Why do we travel? A comment at a movie outing today got me thinking. Mention of Christopher Nolan’s upcoming The Odyssey brought to mind my own far-off encounter with that ancient epic, and coincidences being what they are, it turned out to be almost 15 years to the day since I trekked across the muddy fields and dusty lanes of Gozo in search of Calypso’s Cave.

That trip to Malta and Gozo, thrown together towards the end of 2010, sticks in my mind as something of a personal turning point. Prior to that, holidays had been sporadic, taken with friends, family, or loved ones, arranged whenever and however suited them (always seeking to please, never comprehending that understanding what I wanted might be something they wanted). That winter, reeling from as painful a breakup as I’ve had, I wanted to be somewhere else, even if it was alone.

Why Malta? The substantial part of me that’s a frustrated historian and archaeologist is eternally fascinated by points in history where legend and myth take on solid reality. Not so much The Odyssey in this case as Malta’s Stone Age past. The ancient Ġgantija megalithic temples I knew of, and a little extra research revealed the wonders of the Ħal Saflieni Hypogeum (allowing me to book a last-minute place on the waiting list). It was also a manageable destination. Having never travelled anywhere for long on my own, going to a small island where most people spoke English was about as safe I was going to get.

I didn’t have high expectations, starting out. A week in Malta, an itinerary that was mostly self-arranged (apart from the Hypogeum date), a chance to simply walk, enjoy the winter sun, and be somewhere other than back in Dublin, working and treading the usual routes. Whatever came of wallowing in Malta’s millennia of history, I’d take it.

Off-season Malta wasn’t impressive at first glance. I’d booked a cheap room in Sliema, the island’s party capital in the summer but dead in December. That just meant it was quiet though. I could grab a beer at a deserted bar if I wanted, but mostly I wandered. Up to Valletta and its museums and beyond to the harbours where the billionaires’ yachts lay tied up, waiting to spring to life at a jolt of funds. I visited every site the guidebook directed me to within walking distance of the city centre, and I descended into the underworld of Ħal Saflieni, glimpsed the distant past by flickering lights, then emerged into the day again.

Small as Malta was, my feet wouldn’t take me everywhere I wanted to go. For a few days, the bus terminal in front of Valletta’s city gate was my key to the island and beyond. Out to the temples of Ħaġar Qim and Mnajdra and their stunning views over the Mediterranean towards Africa. The cliffside roads I walked along, watching the birds scuffle in the dust and sheep graze far below me. Stopping for lunch at a mostly empty cafe, then catching the bus to the next site. I’ve a lot of photos but my use of GPS doesn’t reach back so far, so where each one was taken, I can but guess.

I remember Gozo though. That was a day trip in and of itself. Up early to catch the bus to Victoria, across the narrow strait on the ferry, past Comino, island of the blue lagoon. It looks larger on the maps, but I headed north when I arrived and walked all the way to Calypso’s Cave, only to find a rubble-choked and deserted site. No one in the villa next door either, half-finished despite the promising aspect, with a view over the red sand of Ramla Bay below. I clomped over fields and onto the beach, shucking shoes clogged with mud and red sand, enjoying for a moment my natural state: on the shore, neither on land nor at sea.

I have, of course, lied in the above. The walk along the cliffs came the day after the trip to Gozo, not before. But it suits me better to bring the story to an end there, on the shore below Calypso’s Cave, facing the journey home rather than the cold comforts of stillness. Thinking of my state of mind on the sunset ferry back to Malta, into night. Thinking of the wish to share the experience and the desire to remember it.

We travel for all sorts of reasons. To please others and to please ourselves. To learn more about the world, and about ourselves. To experience something new. To enjoy the journey home once more.

I have my own reasons. Some time after my trip to the islands, I came across the poem Ithaka by C.P. Cafavy. You might know it. Calypso doesn’t get a mention, but she’s there in spirit. I think of that poem often when I travel. Whatever weathered stones may harbour me, it’s only for a time. Ithaka awaits, and the tide is changing.