You know, when I think about what it meant to grow up in Malta, it honestly feels like a mix of soil or dust, salted skin, and stories you’d only ever trust if you’d lived them yourself.

There was a rhythm to those days—a quiet competition, maybe, or just a sense that adventure was never optional. You’d wake to sunlight slanting through the venetian blinds (by firm Joinwell!!), and the world outside pulled you off your couch before you could think about what you looked like.

Dirt crusted under your nails and knees scraped raw (oh, those countless scabs); those details seem small now, but at the time, that was proof you’d done something real.

You’d find yourself slipping through the fields still then surrounding your neighbourhood, or crouching behind low rubble walls (carefull not to dismantle it accidently as one rock of the ‘ħajt tas-sejjiegħ’ beckons another after it!), waiting to spot the flicker of some rare wild rabbit through the grass or the flutter of a small bird – more often than not a Spanish Sparrow – near your homemade trap, made from chicken cage wire nicked from Dad’s or Nannu’s garage!

Sometimes, all you’d catch was the wind rattling the fennel and the laugh of a friend further up the path, and honestly, I find myself missing the chase as much as the catch.

Afternoons belonged to the sea. Some days, we’d haul homemade nets and battered rods to the shoreline, hoping—really hoping—that our home acquarium’s next addition might wiggle at the end of a trembling line.

There was seasalt on our lips and quiet in our ears, just the brush of waves and the engine noise from luzzu boats out beyond the point. I’ll be honest, I learnt that fishing was half waiting, half dreaming, but I don’t recall ever feeling bored given the good company I was with.

Now, it’s different. I watch kids everywhere today hunched over their phones, fingers flying but feet perfectly clean. They’re hunting, too, in their way—chasing a WiFi signal, not a rabbit or a sparrow, and hoping for a connection that doesn’t spin out of reach.

Instead of secret forts and coves or sandy silence, it’s the buzz of a message or the slow load of a video on their smart devices. I guess you could ask: does the thrill hit the same way? Is there still that surge of wild hope when they find what they’re chasing, even if it’s just a steady internet bar instead of a startled bird in the grass?

Sometimes, I wonder if the messiness—the stings and salty hair, the feeling that the day could break open with the next discovery—is really gone, or if curiosity just shifted form. I think it’s easy to get nostalgic, but honestly, I notice kids still lean forward, still search for something just beyond easy reach. Curiosity has new tools now, but the pulse underneath isn’t so different.

Maybe you remember a moment like this: holding something unpredictable, feeling the world tilt a little because you managed to grab whatever it was—a fish, a memory, a small moment—without knowing what would happen next. That feeling, the little jolt of chaos, sticks with you. Maybe it’s still possible to find, even through a tangle of cables or the haze of a screen.

It’s hard not to miss rough hands and sandy shoes, but I try to believe the important things—curiosity, luck, a willingness to get a little messy for something real—they stumble forward, no matter how much the surface changes.

#MaltaChildhood #SeaSaltStories #RabbitTrapping #NatureVsScreen #OldVsNew #MessyCuriosity #DigitalKids #IslandAdventures