Wednesday 20 January 2010

Wednesday 20th I awake early with a zinging sensation in my head. I’ve had this in the past, and I realise I’m dehydrated. When I analyse my daily intake it amounts to two medium size glasses of milk at breakfast plus the milk with my cereal, and that’s it the other liquid is wine, have to put that right and buy some water me thinks.

It’s another fine morning weather wise, two days back to back a bonus, I have decided to visit Marsaxlokk (Mars-shlok). Reputedly the prettiest fishing bay on the Island, I’ll be the judge of that. I have to go into Valletta and then catch the number 27 to the bay.

I have made a very early start so am hopeful of getting to the capital early. Just as I’m getting the feeling that going into Valletta for an hour of your life following the same well worn path is becoming just a little tedious, the bus is directed off it’s given route by a traffic warden. A change of scenery that will make a change, was someone listening to me moan?
The new route novelty soon starts to wear off, there is one hold up after another, we get back on track then divert off again, the bus is now packed to the rafters. A swarthy looking guy had got on the bus early in the journey he was also a little unkempt he sat directly behind me, very soon a not too pleasant odour began to waft passed my nostrils, is that what that guy was smelling the other day. I laugh to myself, but this I turning into anything but a joke, the driver it is now apparent is lost! He goes round an island twice then follows another bus, every set of traffic lights are against us, we then get stuck behind a refuse cart for street after street.
Far from being early the time is slipping away. To cap it all we grind to a halt because there has been a traffic accident a man and woman are stood arguing in the middle of the road. We are unable to pass the two cars in question for some six or seven minuets, I’m beginning to feel I have been taken hostage.
Is my love affair with the Maltese buses over? It's not over but I’d like a separation soon, very soon, what should have been an hours trip is now way past that. When we finally pull into the terminus it is thirty five minutes late, I will never moan again about the tedious journey, promise.
Find the 27 stop and I’m soon off viewing new horizons’. This journey is not overlong, about half an hour, but it’s worth the trip. Marsaxlokk is indeed a pretty colourful fishing village, I find a bench, sit, take a swig of orange juice and consume a banana and take in the view. After a stroll, it’s off to pastures new. I fancy going to Marsascala another fishing village not too far away, but it would appear I have to go all the way back to the capital to catch another bus.

On arriving in Valletta I learn the following buses will suffice 17, 19, 20. While waiting for the driver to return to his locked bus (17) along with a small crowed of others waiting for the service, a woman walks by me then slips off the kerb and falls in slow motion between kerb and bus. She hit’s the road face first. I would guess she was in her late forties early fifties, another guy and myself are first to react, we lift her up and sit her down resting her back against a lamp post. There is blood all over her face, it seems to be coming from her nose, she is obviously distressed. I quickly go off seeing if there is anyway of getting her assistance. I come across a bus driver who I explain the situation to, I show him where the woman is propped up he takes a look then hurriedly moves off. I follow to see if I can be of further help, he had hurried off to get a cup of tea and a pie!! Would you Adam and Eve it.

The woman is now on her feet has cleaned away most of the blood from her face with the help of water supplied by someone who did give a damn. I’m now on my way, another thirty minutes and we’re in Marsascal. Again pleasant enough, this like the last place is to share with someone special, and as I’m alone and not wanting to be a gooseberry. I snap away for a couple of minutes, then jump on the next bus leaving, it’s the bus I came on.

The last two days I have been in and out of towns faster than Henry Kissinger’s whistle stop visits in the 1970’s. I’m in and out faster than your average burglar.

I mentioned I’d seen no beggars or graffiti, don’t worry that’s still the case, but something else is conspicuous by it’s absence, livestock. I have been to most parts of the country through quite a bit of the country side but have yet to see one cow, sheep, or any form of farming of cattle. Saw a few pigs at the festival last Sunday but that’s been it. Have the Maltese hidden all their cattle because we Brits have a bad reputation in their minds for animal fondling or what.

Visiting a country for the first time always throws up quaint and different practices you have not seen before. For instance, here you can be walking along the main street and come across a row of four or five petrol and diesel pumps just standing there on the pavement with an attendant sat in a chair, nothing else just him and his pumps.

When I return to the hotel M&S are outside soaking up the last hour of sunlight, I join them for a natter. They again try and tempt me to play bingo, I tell them I’m worried about my street cred, if my children find out I’m playing bingo they will have me put in an old folks home.

I get talking to the guy I met on the first day who gave me directions to Shangri La. Turns out he is here for those eight weeks under sufferance well that’s how he makes it sound. He lives in a static caravan the rest of the year, apparently you can not take up permanent residency in the fact that you pay no council tax, but part of the agreement in living in this fashion is you can only live this way for ten months of the year, the other two months you have to go else where, he tells me he is not the only at the hotel doing this.

I have my first afternoon tea and biscuits session I’m really getting into the swing of being a duffer. Then I relent and play bingo, it's interesting listening to all the sound effects to certain numbers, such as two little ducks 22, you get the gist. I win no money, at the end all the losing tickets are thrown in a bag with your room number written on the back, I win a bar of chocolate, one of the prizes was a Valentines card!

There is very little to do of an evening, the hotel is in the far north of the Island any further north and it would be in the sea!
The buses stop running at eight o’clock at night in the winter, there is nothing close by, so really it’s a case of making the best of what ever entertainment you can find. Tonight it’s a quiet night listening to Cyril being a DJ. In fairness the music is middle of the road pop, an improvement on the waltz I hear on the first night, I even fancy some Barry White and he obliges. I listen to more music, then retire to my room to being my battle trying to connect to the hotel WIFI another waste of an hour for sure.