Gozo Big or Gozo Home
For those unfamiliar with Maltese geography, and we were very much among them, the nation isn’t just one island but a small constellation of seven landmasses, three of which are inhabited. Our destination was Gozo, the second largest, reached by a brisk ferry from Malta’s northern tip. Almost immediately, it felt like a completely different country. Gozo is quieter, greener, and distinctly more self-contained, with locals who proudly identify as Gozitan and speak a dialect that sounds like Maltese but angrier. At just sixty-seven square kilometres, smaller than Loch Lomond, Gozo is compact enough to explore in a day, which we decided to do by buggy. With all the modern, comfortable, and indeed safe buggies snapped up by better prepared travellers, we were left with the runt of the litter, which we soon discovered found it impossible to maintain a straight line, indicate left or right, or to our almost demise brake.
Despite these vehicular hiccups, the buggy did its job, rattling us between beaches and coves that felt largely untouched by mass tourism. Gozo’s coastline is rugged and often dramatic, particularly in the north, where the land drops sharply into deep water. This became grimly apparent at Ramla Beach. As we arrived, emergency services rushed past us with increasing urgency: coastguards, paramedics, and finally police officers, their expressions suggesting that things had not gone well. We thought it best to turn around and find a different beach, later learning that a Polish parent and holidaymaker had been caught by the strong surf and drowned shortly before our arrival. It was a stark reminder of the perils of sea swimming, especially on Gozo’s infamous northern coastline.
The remainder of our day was far less dramatic. We stopped exclusively on the islands’ calmer shores and even managed a swift tasting session at Lord Chambray, Gozo’s first microbrewery. As the sun started to recede, we headed to the island’s capital, Victoria, and climbed to its most famous attraction: the Cittadella. Inhabited since the Bronze Age, the magnificent fortress served as a refuge for Gozo’s beleaguered populace during frequent raids by Ottoman corsairs and later upheavals under French rule. The British eventually decommissioned it in 1868, which was very considerate of them. Nowadays, it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site and tourist magnet, offering views from the ramparts to almost every corner of the island. Spectacular though it was, Lowri was insistent that we return to Malta, the island, as an early alarm call would be required the following morning.
And an early alarm call it certainly was as my partner pressganged me out of our hotel at the crack of dawn and into an awaiting taxi. It was my thirty-fifth birthday and, somehow, she had managed to keep the day’s schedule a complete secret. It was only when we pulled into a small, nearby harbour and I saw the fluttering sails of a catamaran and a group of cheery seamen loading crates of Cisk Lager onboard that I knew what was in store. Knowing my proclivities far too well, a booze cruise around the Maltese archipelago was our first action of the day. Complete with snorkel stops and unlimited chilled beverages, we spent an utterly hedonistic morning cruising and floating, spotting the odd playful parrotfish and reticent ray in the process. A wonderfully relaxing voyage was had by all except, perhaps, the captain and crew who had to endure three-hours of non-stop 1980’s power ballads.
If the morning had been relaxed, the evening was anything but. Malta was hosting the Netherlands in a World Cup qualifier at the National Stadium, and Lowri had back-row tickets. Dressed in full Maltese garb, we thrust ourselves into the chaos and carnage of a raucous crowd, thanks in large part to the utterly smashed Dutch who appeared to have been drinking relentlessly since 7 pm the previous evening. Despite our vociferous support, the likes of Van Dijk, Gakpo, Reijnders, and Depay were more than enough to come out 4-0 victors. Then, our prime concern became extracting ourselves from the stadium without giving away that we were not, indeed, of Maltese descent and with all limbs intact. This, we just about managed, sneaking past the ultras, as we retreated into the night.
For our final day, we wanted to witness as much of the island’s other charms as we could, which meant utilising the unmatched efficiency of a Big Red Bus. Our first stop, unsurprisingly, was the Cisk Brewery, ostensibly to admire its fantastic Art Deco façade, of course. Following a wee sample on the roof, we then moved inland to Mdina. The fortified jewel of Malta, it was its capital during antiquity and the medieval periods, although its population never spread beyond its ancient walls, remaining under three hundred to this day. Its narrow streets and honey-coloured stone buildings reflect layers of Roman, Arab, Norman, and Baroque influence, though navigating them required the patience of Saint Publius due to the density of enthusiastic tour groups.
To finish, we stopped at Golden Bay, one of Malta’s most popular beaches, where we were treated to a highly unusual sight. There, in the trees overlooking the bay, perched a bright scarlet macaw. Thinking we had stumbled upon the rarest of wild Maltese birds, I am most disappointed to write that I recently discovered it was actually a well-trained pet, belonging to the owner of a nearby umbrella and sunbed concession. Still, it felt appropriate given the thousands of years Malta has spent absorbing influences and making them their own. Resting with one final Cisk and watching the sun drop towards the sea provided a fitting conclusion to nation one hundred. Now, for the commencement of the next ninety-six. On y va!
J
