Valletta, Malta

Early this morning I woke to the sight of a ragged coastline slowly scrolling past – becoming closer with each minute that passed. I nudged my other half awake and pointed over her.

“We’re here!”

“Where?”

“I can’t remember”

We had arrived at Valletta, Malta.

After scraping ourselves out of bed, and fighting the good fight through the increasingly battle-worn buffet area, we made our way off the ship, and into the heart of the city.

The main attraction within the city – for us at least – the Cathedral – was of course closed, so we improvised a new plan on the spot, and set off in search of the museum of archeology, the nunnery, and the monastery.

It struck me while wandering the walled gardens and rooms of the austere nunnery that different people take entirely different things from the same recorded histories. I read a panel in one of the more secluded rooms that “wayward girls” were sometimes handed over “kicking and screaming” to the nunnery, so they might be taught the error of their ways. They were essentially imprisoned within the nunnery until they had “seen the light”. One in particular – the daughter of an aristocrat – was celebrated by her conversion.

If only takes a very small shift of perspective to see a state sponsored cult meeting out horrific brain-washing abuse to unwilling participants.

It got worse when we visited the monastery and church – which reminded me in many ways of St Peters in Rome – where the display of power and wealth seemed totally at odds with any sort of message about helping anybody at all.

There was an air of massive corruption on display – right under our noses – and the disparity between the resources available to the nuns (nothing), and that available to the monks (unbelievable wealth and influence) was stark. I switched off half-way around the church, wondering how anybody can support such organisations in the modern world.

After leaving the churches, we walked the streets of Valletta for miles – stopping at occasional bars along the way for drinks, food, and ice-creams.

While my other half wrote cards home I spent a few minutes with a bottle of Sol in my hand – people watching once again. There were a LOT of Americans in-among the passing herd – notable by their label clothes and predisposition for men of a certain age to wear polo shirts, and their trophy wives to have had surgery.

It was pretty obvious the trophy wives were in charge.

Late in the afternoon we made our way back to the ship and dumped our bags in the cabin. We’re now slumped next to one of the pools after swimming an inordinate number of very-short-lengths, and will no doubt be vanishing soon to get ready for dinner. A few minutes ago I tried out a hot-tub for the first time in my life. I won’t lie – it was mildly entertaining – but I very much doubt I’ll buy one for the back garden.

Now sitting, drying out, with a Pinacolada and the iPad – writing this.

It’s surprisingly hard work – this doing nothing business. I’m still getting told off for racing from one thing to the next all day.

Tomorrow we’re back at sea before three ports in three days. Turkey and Greece are out ahead.