Malta in November: Valletta and Mdina

Valletta is the only capital I know that comes in one color. The whole city is cut from the same honey limestone: the bastions, the palaces, the curbs, the steps, the walls of the wine bars. All day that stone sits somewhere between sand and amber, and twice a day, when the sun gets low over the harbors, the entire peninsula quietly turns to gold.

We went in late November, which turns out to be the right call. Winter Malta is golden stone, a harbor on either side, some of the most over-decorated church interiors in Europe, and Christmas already going up on every street. We fell for it almost immediately, and we left still nowhere near finished with it, which is my favorite way to leave a place.

Gold after dark

We landed in the evening and went straight out. The first photograph of the trip is a glass of white wine at a quarter to ten, on a dark wooden counter, with the bar behind it glowing like an oven.

A glass of white wine on a dark wooden bar table at night, a phone and a pair of glasses beside it, the red lit interior of the bar blurred behind — Quarter to ten. The wall was wood tiles washed in red, and the counter top was a slab of pale stone lit from inside.

A bar wall of small wooden tiles washed in red light, backlit bottles of spirits along a shelf, rows of upturned glasses and a pale stone counter glowing beneath — Quarter to ten. The wall was wood tiles washed in red, and the counter top was a slab of pale stone lit from inside.

Dinner happened a few streets over at half past ten, on a terrace of red gingham tablecloths under a red awning, with festoon bulbs strung above the chairs and candles going on the tables inside. November, and every table outdoors was set. That is the part of a Mediterranean winter that northern Europe never quite believes.

An outdoor restaurant terrace at night with red and white gingham tablecloths, string lights under a red awning, and diners at candle lit tables inside — Half past ten on a night in late November, and the terrace is dressed and working.

Then we just walked, because Valletta at night is built for it. The grid tips downhill toward the water on both sides, so every street ends in either sky or sea, and the side streets keep handing you small scenes: a wine shop under a rusted iron balcony with lettering worked into the railing, a courtyard cafe glowing behind a pair of painted doors with bougainvillea over the arch, and an empty stairway rising through an archway toward a little stone dome lit white against the night.

A night time shopfront with a sign reading CHEERS wine and more, below an old rusted wrought iron balcony with lettering worked into the rail on a peeling limestone wall — The walk home kept not happening. A shopfront at quarter to eleven, a courtyard at ten past, an empty stairway at quarter past.

A courtyard cafe at night behind an arched doorway with painted blue and white foliate doors, a lit sign reading KOCCIO Valletta and bougainvillea over the arch, people at small tables outside — The walk home kept not happening. A shopfront at quarter to eleven, a courtyard at ten past, an empty stairway at quarter past.

The best of it was a stepped street where the whole evening seemed to have gathered. Tables ran down both sides of the stairs, heraldic banners hung overhead with string bulbs between them, a palm leaned in over the lot, and the wreaths and baubles were already up on the doorways. People were having dinner on a staircase, outdoors, in the last week of November, under flags.

A stepped street at night with cafe tables along the stairs, festoon lights and a tall palm overhead, yellow and cream facades with wooden balconies rising on both sides — Just past eleven. Dinner on the steps under the festoon lights, wreaths already on the doors.

Ten minutes later the street we were on simply ended at a parapet, and there was the Grand Harbour: black water, the far shore lit gold, dockyard cranes standing over their own reflections. We stood there for a while, at half past eleven, getting our first look at the thing Valletta was built to guard.

The Grand Harbour at night from above, the lit fortifications and buildings of the far shore reflected in long streaks on the black water, dockyard cranes in the distance — Twenty past eleven at night. The Grand Harbour introducing itself.

From the water

Another morning started on the other harbor. Valletta sits on a peninsula with water on both sides: the Grand Harbour to the south, Marsamxett to the north, and a ferry that crosses the northern one in about ten minutes. It is the cheapest skyline viewing in the country.

From the water the city reads as a single wall of stone with a dome and a spire rising out of it, which is the skyline on every postcard, except the postcards leave out how blue the sea gets in November sunshine. A catamaran drifted through the view at exactly the right moment, as they do.

The Valletta skyline seen from the water under a deep blue sky, a large church dome and a tall spire rising above the stone waterfront, a white catamaran sailing past below — Quarter to one on the ferry across Marsamxett. The big dome is the Carmelite church, with the cathedral spire beside it.

Back on land, the walk up from the water is Valletta doing its two favorite things: stairs and balconies. One street was a staircase the full width of the block, completely empty at one in the afternoon, with painted timber balconies stacked five floors up on both sides. A few corners later, another street sloped down and then up again, and sitting at the end of it, framed between the houses, was that same Carmelite dome from the ferry.

A long empty staircase street between limestone buildings, black iron handrails down the middle, green and blue painted wooden balconies jutting from the facades above — One o'clock, walking up from the ferry. In Valletta the streets end in sky, sea or dome.

A narrow street of limestone houses with iron balconies sloping away, a large stone church dome with a lantern and cross rising at the end against a blue sky — One o'clock, walking up from the ferry. In Valletta the streets end in sky, sea or dome.

An hour inside the gold

At twenty past two we went through a plain stone doorway into St John's Co-Cathedral, and the city's whole color scheme collapsed into one room.

Outside, the church barely announces itself. Inside, there is more gold leaf per square meter than I have seen anywhere. The barrel vault is painted end to end, every wall is carved limestone gilded solid, each of the old langues of the Knights has its own chapel trying to outdo the next, and the floor, the entire floor, is tomb slabs in colored marble. You walk on coats of arms, trumpets, crowns and skeletons the whole length of the nave.

The nave of St John's Co-Cathedral, a painted barrel vault over walls of gilded carved limestone, arched side chapels and visitors small at the far end — St John's, from twenty past two. The chapel ceiling with ITALIA in its corners belongs to the Italian knights, and the little lift in the middle frame says the regilding never really stops.

A view through two heavily gilded carved arches into a side chapel, a blue and gold coffered wall with crowns and crosses above, a crucifix and a small work lift visible in the far room — St John's, from twenty past two. The chapel ceiling with ITALIA in its corners belongs to the Italian knights, and the little lift in the middle frame says the regilding never really stops.

The knights are all still there, which is the strange and wonderful part. Grand Master Ramon Perellos y Roccafull has a monument with a black bronze bust in a full wig, a mother and infants on one side, a figure with hanging scales on the other, and two winged skulls grinning underneath. The tablet between them, in Latin, says he died on the tenth of January 1720, aged eighty four, after twenty three years in charge.

A baroque marble monument with a black bronze bust of a man in a long wig under a crowned coat of arms, flanked by marble figures of a nursing mother and a woman with scales, two winged skulls carved at the base — Perellos, twenty three years a Grand Master. The skulls at the base keep the tone honest.

The floor slabs are even blunter about it. One near the entrance carries a full skeleton in colored marble, scythe in hand, foot on a globe, holding up a scroll to everyone who walks past: QUI ME CALCAS CALCABERIS ET TU, ID COGITA ET ORA PRO ME. You who tread on me will be trodden on too. Think on that, and pray for me. Three hundred years old and still the most effective memento mori I have read.

An inlaid marble tomb slab under glass showing a skeleton with a scythe holding a scroll with the Latin words QUI ME CALCAS CALCABERIS ET TU ID COGITA ET ORA PRO ME, framed by Maltese crosses and skulls — The politest threat in Malta, delivered in marble.

The oratory, and two paintings worth the trip

At ten to three we followed a dark red sign reading Entrance to the Oratory, Paintings by Caravaggio, which is the most understated label imaginable for what is in that room.

A dark red sign on a post reading ENTRANCE TO THE ORATORY, Paintings by Caravaggio, standing among gilded carved pillars and inlaid marble tomb slabs inside the cathedral — Ten to three. The plaque below the altar records the 1996-1999 restoration in Florence, with the Italian Navy handling the transport.

The oratory of St John's Co-Cathedral with Caravaggio's Beheading of Saint John the Baptist above the altar in a gilded frame, an information plaque about its restoration in the foreground — Ten to three. The plaque below the altar records the 1996-1999 restoration in Florence, with the Italian Navy handling the transport.

The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist fills the end wall of the oratory, and it empties the air out of the room. It is enormous, most of it is darkness, and everything that matters happens in one pool of light at floor level: the executioner reaching for the knife, the saint already down, the red cloak, a servant girl waiting with the dish, an old woman holding her head, two prisoners watching through the bars of a window. Caravaggio painted it here in Malta, and it is the only work he ever signed.

Caravaggio's Beheading of Saint John the Baptist, the executioner bending over the fallen saint beside a red cloak, a woman with a golden dish and an old woman covering her face at left, two prisoners watching from a barred window at right — Most of the canvas is darkness, and the darkness is doing half the work.

Around the corner hangs his Saint Jerome, an old man writing at a bare table by lamplight with a skull for company, all lit skin and red cloth against the dark. Two paintings, one quiet room, and suddenly the two hours of gold outside feel like the warm-up act.

Caravaggio's painting of Saint Jerome writing, an elderly bare chested man draped in red seated at a wooden table with a skull and candlestick, in an ornate gilded frame on a dark wall — Saint Jerome, writing against the clock. The skull on the desk makes the same point as the floor outside.

Golden hour over the Grand Harbour

By four we were up on the Upper Barrakka gardens, which sit on top of the bastions with the whole Grand Harbour laid out below, and the November sun was already leaning hard into everything.

This is the hour Valletta was clearly designed for. Fort St Angelo across the water went from stone to solid gold. The saluting battery on the terrace below lined up its cannons over the harbor, a flower bed shaped into the eight-pointed cross sat between the tourists and the drop, and the light kept getting warmer by the minute.

The Grand Harbour in low golden light, a massive stone fort on a point across the water with marina masts beside it, the striped dome and rooftops in the foreground — Four o'clock from the Upper Barrakka. The fort across the water is St Angelo, and the cannons below still fire a salute every day.

A stone terrace below the gardens with a row of black cannons aimed over the Grand Harbour, a flower bed shaped as an eight pointed cross in the paving, the fortified far shore and ships beyond — Four o'clock from the Upper Barrakka. The fort across the water is St Angelo, and the cannons below still fire a salute every day.

Just along the wall there is a spot where the rooftops step down toward the harbor mouth, the breakwater draws its line across the entrance, and the sea behind goes on until it runs out of planet. Of the few hundred photos I took in Malta, this is the one that stayed my favorite.

Valletta rooftops and bastions stepping down toward the Grand Harbour mouth in late golden light, a small watchtower on the walls, the breakwater and open sea beyond — Ten past four, from the top of the bastions. The whole city tilts toward that gap in the breakwater.

Sunset behind a Christmas tree

We drifted back toward City Gate for the last light, and Valletta produced the most seasonal sunset I have ever photographed: the sun went down directly behind the giant Christmas tree on the square, turning it into a black cone with a halo, while the balconies and cafe umbrellas caught the last of the gold.

Low sun bursting over a square by City Gate, a tall Christmas tree in dark silhouette against the sunset, colonnaded buildings, cafe umbrellas and green wooden balconies catching the last light — Twenty five past four. In late November the sun sets on Valletta before five, and it chose to do it behind the Christmas tree.

The square itself is watched over by a palazzo with a facade full of dark green closed balconies, the gallariji that Malta is famous for, and across its front, in raised iron letters, the name of a shopkeeper: GIO. BATTA DELIA. The sign has outlived the shop by generations. These days there is an international fashion brand trading under the arch, which the building appears to tolerate.

A grand limestone palazzo on a square in evening light, its facade lined with dark green enclosed wooden balconies and iron railings, shops and cafe umbrellas at street level — The palazzo by City Gate at twenty five past four. The sign stayed, whatever happens under it.

Detail of the palazzo facade, a long green enclosed wooden balcony above an old raised letter sign reading GIO. BATTA DELIA, with a modern clothing shop lit in the arched doorway below — The palazzo by City Gate at twenty five past four. The sign stayed, whatever happens under it.

That evening ended the way the evenings here kept ending, in front of a wall of bottles, this time rustic wooden shelves on bare limestone stacked with cognacs, rums and half the world's gins. There are worse rituals in a cold-season city than ending every evening somewhere warm with a backlit shelf.

Wooden shelves on a pale limestone wall stacked with spirits, cognac and Japanese whisky bottles on top, rums in the middle and a row of gins below — Ten to eight in the evening. Study of a good shelf.

Inland, to Mdina

One morning we took a taxi inland to Mdina, the old capital, a tiny fortified town on a hill with a moat, a handful of streets and, by Maltese standards, silence. They call it the Silent City, and on a November morning, in the lanes away from the main gate, it very nearly is.

The main street was strung with garlands of lights for December, the sun was low enough at noon to flare between the buildings, and the stone here is paler than Valletta's, worn smooth like soap.

A narrow Mdina street shot into the sun, light flaring past a baroque bell tower, strings of festoon lights overhead and people in silhouette on the shining paving — Ten to twelve in Mdina, shooting into the sun. The lights overhead are the Christmas garlands going up.

Mdina's churches keep the baroque going. One ceiling near the gate is a painted oval, angels around a central medallion of the Madonna and Child, ringed by stained glass. Five minutes away, the cathedral runs painted vaults down to a dome full of daylight, and its floor plays exactly the same trick as St John's: inlaid marble tombs, coats of arms, and one very direct skull and crossbones in yellow stone.

An oval painted church vault seen from directly below, angels and clouds around a central oval fresco of the Madonna and Child, stained glass windows around the rim — Mdina, around noon. An oval vault in one church, the cathedral's dome in the next, and the floor keeping everyone humble.

The nave and crossing of Mdina's cathedral, painted vault panels framed in gold, a daylight filled dome above the crossing and a red canopied pulpit near the altar — Mdina, around noon. An oval vault in one church, the cathedral's dome in the next, and the floor keeping everyone humble.

The rest of Mdina is best done without a plan, because the whole town is about four streets deep. Alleys narrow enough to touch both walls, lanterns on brackets, window grilles bellied out over the pavement. Then the walls open and you are on the bastions, looking down at a moat that is now a lawn, with half the island flat and green beyond.

A narrow alley in Mdina between tall limestone walls, an iron lantern and curved window grilles on the right, three people walking away in the distance — Half past one. Four streets, one lawn where the moat used to be, and that is Mdina.

The bastion walls of Mdina in bright sunshine, a corner turret with battlements, and the former moat below turned into a long green lawn — Half past one. Four streets, one lawn where the moat used to be, and that is Mdina.

Back on the Marsamxett side

Back in Valletta, the city kept adding footnotes. The ditch below the bastions by City Gate turns out to hold a glass and steel lift shaft with a stone arch bridging over to the gardens, which is the most Maltese possible collision of centuries. And on the square by the new parliament building, the giant Christmas tree stood in full sun, dressed in red bows, gold mesh, poinsettias and painted ceramic ornaments, with a small polite notice at its base: Please keep a safe distance from the Christmas Tree.

The deep stone ditch below Valletta's bastions with a modern lift tower rising from it, a stone arch bridge crossing to the gardens, the Grand Harbour and far shore visible beyond — Mid-afternoon. A lift in a sixteenth century ditch, and a tree with its own safety signage.

A giant Christmas tree decorated with red bows, gold mesh, poinsettias and painted ceramic baubles under a blue sky, a sign at its base asking visitors to keep a safe distance, a modern stone building behind — Mid-afternoon. A lift in a sixteenth century ditch, and a tree with its own safety signage.

We spent the last of the light on the Marsamxett seafront, and it was the right choice, because that is where the gallariji put on their show. Whole facades of them: white, oxblood, teal, blue, stacked six floors high on the sea side of the city, glowing against the limestone while the clouds went past behind. The painted timber balcony is the one place Valletta allows itself color, and it uses it all.

A tall corner block on the Valletta seafront covered in enclosed wooden balconies painted white, oxblood and teal, warm light on the limestone, the sea and horizon at the end of the street — Ten past four, last light on the Marsamxett side. The balconies are where all the city's color went.

A seafront terrace of limestone houses with stacked wooden balconies in red, white and blue, a wide paved promenade in front and the open sea beyond the road — Ten past four, last light on the Marsamxett side. The balconies are where all the city's color went.

That was Malta, and I would book the same trip again tomorrow. In November the light is low and gold for half the day, the terraces still work at midnight, the crowds are thin enough that Mdina actually goes silent, and the whole place is quietly wrapping itself for Christmas.

A city made of one stone, and it never once looked monotonous. That is a trick worth crossing the sea for.