So, yesterday, after one last session hunting for Giovanni Verga, and a bit of a packing-and-cleaning interlude, we were on the road again, heading for Malta.

Not on the road till about 1330, actually, as the check-out for our Catania accommodation was very liberal. We could even have stayed a bit longer, but I'm always antsy about staying in places once we've cleaned... Truly, we cannot be anywhere and not dirty it a bit all over again, so I always feel more comfortable just cleaning and going. Even if check-in for the bus doesn't open until 1430, and you end up sitting in a square for a while:






We were travelling with Virtu Ferries. There used to be a boat to Valletta directly from Catania, but that doesn't sail any more, and you go instead from Pozzallo on the south coast. Public transport along this coast on a Sunday is pretty non-existent, so when we found out that Virtu provided a bus service from Catania to Pozzallo, we said a quick hurrah, and booked ourselves onto it.

So we checked in, bright and early, at the little office, and were told the bus -- a minibus today -- would be there at 1600, ready for departure at 1630.

After that awfully brief exchange, there's really nowhere to go except the cavernous bar downstairs, whose plush seats are currently flecked with plaster on account of the ongoing reno work, and which is empty apart from us and a couple of others in a dim and distant corner.

Still, they'll do you a decent coffee for EUR 1, the music is very acceptable, and there are toilets. What's not to like?



So we read our books in there for a while, and at 1600 we go to find the minibus. The driver hoists our rucksacks on board, and says we'll leave at 1630... So, off again for another little time-filling walk. The port is looking quite dramatic under the lowering sun:



Back to the minibus. We think they're expecting more people, who don't turn up. Any which way, by 1630 we're on the road. It's a fast ride.

And boarding is extraordinarily easy. From the minibus, you go straight into the big shed. They check your ticket. They check your ID. And then you're on your way to the boat. At the bottom of the gangplank there's a little wagon thingy that collects all the foot passengers' luggage. And you climb straight on. Magic... No holding pens. No queueing. No shuffling around from pillar to post. By 1800 you're installed in your seat in a spacious lounge, eating your sandwiches, and deciding what drink you want:




We actually moved from these seats before the boat left at 1930, because the family that installed itself opposite us included a foot-tapper... I can't stand these people. Bang away with your feet by all means, if that's what you like doing, but at least ensure that the vibration doesn't carry across the floor to all the tables around you... But there was plenty of room on the boat, so we easily found a more peaceful pozzy.

It was a bit of a rollicking ride... At one point, the captain sends out an announcement to say it's going to be rough, and we should stay seated as much as possible. And, true, when I get up to go to the toilet, my feet are utterly unable to go in a straight line. But it doesn't matter. Our trusty Boots seasick tablets haven't failed us yet, and the whole journey took just two hours (about 15 minutes longer than normal).

Arriving in Valletta was another of the surreal elements that seem to have made up the day. You feel as though you're in Venice, sailing along, with tall buildings and fortifications close by on either side.

And once off, the first thing we have to do is penetrate the walls... Most of the peninsular that makes up the main historic part of Valletta is walled (with a double-walled bit towards the point), and there aren't that many entry points. But finally we're in. It's 2200 by now, pretty much, so it has been a long day.


It's a nice, spacious apartment (it was only today that we found out about its one Big Snag):







Arriving somewhere late at night is never good. There must have been some reason we were locked into travelling on a Sunday, and therefore into this rubbish timetable, but I can't remember what it was. Luckily, our kind host had provided a couple of croissants, and we had our own coffee supply, so we weren't entirely bereft of breakfast. But generally, the first thing we do when we arrive somewhere is shop. Having not been able to do that meant that today we somehow felt all behind.

As always, however, when you arrive in a new place, there's a recognition of difference -- you're somewhere else, and it's fascinating -- that makes everything worthwhile.

Valletta's wows are severalfold. There are the vast quantities of buttery yellow limestone for a start:








Then there's the endlessly absorbing harbour, with its views out to the peninsulas opposite, and the comings and goings of the shipping:




And, unexpectedly, there are vast quantities of those cumba windows -- like tiny covered balconies -- that to my knowledge we've only ever seen in Istanbul. They are incredibly photogenic:






There have been a couple of slight frustrations:

1. I do NOT understand Malta's comms... For several weeks I have been trying to book health checks (Malta's supposed to be a health tourism hub, and I was hoping to avoid having to return immediately to Malaysia to do tests that I think it would be irresponsible to skip or postpone for too long). Over the course of the last few weeks, I sent out a total of four missives to three separate addressees, and received no responses whatsoever. This afternoon we bought a SIM, so I emailed my first-choice place again, adding my brand new Maltese phone number, and back immediately comes a response... Except now, of course, I'm too late. They're all booked up until February. I tried the other two places, but I suspect it's the same story, as they haven't replied at all.

2. I got into trouble with the vegetable police. Provisioning is not that easy here. There's a small supermarket a fair way away, and it gets very busy, so we bought up some necessities, and decided to buy veggies nearer home in one of the places marked on Google Maps. Most of those were closed. But we enter the one that's not. I'm so accustomed to self-service that I fail to spot the notice on the wall asking customers not to touch the produce. I pick up a cucumber. I move towards the tomatoes, start to collect some, like you do. And then: "Ma'am, step away from the tomatoes." No, she didn't actually say that. It was more like, "Please wait, Madam." But the tone corresponded to my former rendition. Guiltily, I put the tomatoes down. And the cucumber. The equivalent of raising my hands. "You can keep the cucumber," she concedes. But I'm too scared to touch it now... Eventually, we procure what we want. But I won't be going there again...

3. And it seems we live over a gym... It operates from about 1530 to 2000. There's lots of loud ra-ra music, and a guy doing high-volume count-downs, presumably for the benefit of those so absorbed in their squats and planks that they can't count for themselves. When the landlord contacted us to ask how we were getting on, we mentioned the racket. Ah yes, he says, the gym. But they're not supposed to be a nuisance. If they're a nuisance, let me know, and I'll call the police. Agghhh, so many problems with that...

Luckily, the landlord left us a bottle of wine, because we kind of felt we needed it.

Still, it's Valletta, and Valletta is extraordinary: