Ancient Postcard

Ancient Postcard

The majestic city of Valetta is fast approaching. The massive fortified walls, sculpturesque churches, red and white flags, impenetrable gates overlooked by menacing gun posts guarding deep shelters and vast labyrinths of complicated streets carved out of strong, white stones.

I feel like a foreign invader as I stroke my way through the water on my single, small and insignificant canoe. From this distance the city looks well protected and safe. The red and white flag reminds me that someone else owns the city, a force far bigger than mine. Surrounded by nothing but dark blue water I feel lost as I float with my feet stretched and my hands behind my head. Valetta looks far from welcoming as the gun posts glare at me, and the bastions ensure no one can enter the bowels of the ancient city. Fort St Elmo stands proudly at the point of Mt. Sciberras, keeping a watchful eye out for any intruders or unwelcomed people. Valletta looks static and calm, but as the history books recall, it is a bomb ready to go off and can be turned into a battling ram within minutes as it explodes to life with a collage of colour, smoke and fire while lead cannon balls plummet to earth from the height of massive walls so high birds make homes in its cracks.

Each stroke I take takes me closer, and as I paddle away reality hits me. The grand harbor, whose depths are unknown to man, separates me from the beautiful city. The guns have been silenced for years and the gates and bastions make for good museums. The only explosion of action one will see today is during the tradition Festa’, and instead of angry Knights keeping you safe, you are welcomed and comforted by a platoon of warm and loving locals, ready to offer a cold drink on your arrival into their beautiful ancient homes, passed on from generation to the next since Grandmaster La Valette’s commission.

The hustle and bustle of Malta’s capital can’t be detected from here. Not one car is visible on the road, only waves of heat licking the surface creating a haze which makes reality hard to accept or locate adding to the mystical nature of the world’s most beautiful city. The gun posts are empty apart from the barman and a few local punters ready to share a pint and recall great stories of the city as it survived war after war after war. A karozzin shows itself through the haze and the red and white flag blows proudly in the wind, boasting pride as each corner dances in the strong Mediterranean breeze.

The curved churches’ roof tops offer a picturesque landscape and add a pink balance to the scene and the high catholic crosses send out a strong message. No technology is visible, besides the rusted barrels of loud guns, and carved out holes for gun men wanting to warn off foreign invaders. The beautiful city lies in fine force on this blistering day where the sun will leave no prisoners.

The view from my canoe is intimidating as the tall walls stare down on the deep blue sea and soon time tells me to make my way back, ready to enjoy another beautiful Mediterranean evening with my comrades on the beach, living the life left possible buy our brave and cunning ancestors, many of which laid their life for our joy and benefits.