Seemed rather apt. I’d last parted company with my Mum when I’d sailed out of Plymouth on the overnight ferry to Roscoff six months previously. This time it was the ferry from Valletta, Malta’s Capital, to the town of Sliema, five minutes or so across the harbour. And my turn to stand on the quay and wave her off. We thought this a more fitting departure than a hotel lobby or airport check-in.
Jumping on and off the local buses, in just a few days we’d got a good sense of the island, or at least that’s how it seemed to us. We’d largely avoided the tourists, save for an English couple who’d pushed in front of us to board a bus to Valletta. Lost in their own little world, inconsiderate rather than deliberately rude. And very gullible. We’d jokingly mentioned to each other that the stop for Valletta is the one after everyone gets off. Which is pretty self-evidently not true. Left them still sat on the bus as we wandered into the city. Pays not to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.
Of course, we’d had to reassure my Dad that the weather on the island wasn’t up to much – mostly described locally as partly cloudy and windy – tough, almost blew the Flake right out of my 99…
[For those unfamiliar with Malta, take a look at the latest additions to the Gallery…]
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