Sicily and Malta 2025. Part Two: Malta

 

Friday 11^th July 2025 (Part Two)

Sailing into the Grand Harbour of Valletta at sunset is magical. Half the passengers come to the front to film it. I feel like, I don’t know, Cleopatra?

After a narrowly averted altercation between Mrs Mad and a rude female crew member at an international border we are picked up by a ridiculously friendly cabbie who gives us a potted history of Malta in the fifteen minutes it takes to get to Rabat, obviously because he wants us to hire him for a tour. Very informative, he knows his stuff, but sorry no.

It’s another sweaty night. Our Airbnb is described as a ‘property of character’ and it certainly has loads of that. The huge ancient beautifully-restored thick-stone staircase takes up the entire ground floor and the walls are half a metre thick.

Which means the cellar smells of damp and there’s black mould on the ceiling and cutlery, there’s no aircon outside of the rooms and, to top it off, there’s the steepest and narrowest 20-step spiral staircase to the top bedroom, which of course is the room I have to lug my case to. There’s a terrace half way up the spiral stairs. The furniture is damp and rotten, the plants are dead and the shading umbrella’s in several pieces on the floor.

The internet password is something like WvwvvwvvvwB8Bb8Bbc2, which I can’t read in the dark and, of course, they could have changed if they’d wanted anybody to use it, rather than trying to hide the fact that the 5G, which is brilliant in the hallway, doesn’t penetrate the half-meter walls and get to any other part of the house.

We grab a decent pizza because everything is closing and we haven’t eaten much all day. In bed, my head falls blissfully asleep under the spell of the cool aircon, until my feet wake up to tell me they’re freezing. I turn the aircon off and my lungs wake me up to warn me I’ve used all the oxygen in the small room. I open the window and the mozzies fly in. I’m desperately trying to please everyone, but nobody’s satisfied.

This is what happens when you don’t go to bed drunk.
 

Saturday 12^th July

We’re sitting outside a coffee shop on St Pawl’s Square Rabat, the sun baking down, and there’s a hive of activity as middle-aged short, squat men bark orders in a strange unrecognisable language. It’s Saturday and there’s a festival tonight: ‘There’s always a festival,’ says future driver Mohammad, rolling his eyes. They’re clearing the drains, which are blocked with confetti, in a very efficient manner, the immigrants doing most of the work. Mrs Mad thinks the Maltese must be descendants of the original Phoenician colonists, and certainly there’s a resemblance to the people of the Levant.

Since we’re in the neighbouring we go to St Pawl’s Catacombs which is not to be confused with St Pawl’s Grotto, which is where we go first. The lady is desperate to sell us a ticket but has to admit we’re in the wrong place. “We have catacombs too!” She pleads.

There are lots of them, each covered by baldacchino tombs which look like stone sheds, some just reserved for a single family. The biggest is a labyrinth of passages where you briefly worry you might be lost. You need your phone torch and to walk crouched as the Phoenicians/Carthaginians/Romans were not tall people. The catacombs are cool but very humid. Mrs Mad adds them to her list of things she never wants to see again.

Emerging from this we find there’s about thirty more across the road. They’re sorted by religion - Christian, Pagan and Jewish, the latter having inscriptions of menorah and ships. I tour the ‘must see’ ones, which is most of them, while Mrs Mad reads her book in the shade.
 
 

We buy provisions (mainly ice), drop these off at Airbnb of Character and walk five minutes to the M’Dina. Rabat and M’Dina are essentially the same town, the ancient capital of Malta set upon an imposing hill, but M’Dina’s now the area inside the huge walls.

Here’s a handy pneumonic to remember the people who have ruled Malta: PCRVOBANFSKTFB - that stands for Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, Vandals, Ostrogoths, Byzantines, Arabs, Normans, Franks, Spanish (Aragonese), Knights Templar, French and Maltese. Not the Ottomans as far as I remember, but they tried. Nor the Germans in WWII. Half way between fascist Italy and Vichy Tunisia, Malta was the base in the Med for the RAF and sub-sinking Royal Navy, a constant pain in Hitler’s backside. Hence it received more bombs per square km than anywhere else, which isn’t surprising as it’s about half the size of the Isle of Wight. For their bravery, George VI parsimoniously awarded its people one GC to share. It achieved independence in 1964, but the predominant culture, with its post boxes, telephone kiosks and zebra crossings that cars stop at, is British.

Enough history for now. M’Dina is immaculately clean, impressive and beautiful. I have to stop taking pictures of stunning churches because there are so many of them.

St Pawl’s Cathedral (he came here once and said the people were very nice) has a museum with lots of religious paintings from the renaissance and baroque, including a unique collection of postcard-sized prints by Durer, originally and expertly carved onto wood or copper. Air-conditioning is spotty. The Cathedral itself is bling-tastic which offends Mrs Mad greatly and she vows never to set foot in another Great Catholic Cathedral where the gold and fantastic artwork was paid for by the blood of slaves and the poor.

The Palazzo Falson is an old Palace built around a courtyard and last owned by a British naval officer who died in the sixties and bequeathed it to the city. It’s not that big, quite tasteful and mercifully free of religious paintings. It’s like a place your grandad would have lived in had his surname been Toffingham-St-Spratt.

Desperate for a drink because it’s even hotter than Sicily, we find a courtyard where they serve ice cold Cisk in jugs, sitting next to a man feeding his Harris Hawk ice cream.

The moat area (or whatever you call it when there’s no water) reminds me of Rhodes Town, which is logical as the Knights Templar were kicked out of Rhodes by the Ottomans and later invited to rule Malta. I also remember from Rhodes that there was only one way in and out so we beat a retreat via a magic elevator.

We go for a wander through the ancient narrow streets of Rabat, which is a real town full of Maltesers, not a museum like M’Dina.

We eat at a beautiful spot with four Michelin-listed restaurants in a row, staring across Malta and the huge red moon rising. Mrs Mad orders two starters, which in Malta is far too much as portions are always huge. I have the national dish which is bunny.

The festival in St Pawl’s Square has started. We first encounter 80-odd people, mainly women in the second half of their existence, playing al fresco bingo. Around the corner is a marching band, some street vendors selling pastizzi – delicious flaky pastries that contain ricotta or curried mushy peas - and Jäegermeister. Some kids are engaging in a quiz on the St Pawl Catacombs, others are attempting to hit beach balls through a hoop with lacrosse sticks and more are involved in a large-scale game of ‘Deal or No Deal, and I’m only making up the bits I don’t remember.

We have a cocktail on the street at Yana’s, two doors down from our abode. Mine is called Dr King Schultz and tastes like cough medicine.

Most tourists only go to Rabat and M’Dina on day trips and are then shunted back to their tower blocks on the other side of the island. Come to think of it, the Airbnb of Character was the only place available.

Rabat means ‘fortified place.’ We certainly feel fortified, and we love it.

Sunday 13^th July

We’re first in the van at 08:15. It’s just 15 minutes to the ugly outskirts of St Paul Bay and a guy from Sunderland and his teenage son board. He’s very chatty, laughs nervously after every sentence and talks incessantly about refrigeration and air conditioning, or whatever it is he does, into my ear from the seat behind me, and all I can think about is I’m so glad there’s someone on Malta that smells worse than me.

Any notion that this is going to be a small group tour is thankfully dispelled when the driver picks up a further 17 largely Slavic-speaking people over the next hour. Even on a Sunday morning Malta is one big traffic jam, and we’re so glad we’re staying in Rabat.

At Cirkewwa we’re given a coloured wristband and led to a boat where 40 other people are waiting on the shaded lower deck. It’s a 15-minute crossing to Gozo (pronounced Gojo apparently), red hot seats, slightly choppy, desperately applying factor 30, wearing heroic hat bought on Samos last year. The guy wearing the ‘Hide and Seek World Champion’ t-shirt is travelling alone, doesn’t speak, and looks like he might have to kill me when I take this photo. Somebody check Interpol’s Most Wanted please.

At Mgarr we’re divided like cattle according to wristband and assigned our tuk tuk. One thing I’ve noticed about the Maltese is that they can be quite ‘direct’ when it comes to sorting out the mess of their own making, and I say Maltese as in all the reps appear to come from South-East Asia. I booked with Yippee Tours as they were the only ones that pick up from Rabat and the comfortable pink wristband buggies cost twice as much. They can’t pronounce my name as it has an ‘x’ in it and not enough ‘q’s’ or ‘z’s.’

Luckily, we’re not with Mr Sunderland and his huge son but in a tuk tuk made for six with a lovely Kiwi couple in their late twenties called Joseph and Josephine who are Oxford academics perhaps. There’s a Californian lady in her mid-fifties, whose name is never mentioned as she does the majority of the talking, and her sweet late-teen daughter Carmella. They’re joining the tour on Gozo because they’re on a four-storey cruise yacht that’s touring Catania to Rome, where they have to dress for dinner and the menu options are steak, lobster, or steak and lobster. Or salad, because Carmella’s a vegan. I don’t need to ask whether they’re Trump supporters because they’re not and anyway, we’re all on holiday.

The driver is the lovely Mohammad. He’s a Ghawdxin through and through. Perhaps not born here, but in every town we pass they wave, shout or honk at him. It’s an electric tuk and he races up a hill on a perfect newly built road to the first village. There are seat belts but the last thing I want is to be strapped into a tuk. I expect a convoy of them to follow, but to be fair to the organisers they all seem to have different routes.

There’s a huge church we’ve only got ten minutes to see before mass, so me and Mrs Mad go for coffee. Returning, Mohammad tells us about the day’s itinerary, everyone nodding at him without taking a second to remember anything he’s said.

It’s hot as hell, but the cooling breeze from the ride, as well as ensuring I’m a respectable distance from Carmella’s thigh, mean it’s the least sweaty day of the holiday so far. We stop by a cattle farm and walk a couple of k to a viewpoint where the cliffs look like those in Cornwall or the Isle of Wight. Then we go to an inlet which has a tiny sandy beach, hundreds of people swimming off rocks, loads of hotels and restaurants, that Mohammad tells us has only existed for the last five years. Uphill, Mohammad has to pretend that the meagre natural springs (no rivers on Gozo) are a sight, because he’s contractually obligated to take us to the tourist pavilion opposite where there’s a ‘tasting’ of Maltese liquors, if less than 1 ml can be called a tasting.

Towards the North of the island the roads become as I remember my last tuk, properly Cambodian. Up and down, bumps, potholes, hairpins until we reach the salt flats. They’re not comparable with Uyuni or the Makadikadi but they’re mildly interesting.

In the middle of the island there’s another humongous ‘miracle’ church. In Siracusa they’ve built one on the site where a statue of the Virgin Mary cried human blood. Here, according to Mohammad, a painting started singing or something.

We spend half an hour in the main town Victoria which is also, confusing, known as Rabat. It’s busy in the centre because of all the tourists and they’re preparing for a festival, wheeling in huge colourful statues of the Madonna, St George and St Mildred, but the back streets are nice and peaceful, a bit like Rabat.

We tuk to a small town which has another enormous church for our inclusive lunch. Expectations are low. There are sharing plates of cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, olives, capers and beans to start, but no plates as they can’t be arsed to wash up. There are two carafes of local wine. We know Maltese wine can be very good as we had a bottle last night. It’s small scale viniculture and hence more expensive than Italian and they don’t export. Nobody else is interested in the plonk de plonk and I ration myself to a single carafe.

It occurs to me that, despite being well-travelled, Carmella and her mother have absolutely no Idea where they are. They don’t know that they’re in a country called Malta because that’s where they’re going tomorrow. They probably think they’re still in Italy.

The main is a pastitsio creation that allegedly contains cheese, the only difference being that the Maltese like to wrap everything in filo pastry. A strange tomato sauce is served on the side.

Last stop the Citadel which is a well-preserved fortress a bit like M’Dina, with stunning views across the whole island, which is hillier than Malta and reminds me a bit of the Mani Peninsula. We don’t have long there because our lunch overran due to Carmella’s Mom talking too much. So, it’s back t’boat.

The tour promises swimming in the ‘Blue’ Lagoon because that’s what it looks like from an airplane. It’s a mildly sheltered piece of water off Camino, a small uninhabited island between Malta and Gozo. Trouble is, about two zillion boats have got there before us, so ours stops in the open sea. We jump in but it’s immediately obvious that the current’s too strong and Mrs Mad drifts towards Sicily until Joseph rescues her.

Traffic back to Rabat is even worse than in the morning and, after sculling a cold beer, we make the two-door trek to Yana’s and its huge cocktails. We order a salad, some bruschetta and a couple of ravioli dishes, which seems reasonable, but after seeing the shock on our faces at the size of the salad, the superb waiter unselfishly suggests we downgrade to one ravioli dish. It’s a lovely night on the rooftop. They comp our grappa digestive because our behaviour has caused the other diners to ask for the bill, thus allowing the staff to go home early.

Monday 14^th July

Getting a bus to Valletta is very easy as all buses go to Valletta. You tap your debit card, just like in London, which is why I don’t know what it costs. It’s only 15km but the bus takes 40 minutes because it stops everywhere.

Valletta itself is tiny, just 0.6 square k with a population of 5,000. However, its urban area is basically Malta with nearly half a million inhabitants. It’s the hottest day so far (34c) and Valletta is so busy, like Borough Market on a Saturday afternoon. Heat + stupid tourists = not good.

First stop is the St John’s Co-Cathedral. It’s ‘co’ in that a Bishop is only meant to have one cathedral, but at some point the Bish of Malta decided he wanted another. My heart groans when I see hundreds queuing in the heat but wait… what’s this in my pocket? No! Could it be that somebody had the foresight to buy online tickets? We skip the queue.

Inside it’s blingamo-blingistic like St Pawl’s in M’Dina with intricate carved stone walls in the Baroque style, a painted vaulted ceiling and more gold than you can shake a stick at, but we’re not here to witness the spoils of Catholic slavery, we’re here for the Vagg. As I may have mentioned, there’s only 88 surviving Vagg in the world and 12 of these are disputed. I’ve seen eight others in Florence, Siracusa and St. Petersburg, and probably others in London that I was too pissed to remember. It’s a bit like collecting Pokemon.

The Beheading of John the Baptist is Vagg’s biggest work and the only one he signed. It’s good, but you can’t see it very well because it’s too far away and it’s quite dark in the Oratory. On the other hand, you can get close up and personal with Saint Jerome Writing, which is what some thieves did in 1984. It’s in a side-room and a masterpiece of the chiaroscuro style, he says without looking at Wikipedia.

Vagg was a bit of a lad. He was born and trained in Milan where he wounded a policeman and fled to Rome ‘naked and needy.’ He became the most famous painter there but was too fond of a drunken brawl, which eventually resulted in him killing someone and being sentenced to death. He absconded to Naples where he became their most famous painter and was then invited to Malta by Alof de Wignacourt who made him a Knight. Within a year he was expelled from the Order of Saint John for being ‘a foul and rotten member,’ and sought refuge in Siracusa and Messina before returning to Naples and dying in suspicious circumstances at the age of 38. He may have been a little too fond of other people’s wives. And their sons.

Next up is MUZA, the Malta National Community Art Museum. It’s almost empty of tourists and the air-conditioning is epic. On the ground floor is an exhibition of modern art, which is okay, then up the stairs to the main exhibits, the concept being that it’s a tour of all the ages of Malta, starting with the prehistoric. Actually, it’s mainly Baroque and the artists come from all over the world. And there it is, modestly hung in a corridor – another Vagg! There’s nobody around, it’s only 100 by 73cm and I can just about slip it under my t-shirt. Vagg seemed to have an obsession with John the Baptist, this being his 13th painting of the guy. It’s disputed that it’s by him. The sign lists all the art historians who believe Caravaggio painted it and says that the museum welcomes debate, before pointing out that those who don’t think it’s a Vagg have never bothered to come to MUZA to see it. Well, I’m going to throw my 2p into the swimming pool and declare it a genuine Vagg.

We really like the museum, but there’s only so many paintings you can look at where the subject is the beheading of John the Baptist, the blinding of Saint Lucy, or Saint Agatha getting her tits cut off.

A Dutch puritan woman disapproves of Mrs Mad’s dress.

Valletta is built on a ridge. The highest point is only 56m above sea level, but the lowest is below it before the city rises again to its massive walls, so there’s a bit of a sweaty climb.
After a quick lunch we decline to see any more Saints having their scrotums nailed to crosses and go to Casa Rocca Piccola which is a palace dating from 1580 where the Marquis still lives, as evidenced by the bum imprints on the sofas and the Mr Men books in his library. It’s tastefully decorated, the styling being 1920’s more than anything. In the courtyard garden there’s a blue macaw that says ‘hello’ in the afternoons, and ‘good morning’ in the mornings but nothing else, and there’s a WWII bomb shelter. This is massive, like an underground city.

Returning to Rabat we’re desperate for a beer or two. Sitting by the square we’re treated to a campanologistic symphony of bells for an hour. “They’re returning ugly Saint Pawl to his niche,” explains a local who’s actually from Gozo where they prefer Saints John, George and Ringo.

Yana’s is supposed to be closed, but the surly barkeep in the hatch who always looks as if he doesn’t want to serve us, allows us a huge amelie and a perfect margarita.

Here’s to you, Dobbo.

Tuesday 15^th July 2025

Often, you’re glad to come back home after a holiday. Not this time, I could easily stay a lot longer on Malta. But allotments don’t water themselves, so we say goodbye to Airbnb of Character in amazing Rabat and prepare for the horrendous trip home.

I touch the send button on the Bolt app and a taxi appears in literally 30 seconds. An easy drive to the airport, I bet it’s horribly crowded. We go straight to security and there’s nobody there. “Do we need to unpack our liquids?” I ask. “No longer necessary,” smiles the official. My bag still fails because I’ve left a water bottle in it. “No problem,” smiles security guy. “Would you like to drink some before I take it?”

I’ve begun to hate duty-free recently, especially Stansted which is an interminable labyrinth of crap high mark-up ‘luxury’ products. But Malta duty-free is nice – it only stocks things you actually want to buy, and it isn’t too big. Silk Cut Yellow! My favourite cigarettes, I thought they only had them in Greece, and a reasonable price. There’s a whole section dedicated to Maltese products and I buy wine and rum. A kind lady helps at the self-checkout.

There’s plenty of seating, a piano which people occasionally tinkle on and the toilets are the cleanest I’ve ever seen in an airport – a guy is constantly mopping and there’s even an automatic courtesy flush every few minutes. I lazily buy a sandwich from WH Smiths, not even bothering to read the label, and it contains Italian porchetta and pickled mushrooms – surprisingly delicious.

There’s a smoking area! Not the gas chamber I remember in Abu Dhabi, but a spacious outside café with tables and chairs. Our flight is ready to board and we leisurely walk to the gate. Passport guy smiles and says: “Thank you for visiting Malta.” Malta Airport is my favourite travel hub ever.

Wish I could say the same about Blackfriars.