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Contents |
Day 1 |
Day 2 |
Day 3 |
Day 4 |
Day 5 |
Day 6 |
Day 7 |
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Malta - Day Five The Parting Hours |
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From the church, we began our tour of the fortress of Il Kastell. It seemed a pleasant enough place to await encirclement and siege, though we did not have those concerns at the time. From the crest of the hill where the citadel stood, we were able to stand atop the walls and gaze out into the vast distances laid bare below. It was easy to see the degree to which Il Kastell dominated the countryside from this location. We toured the edges of the fortress walls and saw the views of the island. It was a typical castle from the post-gunpowder era of warfare, with thick walls designed to absorb cannonballs, and cannons strategically placed to protect every wall and angle of the fortress. It was interesting for those who enjoy that sort of thing, but I'm sure Chris was bored by it all. Thus, I didn't go into explanations, lest she fall asleep standing up. The various areas of the castle were interesting, but there was not much there for two weary travelers visiting in the late hours when stores and museums are closing for the day. It was getting late in Gozo time and nearing the time for us to return hotelward. So after a brief stop in a gift shop, we pointed ourselves back toward the Victoria bus terminus. Toward DepartureThe return trip to the bus terminus wasn't too bad, with only a bit of inconvenience from some sort of flea market or something that was being cleaned up. The bus stop was not too difficult to find, since the Victoria bus terminus is not a particularly large place. The bus itself was in no hurry to arrive, however, so we had to sit around waiting for a bus yet again. We were tired, we were grimy, we were very sick of busses. All we wanted to do at this point was get back to the ferry and get back to the hotel where we could get a drink and dinner before getting ourselves ready for an unwelcome but necessary trip back to London the next day. But here we were, sitting in the sun and waiting for another bus that was in no hurry to arrive. As per usual, the bus arrived at its duly appointed time (but no sooner) and returned us to Mgarr and the terminus at the ferry landing. We handed them our return ticket, boarded ship and returned across the straits to Malta. Of course, there was no bus waiting for us in Malta, so we and a group of other frustrated, impatient people waited for our next bus. Needless to say, Chris and I were ready to fight our way on if need be, since we had no intention of waiting another half-hour for another bus. Rabat had taught us some harsh lessons. And it seems that some of our other travelling companions had similar problems with the size and capacity of Maltese busses at some point in their own trips, because it was an eager scrum of people waiting by the doors when they opened. But the bus was large enough for all and we were comfortably without difficulty or issue. This was, by the way, the first time we sat in a bus that looked even vaguely new, and it was the only time we didn't have to sit over the wheel well. The bus ride back to Paceville was much more pleasant than our ride there. The skies had cleared and the island was bathed in the warm glow of a sun that was ready to get off work for the day and head out to happy hour. The steep hills didn't seem as bad and the lack of protective railing around the curves didn't seem like such a danger any more. The scrub brush landscape rolled out in front of us for one last magical glimpse of the countryside. The Last Views of Our Honeymoon IslandI remember the rocky shores that mark Malta's beaches and wondering if they were packed with tourists in the summer. I remember a white pickup truck sitting far out in a field and wondering what it was doing there. I remember strange doorways going into hillsides and wondering why they were there. I remember small towns along the coast and wondering who lived in them. I remember a battered shell of a failed beachside development and wondering what happened to it. I remember seeing a blue building and thinking it looked like one of my landmarks. Oh crap, how the hell do you ding the bell on this thing? |
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Returned to our bus stop, we took our last walk to the Intercontinental. It seemed too soon for the last walk there, but that's where we were. We wandered back to the door for one last fight with the elevator that was struck by lightning. We took our last trip down the hall to our room. We walked inside and I went out on the balcony to discover a pair of sopping wet jeans that had clearly been rained on for hours. On the plus side, it was early evening in Malta, so there was less time for things to go wrong that day. So, after our last batch of free drinks and a fine dinner at another of the hotel's restaurants, we returned to the room so that I could do battle with my pants. |
The view from our hotel toward the Mediterranean. Also, this is the last picture I took in Malta. |
How to Dry Pants: The Ineffective MethodThis battle was waged with a hair dryer that required me to hold down a trigger for it to work. I won't go into details, but after a couple of hours of work, the week-long saga of one pair of pants concluded with the rigging up some sort of fire hazard involving the pants, a hair dryer and, I believe, a couple of belts and one of Chris's scrunchies. This system also required me to tie a knot in each pant leg for reasons are hard to describe. It took about an hour to an hour and a half, but my pants were finally dry enough to wear without squirming too much. So, after a day of long rides, annoying cabbies, missing busses, baking sun, a long walk we didn't need to take, more busses we were sick of and waits we were even more sick of, and a lot of work just to get a clean, dry pair of pants I could wear the next day, the day finally came to a close. This, by the way, would be the day that Chris and I would remember as the second worst day of the trip. |
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