My room, which was on the fifth floor and without a balcony, was directly across the harbour from Fort St Angelo and just above a wharf where up to two dozen fishing boats moored.

The view from my bedroom window.

From my room I looked out on the dome and one bell tower of a little church which had lost its other bell tower, probably during the bombing in 1940 - 1942. One morning I found my way down to it but there was a service on and I didn’t go inside.

The hotel itself was about the standard of a youth hostel but only charged Youth Hostel prices - it was very cheap accommodation and appeared to be full for most of the time I stayed there so it obviously fulfils a need.

True, I had my own room with my own bathroom but there was a startling lack of comforts. The floor was terazzo tiles, the beds were narrow with sheets which were too short, square blankets so that I was never sure which way to put them on the bed as I remade it each night before I climbed in, and kapock pillows which I had not encountered since I left school in 1957.

My bedroom.

The bath was what I learnt was called a French bath. It was small and on two levels so that one had to sit on the upper level with one’s feet down in the deep part where the plug was. I tried sitting in the deep part but it was uncomfortable and my knees were around my ears. I found that by sliding forward over my feet, with my knees against the end of the bath and my head against the wall I could immerse myself to rinse off the soap, not a difficult task as the water was very hard. My hair felt like straw by the end of my two weeks.

My bathroom.

There was a hose with a shower-head arrangement but no way of fixing it so that it had to be hand held and I found that it was really only useful when I washed and rinsed my hair.

However, the deep part of the bath was great for doing my washing. There was a clothes line on the roof but “He” had removed all the pegs, according to the woman who did my room. I managed to find and hoard three pegs but never actually got around to buying myself some more.

My room was not well serviced; the bed I have already mentioned. The bathroom smelt slightly of stale urine and the floor was not clean. Eventually I used the bathmat to clean it myself and after that some effort was made to keep it clean.

I took my meals in the dining room until my daughter arrived and after she left - it was easier than heading out into the night. I had been told about the waiter, who had been likened to Manuel from Fawlty Towers. He was really very nice and very efficient but he could not make up for the incredibly poor quality of those dishes which were actually available. I tried in vain to order stuffed green peppers but they were never available although they always featured on the menu. However, having sampled the beef olives and the stuffed cabbage leaves I can safely say that they would have been stuffed with sausages or something which tasted exactly like sausages.

Breakfast was tea or coffee and toast. Two types of juice and cornflakes were also on offer, as were Maltese Honey Cakes which I tried but found too sweet for my taste.

There was a six slot toaster which took expert knowledge to work. The elements never became red and there was a timer. People new to the toaster either burnt their toast or waited in vain because they had not turned on the timer. On my first morning I was confronted by a pile of burnt toast so I took precautions and only burnt it once during my visit.

For the first six mornings my breakfasts were enlivened by a German cyclist who arrived early, as I did, and who joined me after a couple of days, after which we breakfasted together. He had hired a bike and was intent on seeing the island the hard way. He complained about the lack of trees (he was getting sunburnt) the traffic and the state of the roads. I suggested taking a bus instead but his response was “What is the point of having a bike if I don’t use it?”

Eventually, two days before he was due to leave, he headed out for St Paul’s Bay only to find himself continually on the road back to Valletta. In disgust he took the bike back to the bike hire shop and caught the bus. On his last morning we said goodbye and introduced ourselves - his name was Martin and he worked in the computer industry. His English was excellent - he had spent two years working in Scotland.

There was an internet computer at the hotel and so I was able to check my email but for the first few days it kept crashing and was replaced by another one which was extremely slow. Two days before I left the proper tower was returned but was not a great deal more co-operative than before and I got into the habit of using the re-set button which sometimes helped.

Next time I visit I will not stay at that hotel. The people who worked there were very nice and very helpful but it was not comfortable. Next time I shall stay at the Phoenicia.