For this is not rain, these are biblical floods. Wading valiantly up and down Valletta's urban rapids without paddle or canoe, my thirst for exploration is being well and truly quenched and my outside chance of participating in the London Olympics has received an unexpected and timely boost - albeit in the as yet unapproved New Umbrella Spoke Inversion discipline. I have to tiptoe around each street corner to ensure that I will not be flushed out of the city and into the sea by one of the veritable torrents that are gushing down the freshly cleansed stone floors. By the time I reach the city gates, I am truly exhausted and my brain struglles to ponder my next move: do I wait for a bus, catch a taxi back to the hotel or simply sit down in a puddle to contemplate an alternative career in water divination.
And yet it seems strangely right that the weather is not what it ought to be, reflecting as it does the quirky personality of this island nation and its 400,000 inhabitants. These are warm people, so very Mediterranean in their customs, cuisine and complexion. They share much with their Italian neighbours, cleverly counterbalancing a suicidal sense of road awareness with profound religious belief as they drive around the 120km of potholed roads like heroin-addicted one-eyed pandas with glaucoma, relying only on a superglued dashboard crucifix and some rosary beads to save them from an early grave. They can rightly lay claim to the fast-track divine intervention they seek, too: with 98% of the population Roman Catholic and the only European constitution to declare divorce illegal, Malta can justly call itself the most devout nation of all.
And yet a strong and undeniably British influence permeates through each and every level of the social structure. Education and entertainment are taken from the most recent colonisers as are business customs, making Malta the most progressive and professionally reliable of the southern European nations. Most importantly of all, however, the bastion of civilization that is daily teatime is served in the only correct way - brewed lovingly in a teapot and served with milk. This is truly a melting pot of civilizations ancient and new, a Mediterranean minestrone of multicultural influences and nothing illustrates this better than the country's national language.
Bearing the unusual distinction of being the only semitic language written in the Latin alphabet, Maltese combines medieval sicilian dialect with a subdued non-guttural variation of arabic to create the most incomprehensible sequence of throat-clearing catarrh that has ever had the pleasure of passing my ears. To compound my confusion and frustration at my sporadic recognition of some phlegm or spit the Maltese enjoy interspersing random English words into their sentences, as witnessed between an elderly couple in the hotel lobby this morning: 'Inti ista 'tħgin bl that big suitcase darling?' 'Of course ħabib, fejn tridu.' How sweet.
'This is the worst weather we have had for a long time', the little old lady next to me informs me helpfully as I take a seat next to her on the #62 bus. Sitting in its warm confines, I assess the damage. With my canvas shoes waterlogged, jeans saturated to the knees, and the marrow inside my tarsals and metatarsals soggier than a tea-dunked biscuit, I would push the King of Drowned Rats to abdicate in my favour. I feel miserable, this is not how this business trip to Malta was supposed to be. I want my company's money back. Ahem.
It has drizzled, it has rained and it has also poured on me today, and yet my intuition tells me that my trial by inundation is not yet over. I am not mistaken. At the bottom of a hill, the Msida marina roundabout has flooded and is under a foot and a half of water. the bus aquaplanes briefly, slows to a crawl, or possible breaststroke, and finally stops. Through the glass, we can see that the water is a good twelve inches above the level of the doors and I have to convince myself that the shadow that just rushed past was a traffic cone and not the dorsal fin of a tiger shark. The situation is mildy amusing rather than concerning, for now. Then, as so often occurs in this great amusement arcade of life, the inexplicable happens.
Possibly smarting from a humiliating defeat by his youngest son at Monopoly or being 2011's first Maltese victim of an elaborate Nigerian banking scam, the bus driver decides to share his misery with me and my motley bunch of co-passengers - by opening the front doors. Three seconds of both muted and deafening silence precede the most expansively multilingual volley of expletives ever loosed on this or any other Mediterranean isle. If I had only been able to commit to paper this inspirationally creative parade of crude invectives, I would now be able to swear in at least three dozen new languages. I look artound hopefully to see if any of my fellow passengers have shopped for tar and feathers, but it seems as though the driver will be fortunate on this occasion. Grocery bags, souvenirs and feet are hurriedly lifted into mid-air as a miniature tsunami is unleashed within the bus. All but sealing his candidacy for an instant lobotomy, the driver then closes the doors and drives off again, leaving our custom-made paddling pool to alternate between front and back sections of the bus. I am tempted to allow the sweet old lady sitting next to me to get up and speak to the driver, as she seems keen to do. But her grip on my arm is a steel vice and she is foaming at the mouth. In the interest of humanity and the driver's family, I pacify her with a gentle hush and gently encourage her back into the seat.
Returning to my hotel in this mobile washing machine, I half expect to see pairs of animals escaped from our 21st century ark follow me into the elevator. But I am alone, and it is alone that I spend my first evening in Malta, sitting on the bathroom toilet seat with the soothing sounds of the hotel hairdryer attempting to dry my only shoes and jeans - fibre by sodden fibre.
Having failed miserably in my exploration of the country's current capital, I decide to seek touristic atonement by visiting the fortified city of Mdina, former capital of Malta before the arrival of the Knights of St. John who decided to use the natural harbour around Valletta as their strategic headquarters.
A hush. I notice it immediately, it is that obvious: the Silent City, as Mdina is known, truly deserves its moniker. It is as though the high sandstone walls are absorbing every sound as soon as it is emitted; footsteps are muffled and even the conversations of loud Italian tourists are reduced to conspiratorial whispers. With no public advertising, non-existent litter and fewer cars than cats, this city is a living embodiment of urban feng shui perfection: neatly handwritten ceramic street signs welcome visitors into another beautiful narrow medieval alleyway; a soothing orange glow emanates from evenly-spaced wall lanterns; well-tended hanging flower baskets adding an intermittent splash of colour. It is beautiful.
And the walls have absorbed me, too, as I find myself connecting with Mdina in a way that I have rarely done on my travels. The solitude, the silence, the serenity - three factors combined that make me feel strangely at peace in this elegant former capital city. This state of mind may have been overdue and waiting for me wherever I happened to be, but given the emotional turmoil of the last few weeks and the breakneck intensity at which I lead my life, this unexpected tranquility is more than welcome and I gratefully embrace it.
PeaceWanting to make the most of this heightened sense of mental clarity and relaxation, I wander aimlessly and repetitively around the dozen or so streets that make up this historical enclave. I pause every so often to marvel appreciatively at the harmonious contrast of the magnificent ochre walls against a backdrop of pure azure skies and truly feel as though I am the only creature alive. After a few more minutes walk, and when the moment is just right, I enter Bacchus, a wine cellar I had spotted with growing interest on successive grid walks. Inside, I am the only customer in a lavishly decorated medieval wine cellar. A comfortable armchair beckons me over invitingly from next to a warm fireplace and a beautiful old bookcase. There is no music playing and the manager is busying himself with the reservations folder. With my glass of red wine and 700 years of history to keep me company, I write these words feeling calmer than I have done in a long time. I have a corner to turn.
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