I had to beat down the demons again and force myself to leave the house. Is it a more aware, somewhat poignant, fear of my own mortality that fuels that insidious inner voice? ‘Stay at home. You’ll be safe and warm and comfortable – pain free. You hate flying; no, you are frightened of flying and you are frightened of heights, especially on narrow paths above steep cliffs. Stay home. Stay safe.’

This of course begs the question, ‘Why do it then?’ The answer isn’t simple but I could start with the promise I made to myself. To not let the fear of death, both irrational and actual keep me from this. I know that as I get older the chance will increase. I already trip too much – even when I’m not tired – and that is not good in the high places. Plus the fact that I seem to be getting either complacent of, or stupidly unaware of, my dangerous environs. One trip that I don’t regain my balance from in time brings me, at best, into hard contact with rock and results in a broken bone. At worst. Well we know what that brings.

‘A companion,’ you say. Though I would, very much, love one of my daughters to share with me, the thought of them watching me take a dive and having to suffer the immediate consequences is not acceptable. If ever a compatible stranger comes along then, whoop! But that is a huge ask. 60 year old females that are in to this are few and far between and a male companion would just result in unnecessary, uncomfortable and nullifying competition.

And there is the pleasure, not only of something achieved, or overcome, but the feeling of oneness, of manifest purpose. Of belonging, of the euphoria that sweeps through you as the path opens up before you while the world and all its beauty moves your every sense. It is a fulfilment that is so very hard to explain, though I expect it is innate or primordial, of our very DNA.

I’m not a travel guide, you’re a grown ass woman – an Americanism that I like – capable and able to make up you own mind about what to do and when to do it. But for what it is worth; don’t come to Malta at half-term in February, you will be swarmed with Italian families. In hindsight, I would have waited until the last week in the month. That being said; after the unprecedented medicane, the weather was very good. I was washed out on only one morning and if I’d remembered my rain coat even that wouldn’t have stopped me. 13-15 degrees and mostly sunshine with a healthy breeze made for good walking weather. If I could, I would have avoided the tourist hot-spots but that was not always possible.

Malta seems very developed on first view, but there are parts where you can get away from the crowds, just don’t expect lonely sandy beaches. The limestone ‘garrigue’ that forms much of the coastal landscape will be unbearable in the summer – all that white reflecting the already too hot sun.

Remember it is only the British, Irish, Antipodeans and Yankees that acknowledge you while passing on your treks. The rest of the world is happy to run with a mutual, ‘you don’t exist’ policy. The locals though are friendly, they are also astonishingly multi-lingual. Sitting at the bar, I enjoyed the barman being castigated by the head waiter first in English then – perhaps he considered that I might overhear – Maltese, then Italian, then Spanish and he finished with a lovely, no doubt acerbic throw-away, in Hindi. That’s at least 5 and they both probably had French as well.

Although I write this at the behest of my daughters, I am most welcome of the browsing stranger. My language can be salty but it is what it is. Despite my fears I intend to keep going till my aching knees can’t keep my belly from the floor that I just pissed on.

SKL – 15th February 2023