My childhood memories are fuzzy at best, and those I have of these tiny islands in the Central Mediterranean, are no exception.
In no particular order, I’m looking down on ancient buses belching exhaust smoke from a balcony of the Phoenicia Hotel in Floriana; lobster pots and nets are being mended by sunburned fishermen in the port of Marsaxlokk in front a ramshackle fish restaurant; my mother is sunbathing with a Martini and a menthol cigarette at her elbow at our villa in Marsaskala and strangest of all, there’s the heady aroma and taste of ‘Rum omelette’, a dish I’ve never encountered since, in the courtyard of a sculptor’s studio home, surrounded by statuary. None of them seem like an especially compelling reason for me to bring Sabrina here in early May, but they’re a starting point for our explorations.
We’re based on the second floor of a typical 18th century Valletta townhouse with its traditional enclosed Maltese balconies, at the far end of the city’s peninsular hard by Fort St Elmo, a far cry from the fishing village where our family’s villa was located, or indeed the Art Deco Phoenicia Hotel. The roof terrace of our building has a captivating 360°view of the city, its Grand Harbour and neighbouring Sliema’s Marsamxett Harbour, which beyond sunrises, sunsets and cocktails, will surely come into its own for the Feast of St Augustine fireworks displays.
The Knights of St John began building this wonderfully atmospheric fortress city on its narrow headland, after their tiny garrison miraculously repelled the Great Ottoman Siege of Malta in 1565. One of the first cities to be constructed on a grid pattern, mainly to facilitate the quick transportation of weapons and ammunition, it’s no surprise that this living museum is a UNESCO World Heritage site. With space at a premium (this is the world’s smallest capital city), its mainly 17th and 18th multi storey tenement buildings call to mind a Baroque Mediterranean Manhattan.
Walking the streets in search of breakfast on our first morning (freshly squeezed OJ and Spinach, Ricotta and Pea pastries in Merchant St), I’m immediately delighted that we've chosen this Spring to visit, as the city has yet to be brushed up for its moment in the sun as the European Capital of Culture and we can enjoy the patina of over 400 hundred years of history, before Renzo Piano and the builders move in. Despite having acrimoniously expelled the British in 1979 and being an enthusiastic EU member for well over a decade, the casual visitor would be forgiven for thinking that parts of the city with its antique British signage, red mailboxes, storefronts and wartime graffiti exists in an late 20th century Anglo culture time warp, as vestiges of nearly two centuries of British occupation and influence endure. There’s even a “British Hotel” on whose terrace we had cocktails, half expecting a genuflecting Basil Fawlty-like figure to hove into view.
These odd throwbacks to the latter days of the island’s colonial past begin to peter out as you walk towards the centre of the city and its great cathedral of St John. Here the surrounding streets are full of mauve jacaranda blossoms and are dressed to the nines with religious statuary and red and gold heraldic banners for the Feast of Augustine. Brass bands are noisily practising for their big concert in the main square that marks the peak of the religious celebration in a couple of days time.
Charming eccentricities abound here, and they’re far from being limited to the Anglo-colonial hangover. Just a couple of blocks from our apartment we are shown around Casa Rocca Piccola by the delightful Marquis de Piro, current head of the noble Maltese family which today inhabits this lovely palace, originally built for one of the Knights of St John in the 16th century. The Marquis is a close contemporary to my father in age and explaining our family’s connection to the island, he makes a couple of guesses as to who the mysterious unidentified sculptor from my hazy memory might be and as he shows us his wedding photos, I guess correctly that like my parents’ own, they were taken by Lord Snowden.
There are around 300,000 cars on these pocket-sized islands, so rather than experience at first hand whether the apocryphal joke that their famously spirited motorists “drive neither on the left nor the right, but in the shade…”, we take a combination of boats and buses (that bus station I remember is still in the same location, though the Phoenicia hotel is closed for renovation), for our initial explorations outside of Valletta.
On Sunday, the peak of the religious festival, we explore the winding alleyways of the ancient walled city of Mdina. There are tantalising glimpses of bougainvillea be-decked courtyards and throngs of name day celebrating families in their finery posing for photos, while a respectful straw-hatted, blue-blazered and blue-rinsed queue waits outside the cathedral for service to begin. Our goal is a fine Italian lunch in a sun dappled courtyard rather than religious worship, but we do take in a few numbers at the brass band concert by the cathedral back in Valletta, before dinner in Archbishop St. Sabrina not surprisingly, had been underwhelmed at the prospect of Maltese cuisine after I’d recounted my Rum omelette recollection, but on a lovely balmy night as the celebratory fireworks and mortars exploded across the city, she had to admit that the traditional braised Maltese rabbit stew, local red wine and Prickly pear liqueur we ordered, were remarkably delicious.
Braised Maltese Rabbit stew: Serves Four
1 rabbit cleaned and portioned
1/2 bottle of red wine
1 large onion, finely diced
4 cloves of garlic, minced
8 bay leaves
1 can of crushed tomatoes
1 heaped tbsp tomato purée
1 large carrot, finely diced
4 medium potatoes, peeled and roughly chopped
Salt and pepper to taste
Mix wine with two of the garlic cloves, bay leaves and 1tsp of salt. Add the rabbit pieces and leave to marinate overnight.
Remove the rabbit pieces from the marinade (reserve the marinade), pat dry. Heat 2 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil in a heavy-based saucepan and lightly brown the rabbit pieces; remove and set aside. Add another tablespoon of oil to the saucepan, add the onion, carrot and the rest of the garlic. Cook until fragrant; add the tomato purée stirring through and cooking until it is slightly brown, then add the crushed tomatoes, cooking for 5 minutes. Add the marinade and bring to the boil, return the rabbit pieces, add enough water to cover, bring again to the boil then reduce to a simmer. Cover and simmer for half an hour then add the potatoes. Simmer for another half hour, remove the lid and let the liquid reduce and thicken. When the meat of the rabbit falls off the bone, that’s when it is ready to serve.
Further food surprises were in store on the nearby island of Gozo, where after a 15 minute ferry crossing, we were met at the jetty in Mġarr by the enterprising taxi driver Michael, who in short order persuaded us to upgrade from the five Euro trip we’d booked to the postage stamp capital of Victoria to a fifty Euro trip round the island, including revealing his “secret” favourite seafood restaurant, which “we’d never find on our own”. Arzella on Marsalforn beach, which is in the far north of the island certainly delivered and the tuna, prawn and octopus carpaccio and seafood spaghetti we enjoyed while Michael smoked his way through what must have been a pack of twenty on the rocks, were sensationally fresh. We saw more relics, (this time from pre-history), on the way back to the ferry, as he took us to explore the 3,600 BC Megalithic ‘temples’ at Xagħra, (to our untutored eyes a pile of very old rubble, which admittedly didn’t look bad for its age).
Chancing our arm on our final day, we hire a car to try to unearth my remaining memories, and reckoning that we couldn’t possibly get lost on an island that’s only 17 miles long and 9 miles wide, set off with only the pocket-sized map provided by the rental car agency. The port of Marsaxlokk still charms despite the addition of an adjacent oil refinery and container terminal. There’s a parade of fish restaurants overlooking colourful boats bobbing in the harbour with the evil eye of Horus painted on their prows (a relic of the Phoenician occupation) and net and lobster pot mending fishermen still gossip on the quayside. The attempt afterwards to find our old family villa in Marsaskala was an object lesson of the perils of revisiting anywhere you’ve truly loved. The fishing village is no more, having been hideously overdeveloped with cookie cutter condos and the waterfront row of cool mid century modern villas I remember, apparently demolished. Somewhat chastened, we get completely lost trying to find our way back to Valletta with non-existent signposting and nose to tail road rage riven traffic.
Decompressing on our roof terrace with a cocktail and a final sunset, we reflect on what will soon be lost in this strikingly unspoiled city, vowing to learn the lesson and remember it as it is right now- a shabbily charming throwback.
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Maltese culture and history is fascinating, but my understanding of both has always been rather vague.
Thanks to your vivid description and images I'm even more intrigued!
I'll admit, however, that one of the biggest draws for me is the idea of visiting Popeye Village 😂
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Popeye_Village
Haha! I must admit I’d completely forgotten about that place - yet another “relic”!
The two islands pack a huge punch considering their diminutive size and there are others in the archipelago which we’ve never visited. Be sure to write about them after you’ve visited.