My Malta

I first visited the Maltese islands in the summer of my third birthday. I don’t actually remember the visit, instead my prompt is an old cine camera film of a small me walking off Gozo ferry, holding hands with my mum and waving at my dad.

My mum was born in Malta, to a Maltese mother and an English father and I grew up spending my summer holidays on the island (locals call it The Rock). We’d visit every summer, taking presents for our vast extended family. We were very much the English relatives, gifting huge bars of Cadbury’s chocolate and brightly coloured plastic beads and bracelets.  We’d spend the first few days visiting relative after relative and each time my dad would be given Cisk lager in a bottle and I’d drink ice cold Kinnie (a Maltese soft drink made from a blend of oranges and aromatic herbs) through a straw.

I treasured the whole summers that I’d spend on the island playing in the sun and the blue, crystal-clear sea.  Some days we’d explore beaches, Golden Sands, Għadira, Armier or take boat trips to Gozo, to Comino, to the Blue Lagoon or around the Blue Grotto of Żurrieq. When the midday sun was too much for us, we’d pile into our battered hire car and explore beautiful sun-bleached countryside spanned with rubble walls, quaint little villages and numerous awe-inspiring churches. The churches, even then, even when I was too small to know my own beliefs, carried a mystery that made me shiver. Other days we’d choose to catch a rusty bus and travel to the capital city Valletta or to Mdina, the medieval, silent, old city next to Rabat.  Then at night, as the temperature cooled, we’d promenade along the sea fronts of Sliema or Bugibba, we’d meet with relatives and walk, chatting and hearing stories that were full of history and folklore. At weekends we’d join in festas (village feasts), buying nougat from street vendors and staying up late to watch firework displays decorating the night sky. People danced in the streets, bedtimes were forgotten. There was no fear, just welcoming arms, open doors and a receiving that made me feel like I belonged, like I was safe.

Today’s Malta is a modern country depending mainly on tourism and IT. Visitors arrive with the expectation that because the Maltese archipelago, consisting of three islands: Malta, Gozo and Comino, is so small that they can see all of the beauty spots within a short visit but they are wrong. The islands conceal so much, so many tiny hidden gems waiting to be discovered and explored. The look of the island may have altered from the summers that I spent there, but the feel and the integrity remains the same. Spirituality, tradition, mystery, determination, resourcefulness, pride, culture, linguistics, history- these islands have such a wealthy pot to draw from.

Making the decision to set ‘Like Bees to Honey’ in Malta was an easy one. My grandparents met in Malta during conflict and chaos, many years ago. My grandfather was a non-Catholic English soldier and my grandmother a Catholic Maltese girl who sacrificed for a love that lasted and grew through decades. Their story offered me a seed, just as their love for each other made me believe in a happily ever after. ‘Like Bees to Honey’ is a tribute to my grandparents, to the mystic that covers the Maltese islands and to the magic of childhood summers.