Why Malta?
Taking early retirement, decluttering lifestyles and moving abroad is not all that unusual in Britain these days. There was a poll recently which showed that something like 65 per cent of Brits (especially those in the 50-60 age group) want to do just that. Margot and I cannot therefore regard ourselves as all that special – except for the fact
that we are now committed to
actually doing it.
Why Malta?
So, in about six weeks from now, Margot and Wylie Cunningham (and our two cats Oliver and Joshua) will be resident in Malta, in a very pleasant house in Balzan.
So, moving to live abroad is the current British dream. But why Malta? ...for two middle-aged, essentially staid, Scots? Why are we giving up what have been (immodestly) moderately successful careers in politics and the media in what is allegedly the prime of our lives to move and live in Malta? Malte díor, Malte díargent, Malte de metal precieux, to quote the poet.
I am not sure I have a definitive answer, or even a comprehensive one. But, as I start this journal of what promises to be an awfully big, middle-aged, adventure, I thought it would be fun to try
to identify some of the core
motivators – to use current
business jargon.
Our reason is, essentially, Malta itself and, much more importantly, the Maltese.
Our love affair began on an October Sunday a decade ago. Margot and I first came to Malta for a business conference. We arrived in the early hours of that Sunday morning jet-lagged, tired, irritable and generally hacked-off in the way that can be achieved only by men and women who have spent far too (expletive deleted) long in Heathrow Airport. But, and it is a very big “but”, on that Sunday afternoon the conference organisers had arranged a trip around Grand Harbour and, as we sat in the sun, dangling our feet in the waters of the Mediterranean and looked at history in stone, infatuation began.
We have returned many times since. That initial infatuation has grown into a genuine love, based on many memories and many experiences:
Margot and I recall an evening cruise on the self-same guletta which first took us round Grand Harbour when a choir of
very, very senior churchmen
serenaded Margot with Happy Birthday to You.
We remember Martin, as we arrived back at our hotel one evening during our first holiday, telling us all books have to be inspected by the management (ie him) – and that very first contact with him has led to a deep friendship with his whole family.
We can think of the sequence of wonderful lunches (and dinners) with Iro and Joe at the Lantern;
Elizabeth giving up her time off to take Margot shopping for household items;
The wonderful days in the Barrakka Gardens sipping Cisk;
Watching the Royal Navy arrive with HMS Inverness leading, its piper on the prow, and seeing so many men trying to pretend the tears in their eyes were caused by dust;
Having the Hypogeum opened specially for us for a private visit because we had to leave before it was officially opened;
The taxi driver (from Wembley) who gave up part of his Sunday off to return the spectacles I had carelessly left in his car the previous night;
The wonderful discussions about life, the universe and everything with Charles and Margaret – and that is a very inadequate way of thanking them for their friendship and kindness.
And these are only a few random samples of the kindness, the courtesy and the hospitality Margot and I have enjoyed over the past 10 years. I hope that this journal of our move as it develops will give me an adequate opportunity to thank everyone who has helped make our Maltese experience the pleasure it has been.
OK, I admit these are highly personal memories – and very sentimental. Let me confide a secret. I am a Scot – and the Scots, despite the fact that we glory in the reputation of being poison dwarves and the devils in skirts and so on and so forth, are the most sentimental race in Europe.
You want proof? What other breed could make a political icon out of a diminutive American (albeit one raised in Australia) painting his face blue and white and pretending to be a Scottish hero, who just happened to be about 2.5 metres tall, an aristocrat whose first language was French and who never wore tartan in his life? What other breed would see 70,000 of us turn up, crying our eyes out, to say farewell to a Swedish football mercenary who just happened to spend seven seasons playing here – and incidentally help him pocket about £1 million in the process?
See Scots. See sentimental.
See us.
So Margot and I are coming to live in Malta. And the reason is straightforward. Why Malta? Why, the Maltese of course.
Pernot said it: “Malte de metal precieux”. Robert Burns, Scotland’s national bard, interpreted that very personally when he wrote: “The man’s the gowd (gold) for a’ that”.
Yes, Malta is a precious metal. But the gold is the people. And that, quite simply, is why Margot and I want to live among you.