Gibraltar

Approaching Gibraltar by sea is an exciting experience for history geeks. For more than two thousand years it has been a feature of Mediterranean maritime events. It is one of the Pillars of Hercules which marked the extent of the known world to the ancient Greeks. Beyond it was the terrifying Oceana, the wild and unknowable encircling sea. Greek ships couldn’t possibly have survived out of the benign Mediterranean, and so Gibraltar was as far as they ever went. The Rock has functioned as a defensive station for a thousand fleets, it sheltered the British fleet before Trafalgar, and allied fleets in both World Wars. It survived a Spanish siege from 1779 to 1783, more than a hundred miles tunnels fill the rock, dug out during this and later times.

The height of the Rock relative to the surrounding land means it has it’s own weather, as we motored towards it a large white cloud stood above it alone. This jaunty and friendly looking hat of cloud welcomed us to this famous port. Twenty tankers were anchored in the bay, I tried to imagine them as ships of the line preparing for Trafalgar, great forests of masts and swarms of men. Boats rowing and men working. The crash of hammers and the whistles of bosuns. This image amused me for some time, till the shouts of Michael woke me. We moored without difficulty, in a slightly scabby looking marina in the shade of the Rock. Building sites surrounded us. Teams of people were reclaiming land, filling in the marina to make more room for housing. Behind them more tower blocks were being put up, optimistic pictures showed a haven of sunshine and relaxation. Beautiful people rising to a clear sunset in their perfectly clean apartments. The reality of Gibraltar is quite different.

It is seedy, run down, scabby, decrepit. Actually, none of these words are quite right. Gibraltar is all of these, but really it is weary. It is a place too exhausted by time to actually have anything left. Now it is visited by tankers and sailors, Spanish looking for cheap fuel and cruise liners filled with tourists. The main street, cleverly called Main Street, is lined with shops selling electrical goods and perfume. Cruise passengers wander up and down here, taking advantage of the tax free status of the town. Americans joke and laugh, French chat, Spanish gesticulate and the English swagger. We wander along here, looking and talking. I find a bookshop and George Michael leave me looking. After half an hour I buy Nietzsche a Dostoevsky, though I want more I try and control myself.

The next day Barney joins us, he is eighteen and shy. His thick dark eyebrows give character to a friendly angular face. We walk into town again, stopping for lunch at a pub we take advantage of the British status of the place. A pint of Speckled Hen and a Steak and Ale pie make for most satisfying sustenance. Later after trip to the supermarket Alex arrives. He is boisterous and friendly, with dark eyes and a square jaw. A mop of slightly curled, slightly greyed hair adds to the look of joviality. We eat dinner and chat, getting to know one and other.

In the bright morning sunshine we walk towards the rock. There is a little used path that leads up the west face of this great pillar. No signposts point to it, the only evidence is a hand painted scrawl on a rock “To the apes” with an arrow pointing up a broken set of steps.

We climb for twenty minutes through dry and broken ground before joining the road again. The air is still and dusty, big old cacti grow through the rubbish and wasted earth. I swig water and feel unfit, though this is mitigated by everyone else’s similar reactions. Back on the road we come across he two defining features of the Rock simultaneously, the quiet and pleasant Barbary Apes that live there, and the raucous and embarrassing Human Tourists who visit. The apes are small, red coated and vaguely aloof. The tourists cackle at their every movement, jeering and poking. They push food at them and then snatch it away, looking shocked when the apes look angry. I take some photos, not of the apes but of the spectacle of their interaction. One half sit resignedly staring the other half swing and shout and cry loudly into the heat. I hurry to get away, we start walking again.

The path leads up the top of an old wall now, though it is blocked of with signs that read “Danger” we climb over these and walk up. It is a beautiful walk, though it is dangerous. With a bit of effort this path could be made safe, the crumbling steps rebuilt, the handrail repaired. But no-one wants to walk up the hill, and no-one in Gibraltar cares to make it easier. Taxis and the cable car bring in more money. Eventually we reach the top, out of breath and hot we sit in the shade and calm ourselves. Joining a group of American tourists on a viewing platform we look at the sea and across the straight to Morocco. The Americans are chatting:
“Look at the Baby…”
“Take a photo of this Hank…”
“It’s got an apple look…”
“Where is Africa?”
At this last question I help them out pointing across the straights at the great mass of Jbel Musa, the other Pillar of Hercules
“That is Morocco”
“That’s Morocco you say, so where is Africa?”
“Morocco is Africa” I say just keeping a straight face.
“Oh yes sorry” Says the smiling American lady in big sunglasses and a visor. Her husband, smiling at her wife’s mistake interjects.
“Say, do you know where the Rock is then?”
I can’t answer, I don’t know what to say. I mumble something vague and walk off to join the others. Together we climb to the cable car station, here there is more of the same, tourists and apes and photographs and views.

We walk around further, to the top and look at the view. I tire of feeling embarrassed by my fellow Homo Sapiens so leave as soon as the others are ready. We walk down through by a different road, through Ministry of Defence scanning stations, old and abandoned. The chain link fences guarding them are rusting and broken, lumps of concrete sit bereft of the pylons they used to support. It is sad and weary. We rejoin the tourists outside the entrance to the old tunnels, Napoleonic era tunnels dug to provide gun embrasures against the Spanish in 1780. We (Michael) pay and walk down through the stone, the tunnels are impressive and reek with memories, I imagine people fighting and living here, beds made on the stone and the report of cannon crashing through the stone. The tourists are still here, dummies are dressed to impress them, talking displays and lighting changes happen automatically, I don’t like it. We leave, heading home, back to Blue Sky.

The next day we leave, heading out into the straits, heading to Oceana, leaving the gentle Mediterranean we aim for the wild Atlantic. Between the oil tankers we hoist the spinnaker, well, we start between the tankers but it takes us half an hour as we haven’t done it before so we are in open sea by the time it is flying. The sea is growing and the wind powerful. We watch the anemometer, the wind grows, fifteen knots, twenty knots, it gusts higher. The spinnaker becomes difficult, reckless in fact and we hold on. With the wind this strong it isn’t easy to get the sail down, it is up for now and we have to deal. I helm, Barney helms, Michael takes the helm we surf down breaking waves at twelve knots. And still we hold on, scared but excited. Michael’s attention wavers as a plane passes over and we loose control, we come round and broach. The sea rises up, pours over the gunnels, we hold on tighter still. Before reaching Cadiz we broach twice more, once in a sort of controlled way, once wild and dangerous. Ropes and people are everywhere. Alex having never sailed before sits smiling, doesn’t realise the seriousness of the situation:
“That broach was nice” he says, I look on in wonder.
We get the spinnaker down in the end, we regain control, the adrenalin stops pumping. I start to laugh, sailing is occasionally exciting and dangerous, it is like a trip to Alton Towers for free. I love it and fear it, I guess it’s all part of why I’m here.