Walking With Giants & Swimming With Locals in Malta

In hindsight, Malta in August was ambitious. But as our Editor in Cheif reports, this island nation has an ancient, old-world magic that feels much more foreign and refreshing than you’d expect.

It was late August — the sun slinking into its four o’clock position overhead and the hazy afternoon air stagnant. Between an ancient rock wall and a small barrier that separated the town from farmland, the locals excitedly scurried into their positions — cold, frothy dribbles of local Cisk beer splashing and sizzling on the concrete in the commotion.

My old friend and travel companion Tori was up ahead, leading a group of fellow stranded travelers to the taxi we hailed to get out of town. "No, no, we can't come to iXewkija. It's the horse race this afternoon," the driver, holding back a laugh, spit into the phone — fully aware of my distress that there was no other way out. After some bargaining, he agreed to meet us on the edge of town, down by the old cemetery and unbeknownst to us, the starting line of the races. 

It was the first time in a long time that I had thought to myself, "Where the hell am I?” when a man in flip-flops on the back of a horse chariot hurtled towards me.

The Sister Islands —
Gozo & Comino

Sitting off the coast of Italy and Tunisia, this European archipelago feels more like the cradle of civilization to which it inconspicuously resides. Legend has it Gozo, Malta’s sister island, is the place where the infamously beautiful nymph, Calypso, held Odysseus hostage for seven years as a prisoner of love. And the Ġgantija temples, which locals will tell you were built by giants, are older than the pyramids in Egypt. 

We started our whirlwind trip here with only one full day in Gozo, so Tori and I had to prioritize and plan our public transport route across the island. The bus routes across both Malta and Gozo are touted as vast and efficient, and while that’s true, the trips are long and hot and leave you holding your breath as your driver whips around narrow corners and squeezes down ancient streets. But, we began our day by boat, wiping stardust from our eyes as we hurtled towards Comino, the water slowly fading from cerulean to turquoise. Situated between Gozo and Malta, this tiny island has created a shimmering lagoon with warm waters where we spend the morning sunbathing and splashing, only sharing the water with teetering sailing yachts.

To beat the crowds — because there will be crowds — take the first boat to Comino.

With an early start, you’ll really only share the waters with private charter boats and their crew.

By noon, when boats of travelers were washing up on shore, drinks out of pineapples in hand, we were already back on Gozo aboard a bus for the other side of the island. We hopped off at the last stop —the edge of Xewkija — where we’d later get caught between snarling stallions and disdainful locals who wondered why we were there.

Our knees wobbled as we made our way downhill towards Wied il Ghasri, an inlet carved out by millennia of tides. The stairs that are cut into the cliffside were mirage-like as we approached them, practically hissing under the summer sun. At first, we stood in the shallows, letting polished rocks massage our tired feet, eventually swimming out to the mouth where kids jumped off the cliffs without an ounce of fear.

Beneath these giant rocks, I felt tiny and humbly insignificant. That same feeling flooding my chest while watching the sunset on those wide-open hills that evening, which seemingly had parted ways for giants who wished to jump into the sea. 

Lined with cruise ships and bustling with people, Malta, the bigger of the two islands feels smaller. Our first day, we wandered through our home base of Sliema and took the ferry across to Valletta, in both cities, chasing the cool canopy of shadows and looking up at colorful balconies. You’d expect a typical Mediterranean spread here, but we ate heartier food, like rabbit, while listening to foreign conversations — attempting to decode the ancient tongue. 

On the second day, we ventured to St. Peters pool, ditching the busses for a taxi that our driver, begrudgingly, drove down a 5-kilometer dirt road that we refused to walk in the heat. From afar, the pool looks serene, but the tide quickly pulls you in. And if you’re too busy mustering up the courage to climb up and jump off the rocks, the courant won’t hesitate to drag you out to sea or push you up against the jagged shore. We stayed there all afternoon, watching everyone from kids and dogs to grandmothers jump into the pool and pick at picnic spreads.

When the third day came, Tori and I ventured to the Three Cities on the Maltese-version of a gondola, soon realizing we were the only people crazy enough to choose the city over the beach. While the quietness of these remote cities provided relief, the heat proved stifling. We plodded through two of the three cities, stopping on stoops to swig water and photograph colorful doors. I only remember a liquid lunch — wine on ice with our hands in the buckets, plucking out cubes to hold to our necks. Malta, in August, was slowing these two excited explorers down.

Out of pure desperation, we eventually decided to join the crowds and head to the beach, so we set off for the famous Blue Grotto. But after an hour-long bus and a transfer, we soon realized the iconic viewpoint is high above the water with nothing resembling a beach in sight. Panic set in — but we agreed, at least we had snagged a bottle of wine during our transfer.

Spotting another lookout point, we lazily wandered down the hill, only to hear faint splashes coming from what looked like a boat dock, our pace quickening as we realized we’d reached a local swimming hole and marina. My skirt and shoes were barely off before I’d jumped in headfirst, saltwater stinging my eyes as I waved at Tori to join. 

By evening seemingly any tourist that was lucky enough to find this oasis had left, and the elderly were gathering for their afternoon swim and gossip session. Later, while watching the sunset over the uninhabited island of Filfla, we decided we wanted to be that active at that age. Then we plotted our return, unsure what captivated us most about this place — the lore, the views or the delightful chaos — but completely sure this tidal and enchanted feeling would never elude us.