Walking back along Rosia I was mindful Joe may be starting to get a little tired and so I kept a look out for places for us both to just sit down for a while but which would also allow him the chance to take a minute and have a rest. Almost as soon as I’d had that thought we arrived at what looked like an outdoor gym – and Joe’s eyes lit up?! How wrong was I, the man was off like an Olympian.

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Looking around the gym was amazing, it reminded me of being back out in the Far East where it isn’t unusual to see dozens of people outdoors, in parks and streets doing all sorts of yoga and dance in the fresh air. Part of me admired their healthy lifestyles which (at that time) was in stark contrast to my own (being a typical sailor ashore after weeks at sea); another part of me however thought they were all as mad as a box of frogs. 
Here in our newly found outdoor gym there must have been a dozen different exercise machines which no doubt were individually designed to address different muscles in the body and while Joe was off doing his thing I decided to have a stab at a few myself.

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For a while I quite enjoyed peddling away with my legs on one machine and then winding away with my arms on another; I started to feel quite chuffed that I must be fairly healthy and able to do the workouts and I loved the idea that Joe was so keen to get stuck in too. As I started to feel a few beads of sweat on my brow I looked over at Joe to see how he was getting on thinking he was probably panting like a racehorse by now. Wrong again. The ‘retired engineer’ in him hadn’t even got on anything let alone tried it out; he’d gone around them all analysing how they worked! I should have known really, Joe has long been fascinated by the way things worked – a bit like the Dalai Lama who as a child loved taking things like watches to bits and putting them back together.

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With wobbly legs, floaty arms and a disorientated head (having just disembarked the last machine) I slowly walked behind Joe as we continued on down Rosia back to the Bristol. “Come on youth” he said as he shuffled off down the boulevard “Watching you doing all that exercise has made me hungry”. 

I was right, those people (doing all those weird exercises) in the Far East were – as mad as a box of frogs.

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*The 100-ton gun at Napier of Magdala Battery was one of four originally built by (would you believe it) Armstrong in Newcastle on Tyne in the 1870s which immediately endeared me to the one I was looking at; the idea my Geordie ancestors may have been involved in making such a humongous gun to keep invaders out of Gibraltar thrilled the pants off me – (so much so I’ve made a note to check that out as soon as I’ve finished this memoir). 

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Although four were originally built only two survive today, the other being in Malta. Gibraltar’s gun was designed to be able to fire over a wide sweeping arc up to seven or eight miles out to sea and though it’s never been fired in anger it’s still a site to see.

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(Despatching invaders?)

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The exhibition hall is also very much a site to see and was something Joe took a keen interest in. During WW2 Joe was evacuated as a child to Newcastle-on-Tyne and so the Geordie built gun was very much of interest to him; he had also served in the RAF for 22 years and so he very much enjoyed seeing the anti-aircraft gun too and reading up on the history of Gibraltar’s defences. As I watched him walking around the various exhibits I loved the fact that he had made the effort to come and was diligently viewing and reading everything that he came across.
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For me the whole exhibition was really good and well worth the nominal £1 to visit. Perhaps (given my strong sense of humour) one of the exhibits I particularly loved was the feet sticking out the end of the gun. The story goes that when the gun repeatedly failed to fire during a demonstration the General asked a volunteer to go down the barrel to make it safe; I’d much rather think that it was just a very creative Gibraltarian method of despatching invaders back to their homeland.:)

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Wherever I go in Gibraltar the views are always to die for (yep, even up Main Street when I’m people-watching) and the views from the 100-ton gun are no exception; looking out past Europa Point across the Straits of Gibraltar I really loved seeing Morocco in the distance with tankers and merchant ships in the foreground sailing to and from fabulous places on their voyages. Seeing ships at sea will always stir wonderful memories in me.
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After a really good look around the guns and the exhibition we finally took our leave and began heading back towards town. Just outside the complex is a plaque commemorating Nelson who was brought ashore to Rosia after the battle of Trafalgar. That Gibraltar is so steeped in Naval history is yet another of the million reasons I love this little, yet formidable, nation.
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(Customary Selfie)

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The climate in Gibraltar in May very much agrees with me, it’s lovely and warm but not too hot. I’ve never liked excessively hot weather (I think my years in India totally finished me off for that) but I do love the feel of the warm sun on my back and a warm breeze on my face. As we walked on towards the 100-ton gun I was quite happy to take a gentle pace but not only because Joe was a slower walker than me, I was totally wallowing in the feel of that warmth on my body – so much so I didn’t want the ‘journey’ to end (because the gun would still be there whatever time we arrived).

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As we walked past the dry docks I suddenly remembered reading something on Twitter that the most expensive private yacht in the world had arrived in Gibraltar for either repairs or upgrading (I couldn’t remember which) and it would be going into the dry dock today. I stuck my nose up against the fence to see if I could get a glimpse of said £Billion boat and (as the nearest dock was empty) I was just able to see it from a distance in the dock further away. Even from a distance it just looked massive, like a floating city and I wondered who on earth would want to own a private yacht that big unless it was someone planning to take a few thousand friends on a cruise. What a dreadful thought; I’d far rather have a quality hour with one friend at a time over a cup of tea, that’s my kind of Heaven.

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It was about an hour and a half since leaving the Bristol that we began our final descent down a hill to arrive at the entrance of the 100-ton gun and I was really chuffed that Joe had managed the trek. For a brief moment I worried about whether Joe would be OK to do the return journey but decided not to mention that (because I could always hail a bus or a taxi if he struggled); for now I wanted him (and me) to enjoy our visit and to that end we went in.

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Feeling refreshed after drinks in Piccadilly Gardens we upped sticks and carried on our quest to find the 100-ton gun. As we strolled leisurely along the pedestrianised way on Rosia, past an Italian restaurant, enjoying the sun and the views, Joe was particularly animated asking me questions on things we saw and I took great delight in (casting my memory back and) having a go at answering him. 

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(Pedestrianised boulevard to Rosia)

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For me too it was a particular treat to be able to glance over at the dockyard with its busy quayside, all its warehouses and its infamous clock tower and enjoy occasional private moments of the past in my mind. As a young sailor I was often on the quayside supporting warships (passing through) with their needs and got to know the crews of many a Royal Navy vessel; back then there was a sandwich van would come along the quay around lunchtime and I’d often have a ‘cheese and cukes’ (cucumber) sarnie with friends from other ships. 

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Today, from where I was standing, I could see a warship alongside and people on the quay checking stores; it was a wonderful – almost envious – blast from the past. There was something very surreal (and reassuring really) that although I am now an old man something I did did as a young man still continues and I could literally stand there watching it thinking ‘that was me forty years ago’.

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A little further on down the road, still looking over the wall from the pedestrianised boulevard I noticed a collection of arches that had been put to good use for young people’s activities. As a youth worker (today) it particularly interested me to know what some of the Gibraltar youth enjoy to do and it was great to see a diverse selection of clubs; Urban Dance, Taekwondo and Ju-Jitsu were all there, and another arch tantalisingly named ‘Crucible’ was also there but gave no indication of what went on there. 

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(Riverside Cottage atop a grassy knoll with Newark Castle to the left and the River Trent in the foreground)

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The archways reminded me of when I was based in Porstmouth because just outside the establishment HMS Vernon was a row of similar arches and (if I recall rightly) one was a tattoo parlour another was a cafe, and I’ve always loved old buildings being respected and used in the present day. A house we once owned in Newark (Riverside Cottage) used to be an old warehouse connected to the corn exchange and it was full of old beams and jivets(?) sticking out of the walls where pulleys once brought bags of oats up to the third floor. It was right next door to Newark Castle (where King John died) and (sitting atop a grassy knoll) looked straight out onto the River Trent. Sorry, I’m digressing again.

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“Oy. Come on youth. I want to see this 100-ton gun today if that’s alright with you”. Joe had a way with words. He didn’t say a lot, but then he didn’t need to.  🙂

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My travelling companion Joe has been a very close friend for nearly thirty years and over that time we’ve shared dozens of holidays abroad; The Gambia, Crete, Wales and India are just a few of the fabulous countries we’ve been to together and whenever we’ve been away we’ve always gone off on the hoof to check out the neighbourhood. I have fabulous memories of us driving all over Crete looking for Zeus and pigging out on their traditional dish of goat – and seeing his face when I sang ‘No Woman No Cry’ in the market place in The Gambia and whole place erupted in song. Over nearly three decades we’ve built up a wonderful bank of memories and here we were him in his 80s me in my 60s on the road again but this time in Gibraltar, a place Joe had never been to before.

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Although I’d been out and about on walkabout a lot during the week Joe had often chosen to rest up more and take it easy with the ladies around the pool; today was the first time he had opted to take a good long stroll with me and the plan was that we would go check out the 100-ton gun. Mindful of his age and his health I figured it might be quite a slow affair because it was quite a distance from the Bristol all the way down Rosia to the Gun and so after strolling up Main Street and over the Trafalgar roundabout I suggested our first Pitt stop should be in Piccadilly Gardens for a cup of tea.

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Sitting in the gardens opposite my old home (the beautiful old cream building, Trafalgar House) in the sunshine was lovely; I don’t ever remember Piccadilly gardens being here when I lived in Gibraltar otherwise I’m sure I would have had a recollection of taking the children there. Seeing Joe so very chilled out and enjoying people-watching made my day; although he was never a big talker I’d learned over the years to read his mannerisms well and knew he was having a good day. Looking past him from where I was sitting was a lovely reminder of just how very British Gibraltar is; the red phone box in the corner standing very defiant and proud symbolised everything British and reminded me of many a time when it was my only connection with home. As I sat back to drink my tea I felt very blessed to be once again enjoying Gibraltar in the sun though I was becoming increasingly aware my days were once again numbered.
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Walking (back to the Bristol) through Commonwealth Park at night is as magical an experience as walking through it during the day; with everything lit up by strategically placed lights the place takes on a totally different aura. The conversations as we walked revolved around everything from the fabulous meal we had all just eaten at the Waterfront to ‘we must book early to get rooms at the Bristol next year’ – which said it all to me; clearly they wanted to return and I was delighted to hear that.*

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I have a tendency of either walking behind the group or walking on ahead, partly because I’m either taking photos or in a world of my own thinking about things. As I beetled on behind the group Carol turned around and said “Alan what are you doing tomorrow because Joe wants a good walk out?”. Without thinking too hard about it I replied that I was off to see the 100-ton gun down Rosia way. “Is that on flats?” she asked. “Yes” says I. “Settled then” says she.

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As I drifted off to sleep that night images of my week (to date) came and went through my mind; there were so many that my brain almost felt as though it had been hit by a freight train (albeit a nice freight train). I couldn’t remember a week when I had done so many positive things before which had left memories stuck so strongly in my consciousness. And although Carol, Sheila and Joe hadn’t explored quite to the degree that I had I was really glad that they were enjoying their visit and that they wanted to return. What more could I ask? 

With a full belly and a happy mind I closed my eyes wondering what that 100-ton gun looked like.
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As a boy in Newcastle the quayside along the River Tyne was very much where I loved to be although back then it wasn’t how it is now. Geordieland in the 60s was an industrial powerhouse with the coal mines and steel works both of which were central to employment and the very culture of the North. Watching the ships sail along the Tyne, under the bridges and past the bone yard became part of every little Geordie Boy’s DNA and I was no exception; songs by Roger Whittaker, Mark Knopfler and Jimmy Nail only reinforced the bond as did family visits to the Sunday Market along the quayside.
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I left Newcastle, very much against my will, as an 8 year old back in ’63 and it must have been more than 20 years before I began revisiting the North again regularly and reconnecting with my homeland. I’d missed it enormously but because of past pains I’d found it very difficult to go back. Eventually I made the effort partly because I had begun writing my biography (MANboy Geordie) of which RockHeart (in the scale of things) is one chapter – albeit my favourite chapter. Another far more important reason was because I missed my niece who was one my few blood relatives. 

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When I finally did go back and saw the quayside as it is today I was astonished at the regeneration; gone was anything and everything that looked remotely industrial replaced by cafes, bars, bistros and the most gorgeous Millennium Bridge bringing the total number of bridges crossing the Tyne to a staggering 22. When I walk along the quayside today I feel exceptionally proud of my heritage and love the new developments but have to add the caveat that I ‘delight’ at recognising something familiar that has remained the same throughout the changes.

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When I left Gibraltar in 1977 there was no Queensway Quay or Small Boat Marina and although I’m struggling to remember what was there (if anything) part of me thinks it was that jetty where we (Rooke boys) would occasionally take a dip. It’s memories like this that sometimes (somehow) connect my love of Gibraltar with my love of Newcastle and begin moulding the special parts of my life together. The similarities between the boy in Newcastle and the young sailor in Gibraltar give me great comfort that regardless of painful times there have also been happy times. And as with Newcastle quayside the Queensway Quay (to me) is just fabulous; and the idea that I may well have jumped into the water and swam off it all those years ago makes the place even more special.

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(Covered walkway to Queensway Quay)

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After walking through a covered walkway we came out onto the quayside and as with the Newcastle of today it was beautiful, the similarities were uncanny but so too were the differences. Just looking up the quay at the apartment blocks, the eateries and at the small boats in the marina coming out of that covered walkway was almost like climbing out of the wardrobe and into Narnia. The warm evening sunshine just enhanced the whole experience for us all and as Carol, Sheila and Joe explored the menus of the various restaurants I was totally happy watching them enjoying their evening while reflecting in my private world.

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At length my companions agreed on dinner at The Waterfront restaurant which suited me well; in fact anywhere along the quayside would have suited me well because the views were beautiful. Having said that the fish and chips served to this Geordie Boy as the sun slowly went down that evening were excellent; pretty similar to what I might have expected in Newcastle (only on a plate instead of in a newspaper).

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(With Carol in Commonwealth Park, May 2016)

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To think I could slither back into our room (late) without Carol noticing was a bit of a tall order (needless to say I couldn’t) and after being duly rollocked for cutting my timing so fine I jumped into the shower, scrubbed up, jumped out, got dressed and shot downstairs to meet the gang in the foyer. Because that’s how I roll.

Looking at the faces of the ‘gang in the foyer’ I decided the best way forward was to seriously ingratiate and slimily compliment everyone on their sun tans and how relaxed they all looked (as I took their photo) though something told me (looking back at their photo) they were neither impressed of convinced. Carol suggesting we needed to get moving or we’d end up ordering breakfast instead of dinner reaffirmed my suspicions and so we set off to choose a restaurant down at Queensway Quay.

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(The gang in the foyer)

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Turning right (on leaving the Bristol) we crossed the road, walked through an arch and within a few minutes were stood on the balcony of Commonwealth Park looking down on the incredible image it was. During previous walkabouts I had already discovered (and fallen in love with) this amazing outdoor space (see 3:21) but my travelling companions hadn’t and so I was loving watching their reactions, particularly Carols (as in that one instant she had totally forgotten she was annoyed with me). Love it. Although there was a lift to take us down to the park everyone chose to use the steps to enjoy a continuing view of the park which (with the warm evening sun shining down on it) looked beautiful.

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(Through the arch onto the balcony showing the lift and steps down to the park)

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Taking the long way around and then doing something of a figure of eight we all spent a good half hour just walking around, stopping to admire and soaking up the ambience of what could only be described as yet another Jewel in Gibraltar’s crown. Where outdoor spaces were concerned this was right up there with the Med Steps and Alameda Gardens although the latter would always have the strongest of emotional attachments for me. Having said that the design of the Commonwealth Park really was a masterstroke boasting a gorgeous bandstand, turtle pools, manicured gardens and wide open lawns where students could study, children could play and old dudes like me could sit and reflect.

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As we paused to take a few photos I knew by the look on everyone’s faces that they were loving the park and would very probably have liked to have spent longer in there just sitting and chatting in the sunshine but I didn’t bring that up; (if I hadn’t been late back from walkabout they probably could have). Eventually, thankfully, everyone just sort of got up and continued on to the Quayside for dinner and I just toddled on behind them 🙂

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(Carol, Joe and Sheila in Commonwealth Park).

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I’ve no doubt I’ve already used some of these photos previously but (forgive me) I love them that much I’d rather see them twice than not at all.

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As a child if I was sent to the shop for something you could guarantee I’d be gone far longer than needs be – as an adult absolutely nothing has changed; I think it’s something to do with my insatiable curiosity (nosiness) and my penchant for pondering. My granddaughter is exactly the same, when she was little the pair of us would spent half an hour looking down a hole watching ants work.
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Although I was aware time was getting on and that I needed to think about getting back to the Bristol (to get ready for the evening) I still ended up drifting straight past the hotel and continuing on down Main Street trying to make sense of so many convoluted memories. Probably the best way to describe the world inside my head would be to say I felt like Doctor Who having just stepped out of the Tardis; when I look in one direction I see the familiar, when I look in another I see the opposite. I was looking out at 2016 with 1976 eyes – surreal didn’t even come close.

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For a time I paused to look up at a building I had admired several times earlier in the week. It was decorated in blue and white tiles in a sort of left-leaning herring bone pattern although it wasn’t long before that psychedelic image – mixed with my Doctor Who brain – rebelled in confusion and I spun on my heels and headed off down a side street.

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(The English Tea Rooms)

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Something about the side street looked familiar, especially the tables outside a cafe. As I strolled down the street I deliberately slowed my pace to a virtual stop to take a closer look at the cafe and the more I looked at it the more I knew I had sat in there often with the children – but the name ‘Figaro’ meant nothing to me. 

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As I gawped through the doorway (almost to the point of being rude towards people sitting inside) I spotted a piano that immediately brought back a set of memories which began making sense of it all. For a period of time (when we lived at Edinburgh House) my Mother-in-law Babs came to live with us and during that time she did two jobs; one job was playing the piano in the children’s playgroup and just seeing the piano in the cafe reminded me of her. The other job she did (which I wrote about earlier at 2:40) was waitressing in a cafe called ‘The English Tea Rooms’ and now I thought about that I was 99% sure that’s what I was looking at.

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(((One of the biggest advantages of social media in the present day is being able to find out things you aren’t quite sure about and so it didn’t take long for me to confirm that the cafe was indeed the English Tea Rooms (Thankyou JJ).)))

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I’m not sure where the time went but I suddenly realised I was now seriously late in getting back to the Bristol and so decided I’d better head straight there and take my punishment like a man. Duly I ran all the way back and slithered into our room in the hope of not being noticed……

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On leaving the Gibraltar Senior Citizens Social Club the temptation to keep walking straight on to Alameda (because that’s the way I was facing) was almost overpowering; I had a real need to spend some time there just to sit quietly and reflect but I knew my travelling companions also wanted to make a visit and so decided to leave it till tomorrow. Tomorrow (I thought) we could all visit the Gardens and take some photos but then (I decided) I would still make a final visit on my own before leaving because I was starting to become really aware that it was nearly time to leave and heaven only knew when I would be able to come back.

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As a child (in care) if I ever went anywhere that I really liked I would often find myself picking up a pebble from the place to take a piece of it home; or I’d scratch my initial on a wall to leave a piece of me behind. Now as an adult I’m absolutely no different, I still do those things and so yes I do have a pebble I picked up on my Gibraltar walkabouts and my initial is indeed scratched in a few places only I know. Staying in touch with my own inner child has always been very important to me not only to help me understand myself but also to understand children and young people I work with in my day job. 

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Apologies in advance for diversifying but just thinking about that reminds me of an anecdote I’d like to share from when I lived in India (2007-2009) and relates to a little girl of about six years old. 

Near where we lived was a school in (what was known as) a slum area, or poor area, which Carol and I supported in providing resources and raising funds. Quite often at the end of term I would take my guitar in and have a sing-song with the children as music is known to support language development and it was something they really enjoyed and looked forward to. 

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(Performing for the children in India 2008)

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After one of these events I said my goodbyes and drove the mile or so home, parking the car outside our house before going through the gate. After going through the gate I looked back at the car and noticed a name had been scratched into the metal in Hindi. The car was a brand new black Suzuki Zen and so you can only imagine the emotions going though me, furiously angry doesn’t even come close. I immediately phoned the school who (outraged) asked me to spell out the name on the car. The Head immediately recognised the name and asked me to return to the school which I duly did.

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When I arrived at the school I was ushered into the Heads office where a very small child stood among several teachers, head down, shame faced.

“She loved the sing song so much that she didn’t want you to leave” said the Head. “She thought by carving her name on your car she would go with you or that you would come back. We don’t understand this but she says she’s very sorry and waiting to be punished”. 

Any anger that Carol or I felt just evaporated away right there and then replaced only by massive lumps in the throat. The staff may not have understood the child’s actions but I certainly did and I’m fairly sure Carol did too.

“I understand” I said “And she knows she has done wrong and feels very ashamed so please don’t punish her but do tell her there will be many more sing songs to come yet”.

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A reader recently said she would miss me and my writings when I finish my memoir. For what it’s worth (as I near the finishing line) I know how she feels because I feel the same way. When I go some of you go with me and some of me stays with you X 

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