Considering Joe was 83 he’d had quite an active day; after spending the morning tromping off with me to see the 100-ton gun he’d then (after a brief lunch in Latinos) tromped off and around Alameda Gardens and so I was aware he probably needed a rest back at the Bristol. Carol and Sheila had also become accustomed to their afternoon siesta and so (as it was mid afternoon) we all headed off gently back to the hotel.
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Knowing there was no way I was having a nap Carol (being the organiser she is) said: “When you get back from wherever you’re walkabout-ing to make sure we are all up and about for 6pm because we’re going to the new Moroccan restaurant you found up behind the Art Gallery – plus it would be nice for us to call in the Art Gallery to have a look too because we haven’t been in there yet”. As I nodded my approval they all went off to their rooms for a snooze and I turned on my heels and shot out the door.

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All week long (during various walkabouts) I’d been searching for the Holy Grail – also known as the Buccaneer Night Club which readers may recall was a regular haunt during our time on the Rock in the 70s and where Carol floored a Royal Marine (see 2:31). Several times during the week I’d thought I’d found this elusive night club but each time it turned out to be a false alarm. What made the task more difficult (I think) was that there was quite a bit of redevelopment work going on in the area and because of scaffolding some parts had restricted access. Today, however, I was determined to put the issue to bed. Some people might wonder why it was so important for me to find a place I used to go to forty years previously but there’s a simple answer really. I don’t know.

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The entrance to the Buccaneer was in a wall and the only thing I remembered about it was that it was somewhere between Edinburgh House and town; you could walk through the Fleet Pavilion, go up some steps and bingo there was the wall and there was the door. But that was forty years ago and the Fleet Pavilion has now gone – replaced by what I think is a multi storey car park under construction. When I tried to get to where I thought the Buccaneer was I found my access denied because of the construction works – hence the reason I walked (too far) round and ended up photographing other doors in walls down on past Commonwealth Park (opposite the Quayside restaurant area) thinking I’d found it.
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(Door to the Buccaneer)

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Today, for some reason, there was to be no confusion. As if by a twist of fate it seemed someone was looking down on me and I was put out of my misery. After leaving the Bristol and strolling for less than ten minutes I found myself standing outside a door that I was 99% sure was what I’d been looking for and (because of the wonder of technology) it didn’t take me long to confirm that. A Twitter friend (thank you JB) saw a photo I took and immediately responded; he even updated me saying that the place was soon to reopen (I think) as a cafe?! What a brilliant idea. When I read that I tried to picture Carols face as she sat having a cup of tea somewhere she had once floored a Royal Marine. Priceless, and most certainly a Pitt stop on our next trip to Gibraltar. 🙂
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Happy that yet another question had been answered (or more like another massive objective had been ticked off the bucket list) I strolled back up the steps, over the road and found myself outside the Gibraltar Museum. Oh yes, and why not?

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One of the most fascinating things about Alameda Botanical Gardens is that not only do I know them exceptionally well I also don’t know them at all. As abstract as that sounds its probably one of the truest things I’ve ever said. 

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When I first went back into the gardens after a forty year absence I instinctively knew my way around (geographically) and successfully walked all of the paths several times; I knew where to find the playground, the little bridge and the phone box and yet not one circuit was the same as the last because there was always something new to see that I’d missed on my previous circuit. Because it’s a new experience every time I go in there (whether I’m with other people or on my own) is probably another reason (other than its gorgeousness) why I continually keep going back.

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Carol (naturally) has many very happy memories of Alameda; she often spent hours there with the children while I was at work in Rooke. Although she is now quite limited with how far she can walk (particularly if it’s on an incline as Alameda is) she was thrilled to visit the gardens again and tell Sheila and Joe her stories. 
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As we strolled the grounds I (sort of) led the others to areas that I thought they would like to see and then stood back a little to enjoy seeing them all enjoy their experiences. One of Alameda’s many very magical qualities is that you don’t have to walk far to enjoy the ambience of the environment; almost as soon as you enter the place there’s a sense of peace – and many a park bench where you can sit and relax and soak everything up – which is exactly what they did. 
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As they all sat chatting and chilling I looked around at the beautiful plants and wonderful sculptures and reminded myself that I still had a last (promised) solo visit (tomorrow) before I left Gibraltar; after all it would (once again) be another totally new experience.

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Walking back towards town I could see Joe was tiring a bit but figured he would probably get some down time back at the Bristol for a few hours before we all went out for dinner this evening. I wasn’t sure whether or not he liked Moroccan food – and I don’t think he was sure either – but tonight we were all having the pleasure of the Moroccan restaurant Marrakech so we’d soon find out. 

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As we neared town I had already decided (and was planning in my head) that I would need to do that same walk again (probably tomorrow) because I wanted to revisit Nuffield Pool and Europa Point but for now I guess we were both just ready for something to eat. 

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Arriving back at the Bristol (as if by fortune) Carol and Sheila were just getting ready to go for lunch and (as they often did so eloquently) stated their preference to wander down Main Street to find a good chip shop; who am I to argue? Gibraltar is noted for its many fabulous chip shops (and I’m also noted for loving fish and chips) and so their decision got my vote 100% (and Joes) – even though it was only just last night that I’d devoured a mega portion at The Waterfront. 

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After a short walk (which was just as well for Joe because I think by now he was craning for a sit down) the ladies checked out the menu of a Bistro and Lounge who’s name escapes me (which clearly passed their very stringent audition) and took a seat on one of their outdoor tables. 
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Just to wind-up Joe I suggested to the ladies that if they weren’t sure with their choice of restaurant we (chaps) would be more than happy to continue on down to Casemates with them to choose another place; Joe responded by expressing in his own very unique way (see photo above – look carefully) that he was quite happy where he was. He never was a man of many words.
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The fish and chips were (once again) fabulous; for a Northerner like me it wasn’t just comfort food it was staple diet. If I moved into this chip shop I could quite happily survive forever. And the great thing about eating outdoors is being able to people-watch (of course). As I sat eating (and people-watching) I had a feeling that any minute soon everyone would be saying they would be going off for their (pre-Moroccan dinner) siesta and so I figured (no problem) while they all snoozed the afternoon away I might hoof off out to find the Holy Grail (The Buccaneer Night Club that had still so far escaped my searching eye). 
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(People-watching on Main Street)

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Just as I was planning my afternoon walkabout in my head (the Buccaneer, the Museum, maybe round the Water Gardens) Carol said “Shall we go to Alameda Gardens this afternoon?”. I was gob-smacked. Happily gob-smacked, but gob-smacked. I had planned to have a solo walk around the gardens before we left (and still did) but I was certainly up for an extra group walk around my favourite park. Even Joe nodded his approval between mouthfuls, obviously he was beginning to feel refreshed and reinvigorated. Wow. Even I couldn’t have made that up. It sounded like the Holy Grail would have to wait till tomorrow.

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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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