Malta shrinks at night, the lack of traffic shortening journey times. There’s nothing to see, dimly lit streets and the frequent churches, towers lit from the outside, sometimes a red light on top.
The minibus had arrived early, a call from reception telling me they’d gone without me, would be back in five minutes. I finished packing my bag, stood outside the hotel 15 minutes before it was meant to arrive, watched drunk people stagger back to their beds. More than five minutes passed, but the minibus did come back, the driver agitated, the passengers sullen. I ignored them, held onto a handrail, watched the driver ignore road markings, speed limits, occasionally traffic lights.
For the second time in one trip there was no queue at airport security. A lady overtakes me as I empty my pockets, take out my tablet and camera. I pass her again on the other side, getting frisked, her bag checked for explosives. They let her go.
Malta Airport is busier than Bristol, far more flights leaving. Strangely it has fewer food options, the only cafe selling croissants and pizza. People chose the pizza, breakfast at 5am. I bought a coffee, the most expensive of the trip, and found a quiet corner, a plug socket, a large window looking down on the queues for check-in. Online check-in and no checked bags make the experience much smoother.
Down in the check-in hall a man stands by a push chair, its denizen wriggling to get free, strapped tight. He pulls the child up to sit more comfortably but it wriggles back down, starts crying. A small girl, runs out of the nearby shop, an accessories brand, shows him something. He shoos her back in, and a woman emerges instead. He passes her cash and a minute later she comes back out of the shop, a paper bag and two small girls in tow. They’re in white t-shirts, denim skirts, dungaree straps. At a distance their blonde hair suggests twins but they’re a different height, 3-4 inches. The man hands the pram to the lady and abandons them all, some time for himself in the bookshop. One small girl gets a salmon cardigan, the other a large teddy wearing hers. Their mother, wearing a long black dress, takes them off into the airport. The man may find them again.
I’d had enough sitting still, stood up, packed my tablet. As I closed my bag I heard the tannoy for the first time, calling a flight. It was mine, the gate open, an hour to go.
The first quarter of that time was lost to passport control, the person checking my queue working too slowly, his colleague clearing three people in the time my queue got through one.
At the gate I found a seat, watched everybody queue ahead of me. It was another bus ride, no advantage to being first through the gate. No advantage to being first on the aircraft, it would wait.
They stood in the queue for over 20 minutes, holding passports, looking bored, one girl blowing her nose then coughing, generously sharing whichever virus was making her uncomfortable. She blew her nose again, a weak attempt, then stood there, the tissue clutched in her hand. I resolved to avoid her, anything she touched would be contaminated.
Finally the gate doors opened, people sat around me stood up, broadened the queue by joining it’s nearest point. That almost made sense, the back of the queue 40 yards away, further from the gate. More sensible to stay seated, watch the miserable shuffle forwards, impatient people rushing slowly to an inevitable wait.
With the door open I could see the white backdrop was not a building behind the bus, but the sky, overcast, the first cloud of the trip.
As the queue cleared ahead of me a second queue appeared, hiding behind the first. Non-priority boarding, delayed further by the people joining the only queue they could see, priority and everyone else going through ahead of them. Still I waited.
Maybe the other queue had been priority only. The last woman in it was turned away, told to join the other queue. That meant two thirds of the passengers had bought priority boarding, paying extra to sit on the aircraft and not in the terminal.
A small boy sat with me, the game on his tablet silent, adding his own sound effects. Called back to the queue he left me again, grateful he’d gone.
I see the family from earlier, the girls immediately recognisable, the teddy bear no longer wearing a cardigan, instead it was around her waist. The youngest child was revealed as a third girl, dressed the same, no cardigan or shoes. A water fountain was explored, its use demanded, the father showing them how. They joined the queue for my flight, near the back, only late arrivals between us.
The bus moves off, just a dozen of us on the one that replaces it. The baby girl fussed, held by her father, unable to run free. Her sister leaves a bear on the bus, rescued and returned by another passenger. They board at the rear; I get onto the front of the aircraft, find two large men in my row, my seat by the window. Instead I go back two more, the emergency row, extra legroom, empty. The attendant warns me boarding hasn’t finished but anybody for this row would have boarded from the front, and I was the last on. I fastened my seatbelt and relaxed, a flight with bonus comfort.
Two more passengers take the free upgrade, across the aisle from me. A young teen, another denim skirt, dungaree straps, white top. I wondered if she’d seen the other family, three girls dressed the same as her combined age still lower than hers. She clenched her knees nervously as we took off, her mother clinging grimly to the seat rests. After the seatbelt light goes off a man is called down the aircraft, to retrieve her bags from the overhead locker. He’s too short to reach, stands on the chair, passes them both their bags. His wife wriggles her legs in glee, showing him the legroom, so he sits with her, stupidly wearing a hat on the flight.
Ryanair try to sell more scratchcards. Buy 5, get 7, except that on other flights they’ve been buy 1, get 2. The buy 5 get 7 offer was a prerecorded announcement, they played it because it uses the guise of charitable donations to encourage a purchase. A second tannoy announcement immediately followed, making the buy 1 get 2 offer. That’s a 30% drop in revenue-per-win, a vicious insight into the innate profitability of what is thus basically a scam.
I relaxed, stretched my legs, read preloaded websites on my tablet. One claims Finland is heir to the Roman Empire, something I can’t check offline.
An unpleasant smell wafts through the cabin; a bad fart or a dirty nappy? I never did find out. The duty free trolley goes past, stops behind me. The woman behind demands perfume, spends ten minutes discussing the options, somehow gets onto men’s lipstick. They finally stop talking loudly behind me, the attendant moves off, no more of her hip in my face as she leans over. The male attendant brings the trolley back and starts talking about oils, trying to sell those to the woman, then talking with her male friend, more loud nonsense. His accent annoys me, him standing by my shoulder annoys me, the inane bollocks they’re discussing annoys me, the loud voices annoy me. I give up, stand up, walk away.
I stood by the cockpit, looking out of the window at the Alps. 14 minutes later (confirmed by a file timestamp on my tablet) the loudness stopped, the attendant moved away. I walked back to my seat, confused the man sat behind me, “Well done mate, I reckon you’ve pulled there.”
20 minutes out the seatbelt light came on, usual landing preparation. Trays up, window blinds open, the attendant taking the bags from the women across the aisle, putting then in the overhead locker.
The seatbelt light went off and a different attendant came down the aircraft. She checked my seatbelt, saw my tablet, asked if she could put it overhead. As she reached for it I instinctively clutched it closer, it’s too fragile to go up there and rattle around with no protection. She laughed at the childish behaviour and reached out again so I compromised, offered to put it in my bag. Satisfied she moved on.
As we approach the airport the Clifton Suspension Bridge is visible, possibly the original source of my love of bridges. Then the Severn Bridge, same principles to a very different scale.
“Look! A helicopter!” cries an excited voice. By then we were already above the runway, seconds from landing.
No queue at security, but the automated passport scanned failed, telling me to seek assistance. The assistance told me to try another which also failed, the technology continuing to be an annoyance. I went through a standard passport check but the extra delay made me miss the bus to the car park, pulling away as I left the terminal.
Another arrived, and I returned to my car. The usual trepidation, would it be undamaged, did they park it under a tree.. would it be there. It was there, and I drove home. Greeted in the house.
Greeted in the garden.
Malta was interesting, a curious blend of familiar and foreign. It’s too British to feel a different country but too strange to be Britain. It’s full of tourists but not geared for them, better suiting swimmers, divers, people with snorkels. I doubt I’ll return.