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Touchdown. 1400 hours. 32'c. 35 50 N/14 35 E. Location, Malta.
This little mulitcolonized masterpiece has to be one of the most colourfully unique gems on the Mediterranean. With a population of almost 400,000 and only 300 square kms to fit everyone I'd expected it to be the makings of a choked up concrete jungle with identity issues. Turns out it couldn't be more dissimilar.
The bus trip from the airport to our accommodation in St Georges Bay spring loads me with excitement every time . We rumble along, up and down through towns and villages of warm tangerine and sand coloured townhouses and terraced apartments, piled on top of each other like elaborate cakes. Coloured silk flags jutting out through the antennas, sat-elites and pot plants on every balcony.
Our little bus tumbles over the final hill to reveal our destination, St Julians Bay, a gorgeous cove scooped out of a divine mineral blue coast, adorned with small rainbow painted fishing boats and Neo-Gothic buildings.
Once at the hotel - a more than exceptional 4 star affair overlooking the bay. We finalise plans and dash upstairs for the mandatory shower and post flight beverage. I have only one willing pilgrim on board for my expedition today, an enthusiastic Greek, new to the business of flying but with bundles of eagerness for adventure not to mention armed with a much better camera than my own.
Until recently (last week) Malta's iconic main method of public transport although highly inefficient and pollutive had been a brilliant uniquely hand customised cluster of locally owned yellow buses, some of which dating back to as early as 1920. These under great protest by mostly sentimental Maltese and the drivers themselves had been replaced with a new elite squadron of air-conditioned silver Arriva buses with replacement operators to match
My intention was to head down to the bottom of the island to Marsasxlokk a small fishing village renowned for its fresh seafood and picturesque anchorage. Previously used by the Turks in the "Great Siege Of Malta" and before that by the Phoenicians as a trading post. It is now ( although still relatively small) Malta's biggest fishing village.
The actual distance between St Julians Bay to Marsaxlokk is only roughly 8km, a distance I would happily strap on my walking boots for but due to the quickly setting sun and the horrified scoff from my hellenic sidekick we decided it best to give these new buses a whizz.
After a decent schlep to the closest bus stop we join the swelling mass of fellow Arriva enthusiasts and await our ride. 10, 20 minutes passes and the great silver tub lurches around the corner. We clamber aboard and notice immediately the air-conditioning is working. We're thrown into our seats as it pulls away and sit shivering as our journey begins.
The next stop is barely 3 minutes from the first and it becomes glaringly obvious this trip may take some time...it does, an hour passes and we're only half way there. We arrive at the central terminal in the country's capital Valletta, bolt off as fast as our near frozen limbs will allow and sprint across the square to our connecting bus.
Equally as chilly as the last we huddle together on the front seat in the hope this leg of our journey will be a little more speedy. it isn't. Another hour passes and it seems we are still no nearer our fishing village, The landscape has changed dramatically, the road is now rolled out straight in front of us for miles ahead and fully bloomed vineyards are sprawled out either side.
We chat away trying to keep our minds from the disappointing reality.
The sun had all but slunk away as we begun to investigate the night mode options
on my companions new camera.
MARSASXLOKK! bellowed the driver, He needn't have bothered yelling. We were well within earshot and the only people left in his mobile refrigerator.
The bus pulls away from in front of us revealing a photographic twilight banquet. Marsasxlokk’s cove is roughly 2 kilometres, its perimeter snugly contained by big grey and brown boulders and the odd plank of driftwood. The water is like a millpond, rainbow Luzzu fishing boats are dotted around the inside of the bay seeming completely motionless, their nets hanging neatly from the trawler beams.
Perched on top of the boulders and along the footpath are groups of fishermen, maybe 3 or 4 generations within each group, a packet of cigarettes is passed around as they squabble like seagulls over the price of fish. Further along are the wives, some still wearing their aprons, probably out to reel in their husbands or catch the last of the daily gossip.
We walk along the promenade , passing Our Lady Of Pompeii Church and the statue of St Andrew, patron Saint and Guardian of fishermen. We stop briefly for a few last pictures and head back toward the restaurant area, centred in the middle of the bay.
The restaurants although full and spilling out onto the waterfront are unimpressive, plastic chairs and uncleaned tables crowd up the walkway and I secretly hope the acclaimed seafood I promised my now starving companion will make up for their offensive first impression.
We come to a stop outside Carroubia Restaurant, for no other reason than that its seemingly less chaotic than the rest, we take a seat and after a few moments, signal toward our waitress for a menu. She meanders casually over 10 minutes later without menus to take our order.
The service doesn’t improve from here. Wrong wine, no bread...please let the food be our saving grace.
It is!!! We’d ordered 2 octopus dishes, one stewed in red wine, thyme, marjoram and garlic, the second grilled and marinated in lemon and garlic with a side order of salad and home-baked fries. Every morsel delicious! We graze contentedly through our meal for an hour or so, watching the passers by and taking in our surroundings. We decide we love our job.
We order the bill and after 45 minutes of waiting and thorough bonding with the overfed family of felines yawling at our feet, decide its probably best to head back, particularly if our journey is likely to take anywhere near the length of time it did to get there. We are casually informed by our “waitress” the buses are no longer running and we’ll need to take a taxi.
No Taxi’s. After quizzing what seemed to be the entire restaurant staff of Marsasxlokk for alternative means , one of the dishhands spy's a euro on finishing his shift and volunteers his chauffeur services.
50 Euros one way. What choice did we have? Walking? It was 1am, our pick up was 12pm tomorrow...we might just make it but it would be risky. We got him down to 40 and jumped in. No sooner had we fastened our seat belts we were speeding past the central bus terminal. Impossible?!
He had us outside the St Julians bus station in 15 minutes flat.
Confused but gratified we begin our short walk back to the hotel.
The quiet streets had become a cesspool of glass eyed inebriated teenagers, I’d had vague memories of such a scene from my last visit but thought it must have been a chance encounter. The bars, competing for patrons throbbed with booming cheesey house music. We lowered our heads and quickened the pace, happy to finally hear it fade into the distance as we walked up the hill to our accommodation.
Mission complete, I bid my fellow vagabond goodnight and returned to my four walls.
After a few minutes of quiet appreciation from the balcony...I curled up in bed and began wondering where my next journey would take me. I think somewhere by foot.
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