by Caroline Bergeron

It’s the Rolex that my husband noticed first, on the arm of a young 20-something man, sitting at a table perched at the top of a cobbled stairway on Triq San Gwan, in Valletta. A “Pepsi bezel” GMT-Master II, to be exact. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time, but my husband did not fail to point it out. And so, just like that, I turned around and initiated a conversation.

Act III

Less than a block from our apartment, the restaurant patio-packed stairway unfurled toward the Grand Harbour,
granting a slender portal onto the passing boats. In short, it was the perfect place to stop for a beverage on our first afternoon in Malta, as everything in Valletta is uphill. Both ways. I turned to ask the young man what he and his friends were drinking. This, logically, led to espresso martinis all around and a discussion about travels
and watches.

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There were three of them; one was in real estate, another worked for a major US airline, and the last was on a voyage of self-discovery, backpacking through Europe. The three—all college acquaintances—had agreed to convene here, in this ancient capital of Malta, after the months of separation that come with the onset of worklife and settling down. If life is a play, these young men were barely out of the prologue. Having just retired from a 27-year career in education, my husband and I were entering the third act.

I was in my twenties myself when, working in the offices of Minister Tobin at Fisheries and Oceans, I met an older man who had travelled the world. He reminded me of my grandfather; cultured and wise. I had never been outside of Eastern Canada at the time, and was completely mesmerized by his knowledge of the world. “Malta,” he said, “you must go to Malta. It’s the most beautiful place on Earth.” His words didn’t fall into deaf ears. And here I was, years later, coming somewhat full circle, sharing my wisdom.

A Room with a View

We spent ten days in a charming garret. At six foot two, my husband had very little room to stand up to full height. We had two small windows providing expansive views over the Grand Harbour, Fort St. Angelo, and
the Three Cities (Birgu, Senglea, and Cospicua), which we visited by water taxi. We loved it.

We have travelled extensively, and we used to treat the experience like a military operation, employing checklists
and detailed itineraries that we adhered to at all costs. We do things differently now.

Most mornings while we were in Valletta, we would walk up from our place on Il Batterija to a bakery on the corner of St. Paul for pastries and coffee. Back at the apartment, we crafted our plan for the day and watched the ships come in.

Everything in Malta is accessible by bus, and we used the local transit system for forays north to the beaches
of Mellieħa Bay, and west to Mosta, Mdina, and Rabat. And on our last full day on the island, we journeyed south
to the fishing village of Marsaxlokk to poke through its open-air market. One day, we took a boat to Gozo and the Blue Lagoon, where we snorkelled.

If we needed to be somewhere on time—which was rare—we hired a local driver, Dalibor. A Croatian by birth
and a former member of that nation’s basketball team, he and his sister found their way to Malta during the
Balkan War. He was a wealth of information and a colourful addition to our experience.

Of course, those were lazy day trips; all of them. Our time was spent wisely sipping wine or beer on shaded
patios, living our life to the fullest just watching the world go by.

That’s the key.

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Where Time Stands Still

Ignore the subtitle. Time never stands still. To a North American, everything in Europe appears ancient. But every day in Valletta, cruise ships the size of small cities enter the harbour, discharging tourists into the venerable streets.

The thing about a UNESCO-protected city is that history and modernity walk hand in hand. At the outdoor cafés of Merchant Street, in the baroque shadow of St. John’s Cathedral, Eastern European girls in mini-skirts tap away at phone screens with the clickety-clack of acrylic nails on glass. Their boyfriends lazily draw on electronic cigarettes, mesmerized by the televised highlights from Euro 2024.

Mid-week, my husband and I dived on the HMS Māori—a Tribal-class destroyer from Britain’s Mediterranean Fleet during the Second World War. This was my first wreck. I took up diving recently, for fear of missing out on life, not wanting my retirement to drift away like an old boat.

The Māori was part of the task force that pursued and ultimately led to the sinking of the German battleship
Bismarck. However, on the night of February 12, 1942, while anchored at Malta’s Grand Harbour, the HMS Māori
was hit by a German air raid. The destroyer caught fire and sank in shallow waters near the dockyard.

The wreck of HMS Māori was eventually moved and scuttled off the coast of St. Elmo Bay, where we held our
dive. At a depth of nearly fifty feet, the hull and the forward deck of the destroyer loom. Plating, framework,
and scattered debris from the ship are visible in the area.

Lulled by the quiet gurgle of our regulators, we swam silently through the cabin and out the other side. Time,
most certainly, has not been kind to the HMS Māori. Rather, it has marched on relentlessly.

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The Last Supper

Other than our dive, the only event planned was The Grotto Tavern, our first Michelin restaurant. In the centre of
Rabat, it offers a unique experience by blending Mediter-ranean cuisine with the ambiance of a natural cave that is over 2,000 years old. One of nature’s unique works of art.

During the last World War, the caves were used as a bomb shelter. Now they provide a haven of fine dining with fresh, seasonal pairings and local spirits. It was one of the best meals of our lives. One of the owners would come at the beginning of each service to explain his choices and would not leave until we had taken the first bite, and sip.

Dalibor did not approve of the bill, and also had his doubts about the size of the portions. His sister ran an eatery in Sliema. “Food is food,” he said. We agreed with him, but we could not have felt more differently, in the end; when he picked us up early the next morning for the airport, he was still talking about it. And we were still dreaming about it.

All in Good Time

One early morning, partway through our trip, we awakened to catch the sunrise at Lower Barrakka. We watched as the first light of day bathed the park and the temple in soft pink hues. Then, as the city stirred awake, we walked back through the silent streets to our garret apartment where coffee and warm pastries awaited.

Malta reminds you that time, like a sunrise, is fleeting. Everywhere, history lingers—even beneath the waters of the harbour. But so does the present. Long gone are my twenties and, sadly, the man who recommended this beautiful country.

But, if I’ve learned anything since, it’s this: the time is now; it waits for no one, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t slow down, and savour it.

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About the author

Caroline Bergeron works at the intersection of craft, image, and instinct. A leather mask maker, painter, photographer, and videographer, she creates objects and images that feel both ancient and intimate. Through her studio Backwater Chic, leather becomes a medium for expression and transformation. When not behind the camera for The Calibrated Wrist, she can be found tending bees, chasing light, or wandering alongside her Great Dane. Her world is equal parts patience and curiosity, shaped by making things slowly and living attentively. Follow her work at @backwater_chic, and her daily explorations at @odin_le_danois.

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This article was originally published in Volume 1, Number1 of The Calibrated Wrist.

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