, and it took us two hours to cover the twenty-eight kilometre distance. The elderly lady sitting next to me with a bag full of shopping said she’d caught a 7.00 am ferry across from Gozo, had a rapid bus trip to Valletta and was now returning home.

The vehicular ferries do the twenty-minute run to Gozo every forty-five minutes or so.

 I had no particular plans for Gozo, but noticing people boarding the bus to Marsalforn Bay I did the same (after all, I’d packed my bikini in my backpack). This proved to be a happy choice, as I had a wonderful swim. The particular spot was frequented mostly by snorkelers, and so I glided through the water as silently as I could. There were steps down to the sea from a rock platform.

Afterwards, I had a coffee ice cream and then enquired of passers-by as to where I might catch a bus back to the ferry terminal. One couple offered to drive me there. Cautious about accepting lifts from strangers, I rejected their offer – I regretted this when I located the bus stop and realised I had nearly an hour to wait. I decided that to see Gozo, with its archaeological sites and other points of interest, it is better to have a car, or else to stay on the island so you can best manage your dependency on buses, most of which fan out from the town of Victoria.

It was very hot, but, noticing a sign directing visitors to a path which would take them past farmers’ fields, I set off for a walk and found that the path was well lined with trees.

Back to the bus stop – heat bouncing off road – a long chat to another widow – bus to the terminal – immediate ferry – long wait for Valletta bus (the one that was supposed to meet our ferry didn’t turn up) – slow but rather beautiful bus trip back to Valletta in the evening – a late, light meal of poached eggs accompanied by a glass of Maltese rosé back in my apartment.

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

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'.