We graced Malta with our presence for a whole week, which meant I got to spend plenty of time and money ashore enjoying the delights of the Gut. The down side were the hangovers suffered by all and sundry and me in particular. I soon learned the morning after effect of cheap booze and not enough sleep was a raging thirst, a churning stomach and a pounding head; of course it didn’t stop me going ashore abusing my body!

Bulwark was an accommodating boat (Nay lad, ship. Boats have oars!) in many respects. While anchored in Grand Harbour one of those accommodations on offer was the presence of the Goffa Man in the cable tier. In naval parlance a goffa is a breaking wave, usually of the large variety and often very cold. Used in this context though it refers to a wet (that’s a drink to you land lubbers). Not an alcoholic wet in this case, but a sugar packed, ice cold bottle of Fanta orange.

Every morning the Goffa Man would arrive alongside in his creaky old launch. He always appeared to as old as Methuselah, but was nimble enough and was as sharp as a pin. One of his helpers, almost as ancient, would board the ship and make his way to the cable tier, where a tackle was rigged. A couple of empty oil drums were hoisted aboard, followed by buckets of ice and then the crates of pop. I’ve no idea where the ice came from, but the chilled, sugary orange pop was a God send to those of us with a thick head and a mouth that tasted like the bottom of a bird cage.

The Goffa Shop, as it was colloquially known would be set up and open for business by 8:30 in the morning and an almost constant stream of buckets of ice would appear from around 9:00 onwards, keeping the wares well chilled. Occasionally Fanta lemon or 7UP would also be available, but Fanta orange was the constant; I suspect the Goffa Man brewed his own, but have no proof of that.

So, with banging head, churning gut, bear’s flip-flop mouth and pink eyes, we’d queue in orderly lines along the cable tier to achieve our morning goal: half a dozen bottles of sweet goo to help hydrate our desiccated bodies. A not uncommon reaction to the sudden and shocking intake of such frigidly gassy gloop was an instant emptying of the stomach by up-chucking over the ship’s side. Amazingly, we always seemed to miss the launch carrying the ice though!

Malta, as you may know, is famed for its lace and as Bulwark was due to be back in the UK in December I decided I’d investigate the possibility of acquiring some to take home to wife and mother. On one run ashore, I detached at the top of the Gut and peered into various shops selling lace products. I even stopped to watch a couple of ancient crones as they hand wove lace in a side room. This was something new to me and I’ll admit it fascinated me for a short while. The price of the various lace products came as somewhat of a shock, given the relative cheapness of everything else on the island.
I went ashore alone reasonably early on the day before Bulwark was due to depart and made my way up to Republic Street where I knew I would find a greater variety of lace shops. I browsed for an hour, seeking the right things at affordable prices and heartily regretted the considerable amounts of cash wasted satisfying the inner man’s desire to get pissed every night. After some haggling, and a lot of cheek, I ended up with a shawl for my mother, but failed to find a suitable purchase for my wife. I did take a small set of lace handkerchiefs embroidered with her name, but knew these were not what I’d been seeking in the way of a gift.

Not wanting to lose my purchases I repaired back on board, stowed my goodies and decided to go and see what everyone else was up to. The mess was pretty much empty with the exception of the duty watch, my messmates having all buggered off ashore for a last night on the piss. I knew where they’d be of course, it was just a case of finding the right bar.

Back ashore and I stopped into the Dreadnought for a quick one and something to eat before heading back up to the centre of Valetta and eventually the Gut: so much for the recriminations of spending all my money on booze! I entered the bar and saw one of my pals, Rosie, sitting alone at a table. Joining him, I ordered us a couple of beers and a steak sandwich. As it turned out Rosie had also found himself at a loose end and had stopped in for a drink before seeking entertainment elsewhere. We downed several beers and talked idly about things in general for a while, when Rosie decided it was time to go: his plan was to forgo the pleasures of the Gut and head for Floriana where he’d found a brothel very much to his liking and was going to get laid. I stayed put. I told him I had no intention of paying for sex in some backstreet knocking shop and anyway, I couldn’t afford it!

So I spent my last night ashore sitting alone in the Dreadnought, drinking Hopleaf and talking to the bar owner. If I’m honest, it was probably the best night I ever spent ashore in Malta as I learned a lot about the island and places to visit when I returned. His name was Giuseppe and he talked with pride about his island, his bar, his family, the ships he’d seen come and go and the photographs he’d taken of them and the people he’d met. A delightful character and one I shall never forget.