Malta - Valletta. A wild ride.

Early start for Malta. At the airport in Rome we had a cornetto, as croissants are called in Italy, one side stuffed with nutella and the other pistachio cream. My dream life. Luga airport was small. It was a bit like the days of old, where once my late husband and I got off the plane in Crete and an open truck with seats along the sides in the back, took us to our destination.

The taxi we were ushered into was old, battered, with open window air con, a very fast moustachioed driver and his teenage daughter talking animatedly on her phone in the front. He passes other cars with a whim, swinging in and out of the traffic at high speed and I close my eyes. He swings around the corner near our hotel and suddenly stops at the top of a very steep staircase and points down. We get the hint, he wasn't going to take us directly there, he had other fish to fry, so to speak. We dragged our bags down at least a hundred steps. Our room wouldn't be ready until later so we head off for lunch.

There are staircases everywhere in Valetta and beautiful warm stone buildings with colourful balcony rooms, cats and potted plants en route. We find a beautiful little cafe halfway up one of the staircases. We look up and see beautiful coloured glass chandeliers, in gemstone shades of amethyst, ruby, rose quartz, as street lamps, I am in love. Little tables hug the side of the staircases and we feast on rabbit, a Maltese specialty. Rabbit tarts and a spicy rabbit salad. Served by a hippie-esque, glorious Brazilian girl who's in search of a better lifestyle. We find during our stay that not many people working in the restaurants here are Maltese, there's a selection from all parts of Europe, mainly Eastern Europe, who have come in search of sun and a different life and of course, the Brazilians.

Our little apartment is ready and overlooks the harbour. The kitchen's red shutters open up to a beautiful view. We're close to the British Hotel and as the partner is English, he goes to book us a place on the terrace. We dress up and drink our wine as we watch a slow burning sunset copper the sky and a big round of moon rises. The food is flavoursome, Mediterranean. Later we wander across and sit on the harbour wall, Limoncello bottle accompanying us and we are welcomed to Malta with fireworks from across the water.

The next morning we breakfast at the main hotel and finally meet a real Maltese man who owns the hotel. We have pastizzi, layers of flaky pastry with a paste of peas and good coffee. Then we're off on a bus ride to the Silent City, Mdina, a UNESCO medieval walled city dating back to the 8th century BC and ruled by Byzantines, Muslims and finally Christians. It's called the Silent City because no cars are allowed inside the walls.

We become all touristy and go via horse and carriage. I think it was the Maltese man with a commendable moustache that sits above his lips like a hairy outstretched winged bird up to his ears that makes us feel that we've made the right decision. He is all smiles, displaying his lack of two front teeth and has lots of stories and a hearty smokers laugh. He smokes his cigar throughout the commentary as we clip clop slowly through the tiny streets. We find a cafe with a panoramic view and have a Maltese cassata for a sugar hit and then walk the tiny city of 300 people.

Down a side street is an advertisement for a show on the Knights of Malta, as part of our tourist moment we book in. The knights of Malta's mission was to defend the Holy land and provide care for the injured and sick on their way back from their pilgrimage to the Holy land. A video is followed by a weird wax museum scenario of the knights' lives.

We decide on getting a taxi back as the bus was a local one and stopped continuously. We arrive back in Valletta to lunch in the square, having decided on an Italian restaurant, run by, guess who? - Italians, not a Maltese in site. The city is arcaded with beautifully coloured banners in celebration of their patron saint, St Dominic. I love the traditions of European nations, we borrow a few in Australia but there's nothing like the beauty of ceremonies involving patron saints, it takes religion back to it's roots.

We dine underground that night in a traditional Maltese restaurant, starting with a hearty wine to accompany Bigilla, a dip made of broad beans flavoured with parsley, garlic, mint, marjoram and chilli and the crunchy bread of the region. We share a rich rabbit pasta, tomato and red wine based and seafood ravioli, delicate with a hint of smoky paprika.

Fortified we walk to the Opera house, Pjazza teatru rjal, which had has an unfortunate history. Built in 1866, it was destroyed internally by fire in 1873; bombed in 1942 during the war and then redesigned in 2013 by an Italian, as an open air cinema and theatre. We settle in to watch a movie from the Film Festival, beneath it's remaining columns, under a rising full moon, warmed by the summer air. Halfway through we are slightly traumatised by the film and decide to head back to our Limoncello location on the wall across from our apartment, cooled by a faint breeze off the water.

Rome meetup.

My solo time is about to come to and end. I'm meeting the partner in Rome tomorrow. I take the bus to Venice and then meet a lovely lady on the train. She tells me her family has a house in Auronzo! And when I show her a photo of my late husband, she remembers seeing him about town! She's 79, never had children, her husband passed away a couple of years ago and her dog not so long ago. She has set up a Tent group for immigrant women in Mestre, just outside Venice, to exchange cultural activities: poetry, food, playgroups for the children. The women are isolated as their husbands work so this group was set up to bring Italian and immigrant women together.

We exchange numbers as we arrive in Rome to 36 degree heat. There's a huge line up for taxis and in front of me, I am impressed with an older Italian man in an ochre yellow linen suit with a perfectly pressed handkerchief in his pocket and polished brown loafers looking cool and calm. How do Italians look so suave with so much ease?

My hotel is near Piazza Navona in a lovely old building not far from the river, a part of town I haven't stayed in before, Antica Dimora Delle Cinque Lune. I dine that night with my husband's family near the Colosseum, every one asking questions and then talking over me when I try to answer. My soft English voice doesn't work in this Italianesque situation.

There's a knock on my door and the partner has arrived after a four months absence. He looks with amusement at the gothic style Italianate room I've booked. Aubergine textured wallpaper, pewter trims, glamorous padded bedhead and ancestral portraits on the wall. We breakfast on the rooftop with a view of Rome's rusty clay coloured tiled roofs, with huge gulls squawking on the balcony walls. The buffet breakfast brings to mind ancient Roman feasts where you needed to lie down afterwards. Arancini, fried and crunchy prosciutto, light as air tiny croissants, tiny round donuts, beautiful breads, homemade tarts with fruit.

the partner is too excited to sleep so we go on a tour of the Domitian stadium that lies underneath Piazza Navona, dating back to 80 AD and which could seat up to 30000 people for athletic events. Then we wander to the markets where we're given free samples of every type of liquor you could imagine; peach, pistachio, orange, watermelon, blood orange. We buy the classic Limoncello, get told off for touching the tomatoes by an old feisty Italian woman and buy truffle salami in a shop that has been selling pork products for 90 years. Things I wouldn't have bought on my own.

We lunch in the beautiful square, fans spraying out a fine mist to keep us cool. We have fritto misto of tiny fish, calamari, prawns and squid in a cone of brown paper with a chilli sauce and buffalo ricotta fried in breadcrumbs and drizzled with honey. We watch the Roman men and women with their little dogs, their baskets and their haggling over all the wonderful produce in this open air market.

The partner has a jetlagged nap and then we head out into the cooler air of early evening for aperitivi. I have a limoncello spritz, which redefines the Aperol one for a hot summer's evening. We're presented with an array of tiny aperitivi, beautifully displayed at no extra cost. The partner is amazed.

Then we wander the cobbled streets until we find an old trattoria. The food is rustic and amazing. Artichoke pasta, pumpkin flowers stuffed with mozzarella and anchovies, chicory with garlic and chilli and the host's brother-in-law's homegrown olive oil, pungent and deep green. Rome never fails to impress.

We were hopeful - reflections on the year that Covid hijacked out lives.

What an odd year - well, there's probably other, more significant words for it, coined by individuals to reflect their dis-ease with the proceedings. 2020 came into being on a wave of smoke and destruction and what we thought was a bad flu. We were hopeful as human beings are.

From the Spanish flu era by May Gibbs.

The daughter and myself travelled back just after the bush fires when the air was clean and cool again and we partied and caught up with friends that we hadn't seen for a year. And then blithely we decided to bypass Italy as they seemed to be in the throes of a flu virus and I landed in England, the daughter in France. I was on a plane without a mask, seated between two interesting gentlemen, an Australian who'd moved to England and was obsessed with food; the other from Sicily, living in Australia, going to visit his family, also obsessed with food. We exchanged Instagram names. We breathed the same air and thought nothing of it. We were hopeful that all would be well anytime soon.

In London, one Uber driver who was dropping me at Borough Market, suggested I didn't go because - you never know. But I ignored him and wandered freely, mask-less and fearless. Signs started appearing in bathrooms about washing your hands and singing happy birthday, twice. Being a law abiding citizen, I followed instructions.

I wandered far, I wandered wide. Ten days after arrival, I met a friend in Bristol and we went to restaurants, we went to gin bars. There was discussions about the virus but we just continued to sip on our Violet gin (can recommend). We were hopeful. We had no knowledge of anything being seriously amiss because we'd never had to deal without anything like this. A pandemic was something played out in movies.

We crossed into Wales and suddenly it all fell apart. The daughter rang from France and said she had heard they may shut the borders as cases there were out of control. Italy was losing their older generation, hundreds a day. I made the decision to leave as if in a war zone. Borders were closing, transport slowing. I managed to get on a train to London and then a plane to Bordeaux. I wore a mask. I tried not to touch any hard surfaces. I arrived and a few hours later France shut it's borders and went into lockdown.

At least I was with the daughter and her partner. Locked down in a little flat near the river. We could walk but not along the river. We could shop and because of the laws in France, the bread shops legally had to always stay open ,so croissants to keep up morale were de rigueur but we were quick and furtive and masked. The world as we knew it had ceased to exist but we were hopeful.

A month passed. Every country was now infected. We studied Worldometer upon waking for statistics. We thought if we hung out a bit longer, we could continue our journey. It was a winter virus after all. We were hopeful.

And then we weren't. We made the decision to head home. Paris airport was empty, it looked like a scene from an apocalyptic movie. We were lucky to be in the free quarantine program in Australia. I used the time to exercise, paint, blog, do online courses. Toilet paper disappeared off the shelves, sanitiser as well. But we still had hope.

But those hopes rose and fell as the months passed by. But Australia had it under control. We were vigilant and a small number of people made it easy to track and trace. And now, just before Xmas, as Santa was packing his sleigh and Mrs Santa had disinfected all the presents, Sydney was hit with mystery cases that day by day are escalating. And we are on the last day of 2020 and the world is back to where it was in April. New Years Eve looks set to be cancelled.

And yet, we are still hopeful. Hopeful for a vaccine, hopeful that the two year virus survival period will let Covid know that it's only got a few more months and it will have exhausted itself. Hopeful that our lives will return to normal. We are a hopeful race. I hope we can continue to be.