Sliema seemed determined to squeeze an entire summer's worth of activity into one scorching Sunday last weekend.

The Arts Festival had transformed Independence Gardens and surroundings into a long promenade of creativity and people. Stall after stall lined the pathway, displaying everything from handcrafted textiles to charming crocheted creatures. There was a quiet dedication behind every table; countless hours of work condensed into cushions, bags, toys and ornaments, waiting for appreciative passers-by.

The artists were there too. Giant canvases stood like temporary walls in the heat, some still unfinished. Watching them evolve was almost as interesting as the paintings themselves. Layers appeared, colours emerged, and shapes gradually found their meaning under the hands of their creators. Art in progress always feels slightly magical, revealing itself one brushstroke at a time.

I haven't been down there since. I wonder if they are going to leave those huge canvases there for the summer.

And then there was the music.

Of course there was music. But since it was not my kind of music then I prefer not to comment. I am certain the young loved it. I can't understand it but they do.

Pity there did not seem to be a band. Now I do love Maltese bands no matter what they are playing.

The festival soundtrack accompanied everything, wandering crowds and the general bustle of a summer event.

Yet the real star of the day was neither art nor music.  It was the weather.

The heat was relentless. Not a breath of wind stirred the air. There was little relief. Temperatures were said to be reaching 41°C, and for once such figures felt entirely believable.

One could admire the determination of artists, stallholders and football supporters alike, and also those who came to have a look, buy an ice-cream and support the Festival.  But there comes a point when self-preservation begins to seem the wiser option. I reached that point and finally bid farewell to my daughter and grandchildren and got a taxi home.

I must add that apart from the festival ambience there was the FIFA final being screened in cafes, restaurants both outdoor and indoor,  sometimes  on large screens. Football supporters gathered to watch Spain face Argentina, splitting attention between the match and the surrounding festivities. It felt like two different celebrations sharing the same space: one devoted to art, the other to sport.

Eventually, in my case, the heat won. I retreated home, where television offered the match without the accompanying risk of spontaneous combustion.

The final itself was remarkably tense. I was so happy sitting comfortably with cold water nearby and the air conditioner humming away. Spain emerged victorious by a single goal, a narrow margin that somehow made both triumph and disappointment seem sharper. The Spanish celebrations were jubilant, while the Argentinian players looked utterly deflated, their dreams ending by the smallest of differences. Sport can be cruel that way. Weeks, months and years of preparation can come down to one moment, one goal, one missed opportunity.

By evening I found myself reflecting on how similar the day had been to the mural painters' work. Some people were creating art, some were creating memories, some were pursuing sporting glory. Not everyone would leave with the result they hoped for, but everyone had contributed something to the picture.

There was at least one unfinished mural and the artist was standing on a ladder painting or spraying away. I likened it to the unfinished hopes of Argentina. 

On the morrow the sun blazed relentlessly, indifferent to artists, footballers, festival-goers and dreamers alike.