New Year’s Eve in Malta

I’m an insomniac at the best of times but I can never sleep properly the night before I travel, especially if I need to set an early morning alarm. So it was fuelled by pure adrenaline that I found myself sitting on an unusually empty Central line to St Paul’s at what would ordinarily be rush hour.

Butterflies of excitement danced within me in anticipation of a new travel experience.

I hadn’t been sure I’d be able to make my tradition of travelling at New Year’s Eve to watch the sun rise over a new year a reality this year, as I’d lost my main client a few months prior and had really struggled with replacing that consistent income.

But where there’s a will, there’s a way.

I’d been collecting air miles via my credit card and even though spending points on flights within Europe isn’t generally a good use for them, I decided that, under these circumstances, it’d be worth it. My soul had been calling me back to Kenya, but flights there between Christmas and New Year were over £700 and I couldn’t justify that.

My points, however, would get me to Malta.

It was a country I’d never been to, and whilst it hadn’t been particularly high on my list, if I spot an opportunity I take it.

So, I used just under half of my points to secure myself a flight to Malta ON New Year’s Eve.

For accommodation, I’d discovered the benefit of having to form a Limited Company to complete an executive coaching project with a corporate client was that I could – legally – gift myself up to £300 in vouchers as part of my tax allowance. So I chose AirBnB vouchers.

In travel maths, this means my accommodation was free and my tradition was ON!

Flights to Malta mostly seem to operate from Gatwick airport, so I walked from St Paul’s to Blackfriar’s to catch the Thameslink train. I’d not done this before, as I generally avoid flying from Gatwick if I can, but it was a smooth journey and, being New Year’s Eve, the train and airport were also both relatively empty.

So empty, in fact, that I breezed through security in a matter of minutes.

My credit card also gave me free lounge access, but the app hadn’t let me book in advance and all but one of the lounges declined me access without a booking. This made no sense to me, but we move.

The one that did give me access, ‘My Lounge’, wouldn’t have been worth the money had I paid.

It was noisy, with lots of children running around, and a small, very basic, food selection. There were also a limited number of drinks and for those wanting alcohol lots of common options, like Prosecco, were at an additional charge.

Still, I was able to have some breakfast without having to be robbed by airport food establishments, and make some content on my laptop, until it was time to board my flight.

I’d also not flown with British Airways for many years, and was dismayed to find that their economy seat pitches were even narrower than on budget airlines like Ryanair: my knees were rammed into the seat in front and I found myself hoping the seats didn’t have a recline feature, as my arthritic knees had already been aching and there was a very real possibility someone reclining on them would mean I’d be exploring Malta with the help of my trusty foldable walking stick.

Fortunately, either they didn’t or I just got lucky with the lady in front of me; she spent the entire flight on her laptop. And, as a bonus, the middle seat in my row was empty so I was able to position myself sideways for some relief.

Lack of legroom aside, the flight was smooth and our pilot was super informative.

We touched down in Malta just as the sun was beginning to set on the final day of 2024.

After the bus dropped us at arrivals, we again filed through a relatively empty airport to passport control. As is often standard with airport staff, the older gentleman inspecting my shiny new passport was stony-faced.

As he handed my passport back to me I chirped, “Grazzi! Happy New Year!”

I watched his expression flicker from surprise to delight as his face lit up into a smile. He wished me a Happy New Year too and I practically skipped to the baggage area.

By the time I reached my flight’s conveyor belt my case was waiting for me.

As I took hold of the handle, I found my attention drawn to a pink neon sign on black marble wall. It read:

Malta is exactly where you need to be.

This felt like a Universe Sign.

Smiling, I made my way outside and called a Bolt, which I’d read was the better taxi app in Malta.

My Bolt driver arrived within less than a minute; there was a whole Bolt taxi rank opposite the exit. The driver was exceptionally chatty, telling me all about life in Malta.

He initially thought I was Australian and when I asked him what had made him think this he told me that all the Australians he’s met are friendly, like me. I smiled to myself in the back seat. Night had fallen and we passed the twinkling lights of Christmas markets and decorations; it felt like every corner of Malta had been decorated. And it was magical.

I’d copy-pasted the coordinates given by my AirBnb when booking my Bolt, but as the driver began to slow my gut told me something was wrong. We were on a main road in a run-down area and that wasn’t at all where we were meant to be.

My driver asked for the name of where I was staying and I gave it. When I added ‘Valletta’ he told me we weren’t actually even in Valletta and began searching for the place himself. He then performed a three point turn and told me not to worry.

With hindsight, this all made sense. But we’ll come to that later.

It cost me double the original fare to reach my accommodation due to the detour and I also gave my driver a generous tip, because it was New Year’s Eve after all. Budget? What budget?!

My AirBnb had called itself a boutique hotel, and marketed itself in a way that made it seem perfect for an introvert: to enter both the main door and your room you are given a touchpad code. There isn’t a reception, or visible staff, and your room is only cleaned upon request. A basket outside each door was meant to be filled with things to be replenished, like coffee pods, water and toilet rolls, each day.

I punched the number I’d been given into the keypad on the main door. It opened to reveal an eerily empty space and an arch of dead-looking plants to walk through. There was an area with cafe-style seating, and an open rectangle to the basement below like you get in archeological excavation sites.

Climbing the tiled steps to the first floor, as I approached the door to my room I could hear music.

I froze. Was someone inside?

I knocked but there was no response.

My pulse had quickened and as I punched in the code to my room I felt a stab of unease that the code was exactly the same as the one for the main front door. 

That didn’t feel very secure.

The door opened to reveal that the music was coming from a large, wall-mounted, tv opposite the bed. It was playing Christmas music and showing festive animations, including New Year’s fireworks.

Sighing out the tension, I shrugged off my long woollen coat and started inspecting my room. I’m usually pretty good at picking my accommodation but, this time, the room wasn’t quite what the photos, descriptions and reviews had suggested.

Tap water in Malta isn’t safe to drink and I had only one of the two promised water bottles. The coffee machine was broken. There was a kettle, glasses and cups but nothing to make tea or coffee other than two coffee pods for the broken coffee machine. No teabags, sugar, or creamer.

There were holes in the towels and whilst this place was clearly trying hard to be ‘boutique’ it wasn’t even doing a good pretend job.

Still, I’d made it to Malta. I was only in this accommodation for two nights and it was New Year’s Eve! 

I’d stayed in worse places. Honourable mention to the cockroach-infested AirBnB in Nairobi.

I ventured out to get a sense of my immediate surroundings and immediately fell in love with the architecture of Valletta: a narrow maze of ancient streets adorned with shimmering lights. 

It was surprisingly hilly, and climbing the streets soon warmed me in spite of the chill to the air.

My nearest shop was a Spa and it was uncomfortably full. But I picked myself up a pistachio croissant for breakfast, some red wine, some grapes (if you know, you know) and some homemade (and Sam-safe) butternut squash soup with a bread roll. Do all Spas sell soup? I can’t recall having ever seen this before but given Malta was surprisingly cold, hot soup was especially appealing.

Goods secured, I made my way back to my accommodation and ate my soup at one of the cafe-style tables. I washed it down with some of the wine, drinking directly from the carton, because I’m classy like that (!) 

From the glimpse I’d gotten, the streets of Valletta were all packed with people and I didn’t fancy my chances of finding a restaurant without a booking.

I returned to my room as a wave of fatigue passed over me; it had suddenly become hard to move. Turning the air con up to its maximum temperature as my room was icy cold, I got under the duvet.

I’m someone who often feels worse waking from a nap than just powering through, so I just rested my body and had a scroll of my dating apps.

As a single girlie, when I travel I like to have a look at what the local dating scenes are like. I maintain a glimmer of hope that, somehow, I’ll stumble across my soulmate in some far-flung destination but mostly I’m just nosy. I’ve also made some really good friends from dating app matches when travelling in the past.

I rarely actually swipe on anyone, but matched with both those I did and they immediately messaged me. In fewer than 20 minutes I’d been asked on two dates.

One of them gave me some tips on spots to watch the fireworks and after I felt I’d rested enough I got ready to head back out.

As Malta had already been surprisingly chilly, I layered up and added my scarf to my wool coat.

I also packed my grapes in my bag.

Emerging back into the crisp night air, I was taken aback by how crowded the streets had become – and I say that as someone who’s been living in London for the past eight years!

It was a little like when a concert or football match has ended and every street in the area is absolutely full of people.

I didn’t like it.

Crowds trigger my anxiety and cause me to panic, so I focused on trying to find quieter side streets whilst controlling my breathing. Hearing the familiar, and therefore comforting, riff of AC/DC’s Highway to Hell drifting from a nearby restaurant helped calm me and I began to properly take in my surroundings.

The streets were wider here and whilst still busier than I’d like, I could cope.

I approached a huge cone-shaped Christmas tree with a door and initially thought it was the Santa’s Grotto I’d seen on signs, but, nope: it was Valletta’s version of the Trafalgar Square Christmas tree. And it turns out it had been just as controversial.

Distracted by some Salsa music, I followed the sound and found a circular crowd watching a man make a skeleton puppet dance. This seemed a strange combination but I guessed there was some story behind it.

Slipping past the fringe of the crowd, I found myself on a bridge-like structure over what looked like it could once have been a moat below the city walls. On the other side of this bridge was Valletta’s version of Winter Wonderland.

In the large square surrounding the Triton fountain there were numerous stalls selling festive foods and drinks, some rides – like a ferris wheel and a carousel, the actual Santa’s grotto and huge light installations in the shape of presents, baubles, reindeer and snow-capped houses.

I bought myself a €3 mulled wine that tasted strongly of anise and began to explore. This area was also uncomfortably busy but it was more bearable than the main streets.

The crowd was mainly made up of families, couples and groups of friends. This didn’t bother me: I’m completely comfortable in my own company and don’t feel the weight of any potential judgement at being the only solo person in sight.

My wine provided welcome warmth to my chilled fingers.

After doing a circuit of the square, I headed into a long line of Christmas market-esque wooden cabins. Most of these were also selling foods and drinks, though a few at the far end sold trinkets and jewellery.

I debated whether to have a hot dog, as I was already starting to feel a little peckish, but over-thought whether I should risk onion cross-contamination and by the time I returned to the stall there was a lengthy queue, so I abandoned this plan altogether.

Instead, I explored the wider area, finding myself in a long manicured garden.

Sitting on a bench, I people-watched for a while, then decided I should start checking out potential firework-viewing spots, as it was now approaching 10:30pm and I wasn’t sure how far apart they were.

Malta is big on fireworks throughout the year. On New Year’s Eve there are displays around the island but the biggie is in Valletta’s Grand Harbour.

The first potential location on my list was Upper Barrakka Gardens, which had been recommended both by locals in Malta Facebook groups and also one of my possible future dates.

At 10:30pm, it was already pretty busy.

I had a wander around, trying to guess from where exactly the fireworks would be lit so that I could position myself for the best view. Following the railings along to what seemed like a good spot, I had just turned around ready to leave and check out the next potential viewing place when I realised that I’d have to stay here or risk not having a decent view at all: people were pouring into the gardens at an alarming rate.

I soon found myself sandwiched between a teenage German boy who’d been reserving a spot for his parents and a family with a buggy. Behind me on the terrace were a wall of people.

And I was already freezing.

After an hour of standing in the cold I began to question my life choices: should I just leave? I had an inner battle raging: literally should I stay or should I go? My fingers had lost all feeling and a dull ache had begun in my arthritic knees.

I’m used to being in hot climes for my New Year’s Eve escapades and so this level of cold was quite a shock to the system.

I checked my weather app: Malta was a few degrees COLDER than London.

Later, I found out it had been one of the coldest winters in Malta in years.

Deciding to stick it out, as by then I was already committed and you tend to regret what you don’t do in life, my senses were then assaulted by a man smoking an obscenely large cigar right behind me.

I confess I gave him my teacher look (aka stink eye), which is inadvertent and not something I consciously choose to do. I only knew I was doing it when I saw his expression as his eyes met mine. He turned away but took an obnoxiously long time to finish smoking the thing.

The smell of smoke from anything other than a bonfire is something I detest with a passion. It also makes my lungs tight, so the remainder of my wait was both cold and uncomfortable on multiple levels.

I was then shoved hard by tiny hands and found a brother and sister combination – both under 12 years old and with no parents in sight – trying to force their way in between myself and the family with the baby so they could have a prime view at the railings. They were chattering away in a language that sounded a little like Arabic but that I couldn’t place; I later realised they were speaking Maltese.

After some time, the mother of the baby scolded them, telling them it was not okay to shove either of us or to bang against us in the way they were as they’d been there over an hour and I’d been there even longer.

This subdued the children, but didn’t stop them.

Midnight felt like it was taking forever to arrive.

My phone battery had rapidly depleted due to the sub-optimal temperatures, so I plugged it into the charger I’d brought and got my grapes ready.

And then it was time.

The first fireworks exploded in the opposite direction to where I’d been expected, and my view was partially obscured by cigar man and some other people holding their phones above their heads to record. A group behind them began popping champagne bottles.

I tried to juggle eating my grapes with capturing what I could of the fireworks, and failed miserably at both.

It seems multi-tasking isn’t always my forte, especially when my fingers are frozen stiff.

Then, a second display began on the opposite side of the harbour. Now THIS was a display for which I was perfectly positioned and I was able to savour the moment, and record some of it.

I’d heard people in their groups wish each other “Happy New Year!” but no one spoke to me. And, whilst I wasn’t expecting them to, there was a definite contrast between this moment in warmer climes and here: in that moment I felt utterly alone in the world.

Also, as I was an hour ahead of home, my phone was equally silent and this amplified my isolation.

I felt deflated.

The fireworks had been worth watching, though, and so I focused on my gratitude for that, reminding myself that a great start to the year doesn’t necessarily translate into a great year, and vice versa.

The fireworks lasted around fifteen minutes and a collective ‘OOOOH!’ signalled their finale.

I wanted to get away from people at this point, but I was jammed against the railings by a literal wall of people in every direction and my only option was to wait for the crowd to disperse.

This took a painfully long time. I waited as long as I could, and even after starting the slow-motion exit from the gardens I had to stand to one side as a man thought it was appropriate to shove me with his hand in the small of my back even though I had nowhere to go and I just could not deal with that.

It took me an hour to exit the gardens and, to my dismay, the streets were still full with people. Except this time the people were very drunk and very loud.

At that moment, all I wanted in life was to be back in my AirBnB.

I wove in and out of the crowds, head down and tense with anxiety. Even in the main street I kept getting wafts of urine that made me want to gag. This was not fun!

Thankfully, I was only staying around a ten minute walk (at a normal pace) from where I’d exited the gardens and so I didn’t have to endure this for too long, even at a reduced pace.

A wave of relief washed over me as I reached my home for the night.

Closing the door to my room, I felt the knots in my body melt away. I was frozen through, so I turned the air con to it’s maximum temperature and made a green tea with a teabag I’d had the foresight to bring from the airport lounge.

I was shattered but there was so much screaming and shouting coming from outside that I kept getting jolted awake and by the time my sunrise alarm had sounded, I’d had two hours at best.

But as the first sunrise of the new year was the main event of this trip, I felt only eager anticipation as I ate my pistachio croissant and gathered my things ready to head out into the pre-dawn streets.

Read about Day 2 here >>

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