Samizdata

I am writing these few words in the island of Malta, having spent the last week and a half enjoying the sights, sounds, and particularly, the culinary tastes, of this splendid island. This is now the second time that I have spent Christmas here and I strongly recommend it as a place to enjoy the turn of the year. The weather is currently warmish and sunny, with the thermometer around 17 degrees C. The locals celebrate Christmas with the unapologetic gusto of a strong Catholic country, laced with a mix of influences (Arabic, British, southern Italian). The front windows of shops and private homes often carry brilliant decorations and Nativity scenes. Most balconies – there are a lot of balconies – have plastic Father Christmases attempting to scale the side of a house. There are pleasingly few signs that planning officials tell people what sort of decorations to put up.

Malta is noisy. Maltese people love fireworks with a passion that rivals that of the Chinese. Any excuse to set them off will do. And we are talking about seriously loud, bright fireworks. The great safety panic that seems to have stifled so much enjoyment in Britain, the USA and elsewhere is still held at bay – mostly – in this island of about 500,000 souls. There have been some bad accidents in the fireworks factories but the enthusiasm for the things is undimmed. Perhaps having survived the terrible bombings during the Second World War, the Maltese are not going to be frightened by a few rockets set off in the garden.

I have visited this place more than a dozen times, got married here, drunk far too much red wine than is good for me here, watched several theatre plays here, sailed here, swam here, but more than anything else, eaten myself silly here. One of the finest dishes you can get is Lampuki Pie, which is made from this particular fish. I have just consumed a rather large part of one.

I need to go for a lie down.