Monthly Archives: June 2016

2:6 (1976) I had the best job in the world in the best place in the world. Gibraltar.

17 Friday Jun 2016

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Younger readers might find it impossible to imagine life without instant and constant communication with their family, friends and loved ones but here we are talking 1976; there was no such thing as Internet or social networks, there was no such thing as emails or mobile phones. Phoning home meant standing in a queue outside a phone box with a load of coins in your hand hoping that the line was clear and the person you were calling was ready outside their phone box. 

Phoning home from abroad could be an absolute nightmare and so the real deal was airmail. Writing letters and receiving replies is very much a dying art now and (in my humble opinion) a very big loss to the social fabric of life but back then it was a lifeline. To spend time and effort writing a letter to someone showed a real element of care for that person and the excitement of receiving a reply could never be understated, it was a clear message that someone cared equally about you. I guess still having all of my letters after 40 years and virtually none of my emails from yesterday says it all – and yes, I often read them 🙂

Although my highest personal priority was to find a flat and have it pass the inspection I also had a responsibility to my job in the Royal Navy. After posting my first letter home I immediately applied myself to my new role which was to die for; I was really proud to have my HMS Rooke cap tally (the photo is my actual cap). Readers will recall how (in Chapter 1) I envied the Stores Team working in Gibraltar as I watched them storing my ship (HMS Scylla) knowing I was leaving the Rock and now I was on that very team storing other people’s ships (I had to keep pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming). My job in a nut shell was receiving orders (known in the RN as ‘demands’) from warships due to dock at Gibraltar and make sure they were on the quayside when the ship arrived. Since some things had to be ordered from UK and other countries it was quite a challenging job but one with a great sense of satisfaction when it all went well. To not meet a ships ‘demands’ was not an option as it is always assumed that the ship could go to war at anytime and so whatever they wanted, they got. 


(Above a stock photo)

Back in those days the Royal Navy was a lot bigger than it is now and many ships came through Gibraltar on their way out to the Far East or on their way back so our small team had to be very much on the ball – especially when the big boys (Ark Royal, Hermes) came through. To go back to that ‘nut shell’ I had the best job in the world, in the best place in the world and so was on top of the world – well nearly, but I would be when my family arrived 🙂

(Above a stock photo)

The Stores Office was the first building on the right as you passed through Rooke’s Main Gate and (as already mentioned) it was in there that I had my desk – the very same desk, in the very same office, now being sat at by a Gibraltar Police department policeman. Couldn’t make that up. Even just writing that put me right back there with Brian, Phil and Sandy; I pictured exactly where we all sat and even the photos we had on our desks. If the stupidest things make people emotional that sentence just did me.

2:5 (1976) Being back in Gibraltar I felt a familiar calm

15 Wednesday Jun 2016

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Although I’d been to Gibraltar twice I’d never flown in before and so hadn’t been aware (until a few minutes before arriving by plane) that it was a notoriously bumpy landing; if I’d known that beforehand I wouldn’t have been disappointed – good job I didn’t have false teeth!
But once my vibrating body had calmed down I was thrilled to be back. As the plane doors opened I felt the warmth of the climate and when I stepped out and saw the Rock I just stopped dead at the top of the steps to take it all in. Within an instant I felt a familiar calm.


(Above a stock photo from 1976)

Transport from HMS Rooke had been sent to pick me up and as we drove from the airport to Rooke Barracks my eyes were all over the place spotting familiar places, landmarks and streets. Recently (in 2016) when I made a similar journey from the airport to the town centre I just about managed to still spot a few familiar places (e.g Edinburgh House) although because of modern developments it wasn’t easy; by contrast today (1976) I recognised loads and I loved that.

Arriving at Rooke some of the first people I met (after security) were my new work colleagues since part of our role (in stores) was to issue bedding etc to new arrivals; within a few minutes I had met my new Petty Officer Brian, a Leading Rate Sandy (who would become a good friend) and Phil, one of the Jack Dusty’s who would become quite a regular baby sitter. Forgive me for ‘again’ drifting back to my recent visit (I will try to curb doing that) but when I visited Rooke Barracks in 2016 it was very bizarre seeing my old office building now being used by the Gibraltar Police. I almost got to see my old desk by peering through the gate but decided I had better move on because I was starting to look a bit suspicious.

After collecting my bedding Phil took me down to the mess deck where I claimed an empty bunk and sat down. At this time I had no idea how long I would be in barracks or how long it would take me to find a flat and get it passed by the Navy so that I could get my FamPass. Looking at my single bunk was a massive reality check; the journey was over, the anticipation was over, the excitement was subsiding and my family were hundreds of miles away. All of a sudden I felt as though I’d been hit with a sledge hammer. I think Phil (bless him) picked up on how I must have been feeling and bade a quiet ‘Catch you later then’ before closing the door behind him. 

I’ve realised with age when I feel very emotional I have a profound need to either write or draw or even sometimes pick up my guitar and sing. Today I absolutely needed to write to Carol because I knew in doing that I would be with her, talking to her. It took many hours and many tears to write that first letter.

2:4 (1976) Touch down in Gibraltar felt like landing in a ploughed field

14 Tuesday Jun 2016

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After handing in the house keys we boarded the coach for Newcastle; it would nearly nine years before I had a driving licence and so coaches and buses would become our main source of travel. When we arrived it was lovely to see my sister again; even though
we had been separated and
brought up hundreds of miles apart as children we had reattached as adults and I was so thankful for that. I think that experience very much fed into my current concerns of being separated from my family and the need to ensure it was as short as possible.

For many years now I’ve worked in children’s services and over that time have become increasingly aware of not just the importance of attachment between children to their primary care givers (usually their parents) but also some of the perinatal issues that new mothers experience (e.g severe depression). At 20, I knew nothing of such things but if I had I would not have left my daughter at ten days old or indeed my wife so soon after having given birth. I’m sorry if some of that sounds a bit clinical, it isn’t my intention to be so or repeat similar writing; it’s just something I felt the need to include in order to explain my feelings.


Whilst in the North East I was able to take Carol and the children to meet my foster Dad, Billy, who was (by now) resident at Hunters Moor Hospital, Spittal Tongues, Newcastle following (as mentioned in Chapter 1) three strokes. The last time I saw him was about a year previous when I went north on leave to try to encourage him with his physio but he was having none of it. Whenever I tried to help him with his exercises to straighten his leg he would use foul language and lash out at me; he wasn’t one of those people who wanted to get back up into life again and so the hospital had moved their focus and energies on to people who did. As a result he had now become wheelchair bound and dependent on others for most of his needs. 


What was awesome though was that he loved the children and really took to them, in particular Tracey and made a lot of effort with her which I loved. There was something really delightful seeing them happily interacting with each other; seeing him in his grandad role almost let me forgive the fact that he was pretty emotionally absent as a dad. As the of day visiting my Dad came to a close so too did the week and after really difficult goodbyes to my family it wasn’t long before I found myself sitting on a plane which was preparing to take off. 

I don’t remember which airport I left from but (as always) I do remember the thoughts going round in my head….’they’re all safe and being looked after, they will be back with me before I know it, I’ll start looking for a flat as soon as I land….’. As the plane’s engines revved higher and higher Bowie’s Space Oddity began taking over my thoughts (and still does today whenever I board a plane); ‘Ground control to Major Tom…’. 

When the revving had got to the point that I thought the plane would explode it felt as though the pilot just let the clutch out and sent us hurtling down the runway and up into the air. A few hours later our touch down in Gibraltar (after a sharp turn to stay out of Spanish air space) felt like we were landing in a ploughed field

     

2:3 (1976) Life was now a surreal mixture of anxiety and excitement

13 Monday Jun 2016

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Our house in Gosport was a private let owned by the Dame Elizabeth Kelly Trust which accommodated servicemen and their families who (for whatever reason) couldn’t get a married quarter. It was a small terraced house with a back garden that Tracey was able to play in safely and nearby was a park where we often took her.
After Carol came home we needed to discuss and decide where she and the children would stay until I got a Family Passage (FamPass) and it wasn’t easy; I had to know they were safe and would be looked after but at the same time had no choice but to consider cost. Eventually it was agreed they would stay with my sister Kerrie and her husband Graham in Newcastle; of all of my three sisters Kerrie was the one I was closest to and she was also very laid back which I thought would be good for Carol and the children. Kerrie lived in Rowlands Gill in the same house she had been brought up in as a child. Her husband Graham could appear loud at times but Carol would find that during her stay there he was an absolute diamond whenever problems arose.


Meanwhile in Gosport we had a few days to kill before giving in the house keys and going North during which we made a big fuss of Tracey as she got know her new sister; Carol encouraged her to help her tend Sam’s needs, getting clothes and nappies ready or joining her for a walk while I gave her loads of praise for being a brilliant big sister.


It’s difficult to put into words the mixture of anxiety and excitement we both felt knowing that our lives would be changing in less than a week when I would fly to Gibraltar not knowing when my family would follow; life was very surreal as we continued with normal things. 


One of the hardest things for me was Tracey’s bedtime routine, particularly reading her story and knowing that next week I couldn’t and didn’t even know when I could again. (*That particular thought came to me ‘this very evening 13/6/2016’ as I was reading my granddaughter Rhiannon, age 8, her bedtime story – Jungle Book); memories for me are far more powerful than words. 


As I look at these (fabulously, yellowy, organic) old photos of those days I’m right back there; I can feel the tension but more importantly I can feel the love and I treasure that. I don’t remember which story I read to Tracey on our last night in Gosport but I do know how I felt when I read it. At the end of the story I kissed her goodnight and said “Tomorrow sweetheart we’re going to see Auntie Kerrie X “.

2:2 (1976) My daughter would be 10 days old when I flew DanAir on 11 April.

12 Sunday Jun 2016

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Our daughter Samantha Catherine was born on 31st March; she very nearly ended up as a Melanie on account of me quite taking to that name; I saw it on a hairdressers shop from the bus window as I was on my way to the hospital. Probably a good job I didn’t call her Melanie though because when I told Carol later she said she would have gone berserk. Sam’s second name, Catherine, was after my foster mother. 

One blessing about Sam’s birth date (since we were so broke) was that she was born on the very last day of the financial year which (back then) meant we were in line for a tax rebate. Meanwhile as a gift for Carol I did a serious ‘man’ thing – that I’ve never heard the last of (and probably never will and probably quite right too – not just from Carol but also my daughters); I bought her a present for having Samantha – a Marguerite Patten Cook Book. In mitigation I told Carol she made fabulous puddings but that didn’t wash; fortunately it wouldn’t be long before my tax rebate would arrive and I was able to redeem myself. (Have to say though I did get many a dandy pudding) 🙂 


It was a few days before Carol and Sam were allowed home which gave me a little time with Tracey on her own; although I think she was thrilled to have a little sister we didn’t want her feeling left out in anyway. Big changes were afoot and we needed her to feel secure through the process. During little outings to the park and other places I was able to have the kind of conversations that Carol and I felt she needed – ‘When Mummy brings Sam home she will need you to help her sometimes because you’re a big girl now’. Looking back parenting for us was really hard since we had no role models or extended family support, we literally had to make it up as we went along and hope for the best. It’s almost surreal that forty odd years later part of my current social care role is to support parents with their parenting.


When Carol and Sam finally arrived home it was lovely that we were all together for the first time, I loved having my own family. Underneath the idyllic surface though was this feeling of a sort of impending doom before paradise could come. We had very little money and lived quite isolated in a (non-married quarter) private let in Gosport which meant we had to take the ferry anytime we wanted to go to Portsmouth. We couldn’t get a married quarter because we were going abroad. Having said that whatever concerns we had were very much diluted by the fact we had each other (and our beautiful children) and had bonded very strongly. 

One of the lovely things we did do that brightened our days was to sit down and anticipate our new life in Gibraltar and talk about what it would be like; Carol loved the idea of a sunny climate because she liked a tan and Tracey couldn’t wait to see the apes, it was so nice for us all to have that hope and a future to look forward to even though there were still challenges ahead to overcome.


Gibraltar is a very small nation and (in 1976) with quite a large military presence accommodation was of a premium, there were waiting lists for married quarters. As a result the serviceman (me) had to travel to Gibraltar in advance and either wait for a married quarter before the family could follow or acquire a private let. If going for a private let the property had to be inspected and passed by the Navy. Regardless, we didn’t want any unnecessary separation and so agreed that I would look for a private let. 
It wasn’t long before my flight tickets arrived; I’d be flying DanAir on 11 April when Sam was ten days old.

2:1 (1976) With her eyes glued to mine I said “We’re going to Gibraltar”.

11 Saturday Jun 2016

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19 December 1975. Wedding day at Portsmouth.

Not long after leaving HMS Scylla I met my wife Carol and by 1975 we were married with a child and with another on the way. Carol hailed from South Wales and her childhood had been as insecure and as challenging as mine in many ways (but probably even more miserable) and so we had a certain something in common from day one. It doesn’t take long for two people with those kinds of backgrounds to bond and the closer we became, the calmer I became; for the first time in years I didn’t feel the need for alcohol, more often I’d rather be at home.


Southsea, Hampshire.

Our first daughter Tracey was born at Withybush Hospital, Haverfordwest, Wales and in due course all three of our children would be born in different countries. I loved that.


Early in 1975 we were awaiting the arrival of our second child Samantha at St.Mary’s Hospital in Portsmouth. Carol never had easy pregnancies and was often kept in hospital for extended periods before giving birth which naturally made her feel really low. And although I was there for the birth of my children I always got kicked out after delivery due to post natal complications and so they were always worrying times for me.


Since leaving HMS Scylla I’d had several postings including HMS Vernon, HMS Danae and HMS Pembroke and these drafts often meant me being away from home for extended periods of time. Having been at sea for more than my quota I was due some shore time and with my family growing I requested a particular ‘married-accompanied’ posting. Some weeks went by before I heard anything and then one day Chief gave me news that I had a feeling would lift Carols spirits – and I couldn’t wait to tell her.

Visiting time at the hospital was 2-3pm and so with Tracey looking pretty in a frock, her hair in ribbons and her dolly in hand we set off for the hospital arriving (on time) to find Carol naturally feeling fairly low at being bed-ridden ‘having tests’. These days with the NHS being so depleted of both beds and staff she wouldn’t even have been admitted but back then that wasn’t the case; for those patients ‘kept in’ there was a massive feeling of disempowerment in terms of being dictated to when they could get out of bed, have something to eat or even use the bathroom.

Seeing Carol in that situation was really hurtful to me, she was a proud young woman feeling unnecessarily controlled and though I do ‘get’ that more vulnerable patients need special care sometimes I’ve never ‘got’ the way some professionals in hospitals become power driven and turn into little Hitlers. Not wanting to upset Tracey we put a brave face on the situation, had our rudimentary hugs and kisses and as Tracey settled down to play with her dolly I told Carol I had some ‘good’ news. 

With her eyes glued to mine, barely blinking, it was almost manna from Heaven for me to see the low subside and a slight sparkle of hope come back. Without her having to have a second longer of anticipation than necessary I said “I’m drafted to HMS Rooke. We’re going to Gibraltar”.

1:11 (1974) I’d seen the world’s underbelly and thanked God for Gibraltar

07 Tuesday Jun 2016

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Arriving back in Gibraltar after eight months in the Far East felt like coming home. As we berthed alongside I felt a huge sense of relief to be back where I felt safe and welcome after what had turned out to be a six months nightmare; life had hit me from all of those angles I wasn’t ready for from drink, sex (being come onto by both women and men), being beaten up, almost drowning, being locked up and being in very dangerous situations, all during the time I was grieving for my parents. With no real home left to go to in UK it wasn’t surprising I felt as though arriving back in Gibraltar was like coming home. In some ways I grieved the passing of my naivety, in others ways I gave thanks for my survival. 

It was a paradox in a way. I’d looked forward so much to seeing some of the most exotic places in the world that Cousin Paul had told me about yet ended up seeing their under-bellies and so could no longer see the exotic; my eyes had been opened and I couldn’t close them again. In Thailand I was so moved by their Buddhism that I became Buddhist (and still remain so today) but I would have to have been blind not to be aware of the appalling poverty being shored up by their ‘in-your-face’ sex industry. In South Africa I found the apartheid shocking; while Nelson Mandela languished in jail on Robben Island for trying to stamp it out I was sickened to see that there was still pavements for white people and pavements for black.


Having virtually drank my way around half of the world the temptation to visit a few of those 365 Gibraltarian pubs (my shipmates had told me about) and drink myself ‘mortal’ was massive rather than walk the back streets or check out the apes; but although I was aware I had a serious drink problem I didn’t want that to interfere with my love of Gibraltar; worse still I didn’t want to end up drunk in a gutter there and have that forever in my memory. I walked the back streets.

During my brief second visit to the Rock the Chief gave me the maximum time off which in real terms was only a few hours but those few hours (he knew) were so cathartic. Wandering the back streets allowed me to touch base and to get back in touch with myself. I had an almost pathological need to walk and walk and walk to give myself time to think and reflect. Right now Gibraltar was the only place in the world I could do that; to walk those streets that I was becoming familiar with, where ordinary families lived and which reminded me of childhood days in Newcastle. 


Parts of the Old Town were very challenging with their long sets of steep steps; they made me think how physically hard life must be on a daily basis for some of the older residents or young parents with babies. Yes I had problems but so did many other people who couldn’t do anything about their issues. Long after leaving the Royal Navy I would spend over 30 years in the Social Care profession, but that memoir is a long way off.

Later today my ship would sail for UK and on the way over the English Channel I would have a skin-full of ale along with my mess mates during what was known as a Channel-ex. In 19 months I would be back. With my family. To live. For two years. Thank God for Gibraltar.
                                                                

END OF CHAPTER 1

1:10 (1974) Old Town. Gibraltar’s Labyrinth.

06 Monday Jun 2016

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There was something about the Old Town that felt very familiar and safe to me; it reminded me of the back streets of Newcastle where ordinary people live and where I was brought up alongside other kids with big aspirations but limited opportunities.

image
In those days we all wanted to play for Newcastle United but most kids settled for a job either in the pits or the local factories, assuming they didn’t end up marrying early because of an unplanned pregnancy. I’d only escaped those natural outcomes because of a seed my cousin Paul had planted when I was about 9 which made me determined to join the Royal Navy and see the world, in particular Gibraltar and here I was.

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Wandering the back streets I wondered if the locals felt they were fortunate to live in such a beautiful place or whether they never thought about it. In a previous memoir I remember describing how traumatised I was at being forcibly taken out of Newcastle as a child and now (here in Gibraltar) it bothered me there might not be enough opportunities for the young people and that they may have to leave the Rock against their wishes to find work; the idea that I was even thinking that spoke volumes.

 
The back streets that afternoon were very quiet, I don’t remember seeing a soul although later when I lived in Gibraltar I learned that in the afternoons people often have a siesta which probably explained the quiet that day. The streets seemed to be on tiers which ran parallel with one another connected by fascinating passages and alleyways, some of which consisted of what looked like hundreds of steps. It was like a labyrinth and I loved it. And I loved that a lot of people had Union Jacks flying in their streets; it made me feel very welcome and at home and clearly Gibraltar saw itself as British beyond a doubt. That Spain had closed its border with Gibraltar very much reinforced that but as previously mentioned I had no desire to visit the place. I hate the whole idea of bull fighting and (as an animal lover) wonder about people who don’t share that view.

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The Cathedral bells peeled twice so I knew it was three thirty and that I needed to make my way back to the ship. I was planning to phone the number I had for a taxi but having realised that Gibraltar was quite a small place I decided that I would rather walk. I’m still not sure whether the ship was at Rosia end or Queensway but I soon found myself standing at the bottom of the gangway and looking up at the Rock.

 
I’m not sure even now whether that first visit was 24 hours or less but I’m very sure of the impact it had on me; no doubt readers also know that by now. I boarded my ship at a couple of minutes to four o’clock to a beaming smile from Chief. As we sailed, a friend took a photo of me on the flight deck. I was off to the Far East and it would be eight months before I returned – but in the scale of things I at least had that to look forward to 🙂

 
What I didn’t know then was by the time I got back to Gibraltar in September 1974 I wasn’t the same person. During visits on the African continent I’d had very bad experiences and likewise in Australia and New Zealand; but those stories are not for this memoir, they are being written in my Royal Navy memoir. I only touch on them to explain the changes in me.

 

Perhaps what is relevant within these tales is that between my two Gibraltar visits that year, other than what I’ve touched on, I was flown home from Mombasa because my foster father had had three strokes and whilst in UK my foster mother died. Returning to my ship in Singapore after compassionate leave I hit the bottle. By the time I got back to Gibraltar I was alcohol dependent and a mess.

1:9 (1974) An Irish Town in Gibraltar? Is that like our China Town in Newcastle?

05 Sunday Jun 2016

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Turning down into Irish Town from the Piazza felt a bit strange but it also felt quite exciting because I wasn’t sure of what to expect. An Irish Town in Gibraltar? Is that like our China Town in Newcastle? I’m very fond of Irish Rebel Songs; I’ve performed many a one at Paddy gigs on St.Patrick’s Night over the years so had an ear cocked to see what I could hear – an ear cocked to ‘see’ what I could hear? (Even that sentence sounds Irish).


With no sounds of the Pogues or the Dubliners coming out of the little doorways I decided my rendition of the Black Velvet Band wouldn’t be required today and so I drifted onwards and downwards on the forage for food. Turns out after the minimum of research that Irish Town was, in its past, more Welsh than Irish and probably only got its name from an Irish Regiment based there. But there was something very endearing about the place as though it had a few stories to tell and secrets to keep and I love places like that.

 

 

Not far down the street I came across a small shop window big enough only for the one child’s frock on display and a few smaller items with embroidery. I stopped to admire the simplicity of the display and the quality of the work which must have taken someone hours to finish. My birth mother was very good at similar crafts and later my wife so I had a fair idea of the commitment and skill needed to make such beautiful things. Later when we lived in Gibraltar my wife almost became a V.I.P. in a shop called Princess Silks on Main Street on account of her always being in there buying fabric to make our girls frocks.


It’s difficult to know though whether little observations like seeing a frock-in-a-shop plant themselves into your psyche because years later – and three days before my third daughter was born – I had a little frock especially made ‘by a lady who had a small shop in Irish Town’. The frock cost me £4 which was quite a lot then and I remember my wife asking me “But how do you know it will be a girl?”. I didn’t know how I knew I just knew, and she was; and though that tale belongs in Chapter 2 – along with a funny one about Princess Silks – I’m hoping I still have photos of my daughter wearing the frock.

 
Irish Town, was indeed full of places to eat and so there was plenty of choice although at 18 I wasn’t particularly a discerning foodie; like most young people I had a penchant for fried food – I still do but try to balance it now with the odd healthy number…(sometimes). Eventually though I sat down at a table outside a cafe which I didn’t choose from reading their menu, I chose it because it was on the corner of a side street going up towards Main Street and it was an interesting place to people-watch. I ordered something to eat and came to the conclusion that I was quite nosy; even years later when I was recently in Gibraltar I spent more time sitting on that bench outside Marks and Spencer people-watching than doing anything else. What’s not to like? 🙂

 

 

Tucking in to my meal I noticed a sign across the street advertising child minding but could never have known (in a million years) that in years to come my wife and I would use their services often. A certain Mrs Doomaleen (sorry if she is reading and I have mis-spelt her name) would look after our eldest daughter prior to her going to play school and occasionally have all of our children for the day when we had a rare break to Morocco.

 

 

As I finished my meal the Cathedral bells peeled three o’clock and wanting to make the most of my last hour of leave I slipped up the side street, crossed Main Street and vanished up into the back streets of the old town.

1:8 (1974) Even in death Nelson watches over his men

04 Saturday Jun 2016

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It was coming up lunchtime by the time I reluctantly left Alameda Gardens; I didn’t really want to leave the place because it was just so opposite to anything I’d experienced in my life. I loved it. My home town Newcastle was cobbled streets, outside netties and bone yards on the Tyne, hardly the beauty of a botanical garden. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a botanical garden. And now I’d found one I wanted to move in. Having said that being a Geordie is a massive part of my identity and so naturally I am very much connected to Newcastle. I guess if there’s a Ying and a Yang inside us all mine are Gibraltar and Newcastle.


Just opposite the Trafalgar Cemetery there’s a statue of Nelson standing keeping an eye on the Cemetery gate; two of the men who fought in the Battle of Trafalgar are buried there but it wouldn’t be until my visit in 2016 that I would actually go into the cemetery and find their graves. They were Captain Thomas Norman who died in the Naval Hospital on 6 December 1805 and Lieutenant William Forster who died 21 October 1805. I wondered if the Naval Hospital building then was the same one that my daughter would be born in 172 years later? Probably not.


Being ex-Naval I see something very respectful about a senior officer looking out for those serving under him and in a weird sort of way that still seemed to be the case (to me) even though all three are dead, purely on account of where Nelson’s statue has been placed. The road junction outside the Cemetery is far more developed now with a couple of pedestrian crossings to help walkers avoid what seems to be a lot more traffic in Gibraltar; but in 1974 I just crossed the road, walked down the hill and went through the archway at Ragged Staff Gates.


Walking along the quayside is something I’ve always loved to do and as a boy in Newcastle I spent a lot of time watching the ships come and go up and down the River Tyne. Looking over at the dockyard I could see my ship HMS Scylla berthed and it was quite surreal to think I would be on her and sailing off to tour the Far East in a few hours time. All the more reason, I thought, to keep walking in the other direction and make the most of my remaining free time on the Rock.

Although it felt familiar the quayside wasn’t especially memorable so much as it was functional, a place where ships berthed alongside and took on stores. I couldn’t have known then that in a few years time I would be living and working in Gibraltar and part of my role would involve me working on this quayside storing visiting war ships.

That quayside may well not have been memorable in 1974 but that was not the case 42 years later when I returned in 2016. It was totally unrecognisable to me following the major development of a beautiful Small Boats Marina, a number of apartment sky-rises and a host of restaurants; indeed I checked out a couple of the eateries and they were excellent, particularly the Waterfront. Come to that I checked quite a few out in the town too and all of them were excellent and catered as you would expect them too. I must admit I went back to Jurys on Main Street more than once and found a lovely little Moroccan restaurant called Marrakech up behind the Gibraltar Art Gallery. With apologies (just jumping a few years ahead here) if I had one disappointment at all it would be that St Michael’s Cabin now no longer serves meals in the evening and has evolved into a day time snack bar but then that’s a story for Chapter 2.

A few shipmates had said that Irish Town was somewhere I should go to eat as there were loads of cafes and restaurants there although I decided to keep an open mind in case they were setting me up; last time I took their advice as a naïve youngster in Flensburg I ended up in a red light area to their hilarious delight although I’m in no way suggesting Irish Town boasts those services. I’m not altogether quite sure how I got there from down on the quayside but I think I asked for directions; when I got into the area I immediately recognised being back at the Piazza and I think it was then that I realised how small Gibraltar actually was (which delighted me). 

Back in 1974 people said there were 25000 people living in Gibraltar which I thought was a lot for a small Nation of 2.6 square miles. Since then I’ve naturally researched to find the correct figure (out of curiosity) and it turns out there was more than that, it appears there was 29000; today there is 32000. On my first visit I wondered where on earth so many people lived but on my visit in 2016 I didn’t need to ask; I think the sky-rises are breeding as they did in Hong Kong. I did walk around the sky-rises but actually preferred the back streets. But I can see why Morrisons opened a store here; my days back in the seventies it was either Liptons or the NAAFI.