Murky water splatters around my heavy foot as it steps into the shallow puddle. It’s a sombre day, sky angry with grey ominous clouds. The image muddles into one as the grey buildings and cement roads blend into one dreary blur.

My Docs, muddy and well-worn, step into one final puddle and then halt – I have arrived to that place that redeems this town. I smell it before I see it, that light wash of pollen and flowers which linger in the air. In the distance I can still hear construction noises, yet they are deafened as I move further inside San Anton Gardens. I haven’t been here since I lived close-by, 10 years ago. I’ve become a tourist in the town I was born.

I was born and raised in this town. My surname being the same as the town name, Attard, I was the subject of quite a lot of teasing at school – somehow – yet the name resounded with me and I held the small village very near to my heart. And so, coming back to it now, a deep nostalgic fondness instils itself within me.

Attard is not as grand as Valletta, as picturesque as the southern fishing towns, or as the northern beach areas. Yet in its winding cobbled road near the church, and in the flowery gardens among the new grey buildings, emerge some unsung gems.

In front of me is the church, with its bell tower, standing tall and proud. A few arches face it, with a couple of benches sheltered underneath them. An old man sits languidly on one of the benches, feet stretched before him, eyes resting. Hearing me shuffling on by, he looks up at me and gives a kind smile, eyes wrinkling. He’s been here all morning, he says. He likes to rest here before retiring back to his quiet house nearby.

I remark how quiet the piazza is – apart from the far off sounds of cars and construction – which he says he blocks out. Instead he invites me to close my eyes with him, and together we hear the noises surrounding us. The laughter of children, the grumblings of a woman, birds chirping, trees fluttering.

Attard is an explosion of colours, sounds, smells, and of history

A cacophony of sounds fills my ears, and I open my eyes slowly. I look at the man beside me, his eyes still closed, and a ghost of a smile starting to appear on his face.

Next to the church is a quaint cafeteria which I have now frequented quite often, Jalie’s. I wander inside and see my friend, who I’m meeting for a coffee. The place is packed and I order myself a warm scone with jam and cream, and a pot of tea, to fulfil my British desires.

I leave my friend to take a quick trip to the school library. Walking up to it, I flash back to when I was eight, walking this same road, arms bundled up with as many books as I was allowed to borrow. The small library seems to be a relic in time. Nothing has changed except for a few books on its shelves, the librarian too unchanged, like an immortal being.

With a new book safe in my bag, and a more confident stride, I walk back into the streets. I know exactly where to go – that place that always used to make me feel comfortable and serene. I step into the gates of San Anton and walk briskly on. I’m a woman on a mission. And I’ve arrived. The little pond in front of me seems bare on first glance, but then I spot them: tiny and giant turtles swimming together, waving their little feet around.

 A giant one starts to walk upwards on to a rock, and a little child near me yells “turtle” with such glee and fervour that it reaches me and fills me with an epiphanic warmth. Emanating happiness and hope, I look to the sky. It still is grey, and some of the buildings are too. But this town is not. It’s an explosion of colours, sounds, smells, and of history – mine, and perhaps yours too, if you dare step into its puddles and explore its waters.