Today, I came home

I am sitting in the lounge of a rather nice hotel on the island of Malta, sipping a glass of the local red (not bad at all) and trying to get my thoughts into some sort of order. I am here on holiday, but there is so much going on back home in England that it feels like the wrong time to be here. Ever since we landed, I have been fighting the temptation to log into twitter and find out what is happening [and I just lost that battle – it is now forty minutes later than when I started this!]

We have been planning this holiday for months; I am Maltese and my friend has never been. It seemed about time that I showed it to him. But when we planned it, I could not possibly have known about the Health and Social Care Bill progress and the important meetings, discussions and demonstrations that are to take place this week. If I had, I would certainly not have booked a holiday.

Now, I ought to confess that I don’t enjoy flying. As soon as I arrive anywhere near an airport, I start to perspire gently and I have to ensure that I haven’t eaten anything for several hours before as it tends to have a rather uncertain, unpredictable and unpleasant effect on my guts. It was very windy at Heathrow this morning. As we boarded the aircraft, we could feel it shaking around us. I muttered something unprintable under my breath: take-off, I felt, was unlikely to be a pleasant experience.

To say I was right would be a gross understatement. As we started to roll down the tarmac, gathering speed, the plane swerved from side to side as the pilots strove to control it in the vicious crosswinds. As we became airborne, the plane jerked about, seemingly totally out of control. I was, frankly, terrified. I was also telling myself that it was all my fault because I had not obeyed my conscience and cancelled the holiday to be at the demonstrations.

Happily, my doom-laden predictions did not come to pass and soon we were above the cloud base and the winds and enjoying a trouble free flight to Malta. Over Sicily, we started our descent. Totally relaxed now (possibly helped by a couple of glasses of wine) I gazed at the Mediterranean, recognised the bank where the tankers and container ships anchor waiting for a space at the Free Port, identified every landmark. Suddenly, we were here.

We got off the plane. I am here with an English friend with whom I have travelled much. Always, in the past, we have hurried through, being the first in every queue. Today I found myself strolling, ignoring the silent messages to get a move on. I stood in the warm spring sunshine and refused to be rushed. And at last I was able to put a name to the feeling: I am HOME.

I left Malta in 1977 as a consequence of the political upheavals of the time. I have only returned for holidays since. Yet today I know, with absolute certainty, that this is where I am myself: I do not have to worry that I speak too loudly or wave my arms about too much; I do not have to pretend to be politically correct; I do not have to be slightly embarrassed or, worse, overly bombastic, about being a practising Catholic; I do not have to pretend that table manners are a thing of the past or that I am not offended when people behave badly.

It took coming here with a good English friend to realise that I am, unashamedly, Maltese, Mediterranean, Catholic, slow, strolling, happy, noisy, passionate. And if that isn’t good enough, then I’m sorry, but it’s far too late to change.