The beautiful, quiet and small Maltese island of Gozo holds an unlikely and quirky half-marathon every year. An unfit and middle-aged Chris Webber had a go

'LADIES and gentlemen," exclaims our announcer after the Gozo half marathon, "please welcome our esteemed foreign sports journalist Mr Christopher Walter Webber to the stage."

Shocked, I almost spat out my beer. 'Esteemed?' Hardly. Also on the stage is Gelindo Bordin, gold medal winner in the 1988 Seoul Olympics. His time was two hours, ten minutes to run 26 miles. I've taken one hour twenty minutes just to drag my ageing carcass eight miles. My rival, the only other journalist on the trip and online editor of the premier German running magazine, has done the half marathon in one hour forty minutes while stopping to take photographs.

Still, I was pleased. Pleased to still be alive. Unable to train for a month because of a football injury (I am far too old to play but refuse to accept it) and with a knackered foot I have run in the heat up a total nightmare of a hill for the last mile. I reckon England has not been entirely disgraced.

Now for an even worse ordeal: public speaking. I decide to simply tell the truth. This run on this beautiful island is magnificent with views to die for. The people are, truly, friendly. The strategy of gushing to the Maltese crowd works. Feeling a bit like a politician (not a good feeling), I decide on another beer.

The previous night, I had dined with the Gozo Half Marathon Organising Committee. Expecting a dreary bunch of blazer-wearing old blokes I was amazed to find a fun-loving gang of attractive twenty-somethings. This group of professional, young couples who work around the world had been inspired by an old priest to develop this tiny marathon and, under their stewardship, it has grown six-fold in three or four years. A drinker, not a runner, it was the allure of Malta itself that attracted me here, not the marathon. And, in truth, I had hardly of the much, quieter, deeply impressive Gozo.

Malta, especially its capital, Valletta, was everything I expected: historic buildings, some of the world's greatest art and many, many restaurants (I recommend the fine food in relaxed surroundings at Trabuxu). It's busy and bursting with life. The Co-Cathedral ('co' because it was the second the second cathedral adopted by the Vatican in Malta – a ruse to stop the British handing it over to Church of England during colonial rule) is plain as dust on the outside but breathtakingly rich in gold and ornament within. It's there you will find the Caravaggio paintings, including The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist, the only painting he signed. Wanted for murder in Italy the painter was then expelled from Malta for seriously wounding a knight in yet another of his brawls. For such a dark man his art uses light to sublime effect.

That evening my guide takes to Gozo ion one of the ferries which arrive every 45 minutes. On board he tells me a little of of Malta's Second World War story. The small islands, then a British colony, were bombed more in two months in 1942 than London in the whole war. It probably remains as the most bombed place on earth. Malta's war was so hard its people – all its people – were awarded the George Cross. Now proudly independent the cross is still displayed on the nation's flag. The effect of the bombing, including the collusion of what should naturally be Malta's ally of Italy, still has an effect on the politics of this little nation to this day.

After the bustle of Malta, Europe's most densely populated country, arriving in quiet Gozo is a relief. Everyone is returning from work and the smiles are wider and everything feels more relaxed.

Early the next day we take a boat trip at a small cove named Dwegra. Of everything I did on this islands, this was the most magical. There's a shallow, safe swimming area and fishermen's quay joined by a "natural corridor" – a cutting through a high cliff – which can be navigated by a small fisherman's boat. Breaking out to sea the dramatic cliffs surround us, the coral visible below the sea which is is deepest blue I've ever seen. Round a corner we see the rapidly decaying "natural window", a huge hole in the cliff. It is enchanting, although I'm told the coach after coach will soon arrive releasing hoards of day-tippers. A visit early or at sun-set is best. Whatever, a visit to Dwegra is a must.

Later we visit Ggantija, a stone age temple built about 3,600BC. It is the oldest man-made structure on earth. I repeat: the oldest building made by humans that exists. Lacking grandeur it should, nevertheless, be much more famous.

Going 'home' we meet the old man of Gozo's salt pans, a gentleman named Emmanuelle Cini. He tells of how whose wife's family have been using the ancient stone "pans",' – squares cut from the rock – to extract salt from the sea since 1856.

That night we dine with those young, enthusiastic marathon organisers for dinner. They, once again, reaffirm the Maltese people's love and devotion to good food, wine and beer. This night there's an international fireworks competition, fireworks being another obsession. The sky is clear, the moon full, as fireworks light the sky.

The next day, race over, I wander with aching muscles from my holiday apartment at the north island harbour of Marsalforn to the seafront. I order a cold beer and good food. There's a warm sun and cooling breeze and the view is beautiful.