I woke up, eyelids heavy, forced them open. An angled glance at my watch suggested a good sleep, my latest start of the trip. I braved the hotel shower, its hot tap a binary switch cunningly disguised as a dial. When hot it overpowers the cold flow so a shower needs to be quick, starting cool then heating up as it goes, a final rinse risking a scalding.

Packing my bag for the day the street outside sounded quiet. My watch, now on my wrist, confirmed: I’d misread it earlier. I was ready to go out before half seven. I went out.

Reaching the bus stop a kilometre later I realised I’d failed miserably to implement my plan: take a large bottle of water with me, drink it on the bus, discard it when I got off. Instead I had just the two half litre bottles in my bag. In the end I only needed one, or at least only drank one.

The bus to Mdina was there as I arrived, taunted me by waiting until I’d walked past it, then left, a mocking demonstration of how Monday could have gone.

I wasn’t constrained today. Five different bus routes go to the capital from Bugibba, a nine minute wait for the first of them. The bus started quiet, the locals hopping aboard as it passed their stops. Two prams cluttered the open space near the front, the passenger of one stood on a seat by his mother, watching through the window. The resident of the other hid behind a lace curtain, wriggling legs betraying his presence.

A young man sat beside me, his phone complaining at a lack of storage space. He explored its file system, keeping his pictures, choosing not to delete the PDFs named ‘visa_application_xxx’. I didn’t offer to help but he was a digital photographer, 3-4 images of the same subject, lots of subjects. All he needed was to delete the duplicates, he’d have been fine. Until he took more..

The bus wound through the island, never leaving urban areas, a sad indictment of overpopulation. Perhaps I contributed, but my presence was only transitory, gone tomorrow. Literally, an early flight, a long drive.

We finally find some open ground, half a mile with no buildings. A wireframe sign on a hill tells us Viva Santa Maria, 12 feet tall but hard to make out from the background. Perhaps it lights up at night. Moments later we circle up the hill and around behind it. Two girls get off and the bus heads down a steep busy street, three women and a man standing, four seats free.

Back in Mosta, home of the Rotunda, a car horn annoys me. The bus is air conditioned but I pretend to be too warm, needing somewhere beginning with M for today’s title. I’d have liked to stop in Mosta, see the dome, but too short a time in Malta. We deviate for the first time from the route to Mdina, taking a narrow route through the town, straight alleys stretching to the sides. Rush hour traffic trapped the bus, the internal board telling us for too long the next stop is Daqqaq. The native names in Malta use a lot of Qs, but this stands out even among them. High scoring in scramble, if you could find the Qs.

On the move again we pass more elegant architecture. The local style is ornate, outside staircases that turn through stone balustrades to the second, third floor, decorated doorways peeking from behind, the flat rooves keeping the building low. Bugibba has only few of these, its growth to meet the tourist trade a crass unsympathetic building spree that prioritised cost ahead of elegance.

Another bend, another church. Or maybe a cathedral. A large square stone building, severe corners, the decoration high. I wondered if this was a deliberate clash with the local style, imposing a presence on the town.

The bus missed a stop, braking sharply, an angry man running to get on. From the pram comes a gentle, “bah bah bah” followed by giggling and a squeal. Outside we pass a store, its logo a bright red ‘scan‘, reminding me of the days they were the cheapest source of computer equipment. The man sat next to me received a phone call, answered in a foreign language, got off at the next stop. Both prams followed him, half the bus emptying.

An hour into the journey I’m calm but frustrated. Public transport in rush hour is miserable anywhere, and as we near the end of the trip the traffic gets heavier, queues on the dual carriageway, no junction in sight.

A girl in a pink top and straight black skirt gets off. A different girl in a pink top and straight black skirt gets on. She sat beside me, frowning at the traffic, checking her watch.

I see the police for the first time since the airport, three men, laughing at a smart car, wedged in a parking space, bumpers bent by the cars either side. We’d reached the 2018 European City of Culture, thick walls giving way to an open square, set up for a performance, chairs in rows in the sunshine. (That linked site answered a question I’d had all day, regarding the strange circular stones in that square, and by St Elmo‘s fort).

Off the bus, a sign, typical of Malta. We’d passed a skate park earlier, steep ramps and curved walls, painted as all skate parks must be.

A bridge, a gate, a man with an accordion. Narrow streets, steep enough the pavement has steps, my knees protesting. I find more policemen, on foot, a scooter, a police woman on a Segway. They patrol the streets, guard the buildings, direct traffic. The city heaves, locals and tourists vying for space, cars blocked on every street.

I didn’t choose a direction but found the battery from which they fire the daily salute. A view across the harbour, a picture postcard sight.

Down the hill, changing direction in the maze of streets at whim, I found more accordions, cafes, a myriad of small shops, tourists.

My shirt was already damp, but the light linen felt cooler, lacking the clammy touch of a t-shirt. Cheap and nasty from Tesco, I’ll have to buy more, their savings in material making it ideal for this weather.

I stopped for a drink, a shaded cafe. I’d come back around and up the hill, nearly half the city seen in the first hour. Valletta is small.

The cafe does cappuccino, nine different ways, twenty more coffee options, half a page of hot or iced chocolate and a tiny section acknowledging the insanity that is tea. Before the coffee arrived I received a glass bottle with a plastic glass, spring water from Llanllyr, Wales.

I chose the Paspuccio, a caramel topped cappuccino with a touch of pasciok in powder. The waiter tried to upsell a croissant, I politely declined. I’d already spotted the Vallettan love of pastry, 4-5 eight foot wide shops selling nothing else, mainly savoury pies. Something to try later.
The coffee was good, too small, left me craving more. The water gives me more benefit, refreshing. Four Italians sit down, make more noise than the rest of the cafe, play videos on their phones, take selfies, the fake shutter sound on their phones inciting violence. I paid for my drinks, moved on.

A woman in the gardens was feeding bread to a feral cat, pigeons trying to get some, the cat ignoring them. Later I saw it sleeping, in the shade under a bench. The lift down from the gardens is free, you pay to come back up. Only a euro but I chose another route, eventually making my way back up.

I’d seen the harbour, watched the noon salute from another garden, quieter, more relaxed. Taking in the fort but skipping its museum I found myself going downhill again, trying to find the basilica. I found it just before 1pm but couldn’t get in, it was shut from 12-3.30.

Countless statues of Maltese dignitaries filled the squares, occupied hidden corners.

I thought I’d grab some lunch, moved swiftly past a restaurant offering duck livers, for €35. I rejected another restaurant, the accordion player outside ruining any chance of restful repast.

Other cafes were too busy, or too expensive. There were too many people, too much noise, too many accordions intent on annoying me, an actual jazz band tormenting the tourists. So I left the city, found a bus, sat glaring at three women wittering loudly at each other, uncaring of their fellow passengers. I’d ended up in a seat facing another, a man opposite and one to the side, silent, the fourth seat occupied by a quiet woman sat sideways, facing the aisle.

The witterers got off, a man taking one of their seats, three girls sharing the other two. The bus traced its way back, the route similar, I couldn’t spot where the 48 I was on deviated from the 31 I’d caught that morning. An elegant lady actively tried to avoid catching my eye, a curious pretence that I wasn’t there, drawing my attention where it hadn’t previously been. She got off in St Paul’s Bay, maybe a mile from my hotel. I stayed on the bus for most of that mile, walking the last few hundred yards, getting drawn into conversation by a British woman at a restaurant. She wanted to know if I was looking for food, then or later, so I told her I needed to get back to my hotel, drink a lot of water, feel human again before eating. She pointed me at the local store by the hotel, named a product that would supplement the water, replace salts lost through sweating. She’s been in Malta for seven years, swears by it. Instead I returned to my hotel, rapidly finished three pints of water, had an hour’s kip.

Not eating in Valletta had left me hungry. The restaurant options in sensible walking distance didn’t inspire me so I decided to go low brow, take advantage of being as near to Turkey as any time since the bastards invaded, try a kebab. They offered beef or chicken shish, or a mix of the two. I went for the mix, got told to make a salad choice. I could choose six different salad types, opted for just the cabbage and the onion. They brought me coffee, too small a cup, a promise of a second when that one was finished. The food arrived, more cabbage added, to fill the plate. Would I like any sauces? No.

The lady from the till came over, expressed disappointment that I hadn’t taken all the salad options, asked if she could bring me some chips. I said yes, and some time (and a second coffee) later emptied my pocket of loose change, dropped it in a saucer by the till, around a 15% tip. That let me thank the chef: sauces would’ve detracted from the flavours of the meat, the chicken and beef both cooked beautifully with flavoursome spices.

Is flavoursome a word?

I returned to the hotel, planned an early night. I’ll be travelling for too many hours tomorrow.