Category Archives: Memoirs of Gibraltar

3:4 (2016) “Passengers on Flight ZB446 to Gibraltar please make your way…”

08 Thursday Sep 2016

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Of all of my personal passions in life my rescue dog Mowgli is right up there. I found him as a puppy when we lived in India and he was in a pretty bad way having been ran over by a motorbike; he also had a belly full of dirt because that’s all there was for him to eat but worse still he had fleas the size of grasshoppers literally eating him alive. In India we’d had him two years when the time came for us to return to UK so we flew him back – straight into six months of quarantine kennels – where every Saturday I would sit in his pen with him until he finally got released.
(Mowgli, very much recovered from his dreadful ordeals and appalling injuries)

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Though not to dwell on Mowgli’s story (which believe it or not I have almost finished writing but haven’t published online yet 🙂 ) the reason I mention it is because (given his past) I won’t leave him with anyone unless I’m absolutely sure he’s happy and loved to bits. His story is called ‘Beautiful Soul’ which I’ll be finishing off and publishing after these memoirs are completed. Of the very few people in the category of ‘People I would leave Mowgli with’ is an old friend from India now living in the UK called Francis (Fran) who had agreed to come down from London to Wales to look after him; without Fran our trip to Gibraltar in 2016 would just not have happened.


(Fran with Mowgli at Strumble Head lighthouse)

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Fran arrived a few days before our flight and Mowgli was clearly thrilled; they hadn’t seen one another for quite some time and so it was a lovely vision to witness. Mowgli was so excited he didn’t know what to do with himself. During the days before we left I took them both around all of Mowgli’s favourite walks and Fran also got to know all of his little routines, particularly his love of loafing around on his cushion in the garden, which gave me the peace of mind I needed to be able to jet off and leave him.


(Fran and Mowgli on my back garden)

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Finally, on 13 May 2016 (knowing Mowgli was safe and happy) we set off from South Wales and drove up to Birmingham airport where we met Sheila and Joe who had driven down from Nottingham. After checking in and dumping the bags we went off for a meal and a chill out as we waited to board our Monarch flight. It was exactly forty years to the day that Carol had made the very same journey with Tracey and Samantha and at the forefront of my mind was the hope that she loved Gibraltar today as she had all those years ago.

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As I looked out at the Monarch aircraft that was to take us on our short flight south to Gibraltar a million thoughts went through my mind. Memories, feelings, emotions, pains, joys, angers, frustrations – there was so much mental traffic passing through I couldn’t contemplate any of it. So many thoughts that until writing this post today I’d never shared with anyone but myself. This wasn’t just a short flight to me; it was a journey forty years into the past so steeped in emotion that even I didn’t know how I was going to feel or react when we actually landed. Was it really the utopia I had always believed it to be or had I been kidding myself all these years? Suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by a voice over the tannoy: “Attention passengers on flight ZB446 to Gibraltar please make your way………”

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3:3 (2016) I wasn’t counting down the years anymore. I was counting down the days.

07 Wednesday Sep 2016

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Over the months leading up to our holiday in Gibraltar Carol naturally did spend time checking out on the internet all about the Rock – and in particular the Bristol Hotel. There’s a school of thought (which is probably true) that men are hopeless at things like booking hotels because they’d sleep in a doss house if necessary where women are a little more discerning. As it turned out when Carol had closely scrutinised the Bristol Hotel (which I had booked) I sensed the odd note of approval coming through. But that wasn’t to say she was going to like the changes that had occurred on the Rock; it wouldn’t be until our journey home that I found that out. 
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Also in the months running up to May I noticed lots of phone calls happening between Carol and Sheila (as they discussed their ever-nearing holiday) and sensed a certain amount of excitement building up; we’d all been on many a foreign together, some of which didn’t score anyway near 10/10, but Sheila was sounding very positive and it was starting to rub off a bit on Carol. I caught occasional conversations going on which were starting to sound the business: Carol would say “Yes, and because the hotel is in the middle of town Joe will be able to go walkabout if he wants on days when we just want to sit around the pool”to which Sheila nod approvingly. What was also starting to sound positive was Carol becoming curious and openly asking me things like ‘I wonder if Princess Silks is still there?’.

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In my world I didn’t need any inspiration at all (as you’ve no doubt gathered) but that has never stopped me keeping up to date with Gibraltar news and events on a daily basis which is how I found out that the second annual Mediterranean Steps Challenge event was happening on the 14 May (the day after our arrival). 


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The MedSteps Challenge is a charity event raising money for Cancer Relief in Gibraltar and when I told Carol about it her reaction was swift: ‘Oh you must do that, it’s got your name all over it’. From that point on I had the poster above my office desk to remind me daily not only that I was finally going back to Gibraltar but also that the very day after I arrived I would be at the top of the Rock with the warmth of the sun on me as I looked down on familiar places. 

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The only thing better than looking forward to that was to actually do it. Even just recalling it all in these memoirs is taking me back to the excitement I began to feel in anticipating returning to the Rock. If readers feel any of that excitement as they read I’m happy to share it. Finally I’d arrived at a point when I wasn’t counting down the years anymore, I wasn’t counting the months anymore; in fact I wasn’t even counting down the weeks anymore. I was counting down days. 

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3:0 (The Absent Years) If I was a reader and not the writer…

03 Saturday Sep 2016

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Before I begin writing this (last) chapter I thought I’d look back at my original ‘Welcome’ page to try and remind myself why I decided to write these memoirs in the first place. My primary aim was to highlight a few of the ‘million’ reasons I love the Rock and hopefully I’ve managed to do that although no doubt a few more will come out during the course of this chapter too and why wouldn’t they?
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As a work in progress (regular readers know I don’t plan posts I literally write whatever springs to mind) I do sometimes revisit a post and check what I’ve written, occasionally making amendments. Sometimes something may be out of date order, or there may be something I want to expand on. If I were to amend my ‘Welcome’ page and add a second aim it might be to analyse why it took me forty years to return to Gibraltar but having said that I don’t see the point. I think that question is being answered bit by bit anyway.


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If I was a reader, and not the writer, I’d probably now be really curious about what became of everyone in the family during those forty years between 1976 and 2016. What became of the children who are obviously now adults, do they have their own children? And what of Carol and Alan, they must be in their sixties by now, how are they? If I was a reader and not the writer (having trawled through two chapters and become ‘attached’ in the literary sense to everyone) I’d probably be even more than curious. 


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But I’m not a reader, I am the writer; a writer wanting (and trying very hard) to stay in tune with my reader. So before fast forwarding forty years to 2016 I wanted to just reassure that all five of us are still alive, still kicking and still as lovingly close as we always were for which I feel incredibly blessed. If I said that the past forty years had been a picnic I’d be a liar but then who’s life has been a picnic? We are all just human beings doing the best we can for the people we love, and those tales are for a different memoir.


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No doubt during this final chapter I’ll drop in the occasional anecdote about the children and their lives but only if it’s interesting and in context with the theme – in other words I’ll try not to ramble off on tangents and will try to stick to the point (the point being Memoirs of Gibraltar 🙂 ). If that sounds as though I’ve given myself a good talking to its because I have – to me there’s nothing worse than reading a field full of vegetables when you want the meat. Having said all that I thought it only fair to include a few photos of the five of us in this post as they are in context with today’s ramblings.


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Finally something readers may find amusing before I fast forward forty years; my family know nothing of these memoirs (yet), such is my warped sense of humour – my plan is to give each of them a book for Christmas if I can sort books by then but we’ll see. (Shhh….you heard it here first 🙂 ).


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For now, welcome back and thank you for reading X Alan X


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2:60 (1977) Goodbye Gibraltar

27 Saturday Aug 2016

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On 22 November we boarded our plane. After settling the children down I sat looking out of the window at the Rock but I didn’t see it even though it was staring me in the face; all I saw were images. Alameda Gardens, the back streets of the Old Town, Rosia, Montague Pavillion, the Piazza, Catalan Bay……
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As the flight stewardess came around checking everyone’s seat belts she stopped at our seats to make a big fuss of the children who were all dressed in their best and looking gorgeous. Briefly my mind came back into the present moment to enjoy seeing my children being admired before slipping back into its abstract world of memories to the sound of the ever increasing noise of the engines revving up ready for take off. 

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As the plane began to move all my thoughts and words were blanked out and replaced with what felt like a shower of memories coming the other way. Three hours later it was all over. As though it had never happened. 


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Goodbye Gibraltar.

2:59 (1977) We didn’t say anything because there was nothing left to say

26 Friday Aug 2016

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Giving in the keys to our home at Edinburgh House was hard; all of a sudden it was all real, we were now officially homeless in Gibraltar and technically in transit. The Navy had booked us into a really small back street hotel somewhere up either on Main Street or up a side street near there; I thought it was called the Montague but through the course of writing these memoirs readers have suggested it may have been the Montarik? During my recent visit to the Rock (May 2016) I did search to try and find it but wasn’t very successful; if it was the Montarik that establishment is no longer a hotel and if it was the Montague its vanished beyond trace. Whatever it was it wasn’t a pleasant experience for us but then we weren’t really feeling on top of the world.
(Montarik. Once a hotel? If not where then is Montague Hotel?)

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There’s something very surreal about being at a ‘party’ that you don’t want to be at – especially if it’s been thrown for you – but by the same token it’s also very touching when a group of people who are really close to you get together to wish you well.


(1977 Fleet Pav ‘do’. Close friend Sandy facing camera with black rimmed glasses)

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Although I haven’t laboured our social life much during these memoirs we certainly had a good one even though we were very much a family couple; we knew a lot of people and had many a shin-dig around the town calling in at all of Gibraltar’s well known establishments of the day. I’ve talked about the Buccaneer but others included Tivoli, Hole in the Wall and of course the Fleet Pav which is where we had our leaving do just a couple of days before our flight.


(1977 With Carol at our Fleet Pav ‘do’)

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Having a drink problem it was very rare for me to really let go but as I recall I had something of a skinful at our thrash; so did Carol now I think about it. It was the least we could do given the effort that everyone had gone to and to be fair although it was typically raucous (as every evening out with a group of service personnel off the leash is) it was also a cracking night. Given the strain we were both under it was quite a nice relief to put the worries to one side even if it was for just a few hours. These days I don’t drink alcohol and haven’t done since 1995 but I can still remember the blinding hangover I had from this thrash.

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As the hangover gradually subsided so too did our spirits as we finally arrived at the point where we could say we were leaving tomorrow. During our last full day on the Rock we (naturally) had a walk up and down Main Street and of course through Alameda Gardens where we spent some time watching the children play in the little playground they had come so used to know and love. As night-time fell, we got the children back to the hotel, bathed and tucked up into bed and then had an early night ourselves. We didn’t do anything because there was nothing we wanted to do; we didn’t say anything because there was nothing left to say.

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2:57 (1977) Countdown to leaving

25 Thursday Aug 2016

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Towards the end of September 1977 I was unceremoniously informed my posting to Gibraltar was being cut short due to my being on notice to leave the Royal Navy. Instead of returning to UK in March 1978 for my release in the April we would be flown out of Gibraltar on 22 November 1977; they had taken four months off my draft and, as a consequence, we had only six weeks left. Needless to say we were both devastated.

(1977 Nuffield Pool, Gibraltar)

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It wasn’t long before I became aware that our stay ‘could’ be re-extended ‘if’ I withdrew my notice and I would be lying if I didn’t say I was tempted; but after twice feeling powerless to support my family during times of crisis my mind was made up and not even an extra four months in (my) paradise would change that.

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The reality of leaving the Royal Navy was bleak beyond words; the prospect of being homeless and jobless indefinitely was a high price to pay particularly with having a family to look after but the alternative had become unthinkable. If I stayed in (yes) we would enjoy our full time in Gibraltar and (yes) I might even be able to negotiate an extra six months on the Rock on account of my loyalty. But sooner or later that bubble would burst, our time in Gibraltar would end and I would most certainly be drafted for at least two years sea time – very probably to include a long deployment out to the Far East. The very idea of leaving my family that vulnerable after the experiences we had with the Navy was out of the question.

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In the event of our changing circumstances we decided to just make the most of the time we had left and to try not to worry too much about the future because which ever way we looked at it we had no idea what that was anyway other than returning to UK in winter with no extended family support to speak of. The very thought was frightening and stressful and as that dreadful countdown began so too did the challenge of keeping calm and staying positive in front of the children. One of our strategies in doing that was to continue doing the things that had become normal to them like having a day out to Nuffield Pool or Catalan Bay. We were a strong family but that strength was about to be tested.

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2:56 (1977) Just chatting about the kids

24 Wednesday Aug 2016

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I’ve always been a very big cereals lover, particularly fond of large bowls of bran flakes into which I throw in copious amounts of sultanas and then smother with my (not so) secret ingredient fresh ice cold cows milk. I think it stems back to childhood days when I struggled (or gagged more like) with food (particularly solids); cereals were easy to eat and filled my belly. Why am I telling you this? What’s that to do with Gibraltar? I’m not sure really other than I sense a tenuous connection with what I’m writing about today so maybe as I go along it will become more clear and connect somehow 🙂 Then again maybe it won’t.
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Back in the seventies fresh cows milk wasn’t as available in Gibraltar as it is now although that may have been due to the lack of cows on the Rock 🙂 These days that isn’t the case; on my recent visit (in May 2016) I loved being able to walk into Morrisons and pick up fresh milk everyday. 

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If my memory serves me right we had to mix a powdered milk called Nido which didn’t ‘sail-my-boat’ for me and my cereals. In fact I hated it that much I stopped having my beloved bowl full until I got back to UK although I did have to mix the stuff up for Tracey and Sam who didn’t have an issue with it. As well as mixing Nido milk for them I also had to mix up a baby milk called SMA for Benita and so I’m sure I went through (what felt like) months of just mixing up powdered milks – the word torture springs to mind. I suppose if there was one consolation at least that Kenwood electric mixer I bought Carol as a Christmas present (that she was not best impressed with) got some ecky-thump.

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Amidst all of this milk-mixing came baby bottles, sterilisers, broken nights of sleep then later on (and even worse) nappy buckets, liners, zinc and castor oil cream and getting used to having a baby in the house again. Remembering to take all the paraphernalia with you whenever you stepped out of the house was an art; an art bordering on a crisis if you forgot something. At one point I remember thinking our pram should be given a knighthood for services to the cause; it spent most of its entire life with a child in it, a child sat on it and another child holding on to it while its undercarriage shelf between the wheels was literally stuffed with everything a parent could ever need. The term ‘Camel Train’ springs to mind.


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Of course there were times when the older children were at school or playgroup and I was out at work, Carol would just have Benita and could use the little buggy to pop up to Main Street to visit her favourite haunts one of which (as readers will know by now) was Princess Silks haberdashery. Back then it was quite acceptable and safe to leave a pram or buggy outside a shop while you nipped in to get something partly because of the practicalities of getting around inside the shop. 

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As mentioned we were at the stage of still getting used to having a baby in the house again and on one particular day Carol obviously forgot that and sauntered off home without the buggy leaving Benita in it outside the shop. Later when I came home for lunch and asked Carol where the baby was her face said it all. But in the ‘Land of Loving Bambinos’ there was nothing for us to worry about. By the time we got back to the shop she was being slobbered all over by the local people and loving every minute of it. Back home the only way I could get her to wind down and off to sleep that night was BH putting the headphones on her and playing John Lennon at her. (She’s a big fan of his even today 🙂 ).

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2:54 (1977) Never been closer to divorce or being murdered

21 Sunday Aug 2016

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The Reverend Christopher Jarman RN (no doubt aspiring to become the Very Reverend) was the Chaplain of HMS.Rooke; he was also the designated clergyman who was to perform our children’s Christening at Gibraltar’s Cathedral of the Holy Trinity. As far as clergy go Reverend Jarman was probably one of the most pedantic I’ve ever come across although fortunately due to my work routine I didn’t have to suffer the pleasure of seeing him too often. However Carol didn’t have that particular blessing and had the dubious honour of having to liaise with the man on a number of occasions on the lead up to the big day.
(Cathedral of The Holy Trinity, Gibraltar)

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Thinking back he was the sort of clergyman who had a habit of asking the same religious based questions several times over but just in different ways – on ‘every’ visit. For example today he might ask ‘Why do you want your children Christened?’ while tomorrow he might say ‘what benefit do you see in having your children Christened?’ To answer the question to his satisfaction would be to include several quotes from the New Testament and because such interrogations went on for so long (hours during a home visit of which there were many) I was starting to think he was writing his dissertation (to become the Very Reverend?) on the back of our answers. 

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I’ve always admired people with a strong faith regardless of what that faith is. Within my own path I feel very much in tune and at peace with myself and that’s great for me and I’ve no doubt people with other strong faiths or beliefs feel exactly the same. For me though – although both Carol and me wanted the children to be Christened – I found the process leading up to the service just a bit O.T.T.


If I have a ‘guilty secret’ it’s probably that I’m very sweet toothed with something of a penchant for nice biscuits, which is probably the only thing I ever had in common with the Reverend Christopher Jarman RN (no doubt aspiring to become the Very Reverend) who was not adversed to clearing out our biscuit barrel (much to my horror). 

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Whenever Carol knew the Reverend (no doubt aspiring to…..) was visiting she would always prepare well in advance by stocking up with nice biscuits and warn me in no uncertain terms not to touch them; on one occasion she even descended into ‘hiding’ her stocks in a cooking pot right on a top shelf in the kitchen!!! Shocked or what?!?!? I was truly hurt that her trust in me was questioned. (But I found them …….and ate them :p ).

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On his final visit before the Christening service the Reverend (no doubt aspiring to become the Very Reverend) sat in our lounge with his tea as Carol went off to get the nice biscuits from the cooking pot on the top shelf in the kitchen. After finding out (to her horror) that the biscuits had gone she shot over to the NAAFI to get another packet and got back before her absence was noticed. 

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When I got home at teatime the air was blue. I don’t think I’ve ever been closer to either a divorce or being murdered then or since.

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2:53 (1977) From the wilderness to paradise.

20 Saturday Aug 2016

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The very first photo I took of our new daughter Benita was with her sisters Tracey and Samantha and their Mum in – (you got it) – Alameda Gardens. Where else? I guess over the years Alameda has become quite a spiritual place for me in that I’ve always found it a comforting place to be whenever I’ve needed to think things through and so to celebrate happy times there seemed to be a natural progression. 
(1977 July. Benita’s first photo with my wife Carol and her sisters Tracey and Samantha. I love this xxxx)

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As I took this photo – looking at my family through the eye of a camera lens – I felt the luckiest man in the world and that nothing could compare or even come close. Sometimes I could barely believe how much my life had changed in such a relatively short space of time; within just a few years I felt as though I’d stepped out of the dark, frightening and lonely wilderness of childhood and landed literally in paradise. It would always be against that backdrop that I would become fiercely protective of my herd; and as a result I would always see Gibraltar through my eyes as paradise.

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When I first began writing my memoirs I think I said I wasn’t a particularly skilled writer just someone able to put down a few anecdotes and somehow string them together. As my memoirs have progressed I stand by that but would probably add that in addition to the anecdotes I appear to have a tendency of throwing in my emotions plus plus. When I’ve rationalised that I’ve thought well what is the point of writing memoirs if I didn’t throw my emotions into it? No point.
I say that because there have been times when (almost overcome with powerful feelings while writing about an emotive subject) I’ve manically scribbled massively long paragraphs only to have to go back later and edit them down. The fact many of those feelings have remained so strong after forty years is probably one reason I felt the need to write these tales in the first place although today (as a marginally more mature man) I do now at least edit before I publish. As a younger man I was far less tactful – although no writer I often fired off verbally without properly thinking things through.

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Just thinking about being less tactful and more firey takes me back to many a meeting I had with my line manager, Petty Officer Brian, who over a period of months tried all ways possible to persuade me to reverse my notice and stay in the Royal Navy. Our meetings were always private between us, pulled no punches and became more frequent (and stroppy) as time began running out. The divide between Naval life and Family life was becoming wider by the day.

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Brian: “Alan you have your family to consider”.

Me: “That’s exactly why I’m leaving”.

Brian: “Don’t do anything rash. Think of your career”.

Me: “Every time shit hits my family fan the Navy shove my career in my face to stop me sorting it”. 
Brian: “You look tired. Have a few days leave”.

Me: “My mind is made up and that’s the end of it”.

Brian: “Let’s have a couple of pints tonight at the Fleet Pav. My shout”.

Me: “I can’t I’m organising the children’s Christening with Carol”

Brian: “Ok. Well have a nice evening, we’ll chat tomorrow”.

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As I cruise towards the end of this chapter (and with our time in Gibraltar fast coming to a close) I can still feel the pain of having to choose between the two things in life I’d only ever loved. Of course there was never any contest or competition, my family would always come first in any given scenario, and still does. But that would never take away the personal sense of loss I would carry for the next forty years.

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2:52 (1977) Will you make her a frock to match her sisters please?

19 Friday Aug 2016

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I don’t know about other people but whenever trauma comes into my life my mind tends to automatically block it out and then go into a practical mode to manage it like some sort of safety mechanism; as a result my memories of Carol being in hospital for six weeks are very sketchy. Having said that perhaps the one thing that does resonate all these years later was how much Carol trusted and liked her consultant Colonel Price; she would often say he listened to all of her concerns and gave her all the time she needed to express them. What is probably more clear to me (hopefully without coming across too selfish) are the things I needed to cope with as a result of being on my own with the children during that time.

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One thing I definitely felt was that the Navy were only supportive to a point; they wanted me back at work quick smart and as fast as possible. I was allowed a certain amount of leave but was given no choice about having to make arrangements for the children in the best way I could by asking friends and the Naval Wives Club for help and I totally hated that; mainly because I was terrified the children wouldn’t cope very well because so many different people ended up being involved in their care. Also my own history of having been brought up in care didn’t help either.

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Facing the attitude of “either you make arrangements for your children or we will” left me feeling totally disempowered and beholding to virtual strangers; it was reminiscent of the last time my family needed me (when Sam was seriously ill and almost died but they wouldn’t allow me home). The pattern that was emerging was one I found frightening. Since putting in my 18 month notice to leave the RN I did think that there may be times when I questioned my decision – or even reversed it – but that was becoming increasingly unlikely.

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I suppose the fact I didn’t go into meltdown could be credited to the Royal Navy (for giving me the skills to manage traumatic situations) although in hindsight I did see it as something of a paradox because to my mind they created the crisis in the first place. 

My days evolved into taking the children ‘somewhere’ for their day, going to work (and worrying about them all day at the same time I worried about Carol all day), collecting the children after work, taking them to see their Mum – or arranging a baby-sitter at times I went on my own – and finally getting home for bedtime routines with the children before flaking out myself.

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This attitude of the Navy’s regarding compassionate situations wasn’t anything new to me; a situation from my distant past was also informing my responses. Before I ever met Carol I was abroad when the Navy flew me home from Mombasa because my foster dad Billy had had three strokes and been taken into Mansfield hospital. However when I got back to UK my foster Mam Katie had been taken into Nottingham hospital for an operation. Whilst in UK I found myself travelling from home to two separate hospitals twice a day which was exhausting physically and emotionally; the situation became worse because my Mam died and I wasn’t allowed to tell my dad in case he had another stroke. 

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When I didn’t return to my ship on the expected date the heavies were sent around to my house. Eventually I was given an extra two weeks leave and ordered to return to my ship which by then was in Singapore. Inside those two weeks I buried my Mam, sold everything my parents had owned, banked the money for dad and gave up the lease on their rented house. After arriving in Singapore I was punished for being late; it wasn’t long after that I began hitting the bottle. Although this tale is from one of my other memoirs (Memoirs of a Sailor – which I’ve currently placed on pause to write this one) I’ve included it because I’ve felt it is relevant.


(My beautiful family. Carol with the children in their pink and white frocks before their sister arrived)

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Throughout the duration of Carol’s pregnancy I had decided (almost decreed) we would be having another daughter and so while she was in hospital I tripped off down Irish Town where I knew a lady who made children’s clothes kept her little shop. I explained to the lady that our new daughter would be arriving soon and asked her if she would make her frock in pink and white with embroidery on to match frocks that her sisters had. Duly the lovely lady made the frock which was beautiful and for which she charged me a very reasonable £4. When I told Carol she said ‘Why do you keep thinking its a girl, what if it isn’t?’. I don’t know how I knew. But I knew.

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After six weeks in hospital Carol eventually came home and between then and when the baby arrived there were a couple of false alarms which naturally sent me into panic mode. Then on the one day I decided to think ‘yeah, yeah’ and turn over to go back to sleep it turned out to be the real thing!!! When it finally got through my thick head that ‘this was it’ I sorted the transport and we just got to RNH in time; Carol was rocking so much in labour that she almost gave birth in the lift. Literally as we got into the delivery suite our daughter Benita arrived. Our family was complete 🙂 

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