Unknowingly, Thomas Zerafa (February 5) stirred and challenged recollections that go back in time, 78 years and more. Not only do I remember the Malta railway but I also had a free ride.

My teenage mother came from Rabat and was married in Floriana. They lived next to Sarria church, opposite the booking office. I was born on July 31, 1930, barely eight months before the railway closed down in March 1931. I was her pride and joy and, naturally, she longed to show me off to her mother and relatives in Rabat.

I was, of course, oblivious to the bucolic scenery on both sides of the train. Lovingly held by my mother, I was lost in the arms of Morpheus, in deep sleep. Sleep. A long silky shawl was wrapped around me.

In Rabat I was inundated with crowds of women and children who dissected every part of my face except my toothless mouth and hairless head, which mum had rinsed with rum to make my hair grow but to avail.

For years, I suffered the wet kisses of new arrivals in succession, increasing one every year. We formed an extended family, an accepted blessing, much resented nowadays.

Unlike my family, the railway tunnel turned barren, sepulchral and lifeless. The indefatigable lady mayor organised Ġenna ta’ Ġonna annually that pointed out the dilapidated state. Imagine cohorts of pedestrians walking all the way through a well-lit tunnel, a galleria, an exhibition hall of historical scenes, static and active, of Malta’s past.

It is a link of two gardens: Argotti and Renzo Piano. Can one imagine a walk from the Argotti to Marsamxett, ugliness turned into a healthy exercise?