`Me' time in Malta.

Byline: Alice Douglas

TORDA the grey mare's nostrils flared as she careered a round. Sheila laughed, saying:``She's a polo pony,Alice, ridelike a cowboy -loose reins in one hand.''I was quick to learn that any pressure on the bit made her react instantly and at great speed,backwards.

It was a glorious day as we trotted off down winding country lanes and I relished every minute of my long weekend in Malta. I was all alone having some ``me'' time.

Sheila has a glorious house perched on a hilltop, with views out to sea over the golden landscape.It's for sale and I'd certainly snap it up if I had a few million. Brad Pitt stayed here while filming Troy, and Winston, thefilm's producer who was riding beside me, said:``Brad was so smitten he wanted to take the family dog back home as a keepsake.''

Winston gave me all the show biz gossip. We discussed Oliver Reed who I remember vividly from my childhood, particularly one incident when he and Sarah Miles had a fight with a broken light bulb and a bottle of vodka.

Winston first met Ollie when he turned up on set with Gina Davis in a black Mercedes. The driver got out and opened Ollie's door only to punch him in the face, to the horror of the film crew. However within half an hour they understood the driver's rage. Ollie had been sacked for staggering naked around the costume department making lewd comments and groping any girls within reach.

Exactly five years ago Ollie had died in The Pub in Valletta while filming Gladiator. After my ride I caught a cab there thinking about that talented and deeply destructive man.

Entering the dark bar from the searing sunshine I was dazzled as I squeezed through a crowd of men to order a drink. Looking for a seat,I caught the eye of a Reed look-alike sitting below a wall of memorabilia. He laughed at himself and invited me to join him.

Tourists popping in for a moment of reflection on the Ollie trail were taking his photo,and con doling with him, assuming that the 78-year- old must be Oliver's brother. He was no relation but slightly tipsily took my hand and told me to beware of divorce. Love takes decades of being together,he said,and I would only truly know happiness if I stuck it out with my relationship. He didn't have a clue about my situation,just an uncanny drunken intuition which was rather disconcerting.

After saying goodbye I wandered through Valletta's beautiful streets picking up knick-knacks in the market before visiting St John's Cathedral. Mygaze spun through a kaleidoscope of colours from the marble tomb-stoned floor,dedicated to the Knights of St John, to the 18 painted ceiling panels.

I was on a mission,having found myself the previous evening at a private view of digitally reproduced works of Caravaggio. I wanted to see The Beheading of St John the Baptist,in the flesh. I stared intently from the back of one of the chapels mesmerised by the bleak scene. The photographic image had had no barriers and the proximity reveals written in St John's blood the artist's only and mocking signature: Fra Michel Angelo. A life size photographic exhibition can never replace standing in front of the real thing,but does have its own secrets to deliver.

I chatted to a 94-year-oldBritish scholar,Sir Den is Mahon, who entreated me to travel around Italy to marvel at Caravaggio. Slightly inebriated,I assured him I would and when at two in the morning I fell into the crisp linen sheets on my enormous double bed,images of decapitation,blood and gore led me through a spectacular Caravaggio dream.

I arrived on Saturday for breakfast having caught the budget flight from Stanstead; it was delayed for an hour and didn't take off until two in the morning, which coupled with my seven-hour journey from North Wales made for a long night.

My hotel was glorious and formed part of the bastions in a mediaeval walled city. I lay with my pot of tea on the balcony by a window overlooking the square. The feeling of space was no illusion as the ceiling was six metres overhead.

Despite having travelled all night I didn't linger over breakfast. I was free and thought I better make the most of it and explore the panoramic Maltese views. A friend of a friend,Grahame,had volunteered to drive me around.

Luckily my exhaustion was matched by his as he had been out until the early hours. He took me to the Grand Harbour and we sat on a wall in front of Cameron Mackintosh's town house,gazing over the biggest harbour in the Mediterranean.

I could easily have been persuaded to linger there all day but having people to see,I shot off to meet Marie Pergola for tea. Her house is a flamboyant stately home. I felt dwarfed by the sumptuous interior drenched in expensive fabrics, gilt and marble.

Marie,known as Muffy,has devotedly restored the house and formal gardens to their original splendour. Slightly unnerved by the surroundings,I perched awkwardly on a beautiful chair but Muffy was so down-to- earth and welcoming that I was soon tucking in to the best walnut cake I have ever tasted and interrogated her with undisguised fascination as she related the family's history.

I was astounded at how one family could have packed so much in. It sounded like a whirlwind of glamorous parties and gorgeous locations,but as I started packing for my home-bound flight I reflected that the Pergolas were a metaphor for Malta. A tiny island of just 246 square kilometres,it is overflowing with beautiful people and stunning scenery but like the Pergolas,despite the glamour,Malta welcomes a visitor with old-fashioned,laid-back charm.

CAPTION(S):

I relished every minute of my long weekend in Malta, including my visit to the house where Brad Pitt stayed during filming Troy and where I got to ride Torda (above)