In the Backstreets

It was half past one, I'd just been politely hurried out of the Anglican Cathedral ten minutes before the official closing time, and I was in the high, cool streets of Il-Mandragg, the closest a city of six thousand gets to an off the beaten track. A car reverses into a narrow parking space, wrecking a perfect shot of an archway. Streetlights are strung to cables down the middle of the road, clothes hang out to dry, a horse-drawn carriage waits for passengers in a square, women sweep balconies while their husbands lean from first floor windows, talking to the street.

Valletta manages almost everywhere to be smaller than expected: every second turning leads to somewhere I've been before.