Malta Swimming Shenanigans: Sun, Sea & Slightly Questionable Navigation
- Swim Girl
- Mar 1
- 6 min read
Day 1 – Smoothies, Sea Pools & 33,000 Steps
Malta wasted absolutely no time in showing us what it was made of. Day one began with the best of intentions — a breezy 10k coastal run. “Breezy” being the optimistic word here. The sun had clearly clocked in early and somewhere around the halfway mark we collectively decided that survival ranked higher than Strava stats. Salvation arrived in the form of a gloriously cold smoothie and an impromptu paddle in a glittering sea pool. Crisis averted.
On the return leg we stumbled into one of those unscripted travel moments you can’t plan. A local fisherman, weathered by sun and salt, stopped for a chat and told us all about the island’s beloved Maltese cats. These aren’t just strays — they’re community royalty. Fed, cared for and even provided with their own tiny housing area (and a miniature boat, no less), they live a life many humans would envy.
Breakfast was taken leisurely along the seafront, the kind of brunch where time stretches out lazily in front of you and no, that was not a pizza — though it tried very hard to look like one — it was an omelette. A very convincing one at that.
Fuelled and happy, we trekked to the iconic St Peter’s Pool. The limestone rocks were glowing honey-gold against the turquoise sea. We unpacked our picnic, dipped in and out of the water, and were soon joined by local legend “Cortina” — a fishing dog with her own Instagram and TikTok following - only in Malta! Watching her patrol the rocks like she owned the place was entertainment enough.
The local teenagers were next-level fearless, launching themselves off towering rock-faces in synchronised formations that wouldn’t look out of place at the Olympics. Equal parts impressive and mildly terrifying.
Mid-afternoon curiosity took us to Il-Kalanka Bay. Beautiful? Yes. Accessible? Questionable. With no obvious way in or out, we sensibly vetoed the idea of a swim and instead embraced rock pooling with great enthusiasm — possibly more enthusiasm than the locals expected from three women crouched over tidal craters like marine biologists.
Back at base it was brew o’clock, followed swiftly by the hunt for dinner. A brief gluten-free debacle threatened to derail proceedings, but it ended in triumph — incredible food, warm service and very happy plates.
33,000 steps later, Quirkle (a mix of Scrabble and Dominoes) didn’t stand a chance. Shower. Bed. Bliss.
Day 2 – Valletta Adventures & The Quest for the Perfect Sea Pool
Day two dawned a little slower. Karen (the resident proper athlete) slipped out early for a “casual” 5k while Linda and I honoured our 30,000-step hangovers with tea in bed.
Breakfast was a joint operation: fresh fruit from the local market just five minutes from our door, followed by a hearty full English and strong tea. We were going to need it.
Destination: Valletta. Culture was on the agenda… alongside two swim spots, obviously.
Stepping off the bus into Valletta is like walking into a living film set — honey-coloured limestone buildings, ornate balconies, narrow streets tumbling towards the sea and churches at every turn. The city hummed with tourists, café chatter and church bells.
We made a beeline for our first target near Fort St. Elmo, skirting along the dramatic edges of St. Elmo Bay. The problem? We were very much “up" and the sea was very much “down.” We could see our intended sea pool in the distance — teasing us — but no obvious route revealed itself.
Undeterred (or perhaps poorly guided), we found ourselves scrambling across rocks again. Worn stone steps appeared intermittently, smoothed to treachery by centuries of feet. I adopted what I like to call the “safety shuffle,” occasionally resorting to descending on my bum. Dignity is optional; broken bones are not.
At one point, we discovered an entirely different sea pool. Excitement spiked — only to fade when we realised entry would involve battling outgoing tide and slippery stone steps that hovered just above the swell. Hard pass.
Then — victory. Around the fort wall, there it was: OUR sea pool. Modest metal steps led invitingly into crystal clear water. We were changed in record time. The swim was heavenly. Cool, clear, restorative. Karen, never one to resist adventure, scrambled out and leapt into the open sea, riding the swell back through the gap into the safety of the pool like some kind of aquatic action hero.
Chatting to a group of divers afterwards, we learned about an underwater wreck nearby, the local pastry delicacy pastizzi, and — most painfully — a tunnel connecting the upper streets directly to the lower bay. A tunnel that would have saved us a good hour. Character building, we told ourselves.
Lunch brought fresh gluten-free frustrations. One promising restaurant fell short due to cross-contamination concerns. Linda and Karen, attempting sympathy while brushing pastizzi (traditional, flaky and savory pastries) crumbs from their jumpers, assured me we’d find somewhere safe for me to eat.
We regrouped on St. Lucia Street — one of Valletta’s famously steep streets. Tables were wedged level with chunky blocks of wood and we sat amongst the cosy chaos, halfway down what felt like a limestone ski slope. A simple salad was safely prepared for me, packed with flavour and entirely satisfying — provided I didn’t glance sideways at the ftira (large flat bread) situation unfolding next to me.
Our second swim spot — affectionately titled “Rocky Beach” — delivered exactly what it promised: great slabs of sloping rock and expansive views towards the Three Cities. Karen and I swam towards the lighthouse while Linda embraced her role as chief photographer.
20,000 steps. Two swims. Culture. Rain on the bus ride home. Continental supper of Maltese cheese, ham, olives, bread, fruit and wine. Quirkle resumed its rightful place in the evening schedule.
Three very happy bunnies indeed.
Day 3 – Markets, Misdirections & Unexpected Bays
Sunday began with the village market setting up practically on our doorstep. First stall? Cakes, obviously. Linda and Karen wasted no time sampling cannoli — traditional Maltese pastry tubes filled with sweet ricotta — and declared them exceptional.
The market was a vibrant mix of clothes, produce, trinkets and an astonishing amount of fresh fish. Some of the sea creatures on display were… impressive. Let’s just say I was very glad to be a heads-up swimmer.
A small crushed-shell beach beyond the market became our first swim stop. Crystal-clear water, a steep drop-off and a group of grown men passionately piloting a remote-control speedboat. Each time it stalled, one would row out in a child’s inflatable dinghy to rescue it. Entertainment levels: high. Shopping on an empty stomach proved dangerous. We returned laden with Maltese chilli and herb cheese, garlic butter beans and — inexplicably — pickled onions. After another heroic breakfast (including a traditional Maltese sausage that divided opinion), we set off for St Thomas’ Bay.
Naturally, we missed the turning.
A dramatic “DANGER – UNSTABLE CLIFFS” sign greeted us at a different bay, but the steps were pristine concrete with a handrail. The bay itself was breathtaking — honeycombed rock formations, tidal craters, overhanging cliffs. We swam, picnicked, and even conducted a spontaneous litter pick after discovering a floating black bag.
Soon we were off again in search of our original destination. Eventually, we found it - St Thomas’ Bay — rustic, charming and notably home to a designated dog swimming area. Another dip for Karen and Linda while we waited for the bus.
Dinner at our now-favourite local restaurant followed, then strawberries, yoghurt and a fiercely contested game of Quirkle (Karen victorious).
Final Morning – One Last Dip
Our Maltese adventure ended with a “gentle” 5k jog that felt anything but gentle. Hills everywhere. Legs protesting.
One final swim at a tiny beach near the apartment involved navigating ankle-threatening rocks. Our entry was less “Mediterranean goddess” and more “Bambi on ice,” but once submerged, none of that mattered.
Breakfast became a fridge-clear-out affair (fried strawberries on toast — unexpectedly excellent). Packing required sitting on suitcases and whispering prayers to zips. A farewell cuppa at the Rising Sun saw ice creams demolished by some, saintly restraint practised by others. Then the bus, the airport and that familiar end-of-holiday fatigue — sun-kissed, sea-salted and wonderfully worn out.
Malta gave us sea pools and scrambles, markets and misdirections, brave dogs and community cats, culture and coastline in equal measure.
And somewhere between the 70,000+ steps, countless swims and more than one navigational mishap, it quietly stole a piece of our hearts.
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