I
‘The sea is for everyone.’
The heavily-accented Italian hotel worker looks out onto the sea, unlit cigarette in one hand, industrial-strength caffe macchiato in another. His exact job role is a mystery to us. He could be a waiter. He could be the hotel’s private beach concierge. He could be an outdoor facilities manager. He could be a combination of all three.
‘Is the sea warm?’ asks the wife.
‘It depends on what you mean by warm.’
He shrugs, pushing back his Giorgio Armani shades with his index finger, while expertly holding his still unlit cigarette in between his middle and ring fingers. ‘For me, 20 degrees is fresh.’
Fahrenheit or Celsius? It is too late to gain clarification. He has lit his cigarette and walked off towards a young Italian girl.
We swim in the sea. Jellyfish attack us. Seaweed gets stuck in between our toes. The boys fight over a ball. They unintentionally kick sand in people’s faces. We shout at them and sweat in the sun. Our water bottles taste of salt. The wife wears a rash vest to avoid sunburn. My knees turn red raw. The boys struggle to wash sand off their feet and sliders as we leave, to their (and our) immense frustration. We climb a steep staircase back up to the hotel swimming pool in the blistering heat. We stop to catch our breath and admire the view, but the glare of the sun is too strong to be able to see much.
We search for some spare loungers near the pool and eventually find some facing the sea, by the wall where the sun mercilessly beats down on us. The wife hides under a parasol, only venturing out to check on the kids (who are fighting once more over the ball), or to order some food.
Our food arrives and the wasps descend. Ketchup goes everywhere. My frappe is so sweet that I develop an immediate need for three fillings, despite the wife specifically ordering an iced coffee with no sugar. I try to read a book but the sweat keeps pouring down my forehead into my eyes. When I rub them, suncream seeps into my cornea and stings my pupils.
The wife keeps complaining about the heat. A German man who looks as if he been dipped in red paint shuffles past us. A man with a very hairy back soaks up the sun. I suppose his immense black and grey carpet acts as natural sunblock. Italians shout at each other. I think they are arguing about espressos. A Dutch man wearing an Ajax Amsterdam top walks back to his lounger with his seventh beer of the day.
In the pool you can escape the heat, but you cannot swim from one end to the other without causing an international incident. Groups of old women and men from Turkey or Bulgaria — or somewhere like that — congregate under one end of a bridge to conduct a conflab. The bridge straddles two waterways that surround a small island, which connects one large part of the pool to another. The Turks/Bulgarians/who-knows-what reluctantly move out of the way when you approach them, but not after staring at you so hard that you consider picking up your towel and going back to the room to cool down, both literally and metaphorically.
We go to the hotel deli and buy enough water to wet an elephant a hundred times over.
II
St. Paul came here over the sea.
His shipwreck landed on the opposite side of the island to us, where he and his fellow travellers narrowly avoided death twice. Once, during the perilous journey, and then when their Roman guards had to be convinced not to kill them in cold blood on terra firma.
His short stay embedded the Faith on the island, the signs of which can be found everywhere.
On the Tuesday, the Maltese will celebrate the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Banners bearing images of the Mother of God adorn numerous buildings. Firework displays will light up the evening sky. It is a public holiday.
The people of Malta fondly remember a miracle attributed to the intercession of the Blessed Virgin that took place during World War II on 15 August 1942, the exact date of the feast day.
Malta was the only obstacle that stood in the way of victory in North Africa for Nazi Germany and Mussolini’s Italy. In the months leading up to August 1942, the country was heavily bombed and subjected to a naval blockade. The people were hungry and low on essential supplies and weapons. The strategy of the Axis powers to starve Malta out of the war seemed to be working. They knew that if supplies did not reach the island by the end of August 1942, then Malta would be forced to surrender.
In a last-gasp literal “Hail Mary” attempt, the Allies sent supplies in a convoy of fourteen merchant ships, even though they thought the convoy had no chance of success once the Axis powers started bombing it. A few days into the convoy’s journey, the pessimism seemed justified, as ship after ship was sunk. With their hope almost extinguished, the Maltese desperately prayed to the Blessed Virgin Mary to ask God for a miracle. By 14 August 1942 three ships had made it to land by the skin of their teeth, but there was still no sign of the Ohio, the British-manned American oil tanker, which held the key to their survival.
Then, on the morning of the Feast of the Assumption, the half-sinking Ohio limped into an astonished harbour. The severely damaged tanker, along with the other ships, saved Malta from submission, against all the odds.
The triumph of the ‘Santa Marija’ convoy is considered to be one of the greatest of all naval victories.
III
Back in the hotel we sleep well.
The scouts who are camping outside the hotel almost underneath our balcony are up before us: parading; saluting; praying; raising flags. The wife messages her helper friend at Beavers to tell her that the Maltese scouts are outside the hotel. She is very excited. But it is still too hot.
Henri, the concierge who greeted us when we arrived with a warm smile and fond memories of North Yorkshire, is at breakfast most days to usher guests into the dining room. He is charming and stylish, despite being a cross between Dracula and a mini Lurch. He appears to spend his every waking hour on the hotel’s premises. Breakfast is a whirlwind of pancakes, Nutella, fruit, pastries, omelettes, barely toasted bread and honey. You have to eat quickly because the ultra-friendly and eager Filipino and Nepalese staff are ready to pounce and take your plate away as soon as your chin is no longer hovering over your food.
The boys play football in the scorching heat before dinner most nights. There is a boy there from Belgium, called Julien. He is good at football and has floppy curly hair that drips sweat onto his neck. Two German boys, who are very tall for under-12s football, are also playing. No one knows what they are called. So one of our boys simply calls him ‘German’.
‘German! German! Pass it!’
The hotel staff member who runs the football sessions is Spanish. He appears to have only very narrowly missed out on a professional career. He abhors ball-hogging.
‘You av to pass de bol!’ he shouts. ‘Footbol is a team game!’
The boys gulp down water when they are finished.
At dinner the wife and I try all sorts of delicious salads and Maltese delicacies. The children eat chicken nuggets and chips and dry bread. Julien eats octopus salad and various vegetables. The bright red-skinned German piles his plate high with meat. He drinks beer, naturally. His white socks are almost up to his knees. The man with the hairy back is happy sipping his red wine and watching his family as they eat their meal in perfect tranquil silence. The Turks/Bulgarians/who-knows-what are presumably still under one of the bridges in the pool.
IV
In the narrow and steep streets of central Valetta, I develop a huge sweat patch on my shoulder where my rucksack strap has been sat.
We sit down in the shade, overheated and thirsty. We order beer, soft drinks, iced coffee and ice cream. It is too hot, says the wife.
In the ancient rite of the church on the 11th Sunday after Pentecost, St. Paul — the apostle to the Gentiles — reminds the Christian of the miraculous transformation that has taken place in him through the grace of God:
“And last of all, He was seen also by me, as by one born out of due time. For I am the least of the Apostles, who am not worthy to be called an Apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God, I am what I am; and His grace in me hath not been void.”
Grace is sometimes likened to flowing water.
V
We book a ride on an island hopping speed boat and travel to a small port on Gozo and the Blue Lagoon in Comino, where we swim and snorkel.
Our captain sounds Dutch to me, but the wife thinks he is Maltese. It matters little. No one can understand a word of what he says. The speed boat’s roaring engine and the loud pop music that comes from the boat’s speakers drown out his heavy accent and observations.
He gives us very little warning when he powers up the engines and we roar through the water. We hold onto our hats and grip whatever part of the boat we can, hoping that none of us gets seasick.
One of the passengers is the spitting image of Ed Sheeran. An older couple sit opposite us. The man looks like an ageing roadie. At the front, the Ed Sheeran look-a-like and his wife and surrounded by loud Italian girls who want to party and do not appear to be wearing much clothing. I avert my eyes. The wife covers herself as best she can to block out the UV rays. A few days later, in Hull, North England, she will burn the top of her back in her cousin’s garden as the sun pokes out of the clouds for a while.
Even I swim in the sea, eventually. Although I keep sucking in salt water through the snorkel and my face mask is so tight that it is giving me a migraine, I enjoy scaring off the fish and scraping my knees and soles on various rocks.
I hope the blood does not attract sharks.
VI
The Uber taxi drops us off outside the gates of Mdina.
The ancient fortified city gleams in the morning sun. We are sweating. The kids run into a play park and hit the swings and slides. My inner thighs give me gyp. They have developed some sort of irritation ever since we were on the speed boat. I have no idea how. Perhaps it was a combination of salt water, G-force, chafing and sunburn.
We walk through the streets of Mdina. There appears to be a convent or religious community on every block. All of the churches are beautifully ornate. Old school horse and carriage sightseeing tours trot past us on every corner. The riders all smoke and constantly point at things. The passengers all wear smiles. Mdina is a glimpse into Europe’s glorious past.
The wife admires the narrow tall doors on each street. ‘They open up into cool corridors,’ she says. ‘Shielding the residents from the sun.’
Outside one chapel, an Italian woman poses as her boyfriend takes a picture of her on his phone. She examines his handiwork and then promptly berates him for having not captured her full beauty. To be fair to her, the girl is not alone. Italian women pose everywhere for videos and photos.
From some vantage points across the fortified wall (once you get past the Italian women throwing back their heads and tilting their hips) Malta unveils itself. The dusty rugged rocky terrain reaches out to Valetta. Parched trees and shrubs stick out here and there, wondering when they will see rain again. The land is still. Beyond Valetta, the crystal clear blue sea shimmers.
VII
After our final dinner we take a stroll around the pool as the night closes in and look out over the sea.
The sun sets peacefully as a few swimmers return to the shore. The boats out at sea are all moored and sit still, patiently waiting for the next day. The last sunbathers pack up their things and trudge back up the steep incline to the car park. We long for the beach, but know that we must let it go.
Tomorrow morning we will be leaving. As will the man with the hirsute back and his family. There is no sign of the German. Perhaps he has turned so red that he has had to go and get a full body skin transplant. The Turks/Bulgarians/who-knows-what are still under the bridge in the pool.
Julien will be staying for a day or two more with his grandfather.
Bon voyage.
VIII
We stand up as soon as the seatbelt sign is switched off by the pilot.
A lady complains to her husband. “All I want is some flaming gravy,” she says.
When you’re in Malta, it’s all gravy love.
Progress report:
My latest novella, The Anchorite is at 15,303 words.
I am halfway through the latest set of amendments to my next novel The Fragment from The Shroud.
Take it easy. And thanks for reading.