Feasts and Fishes in Malta

Spotted in the streets of Valletta

Malta is a sparklingly clean country, except for the Saharan sands swept over by the Scirocco winds from Northern Africa, gold-dusting the cars and gathering in small beachy corners of doorways. Everyone seems industrious, and life starts early. The golden white limestone of the municipal buildings and monuments gleams brightly in the Mediterranean sun, and one morning I saw a pair of men balanced on scaffolding, polishing the façade with a vegetable brush. People seem to say everything they need to in a conversation all at once, and then let the other proceed, so that you hear only one voice for great length of time, before they switch over. The bin lorries come every weekday evening between 7pm and 8pm, l'heure de l'apéro, and chunder past the street tables. I was surprised to discover that cars are accepted everywhere, even within the walled citadel of Mdina, and parallel parking is often achieved à la parisienne, gently bumping the two adjoining vehicles until there is snug space for all. New drivers have an alarming sign on the back windshield which shouts "LEARNER DRIVER. SUDDEN BRAKING". The public transport system is superb, although I was left uncertain as to the navigational capabilities of a particular driver, after my question to confirm, "Is this the bus for the Hypogeum?" was met with a shrug and a firm, "I don't know." Upon hearing this, a number of passengers immediately sprang up and protested this statement in unison, gesturing me to a seat. One of them sat with me and told me where to get out, even coming to the front of the bus with me and pointing out the correct street.

The pace of life here is gently peaceful, as one would expect from an island nation surrounded by a sea so blue and a sky so vast. People walk slowly, and never rush. As I was sitting down to gather my thoughts and plans after visiting the Casa Bernard in Rabat, a car drew up beside me, its open windows radiating Ring of Fire. The driver sat respectfully in his seat, and I on the pavement, until Johnny Cash had finished, and then the man closed off the ignition, and we both went our slow separate ways. Concise time-keeping is optional. At midday the bells of St Paul's Cathedral in Mdina chimed four times, followed by a lighter toned bell chiming two, then a third bell, which chimed another four. St Paul's Church in Rabat enthusiastically struck three at two o'clock, and at seven in the evening at St John's Co-Cathedral in Valletta, I heard two and two in different tones. As I was walking around the very tip of Senglea the bells across the harbour on Valletta dinged and donged together at exactly twelve minutes to six, and on Vittoriosa they did the same twenty seven minutes later.

A sea so blue: Vittoriosa, one of the Three Cities

I hadn't managed to book online a ticket for the Hypogeum, one of the most important historic sites of Malta, so my backup plan was to join the popular queue for last-minute tickets. I knew I needed to arrive well before opening time at Fort St Elmo, where tickets for the 12pm and 4pm tours on the following day were sold from 9am. On my first morning in Valletta, I was downstairs ten minutes before breakfast started at 8am, and chatted with Rosa, the Bonheur Guesthouse proprietor, who had been occupied with trying to find a cat which had decided to move into the house the night before and was now nowhere to be found. (An accomplice feline put me in difficult position the following day when it shot through my legs and back into the house at the very moment that I was talking with Rosa about her fortune of finally managing to evict the first one after an arduous hunt).

Predictably, we launched into the topic of Brexit - a little early in the day for my liking - and I asked her what Malta thought of it all.

"Very disappointing," Rosa sighed, shaking her head.

What about Trump, I wondered, as he buffooned his way onto Euronews as we watched.

"The man's got a ridiculous way of wearing a tie," she sniffed scathingly. "It comes all the way down to here" (she gestured), "but it should only come down to the belt buckle."

And that was that.

By the time we had discussed the Maltese government -

"The ruling party is very corrupt! It is proven that the Prime Minister, his wife, and his two right-hand men all have personal accounts in Panama full of funds from the [shady] Azerbaijan energy deal, and his chief-of-staff received €50,000 lump sums for the sale of Maltese passports, but people still vote for his party!"

- and Napoleon -

"He stole the Grand Master De Vallette's dagger and sword from Malta that was presented to him by King Philip II of Spain after he [De Vallette] successfully led the defense of the Ottoman's Great Siege of Malta in 1565, and the dagger is now on loan from the Louvre only because Malta currently has the EU presidency."

(This, I reflected, was similar to the precious İznik tiles which I did not see on the tombs of the Sultans in Istanbul, as they had been taken in the 1800s by the French for "restoration", by which the French meant fabrication and return of replicas, keeping the originals for themselves.)

 - it was 8:30am when I left for Fort St Elmo to join the queue for the Hypogeum tickets.

I found myself meandering so slowly through the morning streets, because there were so many things to look at and people to watch, that I almost chose not to bother going to Fort St Elmo. It was decidedly too late for tickets, and I could either try again at an earlier time tomorrow, or simply come again to Malta. But my ambling feet led me there, and upon my arrival at 8:52am I discovered a steady queue of five people, some of whom had been waiting for over forty minutes in the already hot sun. When the doors opened shortly after my arrival, I gleefully bought my ticket and reminded myself of what a jammy sod I was.

The walled citadel of Mdina

In the ancient walled city of Mdina, I lost myself in the winding deserted lanes. The yellow stone walls climbed high above me, providing welcome shade. Sudden bursts of vivid pink flowers and Seville orange trees appeared on flat roof terraces, and on every double doorway there were two brass knockers in the shape of a dancing dolphin with a laughing mouth (to symbolise happiness within the household, I learned). Miniature birds with enormous voices roared indelicate courtship at each other and jigged underneath restaurant tables. I scoffed a platter of Maltese antipasti on a tiny rooftop terrace overlooking the whole country, and when I asked the bar staff if they might fill up my water bottle from the tap, they topped it up with mineral water before I could stop them, and refused payment, saying only, "You should drink this; the tap water isn't good." Back in the golden alleys a smug sign insisted that "The Mdina Experience" was this way, and I felt deeply skeptical that my own Mdina experience had been meaningless.

I discovered a piazza with a well in the centre, and when I peered into it with predictable curiosity, I found a tree growing inside. A fellow tourist in sun hat and socks leaned over too and bellowed into the depths, "HelloOoOoOo?!". I was pleased because that was exactly what I wanted to do, and watching middle-aged people doing silly things makes me feel reassured for my future.

Malta feels familiar, and yet deliciously exotic. Overlying the comfortable continentality of juicily ripe tomatoes and excellent local wine and cheeses, there is something more scented and sensual. I could feel it in the Arabic maze of the citadel of Mdina, see it in the African sands, and in a Maltese pizza (ftira) I could taste unexpected spices: sesame, turmeric, fennel, and a je ne c'est quoi of the Arabian peninsula.

Best of all, Malta is ancient. There are megalithic temples here built around 3,600BC. There is an obelisk on the outskirts of Valletta similar to Cleopatra's Needle on the Embankment in London, and I reflected that Cleopatra would perhaps be considered a relatively contemporary woman here. She is closer in time to McDonald's than to the construction of the Great Pyramid of Giza, and the megalithic temples here are older than the Pyramids by a millennium. Malta has sites which are more than a thousand years older than Stonehenge and three thousand years older than the Acropolis.

Rambla Bay, Gozo

I visited the island of Gozo, an hour and a quarter by bus from Valletta and a short ferry ride from Cirkewwa port in the north. On Gozo I swam in the sea and reclined on the beautiful golden red sands of Rambla Bay. Later, in the picturesque village of Xhaghra ("Shaa-ar"), I tried to find, initially without success, an underground limestone cave which was said to be hidden inside - or rather, underneath - the house of a local resident. Instead I discovered a little country path which meandered downhill, overgrown with bamboo, thistles, prickly pear cactus and sweet fennel. It led to many orchards neatly separated by the crumbling drystone walls of what once were houses. They were filled with fruit trees: almond, olive, citrus, peach, apple, pear, and fig, the tiny fruits only just starting to grow.

As I extracted myself thornily back into the village, I found the house with the cave, and a little old woman, who looked alarmingly like Bathilda Bagshot in her final years, led me to the top of the stairs. I went down to find a cave tastefully lit with white light, and stalactites and stalagmites gleaming wetly. Bathilda explained that the owner of the house had found the cavern whilst digging in 1888, and the family then opened it to the public.

Nenu's Cave in Xhagra, Gozo

On Fishday Friday, after a long day's adventuring in the Hypogeum, the National Museum of Archeology, and two of the Three Cities of Vittoriosa, Senglea, and Cospicua, I decided I would treat myself at what I considered from the menu to be the best restaurant in Valletta, Palazzo Preca. I had had my eye on it for a couple of days, since I'd spotted the menu and the wine list. As I approached the restaurant I could hear a great noise and commotion, and at the bottom of the street I found myself between two marching bands. A procession was approaching, with six men carrying a great wooden float with a statue on it, preceded by young boys enthusiastically waving Maltese flags. I asked one of them what the occasion was, and he replied, "Well, it's the Feast of St Augustine!" I nodded casually, so he wouldn't think me ignorant, and watched as a woman threw down handfuls of what looked like straw from a balcony high above the street. When it reached the ground I realised it was shredded paper, and I thought of my breakfast conversation with Rosa and wondered if it was the Prime Minister's Panama papers.

Inside the restaurant I ordered a Gozitan Chardonnay, the aljotta - a Maltese tomatoey fish soup - and the long-anticipated seafood platter. It came adorned with mussels, clams, octopus, prawns, and fried calamari, all locally caught - no lobster or scallops, as the seas are too hot around the islands. It was all indescribably delicious, and I was too satisfied to contemplate dessert, so I told the waiter, as he caught me inspecting the vertical cake vitrine with my nose pressed against the glass. "Ah", he replied, "but let me introduce them just in case: we have crème brûlée, crème caramel, ricotta cake with biscuit base, apple crumble, walnut gâteau, and the last available two of the - "

(If he had said panna cotta I would have immediately ordered one).

"Chocolate thing." (Or something like that - I was distracted by the fact that there seemed to be no panna cotta.)

"Those all sound delightful." I said.

"And if you would like a smaller tasting piece we have some little panne cotte with frutti di bosco."

The Feast of St Augustine

I immediately ordered a panna cotta, whilst wondering if he was versed in telepathy.

As I left the restaurant I looked down the steep lane that led to the harbour and saw a great silver curtain of fireworks pouring down like falling diamonds. I stopped and watched them burn out, and suddenly there was a great noise and a shower of fireworks which burst into colour immediately above my head. They seemed appropriately celebratory, given what a splendid dinner it had been. I waited until they had finished, and then I walked back to my guesthouse, kicking the Panama papers under my feet like autumn leaves.


Links to my favourite places:

Bonheur Guesthouse in Valletta, €30 per night single room and breakfast: http://bonheurmalta.com/

Palazzo Preca in Valletta, €6-ish aljotta, €15-ish fish platter from entrée menu (more than enough for one person), €12-ish 375ml wine: http://palazzoprecavalletta.com/menu/

Casa Bernard in Rabat, €8 per visit: http://casabernard.eu/

Nenu's (Ninu's) Cave in Xhaghra, free entry, donations welcome: https://www.visitgozo.com/where-to-go-in-gozo/sight-seeing-places-interest/ninus-cave/

Ħal Saflieni Hypogeum tickets (book well in advance): https://booking.heritagemalta.org/ 

Last-minute Ħal Saflieni Hypogeum tickets: If you have not booked your Hypogeum tour online in advance, you may be able to get a ticket on one of the two last-minute tours which run daily at 12pm and 4pm. These €40 tickets can be bought from 9am the day before at Fort St Elmo in Valletta (at the time of writing). They are usually sold from the the National Museum of Fine Arts, South Street, Valletta, but at the time of writing it is closed. Reports vary on what time to queue. Some online have said start queuing at 7am(!). I seemed lucky as I explained above - my tour was 19th May 2017.

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