Intrepid travelling Bears return ....
So ... Here we are again .... Malta was very wet; when it rained it poured, the roads turned into rivers, the squares into lakes. By the merciful intervention of a kindly providence the Bears were almost always under cover when the heavens opened, so managed to get around and see most of what was to be seen. And when the sun came out it was very pleasantly warm. Impressions: Malta really IS a "tiny, overcrowded island". Britain is most certainly not. In comparison we live in the wide open spaces. They live in one almost continuous highish-rise built-up-area, with the "villages" running into one another in a great conurbation. Not everywhere, perhaps ... we saw a little green, open agricultural land, and there must be more or what would they eat? But the overwhelming impression was of high-density housing. The roads are unspeakable, probably because of all the rain undermining the surface. They are also unspeakably congested. Since the tourist minibuses and coaches are mostly superannuated rattle-trap stuff from here, travelling about is an uncomfortable experience. In short we would not like to live there ... "Malta for the Maltesers", we said. Although ... It was wonderful to breathe the fresh, unmistakeable air of real liberty again! The street police are mostly dressed in bobby outfits, minus the helmet, that unthreatening best-blue serge of the sort our police once had, rather than done up like storm-troopers in body armour, festooned with all manner of weaponry for use against the citizens. Unlike our present day coppers, they seemed to feel no compulsion to remould their caps after the fashion of the Third Reich, which seemed significant .... and they are approachable and pleasant, with conspicuously good manners. Just like the London Bobby used to be. While we were there some Australian big-wig was making a State Visit to Valletta, the whole place festooned with southern cross ensigns. We were amazed that the ordinary common people could just walk past the limos and police motor-bikes, or simply loaf around to watch. No one moved them on, no one herded them like cattle into pens. No one stopped anyone else from taking photos, or filming the events. I fell into conversation with the sergeant in charge of the motorbikes, which pleasant exchange was only cut short when his ear-thingy also started speaking to him. England was like this, once! Alas, no more. This was brought home to us when we landed at Humberside. There were the New Stasi of the "immigration service" in their brand-new uniforms, courteous enough themselves, but hiding behind very peremptory placarding: "WAIT HERE" "DO NOT CROSS YELLOW LINE UNTIL CALLED FORWARD" "HAVE PASSPORT READY FOR INSPECTION". How much would it have cost Reichspolizeifuehrerin J Smith to fork out for those six extra little letters that spell "PLEASE"? Then there were the headlines: The Daily Express bewailing the new powers to pinch your garden for gipsy campsites; all the stuff about poor Baby P .... The economic collapse. Gordon Brown. Ursine hearts sank. "There's no place like home!"
So ... Here we are again .... Malta was very wet; when it rained it poured, the roads turned into rivers, the squares into lakes. By the merciful intervention of a kindly providence the Bears were almost always under cover when the heavens opened, so managed to get around and see most of what was to be seen. And when the sun came out it was very pleasantly warm. Impressions: Malta really IS a "tiny, overcrowded island". Britain is most certainly not. In comparison we live in the wide open spaces. They live in one almost continuous highish-rise built-up-area, with the "villages" running into one another in a great conurbation. Not everywhere, perhaps ... we saw a little green, open agricultural land, and there must be more or what would they eat? But the overwhelming impression was of high-density housing. The roads are unspeakable, probably because of all the rain undermining the surface. They are also unspeakably congested. Since the tourist minibuses and coaches are mostly superannuated rattle-trap stuff from here, travelling about is an uncomfortable experience. In short we would not like to live there ... "Malta for the Maltesers", we said. Although ... It was wonderful to breathe the fresh, unmistakeable air of real liberty again! The street police are mostly dressed in bobby outfits, minus the helmet, that unthreatening best-blue serge of the sort our police once had, rather than done up like storm-troopers in body armour, festooned with all manner of weaponry for use against the citizens. Unlike our present day coppers, they seemed to feel no compulsion to remould their caps after the fashion of the Third Reich, which seemed significant .... and they are approachable and pleasant, with conspicuously good manners. Just like the London Bobby used to be. While we were there some Australian big-wig was making a State Visit to Valletta, the whole place festooned with southern cross ensigns. We were amazed that the ordinary common people could just walk past the limos and police motor-bikes, or simply loaf around to watch. No one moved them on, no one herded them like cattle into pens. No one stopped anyone else from taking photos, or filming the events. I fell into conversation with the sergeant in charge of the motorbikes, which pleasant exchange was only cut short when his ear-thingy also started speaking to him. England was like this, once! Alas, no more. This was brought home to us when we landed at Humberside. There were the New Stasi of the "immigration service" in their brand-new uniforms, courteous enough themselves, but hiding behind very peremptory placarding: "WAIT HERE" "DO NOT CROSS YELLOW LINE UNTIL CALLED FORWARD" "HAVE PASSPORT READY FOR INSPECTION". How much would it have cost Reichspolizeifuehrerin J Smith to fork out for those six extra little letters that spell "PLEASE"? Then there were the headlines: The Daily Express bewailing the new powers to pinch your garden for gipsy campsites; all the stuff about poor Baby P .... The economic collapse. Gordon Brown. Ursine hearts sank. "There's no place like home!"