FOR GENERATIONS OFBRITISH SERVICEMEN, the Mediterranean island of Malta came to be known as a place of “yells, bells, and smells,” and for good reason. Street hawkers loudly peddled their wares, and there always seemed to be a local festa somewhere, accompanied by booming fireworks and the ringing of parish church bells. During the often unbearably hot and dusty summers, one routinely encountered herds of shoats (supposedly a sheep-goat hybrid), horse- and donkey-drawn carts, and numerous stray cats and dogs. The mess such creatures left behind worsened after festering in the summer sun, making it a hazardous undertaking to negotiate the island’s narrow streets.
My mother was Maltese. She married my father, who was in the Royal Navy, in 1955. I was born over a year later. My early memories are of 1960s Malta, a very different place from the island today. There was
