I want to go back to Malta - now, to bloginisce - and later, for a longer visit.
Aboard the Splendida, we steam between ports overnight, spending each day somewhere new. Arriving and leaving port become important punctuation points in our journey.
Arriving is a time of anticipation, excitement and preparing for a day ashore. There is a buzz as people rush to ready and disembark. A flurry of trucks and boats gather round to resupply and refuel our ship. It is a logistical miracle. Don’t forget the prosecco, we shout!
Departure seems more about reflection and relaxation. Passengers lean over the ship’s side, watching the dockers at work, or, like us, take aperitivo of prosecco and cocktails in the lounge before dinner.
The crew is busy and focussed, bringing this floating city safely into ports designed centuries ago for smaller craft, tying up and casting off.
The Splendida has massive stern and bow thrusters that turn it on a euro. The throb of those engines, as they finesse the monster up to a dock, is a sign to all aboard that we have arrived or departed.
On the fourth day of cruising, I wake at dawn as we enter Valletta, the stunning fortified port of Malta. Valletta has a narrow, walled mouth, tricky to navigate. It opens to a grand, ancient harbour, lined with forts and old buildings. At dawn, it is breathtaking. It is love at first sight.
We have a day to explore. First, we take a bus that circumnavigates the island, taking us around its rocky coast, with small beaches, fishing villages cum tourist towns. Extravagant cars and boats move among retro, rickety, finned buses.
Inland, hilltop villages, forts and castles dot the landscape. It is a rural vista, a tapestry of small, walled fields. It is low-productivity, high-labour agriculture – the sort that is beautiful to see, but can’t survive the hot breath of international competition. Bigger economies like France see ‘multi-functionality’ in their landscapes and pay subsidies to keep it. I doubt that Malta, with its postage-stamp economy, can afford the luxury.
A nation’s citizens must shudder when told their country has ‘strategic significance’. For Malta, it has meant occupation over millennia, by Phoenicians, Romans, Sicilians, the Knights of St John, France and finally the British, who handed it back in 1964. The last left some good transport and telecommunications infrastructure and countless expat sailors who couldn’t bear to leave.
Valletta looks the fort city it is. Perched high on a rocky headland, it is a rustic, rambling sandstone beauty. Many of the lanes are stepped, steep as you go down to the harbour. It has the weary charm of an old port town.
On the day we visit, the light is stunning. Salt haze in the air gives a misty shimmer to the afternoon that is unforgettable.
Already making plans to return, I stop at the Harbourside Hotel, perched over Valletta’s exquisite port to enquire. Yes, sir, double rooms with breakfast and a view, 47 euro. Splendid!
We wander back down to the boat and track down the kids, who have been swimming, playing and flopping on the bed. We join them.
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