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(Trafalgar Cemetery)

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All around the area of Trafalgar House is very familiar to me and acutely emotive as our first apartment was in that building. During my week on the Rock I’d passed by (and through) the area many times visiting Trafalgar Cemetery, Alameda Gardens and en route to the 100-ton gun – I’d even (nostalgically) sneaked inside Trafalgar House and up to the floor of my old apartment – and the more I did that sort of thing the more normalised it became; there were times when I could have forgiven myself for thinking I still lived here and had never left.

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As I walked passed Piccadilly Gardens I thought of Joe and was happy to think I now had a new and recent memory of the place because it was only a day or two ago that he and I sat in there having a cup of tea and I could never remember the place being there back in the seventies although a reader (MG) kindly updated me (thank you) and said it was. MG suggested that perhaps I’d never realised Piccadilly Gardens were there because (like her and her children) I always opted to take my children to the Alameda for outings. Probably right. Having said that it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that I used that red phone box in their gardens to ring Carol when I was in Gibraltar on my own looking for somewhere to live.

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Although it had been only a day or two since I’d walked along Rosia (with Joe to see the 100-ton gun) today’s walk was very different. With no disrespect to Joe, for me to walk this walk on my own was a very different experience and one (in hindsight) I really needed to do. 

Because of my history there were things I needed to take my time over like for instance looking over the wall at the dockyard; naturally doing that wasn’t something Joe would want to do for long but for me I could have spent all day doing it as I (privately) made sense of so many convoluted memories, many of which involved real people like colleagues Brian Smith, Phil Bramwell and Funky Gibbons. Gaping over that wall, down onto the quayside, was almost a quest to acknowledge my memories were real and as I left to carry on my walkabout I felt very much at ease knowing they were.

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Gibraltar, though small, seems to be made up of lots of little villages and communities which (no doubt) have their own unique identity but which are all connected by their Gibraltarianism (if that’s a word). 

As a visitor to this beautiful place (albeit nominated an Honorary Gibbo by one of my readers – thank you for that lovely compliment ND) I’ve loved (when on my many walkabouts) enjoying the massive diversity I’ve come across in the dozens of communities I’ve wandered through. Catalan Bay, Edinburgh House, the Old Town, Queensway Quay and the newly built apartments around Morrisons are all just a few of the many colonies that make up this wonderfully cosmopolitan nation which also embraces people from all races and religions and so it’s very difficult not to feel welcome anywhere on the Rock.

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As I left the area (which I thought to be Rosia) I walked on down the hill (past the Gun) towards Camp Bay and found myself on the peripheries of another of Gibraltar’s smaller communities although I didn’t feel I had any personal recollections of the area – other than I had a feeling I was somewhere near (although lower down to) the Royal Naval Hospital (which I think was higher up) where my daughter was born? But I did love the Naval context to the area with things like an anchor ornamenting the streets. As I walked another couple of hundred yards I found myself at Camp Bay, a place I did have recollections of.

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(Camp Bay)

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Probably one of the hardest challenges I’ve found in writing these memoirs is trying not to duplicate memories, writings or photographs but since that challenge has become virtually impossible please do forgive me if I replicate things as I near the end of my story. Although some photos may have been used twice its probably because there has been two different stories to tell.
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