Arrival in Malta

 

It felt like I’d been hit by a bus. The alarm went off at 1:45am, slicing through the two hours of restless sleep I’d managed. No time to grumble — it was time to get moving. I was soon out on the A55, picking up Cumi in Penrhyn Bay and then Steve in Rhyl, the three of us rolling through the night towards Liverpool Airport for our 6am flight.

Check-in was the usual blur of yawns, queues, and plastic coffee, but once we boarded I managed to grab forty winks, drifting in and out until the wheels hit the runway. By the time we stepped off the plane, the Maltese sun had already clocked in for duty — hot, bright, and sharp after the grey North Wales dawn.

We made straight for St Julian’s, where the streets spill down towards the harbour in a tangle of restaurants, bars, and the odd strip of sand that passes for a beach. Sightseeing was the order of the day, though in truth it was more wandering than structured exploration, taking in the limestone facades, the fishing boats bobbing in the water, and, on the tiny beach, a few sights that were as much spectacle as scenery. To my own surprise, the beers were few and far between — the heat didn’t really lend itself to heavy drinking.

Our apartment turned out to be a gem. Centrally placed, roomy enough for three miserable sods to co-exist without friction, and best of all: double rooms. By pure luck, I pulled the winning card — ensuite bathroom and the best view in the place. The balcony overlooked the sweep of the port, and from there you could take in the full mix of old stone, new glass, and the restless buzz of the resort.

After the early start, we crashed out for an evening snooze with the boombox blasting out great music, recharging just enough for the night ahead. At 9pm we headed out, stomachs rumbling, but ended up with an expensive and disappointing meal — one of those places that looked the part but delivered little more than tourist-trap fodder. Still, no matter. We drifted afterwards into the heart of St Julian’s nightlife, and it was absolutely banging. Streets thronged with kids barely half our age, music spilling from every bar, neon bouncing off the stone. Energy everywhere.

But age and temperament tell. After a couple of hours of dodging the crowds and feeling our collective years, we admitted defeat. Call us miserable old cunts if you like, but bed was calling louder than the basslines. By 2am we were back in the apartment, closing the curtains on a day that had started in the dead of night in Wales and ended under the neon skies of Malta.