Hot and too hot

Saturday. Went to Valletta for The Feast of San Pawl, Santo Paulus, or just Paul as in Acts 27/28. He is well known in these parts and revered to the point that if those offering displays of reverence and worship in his direction were to actually read what he wrote they may find that he'd be the first to object to the esteem in which he's held.

Morning services in St.Paul's, midday (?) procession of smartly attired local populace, even smarter clergy, effigies and statues carried, plywood columns (painted to look like marble and gold) lining the streets, exuberant brass band playing, fireworks, ticker tape covering the streets to such a depth that the kids treat it as though it were snow and general noise in confined streets hung with banners like an endless corridor of drapery draping. All in all a most exhilarating display primarily for the locals even though many forgot as it's always on 10th February. We enjoyed the experience, too. This year it was 30th January as it's usual date collides with Lent.  

There was a timetable of events prominently displayed but I think it was produced by the bus company.

A couple of hours was enough as was the temperature so we got out of town and returned to the flat. Via the hostelry by the Saluting Battery, naturally.

The trip back had me immersed in blog construction. Intending to "blog" a rather wonderful, probably my very best ever blog, full of colourful photos and appropriate captions but the laptop had other ideas. It declined to assist me in my pursuit of blog nirvana. All thoughts consigned to the dustbin of electronic frustration and intemperance. No grumpiness, though. Calmness was called for. It didn't answer.

I know it's been a bit dodgy although it was the burning smell that gave the game away, but it was not till after lights out when I wondered what the little green flicker that I thought I could see reflected in the window was that I realised that it was constantly shorting. I think that if it had managed a decent connection it would all have melted.

Seems the piece of plastic I put between the wires on the power supply plug had "gone" and once the black bits had been picked off it seems that the white internal insulation has gone all soggy. It's kind of working now, though it remains a tad too hot.

The battery tells me it's full but it's been on (and off) charge since last night and it's the next evening now. As soon as the green light went off and stayed off late this afternoon I backed up all my photos to an external HDD. Now I'm typing and I can't see any little green flashes in the window behind the screen so all's well, again! Possibly.

Anyway, Paul's Fiesta will have to wait till next year as this one's nearing it's end. The BBC has been telling us that the weather back home's not nice, that a Scotsman lost a tennis match and that Terry Wogan has died bravely. I have none of his music on the iPod, not even one of his singles and if I had I'm not sure that a listen to "The Floral Dance" would do him justice so I'm listening to Bob Dylan and The Band.

I'm hoping that the laptop manages to stay functional until I can get to Maplins for yet another 12.5x 5x2.5 DC plug. If it doesn't this could well be my last blog from this laptop on this island this year.

I know what you're thinking, do I have any blog posts left? To be honest, in all the excitement I really don't know.......

I bet that Clint was never let down by worn out power supply DC plugs .........  I'd use the iPod but that's in constant use and getting photos on it is such a palaver.

Is it really as grey, moist and windy as the BBC says?
Are the shorts and sandals going to have to be consigned to the bottom drawer or wherever it is they're kept?
Isn't it spring yet?

Waiting for a speedboat

You know how it is. Windless, cloudless, sunny.

Malta isn't renowned for it's beaches so you have to put up with gravel, boulders, smoothed slippery rocks and general inaccessibility compared to places more conducive to paddling and swimming. Not that either is insurmountable but neither are quite as easy as other places make them. A trip on a bus to paddle isn't quite what we're used to but sitting and dangling the feet is not a bad thing in itself.

This afternoon we wandered around to Spinola Bay, all of a ten minute lethargic stroll. At the head of the bay is a concrete pier, over which one can dangle one's feet, unless the tide's not playing.

At the back of the pier there's a broken bit that suits the butt and is of such a height that feet dangling is an easy option. As long as you can cope with all the phoneaholics spreading themselves around you. Fortunately few are attired such that dangling their feet is an option as it looks like most of them are poured into whatever they call trousers. I'd have thought getting your legs wet in them would need surgical attention.

Anyway, they're fine as long as they use their phones or devices for any of the myriad of functions that do not involve actually speaking. In physical close up interpersonal conversation with someone a few feet away they are barely heard. However, the whine of some awful tune is suddenly exchanged for the whine of some awful voice at an awful volume. I'd have thought that technology would let you talk normally on your device, either that or they just feel the need to draw attention to some great sadness in their poor lives, at least that's what their interminable whining would seem to imply.

I have digressed. In the quiet time I spent dangling my feet in the not so cool Mediterranean of Spinola Bay I became aware of another of the drawbacks encountered in this part of the world.

You could find that your lower legs begin to exhibit signs of the effects of coastal erosion.

There is no, zilch, zero movement of the sea's surface. It just sits there unmolested by wind and untroubled by tide.

You are not immediately aware of such a thing, unencountered before in my experience, of having your feet dangling a few inches below the surface which after a period of time leads to the level of that surface etching itself into your lower leg. Once the tightening of the skin at the sea/air interface is recognised for what it is you either have to move your legs about or hope a speedboat passes.

It was so hot this afternoon that even the speedboats that did pass were doing so at a shameful rate. This meant moving. Note the cloud. It wasn't quite as cloudless as my opening line may have led you to believe. Please forgive my lack of accuracy.

The move, when it finally came, inevitably led to the Gelateria.
Friday's are so good, aren't they?
Even last ones.

Sad shopping in shorts and sandals

The phone "pinged" and the boarding passes have arrived.
Last shop, then.
Always a bit of a come down.
No tins or bottles.
No extravagancies that may end up being superfluous.
No effort to carry the solitary backpack.
At least it's Friday so a visit to the Gelateria later.

Someone was playing tennis in a land far, far away.
So I wandered over to see some sea close up and examine the contents thereof.

Sat in the steps at the end but the tide was out and the surface just an inch or two too far from the feet.

However, an hour or more was contentedly and comfortably passed observing the wildlife that passed below.

Progress Arrested

It is only natural that if there's a pier you have to go down it. To the end. You don't even think about it. Besides, piers, quays, whatever are built strongly and can take weight, even mine.

So when I saw this one at Cirkewwa which is the most northern point of this island it had to be done. There was a gate but it was a long walk away in the lorry park but there was a hole in the wire link fence right outside the very clean, tidy and fully functional public toilets in the corner by the wall.

As I began the trek I was recalled to assist one's better half through said hole and over the low wall.

We made it right down to the end and were waiting for the ferry to depart. At this point two men were observed waving to us. I waved back and followed my leader to meet them. One had a pad of paper and a r/t which he was waving vigorously. The other was in uniform and had a leather holster on his belt. He smiled and said nothing in the way they do. The other man wearing the Gozo Ferry Co. Corporate clothing told us that we shouldn't be there because it was very dangerous, that's why there's a fence.

Now, had he said he didn't like me, that I was trespassing, a blight on society, an insular Cornishman I would have believed him. But to tell me that this pier was dangerous is simply a lie used by small minded worthless paper soldiers everywhere. Seeing that he'd brought along a smiling policeman I wasn't about to argue, or to let him know that the hole in his fence was pretty huge. Nope, just took the photos and went.

At least we got to go through the air conditioned terminal where we noted that it's €4.95 return, payable on Gozo and that the ferry leaves every half hour.

That's the first thing booked for next year, then.

Gozo with naval patrol boat P31 but I don't think it's presence was due to our security breach.

A seat both ways!

Today we braved the buses, again.

Old bus home, Marsa.

Malta buses are interesting. The old ones are in a warehouse in Marsa shipyard where they wait in premature retirement, killed off by EU emissions regulations. How stupid can you get! If they ran them all non stop for another century they wouldn't do as much atmospheric damage as the southern California gas leak does each week. Get us out of this EU nonsense. Sorry, UK not Malta, unless they come to their senses, too.

So, Arriva bought all the old routes from the families whose buses had plied them for generations. Modern buses, more fuel efficient allegedly, and even some of Boris's bendy buses. The bendy buses broke for obvious reasons and Arriva went bust after €70,000,000 had been poured into EU coffers one way or another. Step up Malta Public Transport!

186 new buses. 540 drivers, inspectors and time keepers. I made the last one up although there do seem to be a lot of clipboards sitting about on OAP seats in company branded clothes doing not a lot except getting off frequently for a fag break and then getting on a bus going back from whence they've just come.

Today they have removed all the new timetables from the bus stops. Drivers are a bit touchy if you ask them about times, routes and ETA's. Just get on, hold tight and hope.

It's not entirely the buses fault. The roads are not good, apart from the east coast road, part paid for by EU so the signs say, I'm surprised that the Spanish left enough in the EU's kitty for anything, and another bit of road from outside Hamrun almost to Mdina. The rest are amazing. One, in particular, from Zetjun to Bulebel, was once a dual carriageway with a nice tree lined central reservation. The central reservation is now a car park and the road surface undulates and resembles a ploughed field with potholes that could double as reservoirs if there was ever enough rain to fill them.

The traffic slowly meanders it's way along between the roundabouts at each end avoiding the potholes which if you were in a Fiat Marbella could be the last place you ever went and trying to keep on the ridges or the ruts, you choose but if you change your mind the twisting moments cause the bus to grind and graunch which if it coincides with falling into a pothole, which invariably it does is a pretty major event and felt by every bone in your body. But today we had seats.

If you don't have seats, and as each bus has a sticker to let you know that there are 25 seats but room for 47 to stand, it is likely that you won't, a bus trip becomes an event that would be a challenge for Sir Rannulph Feinnes. For us lesser mortals it's a case of survival tactics. I have found that behind the front door, wedged against a luggage rack only bruises your butt and thighs but rips either a shoulder out or crushes an elbow. As more enter and the driver cries, "move back, please, there's plenty of room at the back" you can ease behind the door, lean left and new passengers pass by you. As the door closes the supporting pole on which it swings can help you back upright. Till the next bus stop. If you are left in the central area, tough. Although I did, on one occasion, let myself be supported by the masses around me which was fine right up till the driver hit the brakes as a van pulled out right in front of him and stopped.

Which is the other reason why bus travel here is an experience. The standard of driving exhibited is amazing. If I described it you'd say I was making it up. This is the first time I've ever been in a place where I'd love to hire a car and explore and €15 would get you a car for a day but nothing could convince me that I could drive here safely.

There are three sorts of cars here, shiny ones that are either just out of the showroom or bodyshop, dusty ones with shiny panel damage and dusty ones with panel damage covered in dust.

Today we had seats because we left late and came back early. It was too hot and the trip back to Valletta was in an airconned bus. From Valletta to Sliema we got seats at the back so there was no where else to go till we got off.

If this is your view as you dine it'll cost you €20 each.

This view for under €5 each inc drinks .

Oh, and we went to Marsaxlokk, again. Beautiful place. Wonderful harbour. Working boats. Some with trammel nets, some with trolling lines and some working long lines. Slight misunderstanding about time, said too much already.

Highly recommend "The Rising Sun" over by the working boats. Bacon roll with salady stuff, sandwich with something lovely in it, big bowl of chips, bitter lemon and pint of Cisk, €8.40. €20 each by the pretty boats wouldn't buy you a belly full. And it's where the coaches disgorge their passengers.

Look to see where the locals go is a good guide to anywhere but in fishing harbours especially so. You probably wouldn't go there if you were smartly attired and self conscious. You'd be like the smart people passing by taking our photos as we dined under the sunshade listening to the Malti banter and enjoying the ambiance. It felt foreign but strangely familiar. Loved it. Absolutely loved it.

It was too hot though. But oh, so lovely to be beside the sea in a working harbour all but overcome with the smell of fresh fish, not fresh fish previously cleaned out of the net, weed, drying nets and salt stained blokes overhauling gear. I had a wonderfully wonderful time.

Apparently we're not going back this year.

Perfect Timing

An average awakening, coffee supplied followed by a close look at the txt updates to the final test match on the utterly despicable BBC website because the disgusting anti British BBC no longer allow TMS broadcasts to Malta. Or anywhere else from what the web tells me. I've already paid for them! Let me have them. Sky would. Pay Sky watch it anywhere. Pay the BBC and the best you get is the seriously deteriorated World Service or the utterly pathetic BBC World TV, six minutes of "news" each hour, fifty four minutes of adverts for watches, airlines and the BBC. Rubbish

Anyway, there was I reading the updating txt service but, alas, I couldn't keep up. I thought that the blue box showing "Wicket" was on repeat. It wasn't so when I was told that it was time to go we went.

Outside the door and there was Felix, waiting for the man with our new washing machine. Perfect timing.

We wandered up the hill, more like Dick's than Windsor, over the crest and down to the other Sliema seafront where the ferry had just cast off but not wound in the drawbridge. We were the last to make it. Perfect timing.

Over to Valletta, use the unused lift to get up to Hastings, descend and ascend Piano's beautiful staircases by the stunning new parliament building and arrive at the Upper Barrakka Gardens just as everyone else was. Must be time for the midday gun. Assuming that everyone else was a foreigner a front row slot was acquired. Perfect timing

Down the lift from the gardens, free as you only pay for the ascent and catch a ferry to Birgu. Directly opposite the gun in the photo. Ferry arrived spot on perfect timing.

Wandered around Birgu's backstreets and eventually and completely unexpectedly happened to exit the pristine alleys right outside "Cafe Brasil" which I'd been taken to once or twice. Our arrival was met by the immediate vacation of the table nearest the pavement in the sun. Perfect timing.

The lovely Lithuanian lady arrived with menu. Left with order. Burger, chips, salad and beer arrived with her return. Perfect timing.

Wandering a bit more we approached the ferry for the return trip when my name was heard from a familiar voice. My friend Matt and his wife had just come off the same ferry so we had a yarn as the ferry departed. Haven't seen him in years and years. We had been undecided about wandering the shore of Senglea. That decision was now easily made. Perfect timing all round.

Wandered back and caught the ferry. Proffering the ticket the organiser noted that the return ticket offered free ascent in the Barrakka lift. Perfect timing.

Got to the top as crowds were arriving. Must be time for the four o'clock gun. Leave them behind as we wandered back to the Sliema ferry. We should have lingered longer as we missed the ferry by at least two minutes.

Got back and got in to see the new washing machine all installed  Read a bit of Internet, had a beer, cup of tea and read a bit more. Just starting to think it was tea time when a plate of chili and rice was put on the table. Perfect timing.

Sunday Service

Well, part of Friday, all Saturday and Sunday was spent in service of one who is never, ever ill, or so I've been told a thousand times. Never! Never had a day off ill in my life, ever. At least I'll never ever hear that again.

I done waiting, fetching, sympathising, carrying, listening, shopping, cooking and everything. Not wholly successfully, I'll admit. Being sent out for bread and coming back chuffed because you found cake really doesn't cut it. I said I was sorry and that I had bought the paper she wanted. In fact I guess that every shopping trip has been successful although not at the initial attempt. When bananas were called for I was on the case and within no time at all I'd bought every banana in the shop. Just as well there were only five left.

I cooked bacon and made sandwiches, I fried eggs, I even sliced tomato and all that sort of stuff. Kept her glass of cold water topped up because the Internet said take lots of fluids which I did, albeit from a can, mostly. I moved the heater so it was up close and personal. I wilted under the radiant heat oozing from it's surface, I flagged under the swirling air currents from the monster air con unit on the wall. I got her blankets, I even offered to let her sit where she could see the boats passing.

Saturday I even went to the pharmacy twice and got whatever it was I was meant to get. Silly hours they keep here.

Just as well there was plenty of excitement in the SAvsENG test match, passing ships made the time fly by and my book by Ernle Bradford that I bought last week is engrossing. That's three of his I've read. I even turned the iPod down and listened with one headphone cup not entirely covering the ear

Mercifully, today Monday, normal service is resumed. Thus I was taken shopping and carried it all back.

Then we went to Valletta and sat in the sun in Lower Barrakka Gardens and watched boats go

After lots more sitting in the sun we watched boats come.

After an hour or two in the sun with a few decent boats to watch I felt fully recovered.

Then we came home. Just as well because I'm knackered and need a rest.
And something cooked proper.

Imodium

Needed some.
Got some
That is all.

Another one of those days

You just have to, don't you? Couldn't find a reason to not do what we did so well yesterday and bearing in mind that with the weekend nearly upon us there will be far more people getting in the way tomorrow. Today was hot. Much hotter than yesterday and the wind, such as it was, was southerly and very warm.

I thought it would be good to illustrate the fact that we are roughing it, no sitting about on nice comfy seats or portable chairs, nope, for us we have to put up with baked concrete.
This baked concrete, in fact. The sun warms the seat, it shines at you and the wall reflects on to your back so it's all round a pretty good place to be. After a few hours one does have to move although shorts and sandals allow longer comfortably in the sun but there comes a time when you have to get up and move on. As we went I took this to show what it was we weren't looking at but could so easily have done so at any time.

Thus we moved around the island a little and sat in the sun some more, wooden bench seats this time.

However, as the weekend beckons and we have successfully negotiated another eventful week it was only fair that after some more sitting and a paddle we really ought to support our local Gelateria which we did, coffee, intense milk and rich dark chocolate was the order of the day.

It was comforting to know, as we wearily made our ascent in the lift, that there was a drop of fizz in the fridge to properly celebrate the weekend.

Sometimes it's hard to tell the days apart unless appropriately marked.

One of those days

A Mediterranean day.
A wander through the backstreets on our way to buy a book.
And this is the view that presents itself.
It's familiar now but not yet taken for granted.
So you sit on the deserted wharf and feel the warmth getting into your bones.
You consider the plans you had.
But not for long.
You just sit and soak up the moment.

Just sitting becomes the plan.
And as the warmth envelops you in its' embrace
You remind yourself that this is January.
And you sit some more.
Watching the boats pass by.
The anticipation of being splashed by their wash is enough for today.
So you sit and await the passage of the next one.
And the one after that ........


Eventually you buy the book.
Tomorrow perhaps we'll sit a while longer as we'll each have a book to read.
Then it'll be the weekend.
Maybe this is where next January could usefully be spent.

Cooking Your Tubers

So much for all this "lightly fry the potato in oil until just transparent" what sort of nonsense is that? Lighly fry, rubbish. If you're going to do this cooking with YouTube or follow a Google set of instructions you expect them to get it right. You fry potatoes until they're nicely crisp, and then a bit more. I ought to know, I've see my mum use a chip pan and I know that you always do two lots, at least. Her tradition has been handed down and both my brother and sister will bear me out on this. Transparent chips. Nonsense.

It helps, too, that cooking them by listening to them leaves you time to observe the transit of Dionysos Leader, a Japanese registered car transporter of 60,000 tons or more. Huge ugly thing but at 20kts, it doesn't take long to pass, unlike the FT Force, chemical tanker doing 6kts. but she's only 5,000 tons.

As for doing the same to bacon and panchetta. Right. I did learn a couple of things though. One is that you should use a wooden spatula to cook chorizo so you can feel when they are done, not going by the colour change to crispy but a wooden spatula will tell you when they get to the firm side of soft. Rubbery is better. A plastic spatula will just bend and you won't be able to feel when the bits are doing and done. Major tip there, eh?

The other lesson learnt is that a garlic may have been too much. A segment is a clove, not a round white thing with loads of them. Didn't make the same mistake this time. Three wedges, peeled, chopped fine and bunged in with the onions as they're browning a bit. Easy stuff, this. Takes ages, though. If you include all the peelings and chopping it's nearly half a day, so far.

I forgot the beans so I had to run up the road, I use the term "run" rather loosely and whilst I had been trusted with a €10 note I got some salt, pepper and a loaf thinking that if this all came to nought you can't go wrong with beans on toast, except I'd be moaned at for stodging the beans up.

I'd no sooner got back to the cooker when the Jean De La Vallette went away at 25kts. She's a catamaran car ferry going to Pozzallo, Sicily which won't take her long as it's only 60 miles away. She's only 100m long but she makes way rapidly. A fine sight to see but never for long.

So, once everything's cooked, apart from the eggs, obviously, you have to let it all cool down so it doesn't cook the eggs when you bung them in. This gives time for a little refreshment whilst you watch Malmnes, a Portuguese freighter of 10,000 tons pass by at 10.4kts on a course of 318° as she makes her way to Algiers.

Suitably refreshed all that's left to do is remember where the instructions are and once recovered  web page is stable mix a bucket load of eggs, stir and add onion and garlic. Get a pair of similar frying pans and get one hottish, spread out the potato, spread the bacon, panchetta and chorizo over them. Pour the egg slop over all of it and turn up the volume to 11. Keep running a spoon around the edge and once you reckon it's done turn it into the other pan. Repeat till done. Obviously the makers of the instructions never do it enough because it's not done till you've catched the thing and crisped it up a bit, is it?





Once it's all done right through turn it onto a plate and deliver it to your nearest and dearest. Await plaudits.

In fact it was OK, just crispy a bit and quite tasty. The beans weren't runny and all in all it was a decent enough followage of instructions.

Beware, though. The video said allow 35 minutes but from peeling, chopping, waiting, assembling, popping out for the beans, doing the eggs, putting it all into the pan and stirring it till done took all day.  By the time it was dished up it was dark and I could only see the lights of Jill Jacob, 70,000 ton tanker heading SE at 10.2kts.

One other thing I learned was that red wine is for red meat, white wine for white meat and if it's eggs that's what lager is for, especially Cisk which even comes in egg yellow cans, unless you are affluent and have Cisk Excel in silver and blue ones but I ran out of them at the peeling stage.

150,000 tons for breakfast

For those of us interested in such things, watching 150,000 tons of container ship slide past as you are breakfasting is of far more interest than Today on BBC R4. In this case "Linah" on her way from Rotterdam to Suez. That was on Monday as the last of the weekend's gale went through. It seemed from her track that she had swung towards the island by quite a few miles from her course before and after. It could be that her master had deemed that a risk of collision existed unless he changed course but I think it far more likely that he, or his crew were from Malta. Either way it was some sight and at 14.5 kts. she was licking along.

Yesterday as the calm was restored the sea was full of boats from 5,000 tons to 50,000 and today we've had two over 100,000 tons and one of 130,000. Of course, if boats don't interest you I apologise for mentioning them but can anyone really not be interested in boats?

Sadly, the only reason that I'm here typing at this time of day is that as we are at the halfway point it has been decreed that I'm cooking today. How stupid or desperate can you get? As if I have any interest in cooking or any ability whatsoever. Fortunately I have Google and YouTube so we're having a Tortilla later. I have done one before, about a year ago. It was a bit rubbery and slightly over garlicked, the chorizo was a tad overdone and had the texture of gravel. The potato was OK, though and so was the bacon. Had I not put so much cheese in it I suspect that it wouldn't have been so leaky when cut into. Apart from that it was alright, I think.

This time I have decided to try to follow the instructions a bit better and disassociate myself from the late Keith Floyd school of cookery even if to do so is extremely boring.

Anyway, here's a photo of 150,000 tons gliding across my breakfast table. Mined ewe, a Fuji X100T with 23mm lens on a 1.6 crop sensor doesn't really make much of an impact. It looked wonderful, though. Especially through binoculars.

Face to Face with Faith

Last October a very good friend of ours was in Malta for a week on a photographic engagement. On one of his days off he came by our "place" and did what all good photographers do. Seeing our winter abode, well January's at least, in 14bit professionally captured high resolution colour snaps was a lovely thing and made us look forward with even more anticipation. He also said that we should not miss St.Elmo's National War Museum. So, today we paid our €15 (senior rates, again) and visited.

Worth every penny, cent. As usual the building was most impressive but this time it's contents were equally so. A decent museum must have a decent story to tell. It must have enough to fascinate and enough to take you further on in what you know. A really good one will encourage you to find out more. Malta's story is epic as is the place in which it is housed.

Within the walls

The sheer size of the place is hard to envisage from a casual wander about but from the sea or within it's scale is impressive.

Having read much about Malta over the past six months or so it was a revelation, first just how small of stature these 15th century people were. It struck me seeing Nelson's dress coat at Greenwich but when you see armour that a ten year old would struggle to get into it brings you up short(!)

For me the most impressive place in all this area is The Chapel, turn left upon entry and watch everyone else go straight on. Probably something to do with W.C. signs directly ahead.

This chapel is nine by twelve of my strolling paces. It is not well lit, it is proportionally high and, apart from the altar it is very plain.

The Chapel

It was to this very room on the evening of 22nd of June 1565 that the remaining 14 knights went to pray and rededicate themselves to their Order's vows. Many wounded were kept here at that time. During the evening those able to hold a sword were placed where they could be said to have died with sword in hand.

At dawn Mustafa Pasha began his final assault. It took four hours at the end of which the last knights stood in defence of the altar in this room and were slaughtered. They were decapitated, their torsos bound to crosses and floated across to De La Vallette in Fort St.Angelo at Birgu.

It was this act that led to Vallette famously executing his Turkish prisoners and firing the heads into St.Elmo using his canon.

The stand at Fort St.Elmo cost the Ottoman Turks dear, at least a quarter of their troops perished as did Dragut, the brains of the outfit. They had assured Sulieman that the fort would fall in three days. It took nigh on six weeks. Mustafa said afterwards that "if this is what taking the son has cost how much more will taking the parent be" speaking of Fort St.Angelo and De La Vallette.


Fortunately it took more than he had because he was beaten. Seeing the massiveness of it all and considering these men in armour fighting in the heat of summer one is in awe. The decisiveness of the battles fought here are historically immense.

For more Faith you need wider than 40mm

It is amazing what a little faith can accomplish.

A short walk from this chapel and you come across another little Faith. This one, the last of the three Gloster Sea Gladiators, Faith, Hope and Charity which when the Italians began the air assault of Malta in 1940 were all the aircraft that the island had to defend them and for ten days they flew non stop in the island's defence.

It is a great museum. It is a great story.





Note. If you go make sure that you see the presentation in area 7.

We nearly missed it. Wandering about in the dark underground canyons we were just about to leave wondering what on earth area 7 was all about when a man with a key told us to stay for the presentation which was about to start. He showed us where to go.

The people ahead of us missed it and the people who came in at the end stayed in the last of the rooms waiting for it to restart. Wrong! It starts where you don't expect it and gives you instructions as to when and where to go. You follow these instructions to the next underground room just in time for the presentation in that area. It's a brilliantly creative application of audio and video projection.

PPS. The washing machine wasn't repaired on Monday. The men came at 0900 and deemed it uneconomic to repair. Felix said he'd ask the owner for a new one.
We wait in hope rather than expectation.

The leak in the bathroom is doing well, though. Pretty consistent, evenly spread.
Just in case you were wondering.

Earthquake, Storm, Pestlience, Flood and Famine

What a sojourn this is turning out to be. From the exhilaration of seeing all there is to see to the relief of surviving Wednesday's earthquake. The worst one in 40 years, 4.4 on the Richter scale so all the newspapers said. To be honest it was only the super sensitive people who felt it. I was stood by one such who was sat in her comfy chair when she suddenly gave me a startled look and asked, "what was that?" "Earthquake" I assuredly replied, having not felt a thing but being aware that between us and Sicily there's a plate boundary. Actually, to be honest I was joking but it turned out to be true.

Then there's the storm, ongoing. Warnings of 48 hours of sustained wind speeds in excess of 50kts, gusting 70 would appear to be true. Sat here now is to be surrounded by a trio of slightly unbalanced pan pipers. The highest tones come from the bedroom window because it is closest to being airtight. Immediately in front of me the window 4 floors up on Old College Road isn't quite as airtight and howls in the upper and mid registers. To my left the outside balcony door leaves a gap of some significance and the inside door has no visible gap so it maintains a bass howl fairly constantly increasing in volume as the tree tops below disappear from view and remain bowed over for some extraordinary lengths of time.

The wind is northerly and as the waves pass the headland they swing into the bay and break over Portomaso breakwater. The spray carries rainbows halfway back across the bay as they break. To be fair it sounds dramatic and to some it may well be but this is the Mediterranean so the quay is only half a metre or so above the sea level normally so it's not as if these waves are going to carry the sea wall away although if they did it would make for a wonderful improvement.

Pestilence, too has made it's mark, awoken as I was to some unknown critter leaving a mark in the palm of my hand in the crease of the thumb which will obviously preclude any kitchen duties for the foreseeable.

Floods were evident in yesterday morning's rain because although we have familiar phone boxes and pillar boxes, camber in the road and gutters with drains are not as common.  The real flood continues to be indoors, however. In Spain it was the electrics that always posed problems, here it seems to be plumbing.

Our delightful caretaker, Felix is well versed in that art of smiling placation but I've taken to txting him as when phoned it's hard to hear him from the background din of camaraderie and general revelry. Yesterday, as we weren't going out till the rain stopped he was invited around. The washing machine will be repaired on Monday. The leaking bidet, unfettered by any floor fixings had ceased leaking though, for which I expressed my gratitude. Sadly, at about the same time the leak stopped filling the kettle became an opportunity for the exercise of patience but having a shower became impossible as when on full bore it allowed only sufficient water to exit the shower head to make it's way to the bath by crawling down the shower hose at a fairly leisurely rate.

I did mention the strange case of the disappearing water pressure. Felix was brilliant. I'll go up to the roof and see what's happened. This he did. "Air leak," he told me. I nodded and thanked him. Strange air leak, though. Now the water pressure's back, and the shower is too but so is the puddle under the unfixed bidet. It's no problem, unless you forget if you have to get up in the night.

As for the famine, that's sorted. The 2.4kg of Christmas Cake which fitted perfectly into a Celebrations tub was finished last Tuesday but by Friday we'd found a shop which sells nothing in it nothing on it cake. Not quite like Nana's but pretty good nonetheless.

Midday yesterday as the rain cloude were blown away.

Made the most of Friday.

Last time we went by foot and ferry to Valletta we were intent on visiting the Co-Cathedral. Today we did. And if you're old you can get in for 25% less. Benefits, love them.

Awe. Sit. Look. Wonder.

I have to say that nothing, nothing prepared me for the shock that awaited. I've read about this place, I could bore you to death with the little I know about The Knights Hospitallers but all I can say is "go." Visit it. I've never seen anything like it, possibly because there probably isn't. Even my friend from Exmouth, not known for his appreciation of churches but an expert on all things motivated by steam told me that I had to go and that after I'd been I wouldn't believe what I'd seen. I know there's Florence, Venice and The Sistine Chapel and I haven't seen them but this must be up there.

Entry is through barriers, exit is, too but between the two sets of barriers I can't describe to you the majesty, the overwhelming and slightly uncomfortable feeling of personal perspectve being amended, realigned. There are quite a few seats which is just as well because sitting and contemplating the wonders surrounding you is an irresistable desire. At one point I looked across and the only other person I knew in that place was sat opposite contemplating, too.

On and on

The detail, the colour, the story on the ceilings, the sublime art of the Lengua chapels off the nave, the gravity of history enshrined by the tombstones from which the floor is made.Words? None worth writing even if I had the linguistic nous. A film by Simon Schama? Possibly. A visit? Definitely. I'll go again.

However, as someone who has stood in front of a few of Caravaggio's finest the most thrilling experience was to walk around the curtain of the Oratorio and find oneself face to face with his "Beheading of John The Baptist." At nearly 6m x 4m it's size was completely unexpected. And not a little overwhelming. I knew it was big but this!

Standing in front of it you were not looking at a painting as much as you were in the cell witnessing the event. I could wax lyrical but to do so is pointless, It was the highlight of my art education thus far.

Maltese Cross

It's not his muted hues, or his narrow colour palette, it's not the seamless depiction of people. It's the humanity he conveys in emotion, in the eyes of his subjects. It's always the eyes. The stance of the people he paints which as an ensemble tell the story in whole even though he only paints a part.

Here's the executioner lifting The Baptists head a little after the throat has been cut to let the life run out with his cleaver of a knife held behind his back, the young girl with the platter waiting to deliver her mistresses's request, the older lady stood leaning slightly forwards, head in hands showing the only sign of sorrow in the room, the gaoler pointing and exhorting the executioner to get on with it and the two other prisoners bent as they peer to witness the event from behind their own bars.

John, hands bound behind his back lying pale, blood flowing, waist covered by a red cloak. The flowing red draws the eye initially but acts as a centre point and a line which underlines the composition.

No element that isn't essential and even the space occupied by the blank wall of the lower right quarter drawing attention to the fact that this was done behind closed doors and only the essential characters necessary for the deed to be done are in the frame. The other two prisoners only there because the deed was suddenly requested and hastily carried out. No time to move them.

The perfection of his lighting.

And Caravaggio's signature in the blood. The only signature of his in existence.

Furthermore, standing in front of this monster master you are standing where Michelangelo Merisida de Caravaggio stood when he was removed from The Most High Order of The Knights Hospitallers of Malta for being Caravaggio. A very rare ocurrence in The Knights' history but somehow very Caravaggio.

How long did we look at this? No idea, a long, long time. Long enough for a security lady to take exception to a lady with a smartphone taking noisy photos of the painting directly in front of the "No Photos or Videos" signs. Why didn't she put her phone into silent mode and wait for the security lady to leave the room?

Moving on from here there are rooms of Vestments (stunning) and tapestries, but we were in Bayeux a couple of months ago.

Once outside in the courtyard we sat and contemplated some more. Then we found a Pastizzi or two and caught the ferry home. Once home we felt that we should sample some more Caravaggio goodness and that we ought to support our local Italian next door.

Magnificent day. Privileged. 

Extreme left, our door. Italian Gelateria for a Friday treat. Been a long week!

Voldemort revisited

Lest you should think that life is entirely a bed of roses I must shatter that illusion with today's post,
Today we walked the local environs, or as much as we were permitted,

Looking directly ahead from our balcony there is sea, as far as the eye can see. Right up to the horizon, in fact. Usually there are boats, today an 86,300 ton LPG carrier from Hammerfest and a 66,000 ton container ship from China whilst I was watching although I will not dwell on them as I believe there was the delicate scent of sarcasm in a message from one of my wife's friends regarding her sharing my interest in boats a couple of days ago. As if I would inflict my interest in boats and harbours on anyone, let alone my nearest and dearest unless she was as interested as me. Isn't she? Have I missed something here?

Anyway, our balcony and the walk. Ahead lies sea and ships. To the right there are monotonous tower blocks like ours and three tower cranes. To the left there are fifteen tower cranes, tower blocks vying to outdo each other, a "Cavalier "Art" Hotel", a Hilton and a tower. A most hideous tower. Hideous in that it is so out of kilter with it's environment, where everything is a rich, warm limestone of  creamy hues, even the sheet steel cladding of the "Dolce Vita" is painted a creamy limestone hue but this tower is a dirty sort of French blue with terracotta vertices. As the sun catches it I'm reminded of round wire nails being hammered into the ground.

This tower can be seen from everywhere we have been on the island and we have been to lots of places. I guess that it's existence and permission to be built lies in the hugely beneficial goodness that each of its floors bring to mankind.

We decided to wander that way as we have looked at it for nigh on a fortnight now. At the front door cross the road and go left. The wander to Balluta bay is pleasant enough, thence on to Spinola bay, hardly an energetic tramp but far more interesting. I could explain about the boats and a conversation I had with a man about them which was exceedingly fascinating but I won't lest I give further ammunition to her whatsapp friend.

Along the seafront. almost at sea level is a delight. Fortunately, there are many seats one of which was occupied whilst I was engaged in conversation with a local boat owner and once past them a sea side path which passes in front of a row of old houses with an old boat or two parked outside, which I won't dwell on and a house with three balconies over which  the most intense bougainvillea cascades. Then the path turns right along the water's edge but here you cannot go as there's a wall of concrete laid across it right form the "Art" hotel to the water's edge. You could get round it but you'd need to be more athletic than I.

Around the front of the hotel and access to the water's edge path is gained by a dozen steps. Again, athleticism is required as a padlocked gate allows looking but no access.  Retrace your steps round"The Cat Hotel" (I jest not .... I couldn't look let alone take a photo that would do it justice) and you arrive at a sign telling you that this gate is open from 0800-2000. There's another sign informing you that this is Portomso Marina.

Through the arch in which the tower is perfectly framed and down three flight of concrete stairs  brings you to the most soulless, plastic flower adorned excuse for a marina that I've ever wandered through. A "Sunseeker-Malta" sign is about the only sign of life and even that seems comatose. Pristine boats, all 40 - 60 feet with flags from everywhere, notably Russia, with names like "Cash" moored next to "Prosperity" are so tightly fendered together that I could detect no movement whatsoever.

Once through the concrete canyon there is an open area leading to the north pier. Now if there's a quay it has to be gone down. Right down. Which is just as well as all other exits are gated, locked and I suspect armed. So down the end I go, round the  back and along the sea wall on the seaward side at the end of which there's the path again. Hooray, the one that began way back at bougainvillea cottage. Once on the path it goes nowhere. They've got a swing shovel and removed about a distance of about 50metres and filled the gap with jagged boulders. You can't get round it because there's a load of chain link fencing to stop you.

Once back in the concrete canyon we find a lift by the Sunseeker shop to avoid the steps, Once up we carry on to the next bit of sea side. Here there's the other end of the path but it just meets the road we're on. Staying on it we enter St.George's Bay. This I have been looking forward to for ages. Google Malta web cams and Skyline cameras have view of this beach in which it looks very pretty.

Reality bites. The sand isn't sand and it bites, too. It's Jordanian gravel. Evil on the feet to 'meor bred beach people. They dump a coaster load here every year. I'll say no more as that's about boats. It's hideous. Utterly awful, everything I dislike. And standing on the beach looking landward are twelve of the tower cranes we can see from our balcony. At the southern end of the beach the shadow of an ever rising block already encroaches over at least a tenth of the gravel and it's nowhere near the height of the tower cranes working round it.

Gravel beach ever higher rise and the beach kiosk is called "Pearly Bay"

A hasty retreat to Balluta bay was undertaken at a pace. A sunny seat and refreshment was gratefully taken with a feeling of relief.

As for the beneficient hideous tower, we went in. It's a casino and it has an observation deck with fabulous views, or so the lady at the desk said. We could go up but only after 10 at night and it would cost us the entry fee for the nightclub that occupies it. Worse, the blue and terracotta? Plasticised cladding. Not for the benefit of the mass of humanity, then, but for a small wealthy set and a group of local politicians, no doubt better off now than they once were. Possibly.

So there, not much about boats which should make one of my wife's friends smugly satisfied and the forecast for Saturday and Sunday is heavy rain and low teens. Tomorrow to make the most of and then hatches and battens. That's not a nautical reference, either!

Bus free!

For a week we've had a go anywhere anytime card that lasted well, a week. Thus we have endeavoured to get our money's worth and a bit. I'd have to ask management if we succeeded but I think we have. I certainly feel as though I've been bounced about, bruised and battered on our bus travels.

Today, to celebrate the expiry of our Tallinja Explore card the decision was taken to see Valletta Co-Cathedral by foot and ferry. With a leader suitably smartgpsmapped she was able to follow her outstretched arm and I merely followed her. A ten - twenty minute bus ride around the coast road gave way to a sub ten minute wander through a maze of back streets to the ferry. New tiny supermarkets, general stores, pastizzi holes in the wall and a gadget shop were found and examined as well as a "coffee" shop boasting a huge range of coffees. It readily became apparent that despite encouraging notices and shop displays what they actually meant was we have one type of ground coffee which we'll turn into a range of drinks. Four, to be precise, unless you include with/without milk/sugar. Disappointment but only a coffee anorak would feel it.

A €1.50 each ferry ride takes us to Valletta. As our fellow travellers disembark they follow the signs and we observe the bottleneck in time to take an alternative course. Our course avoids the minibuses offering rides up the hill for €1 and takes us past an innocuous looking building called "Fortifications Interpretations Centre" above which a banner cable tied to a railing announced "Free." I was all for walking past as free often means not worth paying for. Management, now with smartgpsmap firmly buried in the depths of the handbag questioned my onward intent, reminding me that a similar place in the walls of St.Malo was a gem.

Mind your head between displays.

With initial reluctance I again reverted to a following role.

A couple of hours later we found the exit.

It's actually built into the walls and explains how and why these fortifications were built over the centuries. There was one other couple wandering about when we were. After having got to the "end" you are enticed on to an outside walkway on top of this particular wall. It has a lift to ease the upward journey and the best toilets thus far encountered.

The views are magnificent but sat in a corner was a member of staff on a fag break. He asked us what we thought and I had to ask a few questions. His answers were eloquent and erudite, his enthusiasm unquenchable, his pride in his island rightly huge, it was quite an experience listening to him. More questions followed. I think he was pleased that we were aware of some of the history and not complete numpties. The arrival of the other couple elicited some further questions of him and eventually he had to return to work.

Once outside immediately to the left of the building and again, in the walls, we found a lift to Melitta street. A lift that looked unused. Free. The ascent took us to the main street, or one end of it. The fortifications at the top of this lift have the remnants of anti-aircraft gun emplacements every few feet except when they were HAA, heavy anti-aircraft gun emplacements in which case they're every few yards. It should be obvious but wherever there are AA or HAA emplacements the views are magnificent.

This wall leads into "Hastings Gardens" and thence to the new parliament buildings.

Fortified walls above the "Fortifications Interpretations Centre" looking towards Manoel Fort, Sliema and the Voldemort Tower, St.Julian, which we can see from our balcony.

By now the need for Pastizzis, refreshment of the liquid type and a seat with a view was required. We are familiar enough with Valletta to know the shortest route to see those needs met. On the way we passed a bookshop. I bought a history of Malta recommended by the bookshop man.

We still haven't seen the Co-Cathedral. Nor Fort St.Elmo, the war Museum or any of the places on the Valletta list let alone all the others. But we have had yet another enthralling day.

Three weeks tonight we'll be home. How on earth can we fit it all in?




PS. If these get a bit intermittent it may have something to do with the laptop which keeps suddenly going blank. The power supply plug has melted again but this time I have no soldering iron and heat shrink to mend it so currently the wires are kept apart with hope. Tomorrow I'll see if I can find a bit of plastic ......

Fiat 500's 0 Buses 2

A long bus trip to Mellieha Bay yesterday was remarkable if only for it's unremarkableness.

Bus trip elongated by another bus accident in which a bus turning a corner in St.Julian's happened to intersect with an inelegantly parked Fiat 500, the second one we've seen embedded in the side of a bus. The ensuing traffic jams as a result of their dangerous liaisons are truly humongous but we're in no hurry which is not so for many of our fellow travellers. I try to feel sorry for the watch consulters and phone users generating so much anxiety whilst sat in a stationary bus. I'm not too good at empathy with those in a hurry any more. Sorry.

We didn't sit in these seats.
We sat in sunny ones

This is our second such lengthened trip in a bus which considering we've only undertaken two is pretty good. The other was in Hamrun on the way to Mdina. In both cases Fiat 500's not so much badly parked as abandoned near a pavement end up embedded in the side of a bus. Both were finally halted by the rear wheels of the bus and both resulted in severely disfigured Fiat 500's. I'm glad that apart from a bus I've only been driven in a very large blacked out 4x4, probably one of the finest and most desirable 4x4's in the world. Ever.

Mellieha Bay. OK. Found a bar on the beach which reached out into the water. Found a seat in the sun. Had a drink or two. Discussed who would carry the fleeces. Paddled along a beach. Wished the cossie was to hand. Envied the few bathers. One boat came into the jetty, moored up, nothing else of note. Didn't have any gear aboard so I don't know what she was up to.

Wandered around some non descript back streets. Met a hill going upwards. Turned around. Saw the bus we wanted pass by. Wandered about a bit more. Met a nice man, had a nice conversation. Couldn't find a Pastizzi shop. Caught next bus home. Uneventful trip.

Got home, had a beer on the balcony. Got Pizza, far too big so it'll do tonight, too. Glass of red.

That's it. The unremarkable Mellieha Bay. Hot. Sandy beach. Blue sea warm enough for a pleasant dip. Beach sheds full of rows and rows of stacks of beach loungers, jet ski's being pressure washed by the dozen, no by the score. Closed dive school operators with deflated rib's stacked high. Locked up shops with posters in the windows and painted boards hanging on the walls offering rib hire, speedboat hire, ski tuition and evening parties.

Taken from our seats in "Munchies," Mellieha Bay beach

 I'd hate it in summer!

Just Another Manic Monday

Silly o'clock and a road drill starts up underneath our bedroom window.
Coffee
Press button on radio and BBC World Service tell me that David Bowie has died.
Coffee
Phone call, "would I like to go for a trip on a boat?"
Change from shorts to jeans.


Bit of a morning, really.

However, I can report that the road drill lorry has gone.
David Bowie's death is a reason to listen to his albums that I have on the iPod.
The only way to get Valletta in perspective is to see it as you approach the harbour from seaward.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, which is as much fun as messing about in boats when it's warm, calm, sunny and the ones you are with know you well enough to put up with you!

Church . . . . History . . . .

A scorcher of a Sunday, just what we needed after my failure to turn off the Jacuzzi in the bath last night. Like most things it's obvious when you know how but when you don't it's a bit damp. It's there and had to be tried. After all, I reasoned, no matter how much water could be spilled it wouldn't amount to a washing machine full, would it?

I confess that this morning there were a few puddles to avoid but by the time we got in this evening the weather had seen off all the evidence.

The photo (left) was taken on the way to church and is looking eastwards down Sliema harbour with Manoel Island on the right. Nice day for January, eh? I had considered wearing shorts but going to a church you've never been to it was suggested that jeans would be more acceptable. Arriving, it appeared that a suit, starched white shirt and tie could be a condition of entry but once in it became apparent that not everyone was rigged in Sunday best. Most were.

Smart church, modern projector and songs but in all other respects very 1960's. King James would have felt at home and he'd probably have understood most of the terminology. However, the pastor made one think and a hasty retreat was beaten afterwards but we'll probably go again.  As it was the jeans meant that the onward journey had to be preceded by a trip home for the shorts.

Once suitably attired two comfortable, by that I mean we sat, bus journeys saw us at Birgu where I pointed out "Connda Vennessa" which, but for another example of my utter folly, could have been ours for the month. Grrrrrrrrr.

Past her the vessels just get bigger and finally biggest as in the photo, right, just google "Maltese Falcon" but not the one with Humphrey Bogart, good though that is. A 23mm lens on a 1.6 crop x-trans sensor gives 40mm. Far too long a lens to get all the boat in so just admire her masts and wallow in the fact that what you see in the photo cost $80,000,000, just the masts, yards, sails and computers to set them. The boat was another $100,000,000 or more. Yours for $500,000 a week plus expenses.

She lies under Fort St.Angelo, a massively built edifice that represents the furthest westward point of the expansionist Ottoman Empire under Suleiman in 1565. It inspires awe. It elicits gratitude. It makes you wonder just how different history would have been had it fallen in September of 1565. That it didn't is, some say, down to Divine intervention and who am I to argue with that.

As you follow the walls around a well worn and precarious walkway takes you from Grand Harbour to the tip of Birgu, the southern side of Valletta harbour from where the view is magnificent. See below.

 This afternoon, sat on a rock just looking at a harbour entrance into which the Phoenicians sailed 3000 years ago, the Romans a thousand years later, the Turks 500 years after them, Napoleon came for two years till the British came and kicked him out (at the request of the Maltese I hasten to add). The Italians wanted to come in but gave up trying, the Germans were desperate to make their entrance but were denied by Maltese and British defiance and many attribute the success of that stand (1940-1943) to Divine intervention as well.

Looking NNW from the base of Fort.St.Angelo.

On the right, Fort St.Angelo wall, beyond that Fort Ricazzoli where Dragut set up his batteries in 1565, the harbour arms are relatively recent but on the left, beyond the memorial bell tower is Fort St.Elmo into which the heads of captured Turks were fired from here after St.Elmo fell and the last of the Knights defending it were beheaded, set on crucifixes and floated over to De La Vallette in Fort St.Angelo

It was because of this harbour that Malta has been fought over so may times and it is why from the winter of 1941 to late in 1943 it became the most bombed piece of land in all the world. In the six weeks from mid April 1942 more bombs were dropped here than were dropped on all of UK during the war. For 186 days the all clear didn't sound.

History, those who fail to learn from it are condemned to repeat it, or so Edmund Burke is meant to have said but Gandhi said, "A small body of determined spirits fired by an unquenchable faith in their mission can alter the course of history"which is a shame because it sounds so Churchillianly appropriate with regard to Malta!

Start the day with a paddle.

Saturday dawned beautifully, I suppose. The sun was quite high when I first saw it. The sky was blue the sea was that stunning Mediterranean turquoise, the wind light to non existent. The water was a flat as a dab and spreading uniformly across the kitchen floor.

The first job of the day was to put the washing machine on. That wasn't my job and I didn't do it. No, my job was to make the first coffee of the day. And the second. However, having filled and turned on the kettle I made my way to the balcony for a gawp at the stunningly blue vista spread before me. The click of the kettle caused me to turn and wander towards it. Coffee makings prepared, organised and ready all that was left was to traverse the steadily spreading pond between the kettle an me.

Had I been wearing slippers I may not have noticed but I wasn't and I did. Just as well. Fortunately the kettle had boiled as the electric went awol and the water continued to flow. At least, I noted, the floors are perfectly level.

At times like this cold calculations are needed and definitive actions need undertaking so I hollered and made the coffee. Bath towels formed a coffer dam around the washing machine and the spreading suds were contained. I dragged the machine out of it's bay into it's sea and established that the fault lay inside.

We have a caretaker called "Felix" who I called and appraised of the situation.
15 minutes later he was there with a lady who had mops and energy. He restored the electricity and she restored the floors.

It may take longer to restore the washing machine, I think.

So, two coffees later we caught the bus to Sliema ferry and wandered to Tigne Point, a shopping complex of hideous design occupying the site formerly known as Dragut Point, this being where Dragut the Corsair in the pay of Suliman landed in May 1565. Had he landed in April the moslem hordes may well have overrun Malta. He didn't and the moslem in charge of Suliman's fleet, Piale, had fallen out with the moslem in charge of his land forces, Mustafa, which was not ideal in the circumstances. Dragut got them on the same side but the die had been cast, the planned plan not as effectively executed as it ought to have been with the result that Jean Parisot de la Vallette, Grand Master of the Knights Hospitallers was better able to plan, prepare and execute his defensive strategy, ably assisted by his main man Sir Oliver Starkey, the only non Grand Master to be buried in the Cathedral.

So, we stood in the winter of 2015 where Dragut stood in the summer of 1565 but instead of looking across at Mount Sciberras and Mustafa's numerous canons we looked at Valletta, begun by and named after the victorious commander. A worthy place for one so courageous and determined.

Valletta from Dragut Point, Saturday 9th January 2016. Between coffee's #2 and #3.

.... and breathe.

Where's the week gone, eh?

Monday get bearings and bus card. Watch a few boats over Tas-Sliema strand by Manoel Island.

Tuesday, Valetta. Very hot, serious archtecture, modern exquisitely blended with old. A magnificent parliament building and bridge by Mr.Piano, he of Shard fame, or not. Walls. Forts. Boats observed from on high. Wonderful..

Wednesday, Marsaxlokk. Bused adventure. Pretty calm, bit bouncy but seated, mostly. Boats close up. Huge ones observed from afar as they did their business at the freeport, a modern container port. Huge derricks and all that stuff. A harbour full of fishing boats from proper trawlers to  tiny toshers. Long liners, netters and trammel netters, too. Oh, sublime.


Thursday a breakfast time phone call from a friend. No bus nonsense today, Chauffeured about in a very large 4x4, airconned luxury and leather. Magic carpet stuff. Went to Marsa. Saw some boats. These, in fact,as well as lots of others. Sheltered on the afterdeck watching a passing shower. Look closely and in the far centre distance you'll see a plastic wrapped vessel in dock. This is 'A' which we last saw in Formentera last June. She's well worth a google.

Once the shower had passed we drove off past a warehouse full of all the old buses and a liner that looked like it was a super yacht once, which indeed it is, or was. Mr.Gadaffi's in fact but seeing as no one's paying the bills it's just left accruing debt. Further along and we stopped at another yard where another good friend who I've known for nearly 40 years is fitting out a new workshop. I'm used to seeing him in tiny sheds with gear everywhere and only room to swing a small kitten and even then it would get a severe headache unless swung with extreme care but here he was in a workshop bigger than a tennis court with all manner of marine engine refurbising goodness. Across the road were a few of their shove ashore skiffs. Bit different form our skiffs with a pair of paddles and a Seagul Silver Century when we were big enough to start one. 1200hp a boat. 50kts with 12 aboard and their gear. Range 250 miles. Fuel tanks, big. Four of these and four more with a wheelhouse for a bit more shelter in poor weather.

Then over the road to see a pair of 2,500hp V16 MTU's. Even better, fired them up. Oooooooooooh.
What was it Robert Duval said in Apocalypse Now? "I love the smell of big marine diesels first thing in the morning" or something like that.
Lovely.

A short drive later and Birgu for a pause to see the boat that we could have rented for this month. Currently up for sale and I have to say that I think I was a bit slack in not biting off the hand that offered her. Yours today for a not insignificant sum well into six figures. My driver, for he it was who offered it to us seemed to take great delight in showing me this marvel of naval architecture. Fitted out to the very highest standards, more mod cons than I can even imagine and I didn't take him up on it. It's not often I stand on a quayside feeling utterly, totally stupid.

Seeing my distress I was offered a drink whilst gawping and wallowing in an ocean of self recrimination the depths of which were uncharted in my experience. And it was offered significantly cheaper than the flat I'm typing in now. What a fool I am.

The beer was nice and medicinally effective. So effective in fact that we went further into Birgu and saw "Maltese Falcon" under the walls of Fort St.Angelo. Both are massive. One is new, the other is old. Both have to be seen to be appreciated.

Still feeling sorry for myself we went and sat looking at a few boats for further refreshment, after which a trip to Marsaskala to sit watching boats on the wharf outside his local. Suitably primed, I'm sure, golden fizzy stuff gave way to proper black stuff and it was proper, too.

Finally, a ride back to my very door in the dark. A day that will stand alone as the best one so far ..... not that I admitted that to my wife who had doubtlessly busied herself in my absence.

Today we rode buses, standing, shaking and rattling from here to Mdina and back. Mdina is not on the coast. Walled city. Quiet. Narrow streets. Nice views. No boats.

I could get to like Malta and if anyone called Karl offers you a boat to reside on bite his hand off and if that same Karl suggests having a pint be aware that there will never be "a" pint, ever!
Cheers, Karl.

Now it's the weekend and I'm knackered.
Time to take it easy for a few\days.
Maybe.


And I still feel more than a bit stupid, as indeed I should.

Steep into History

Should you arrive in Valletta. Malta G.C. at sea level you will exert some strenuous effort if you are to walk the main street. Steep hills reminding me of Windsor Hill with a bit of 'Meor in the middle and the end lead you up the sides of Mt.Scibberas where you are rewarded by a multitude of delights.

Highly recommended would be a wander about Barrakka Gardens, Higher and Lower which overlook Grand Harbour. Magnificent.

However, if you arrive by bus you are dropped at the very gate to the city so elevation changes are (mostly) circumvented. This was just as well because rising at the crack of late morning after coffee#1 and struggling to do justice to coffee#2 one left with what one had dropped on the floor. Thus jeans and not shorts, shoes not sandals were the rig of the day. Wholly inappropriate.

The Wow!'s tumbled one on top of the other, just sitting contemplating and looking, not to mention perspiring was enough.

Sat here now, glass of Caravaggio Red, showered, shorted and not quite as sweltered one remains a bit overwhelmed.

Upper Barrakka Gardens, opposite the building recently made famous on News24 as HM QE2 welcomed the CHOGM to her meeting. Over to her left tucked in a shady corner amid a myriad of plaques overseen by a bust of W.S.Churchill is one pillar, passed by by most which bears the inscription:


"Few could vie with him in usefulness of talent

And fewer still possessed a heart more benevolent

Or disposition more social

He died in the prime of life

But lived long enough to know

How fully he had secured the respect

And esteem of all good men."


You need to move to the other side to find that this being:

"To the memory of
Clement Martin Edwards
Lieut Col of His Majestys First Ceylon Reg
Who died at Valletta
After a protracted and severe illness
On the 17 March 1816
Aged 36 years"




Looking around at the host of memorials mostly paid for by people who knew them it's hard not to be moved when you think about what's happened here during The Great Siege of  1565, the Siege of 1940 - 1943, The Napoleonic Wars and numerous others confrontations over 3000 years or so.

Clement Martin Edwards, never heard of him but what a man to have earned such an epithet at 36. Like so many others who suffered here that no one knows of but did great things at great expense.

Makes me a bit ashamed at having moaned a little about not being in shorts and sandals on a hot day.