Valentine's Day is fast approaching and I still don't have a date. On one particular day off from work recently I was gazing half-heartedly at a Malta bus route map when I found myself drawn to the name 'Pretty Bay'. Only the night before I had been bemoaning my recent bad luck with the opposite sex and a pal had advised me to start trying new places. Was this 'Pretty Bay' so-called because of the abundance of pretty women who frolic on its golden sands?

Now, beaches are regarded as an excellent place to meet potential dates... in summer. For most people, the idea of going to the beach in winter is considered even more far-out than the notion of introducing a third flavour of pastizzi filling to the market.

And yet... 'Pretty Bay'. The name sang to me off the page like a sweet, seductive siren. That had to be it.

That had to be the place where my dream woman, or women, was waiting. Cupid had set his trap and all I had to do was walk into it. Ignoring the annoying little voice of rationality in my head, I hopped on a bus to the Promised Land.

As I got my first glimpse of Pretty Bay from the bus in the milky winter sunshine, I realised that if it wasn't named for the quality of its women, then it must have been named long before a huge industrial site was erected nearby. A more appropriate name these days would be Chernobyl-on-Sea.

The first female I encountered was considerably older than me and surrounded by wretched, mangy cats. "Nice cats," I said, trying to sound sincere. She glared at me with contempt as though I was wearing the shrunken heads of kittens as a necklace, before turning away.

Deciding not to push the matter further, I headed down to the beach, making doubly sure that I had no shrunken kitten heads about my person. I didn't want to give the wrong impression after all.

To my disappointment, the beach was nearly empty. I exchanged "bonġus" with some perm-haired pensioners on a bench, before spying several Chinese women rummaging through the sand further down. Thinking they may have lost something - possibly their sanity - I decided to go over and display some good, old-fashioned chivalry.

"What are you looking for ladies?" I asked, trying to sound like a 15th century knight of the realm, but probably sounding more like a 21st-century timeshare salesman.

One of them glanced up and showed me a tiny shell, before returning to her slightly odd and pointless task.

This place was beginning to unsettle me. Continuing my walk down the beach, I came across some huge animal tracks that either belonged to the biggest dog in Malta or, more likely, some kind of mythical beast that was keeping Pretty Bay under siege. Perhaps that was why one woman was feeding the cats and the others were collecting shells; they were going to offer the cats and the shells as gifts to the mythical beast when he returned.

My mind began to race with thoughts that my quest for a Valentine's date might turn into a battle for survival. I didn't even have any shrunken kitten heads to offer as a sacrifice.

At the end of the beach, as my gaze landed upon two lesbians canoodling passionately on a swing, I concluded that women in Pretty Bay definitely didn't want me. I decided to return to the bus stop, still single, but grateful to still be alive.

This article appeared in the Valentine's Day supplement of The Sunday Times, February 8, 2009.