Here I was in Marsalforn Gozo, bobbing around in the clear blue water, with the temperature peaking around 38c it's the only place to be. I've been in the deep water for about 30 minutes and went looking for my stand on rock that allows me to still bob like a cork, but feet on solid ground. But a couple are hovering there, I can't ask them to take a hike, so I thought I will engage them in a meaningless conversation and they will disperse. It was the usual conversation with me throwing in all the Maltese I know to win their acceptance, but instead of swimming away from the "mignun" guy they engage me in polite conversation, probably thinking he's a "miskin", the floppy Gray Nichols cricket hat I'm wearing and my teeth out probably didn't help matters.

After the usual "you're not from around these parts!" we go deeper, that's when my journalistic nose started twitching. It turns out who I'm bobbing and weaving with in the undulating sea is none other than George and Rosemary Aquilina, the owners of the establishment in the picture above, of course long since shut down. When I told them that I'm from New Zealand, the conversation took on a life of its own.

In its heyday around the First World War, it was the watering hole of the New Zealand troops stationed on Gozo. It belonged to George's father.

It's closed now, but he told me of his dream to do something with it. He described the internal layout, the paintings that hung in there by a well-known Maltese artist Enrico Busuttil, the furniture that is still in place and of the large garden at the back, it has a lot of potential but their two daughters are not interested in "Grog", then he innocently asked me, by the way what does "Grog" mean?

So I told him it's the liquid refreshments that got the troops pie eyed, sloshed, sozzled, bow legged, tanked, inebriated, smashed and wobbly. I asked if the sign still exists, but he said his brother had used it when he was pouring concrete.

They foolishly then told me where they live in Victoria, so this week I'll buy some Grog and go visit them.

Sometimes I think that we are just puppets on the grand stage of life, with the strings pulled from above. This serendipity story proves it's true!

I visited George Aquilina a day later to glean more information on the intriguing story of "the New Zealand Grog Shop" in St Francis Square, Rabat, Gozo that was owned by his father. Below are the paintings that hung in the establishment, the same boat painted from both sides: the outward journey with the helmsman's face, or the return showing his back, in vibrant colours. It ferried goods and people back and forth to Grand Harbour. On the back of the painting there is a description "Dghajsa ta Ghawdex" the artist's name Enrico Busuttil, early 1900s.

Here is the key to unlock the main door to the building, now abandoned, but still full of memories and ghosts of the past. The keyhole on the weather-beaten door waiting to be unlocked and given a new life.

Everything remains as it was, but the sign is gone, George said, "it was used by my brother as a frame for pouring concrete".

As I wandered around St Francis Square trying to locate the premises, I engaged two people just to go into their house and asked them if they remembered the place. It turns out that I spoke with a Dr Pace aged 93 and his son-in-law. Apparently he was a well-known surgeon in his day and was in the middle of an operation during the 1970s doctor's strike and the authorities tried to shut him down with his patient still on the operating table. Of course he refused and carried on. But to add to the New Zealand theme of my story, his son is a medical researcher/scientist in Christchurch, New Zealand!

There must be something in the air!