There’s an old saying that goes something like ‘If you want to really know about someone don’t knock on the front door, go round the back’. I learned many years ago not to be anything other than what I am because I have an appalling memory and so ‘bigging myself up’ is a complete waste of time; for what it’s worth I don’t mind (metaphorically speaking) whether people come to my front or back door (I’m just happy they called in the first place) because I’m the same wherever I am (and I love that friends have often said they like that).

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Digressing a little, I know, but there is a very loosely-connected theme with all that and what I’m writing about today. Wherever I go in this world I love trying to find out a little bit about the country I’m in and their culture and if I’m lucky I’ll get to have a natter to some of the local people – if I’m really lucky I’ll get a cup of tea with said local people and even end up on their Christmas card list! 
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Over the years my nosiness has got me into temples, mosques, crocodile pits (and some very dodgy situations) but those stories are for a different memoir; even on this trip I managed to somehow sneak back into Trafalgar House (see 3:17) to enjoy a little moment with my past. Possibly the point I’m trying to make is that if I’m travelling hundreds of miles to go somewhere I want to make the absolute most of it and I think my thoughts on all that were reinforced when I asked a friend once how she had enjoyed India. “I’ve never been to India” she said. “But you’ve been to Goa haven’t you?” I replied. ” Oh” she said, “Is that in India?”. 

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Not long after leaving Casemates I quickly found myself up the back streets and loving it. I had no idea where I was, or where I was going and I couldn’t care less; what I did know is that I felt totally safe and as though I belonged (a feeling very much helped along by my reader ND who dubbed me an Honorary Gibbo, I felt like I’d been knighted).

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As I moved between the streets and alleyways I knew it was a golden opportunity for me to touch base with some of the Gibraltar which isn’t usually on show to tourists (although heaven help me because in reality that’s what I was). I think the things most people head for include seeing the apes and checking out the beaches and although I was very much looking forward to both of those things – first things first  :). 

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Just being there (in that labyrinth) was so cathartic for me in terms of putting to bed some of the most painful feelings from years ago; yes I was sent back to UK before I was emotionally ready to leave the Rock, yes it took me forty years to come back and yes there had been new developments – but the Gibraltar I’d held in my soul was still very much there and I loved that.

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And as I meandered around my utopia soaking up tall quiet buildings, back street businesses, cobbled pavements and painted steps I was in no rush to leave, why would I be?

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