In five short weeks I found myself becoming very settled on the island. There are as many cultural similarities with the UK as there are differences, giving Malta a very distinct national identity, and at the same time, a real sense of Englishness. A unique language – a blend of Arabic, Italian, even some English phrases – and staunchly Roman Catholic, the older generations at least. But then there’s an English language national newspaper – ’The Times’ – that both ressembles, even feels like, its UK namesake.

You could as easily juxtapose Heritage Malta with English Heritage. So many other subtle similarities, much more indicative of shared cultural values than simply driving on the left, or the usual High Street names in Valletta. And an enviable properness. Receipts for absolutely everything. You could be sure that if you did actually succeed in finding a drugs dealer, which I doubt, he’d insist on issuing you with one. Just wouldn’t be right to do otherwise. And he’d be very polite about it.

[The author very much appreciates being made so welcome at the family run Ramplas Hostel -www.maltahostelaccomodation.com - a big thank you to Yvonne, Simone, Frieda, Elaine, Keith, and fellow English guests Adrian, Colin and Conor]

Catching up with Mark and Jenny, time spent with my parents, lots of e-mails with news from home, radio interviews, all this had made me realise just how important the support of family and friends are to this venture. My Mum had even joked she’d qualify for an NVQ in Logistics at the end of all this. A solo expedition only in the sense that there’s one saddle.

Jumping on and off the local buses, in just a few days we’d got a good sense of the island, or at least that’s how it seemed to us. We’d largely avoided the tourists, save for an English couple who’d pushed in front of us to board a bus to Valletta. Lost in their own little world, inconsiderate rather than deliberately rude. And very gullible. We’d jokingly mentioned to each other that the stop for Valletta is the one after everyone gets off. Which is pretty self-evidently not true. Left them still sat on the bus as we wandered into the city. Pays not to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.

Of course, we’d had to reassure my Dad that the weather on the island wasn’t up to much – mostly described locally as partly cloudy and windy – tough, almost blew the Flake right out of my 99…

[For those unfamiliar with Malta, take a look at the latest additions to the Gallery...]

It’d been a long stint in the chair but I was very pleased. Dr Tim and Anna, his assistant, had given my teeth a through overhaul, ready now for the ’Stans and China. Mostly preventative stuff. I’d been looking forward to the early morning visit since my check-up a few weeks earlier. Anna was the first Serbian I’d encountered since leaving Serbia, and I’d enjoyed chatting at length about her home country, attempting to explain it’s strange hold over me, my desire to return.

Leaving Charles’ office, a much more important task now beckoned. Off to the airport. My mother was arriving shortly, spending a few days on the island. We’d agreed to meet that evening at her hotel, but in the end I’d decided that was a bit weak. Very least I could do was to greet her as she emerged from Arrivals. Had even made a sign especially. Simply said ’Mum’.

Skipping over the pamphlets proclaiming the supposed truth about a "suicide cult" and the odd exiled religious leader, I went for what I thought would be less contentious ground. Politics. Thought I had a pretty decent grasp how that worked in this particular nation. But no. I was mistaken. A multi-party system. And there was me thinking it was a one party state. Actually, a simple but understandable oversight. Delve a bit deeper and you find one party has a hundred times more members than all the others put together – I had plenty of time to tot up the numbers – which explains how the rest normally get overlooked. Or ignored. And then it was my turn to step forward to the counter. Fingers crossed.