Welcome.

There are a million reasons why I love Gibraltar; her beauty, her history, her people, her apes. How could I not love her apes? Is such a thing even possible?

Some of my reasons come directly from memories and emotions which began when I was a boy of about 9 listening to my Royal Naval cousin Paul telling me tales of his travels. He’d been all over the world but his stories about the Rock of Gibraltar fascinated me the most. In the mind of a little boy the idea of a massive rock with apes on it was awesome – ‘What, and people live there too?’ 

I knew then I’d join the Royal Navy and see the world – especially that Rock of Gibraltar with its apes and in 1974 while serving aboard HMS Scylla that’s exactly what I did. I knew then the Rock would always be special to me. 

Later, in 1976 and 1977, I was fortunate to live there with my family, while serving at HMS Rooke, during which time I enjoyed promotion and the arrival of our third daughter who was born at the Royal Naval Hospital. As a parent those were halcyon days which I often look back on with enormous affection. 

When we left the Rock at the end of my draft I had no idea it would be forty years before I would return. My focus at that time was on the now, on my family and preparing for my release from the Royal Navy and trying to decide what I could do next. There was no room for sentiment then yet as an older man I know now that comes with reflection. In 2016, however, I finally realised a dream and did return to the Rock.

I’m not the most skilled writer but for me that’s not important; my memoir tends to be a collection of anecdotes strung together over a theme and in this case over most of my lifetime. My aim is just to write my story and touch on some of those million reasons I love Gibraltar because when I write, I’m there.

RockHeart was originally written online in 2016 over the space of six months. Since that time the website has been hit over 70,000 times by a very supportive readership whose daily comments inspired and motivated me to complete this work. A selection of their comments are published at the end of this book and my sincere thanks goes to each and every one who contributed to these. Very special thanks also to my Gibraltarian readers whose input has been invaluable in clarifying things I couldn’t clearly remember; that they have dubbed me an ‘Honorary Gibbo’ is something I’m immensely proud of.  

RockHeart is written in three chapters: 

• (1) 1974. First visits.
• (2) 1976-77. Life on the Rock.
• (3) 2016. Return to the Rock.

The cover photo to this memoir was taken by Sonya Wendt on our Med Steps Challenge 2016. Photographs to accompany this memoir can be found on the original blog at memoirsofgibraltar.com. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I have enjoyed writing RockHeart. 

Chapter 1. 1974. First visits

1:1 (1974) I screamed inside with delight. I was going to Gibraltar.

It was January 1974 and I was serving aboard HMS Scylla (F71), Flagship of the 7th Frigate Squadron. By then I’d been in the Royal Navy for about two and a half years and had served on Scylla for the previous 13 months.

During 1973, following a major refit, Scylla had been on work-up and trials at Portland which was pretty draining for the crew. It was the Royal Navy’s way of putting a warship through its paces to check its systems, weaponry and crew readiness, ensuring it was ready for war. Some of the exercises went on for hours and necessitated men having to wear additional heavy clothing, headgear or masks and remain at ‘action stations’ for very long periods of time; needless to say we were all glad when it was over. It wasn’t too long, however, before we were rewarded with courtesy visits to Brest (France) and Flensburg (Germany) prior to escorting HM Queen Elizabeth aboard HM Royal Yacht Britannia around Scotland.   

Significantly that year we had also taken part in the Icelandic Cod War during which we had been rammed by the Icelandic Gunboat Aegir. The Icelanders only had five gunboats which were small compared to a Leander Class Frigate but they were all fitted with ice breakers capable of causing serious ruptures. Although we had sustained damage the affected compartments were shored up and we completed our tour of duty regardless.

Sometime in the autumn of ’73 news of our next deployment came through and I was  delighted to hear we were finally off to see some sunshine, particularly after the drain of Portland Trials and the chills and gale force storms of Iceland. Come January ’74 Scylla was to lead a deployment of 6 warships and 2 Royal Fleet Auxiliaries out to the ‘Fez’ (Far East) calling at an amazing series of places including Sierra Leone, South Africa, Mombasa, the Gulf, Singapore, Hong Kong, Bangkok, Seychelles, Australia and New Zealand. Particularly exciting for me was the very first (and also the last) stop on this fabulous trip – Gibraltar; that big Rock where the apes lived. I screamed inside with delight, then phoned my cousin Paul

1:2 (1974) When I saw her, I knew Gibraltar would become very special to me.

On 8th January 1974 HMS Scylla led the 7th Frigate Squadron out of Portsmouth harbour for what was to be a nine months deployment to the Far East. It was a very emotional departure for most of the sailors as hundreds of families were lined up on the jetties and quaysides waving the ship off to the dulcet sounds of the Royal Marines band. Having already bid my elderly foster parents ‘bye at New Year I didn’t have that lump in my throat like many of the others but I was still amazed at how many people had come to see us off; from standing to attention on the upper deck all I could see was a human caterpillar stretching miles along the Hampshire coast.

Before long we were out at sea, out of vision and so changed into workwear to assume our normal sea-going duties. I knew the English Channel and the Bay (of Biscay) had reputations of rough weather but after two months of surviving the Gale Force storms of Iceland I wasn’t too concerned. Having said that the seas were rough and there were times I felt really sick but stayed focused thinking it wasn’t going to be for long.

As a Stores Accountant most of my time at sea was spent ‘down below’ either in the stores office or in one of our storerooms and so I had to keep nipping up onto the upper deck to see where we were; I didn’t want to miss our approach to Gibraltar. Many of the lads onboard had been in the Navy far longer than me and had visited all the usual ports on many occasions, including Gibraltar. Their conversations seemed to revolve around the fact that Gibraltar had 365 pubs, one for every day of the year, with their sole aim during our brief visit was to get ‘mortal’, ‘marinated’ or ‘steaming’ depending on what part of the U.K. they were from. Whether Gibraltar does have or ever has had 365 pubs I don’t know but visiting any of them wasn’t on my itinerary. I was only 18 and not a particularly big drinker; on top of that I was more interested in seeing real apes than men mimicking them drunk. I’d seen enough of that as a child with my foster dad rolling home. Years later, when living in Gibraltar with my family, I recall whenever ships were in port we didn’t go anywhere that sailors may happen to be, in fact we positively avoided those places but then that’s another story and a tale for Chapter 2.

I don’t remember the exact date we arrived at the Rock other than it was in January but there’s a guy who owns a shop in Gibraltar, opposite John Mackintosh Hall, selling photos of Royal Navy warships would probably know for sure. What I do know is the minute that someone spotted the Rock from several nautical miles away my eyes were glued to it; and the nearer we got the less I blinked not wanting to miss a moment of our arrival. When we finally berthed alongside I looked up at this massive Mediterranean lump of Britain in the sun and knew then Gibraltar would become very special to me.

1:3 (1974) The British will rule as long as the apes are here.

My first ever visit to Gibraltar was unfortunately brief, just a couple of days really, which was the norm for warships heading out to the Far East. On arrival one of the first tasks was to ‘store ship’ which was a phrase used to take on stores that we had pre-ordered. Literally everything from frozen foods, fruit and veg, clothing, spare parts and nuts and bolts needed to be humped off the jetty onto the ship then hauled down below to various storerooms and fridges. 

The process of ‘store ship’ required ‘clear lower decks’ meaning all free hands of the  ship’s company took part, formed lines and brought the stores onboard by passing/throwing boxes, bags and containers from pallets on the quayside all the way down to the relevant store. The downside of this joint effort was that as soon as the stores were onboard and in the vicinity of the relevant storeroom everyone not on duty, apart from the stores department, could go ashore. Needless to say it would be some time before I had checked off all of the stores and stowed away the goods by which time the crew were well on their way to being half cut in one of Gibraltar’s 365 pubs. In some ways it was quite fortuitous for me that my ‘run ashore’ was delayed because I had no desire to go drinking; I wasn’t fond of the smell of booze or being in the company of drunks. When I finally did get ashore my first thought was the apes and to that end I jumped straight into a taxi.

On the way up the Rock to see the apes the driver pointed out things he felt I would find interesting as drivers do in the hope of receiving a tip. I had every intention of tipping him anyway but was very happy for him to educate me just the same. In pointing to Spain he said that Franco had closed the border back in 1969 but I wasn’t phased by that because I wasn’t into politics and had no desire to visit Spain. As we neared the apes den he changed the subject telling me that Gibraltar’s rock apes were actually macaques and there were hundreds roaming wild. “If the apes ever leave the Rock then so will the British and so we have to take care of them” he said as we pulled up, “And watch your camera or they will take it”. At that point I realised with horror that I had forgotten my camera.

Since I wasn’t taking photos I sat on a wall and it wasn’t long before a family of apes came over to inspect me and see if I had anything worth pinching. When they decided I didn’t and that I was no particular threat they were happy just to carry on and do what macaques do. Some of the older adults sat observing the ships in the harbour while some nipped fleas out others’ fur. Younger apes played like children, wrestling with each other and play-biting if there was such a thing. “It’s to do with them sorting out their pecking order” my driver informed me. I was fascinated and loved watching them. I wondered why people couldn’t take a leaf out of their book.

For a while my driver asked if there were other attractions I wanted to see but he eventually stopped asking as he realised I was totally happy sitting on a wall watching the apes and admiring the view of the harbour and the town below. He must have been bemused because it was quite late when we left the apes den after several hours and I was happy to pay his fare with a generous tip. When he dropped me off he shook my hand and with a big smile gave me his phone number in case I wanted to go back to see the apes. Forty-two years after the event I still have wonderful memories of sitting alone for hours with the apes and feeling very privileged to do so.

1:4 (1974) As the Cathedral bells peeled…

On day two of our visit we were scheduled to sail at 5pm and so Chief gave me the day off; he knew how much I’d been looking forward to visiting the Rock. “You did a great job on the store ship yesterday Dixy, be back by 4pm lad” he said. I loved Chief! As I left the ship at 9am for 6 hours shore leave in Gibraltar I felt as free as a bird.

Walkabout has always been a passion of mine, particularly when I have no particular place to go or route in mind; I love people watching and just going where the flow takes me. As I’ve grown older and developed more confidence I quite love chatting with people I’ve never met before but even as an 18 year-old I was quite gregarious. I think I probably have the Royal Navy to thank for that side of my development because when I enlisted I was very shy, reserved and sorely lacking in confidence and self-esteem.

Coming out of the dockyard I had no idea where I was in relation to anywhere else but that didn’t matter to me because my plan was to go anywhere (and everywhere) and then at about 3:30pm phone that number the taxi driver had given me. Knowing what I know now Gibraltar has changed quite a lot over the years and so where I came out of the dockyard may have been either somewhere around Queensway or Rosia but no matter because within minutes I found myself on Main Street.

Main Street, Gibraltar is one of those World-famous streets a bit like Boogie Street, Singapore or even Times Square, New York; it stretches from Casemates Square at the bottom to Trafalgar Cemetery at the top or the other way around depending on which end you start at and is literally peppered with shops, cafes, pubs and bars. Enhancing this wonderful street is John Mackintosh Square, affectionately known as the Piazza, which (along with Casemates Square) is a social hub of outdoor tables and chairs where people often wile away an hour or two. Further up the street is the beautiful Cathedral of the Holy Trinity; further up still is the Convent Square where the ritual guard ceremonies take place. 

I took a seat on one of the many public benches to just soak up the atmosphere and touch base with how I felt at being in a place  I was already beginning to feel spiritually connected to. Looking over at the Piazza, could I ever have known that in a few years I would be sitting there with my three daughters having cool drinks as local women screamed ‘bambinos’ in delight and took them all for a walk. Glancing over at the Emporium could I ever have known then that I would take my children in to buy them sweets and that when I looked again at that building in 2016 it would be a branch of Mothercare. As the bells of the Cathedral peeled, could I ever have known that my children would have a triple christening there in 1977; could I?

1:5 (1974) I’d found paradise. I’d found Alameda.

Although situated in the Mediterranean, Gibraltar can have very cloudy, rainy days yet it wouldn’t matter to me if it snowed I would still be out and about. There’s a particular cloud they call levanter which (if my memory serves me right) I think is peculiar only to Gibraltar and looks a bit like a sort of halo that sits around the top of the Rock blocking out the sunshine for an hour or two before dispersing.

My day off had started a bit overcast but I was confident it would pick up as it went along; sure enough the sun had eased its way through as I had been pondering life and watching people from my bench seat. With the sunshine warming my face I got up and continued my stroll, heading up Main Street through Convent Place and past the Angry Friar, a place I had heard my shipmates declare they often began their rat-arsed nights out.

There’s a side door to the Angry Friar on Main Street which when you go through leads up to a flat/apartment above the pub. As I passed the door I looked at it for some reason but could not have known that in three years time I would walk through it to look at the flat upstairs and offer to rent it pending a successful inspection by the Royal Navy. As it turned out the flat didn’t pass the inspection so I wasn’t allowed to rent it; I remember feeling gutted that (because it had failed) I couldn’t get a Family Passage (FamPass) and had to continue looking for a private letting pending a married quarter. But today, in 1974, I could not have known that. Neither could I have known that I would again stand outside that door in 2016 to watch the Guard Ceremony.

Further up Main Street I passed John Mackintosh Hall and came to Inces Hall where one day in the future I would watch a live concert by an Irish trio called the Bachelors. As a musician myself I love live music and going to gigs regardless of who is performing although I do have favourites; I’ve been a John Lennon fan all of my life and love the idea that he married Yoko Ono in Gibraltar. I also love that my daughter was born in Gibraltar but as I continued my walkabout past Trafalgar Cemetery I could never have known that then.

Just past the top of Main Street I came to quite an impressive set of steps which I would discover was the entrance to one of the most beautiful and well presented botanical gardens in the world, and certainly the most gorgeous, peaceful place I had ever seen or been to. As a Geordie Boy from the back streets of Newcastle the nearest I had ever been to anything green was my Dads leeks in the allotment and so what I felt when I walked into this garden could never be overestimated. I’d found somewhere that had a profound effect on me, a place that would become very special in my life and in my heart. I’d found paradise. I’d found Alameda.

1:6 (1974) Feeling accepted, as though I belonged.

Taking a walk through Alameda gardens is something everyone should do at least once in their life; it should be on their bucket list alongside visiting the Taj Mahal (and climbing the Mediterranean Steps of course). That’s probably not the sort of thing people would expect an 18 year old sailor to say and I don’t deny my shipmates found it just a little odd; there is sometimes a certain expectation on testosterone fuelled young men to do what most people expected testosterone fuelled young men to do. But one of the fabulous things about life in the Royal Navy is that everyone loves and respects each other’s passions in life. Sportsmen are supported, artistic achievements are applauded, all sorts of individual and team efforts are encouraged from chess and long distance running to rugby and the Field Gun Crew.

Many of my friends knew something of my childhood days and how as a result I loved to wander, climb, discover, meet new people and just enjoy the beautiful aspects of our world as a sort of cathartic way of diluting past pains and replacing negative memories with loved ones. There was a sort of unspoken understanding. Throughout my life I’ve often found peace in writing and in the arts and my skills with a pencil were always very much appreciated by my shipmates; I often illustrated their letters home to their loved ones.

Looking up from Alameda gardens I could see quite an imposing triangular building which I later discovered was Trafalgar House. I could never have known that one day I would live there with my family. After the RN failed the flat above the Angry Friar I went off and found another one on the top floor of Trafalgar House and it passed their inspection.

Alameda gardens are not exceptionally vast but are very beautiful; they are built on a gentle slope almost in front of the Rock Hotel. The Rock Hotel has a reputation of being very exclusive to wealthy people and looking up at it from Alameda I would never have thought that in a few years time my wife and I would have the occasional evening out there when we could afford it. Casting my memory back I think they had a steak night with bingo on Fridays and it was a real treat if we were able to get a sitter for the girls, dress up a little and enjoy a walk out from our eventual home at 21 Edinburgh House.

As I walked around Alameda I felt as though I was in that film Labyrinth with the fabulous David Bowie; the paths through the gardens were both wide and narrow winding around beautiful tropical plants, herbs, shrubs and statues. Every so often there was somewhere to sit and just think, reflect or ponder. I sat on a concrete bench along one of the slimmest of paths where there were a variety of amazing cacti. As I admired the cacti I saw a group of young scouts walking along one of the other paths a few yards away. Some years later I would be asked to design a First Day Cover for the same Scout Troop and although the artwork wasn’t particularly brilliant I was pleased to be asked. Being asked to do something like that felt like being accepted, as though I belonged.

1:7 (1974) One day my children would play in Alameda playground.

Back in January 1974 I was in Gibraltar for the very first time and was quickly falling under her spell; I loved the way that the natural beauty of the Rock wasn’t compromised by the fortifications and how it all seemed to work to the eye. There seemed to be canons and statues all over the place and yet they seemed to belong there even if they were outside someone’s house; Trafalgar Cemetery even looked like somewhere a family could have a picnic. What I really loved too (even back then) was the climate, the lifestyles and the fact that I could wander anywhere and feel totally safe. On a recent visit to Gibraltar in 2016 I revisited one of my old homes (Edinburgh House) and spent a wonderful hour chatting with the current incumbent about all things Gibraltar including the IN/OUT EU vote.

And so here I was lapping up the few hours leave Chief had granted me with the sun on my face and with only the sound of birds and the odd aeroplane in my ears before the Cathedral bells struck eleven; when it did I was still sat on that concrete bench I had found in Alameda Gardens near the cacti. I’d been off the ship two hours and had spent most of that time sitting on my backside either in the Piazza or in Alameda but you know what, I was loving it. I hadn’t even been in Gibraltar for 24 hours and had fallen in love with the place. Every time I sat down somewhere I was either just soaking up the quiet and the ambience or pretending to be a local in the hustle and bustle of Main Street; I had only been given six hours leave, two hours of that had already gone by and I’d morphed into a different human being. A Gibraltarian Geordie?

Thinking I needed to make the most of the short time I had, I got up to wander. Crossing the little arch-covered bridge I admired the ornamental fountain with steps either side before meandering down past a corner that would one day be a children’s garden complete with a Bee Hotel. Some of the flowers give off scents I had never smelled before which were so amazing to me – as were the delicacy of the plants themselves – but then, as mentioned previously, the only plants this Geordie Boy had ever seen in his impoverished homeland was the ones that ended up on the dinner plate.

As I carried on down to the lower of the paths in the garden I came across a children’s playground with very traditional resources of swings and a slide. One day I would visit that playground regularly with my children and would have a lovely collection of photographs of them playing there. For now it was still 1974, I was still an 18 year old sailor on a few hours leave and I was on #walkabout. And loving Gibraltar.

1:8 (1974) Even in death Nelson watches over his men.

It was coming up lunchtime by the time I reluctantly left Alameda Gardens; I didn’t really want to leave the place because it was just so opposite to anything I’d experienced in my life. I loved it. My home town Newcastle was cobbled streets, outside netties and bone yards on the Tyne, hardly the beauty of a botanical garden. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a botanical garden. And now I’d found one I wanted to move in. Having said that being a Geordie is a massive part of my identity and so naturally I am very much connected to Newcastle. I guess if there’s a Ying and a Yang inside us all mine are Gibraltar and Newcastle.

Just opposite the Trafalgar Cemetery there’s a statue of Nelson standing keeping an eye on the Cemetery gate; two of the men who fought in the Battle of Trafalgar are buried there but it wouldn’t be until my visit in 2016 that I would actually go into the cemetery and find their graves. They were Captain Thomas Norman who died in the Naval Hospital on 6 December 1805 and Lieutenant William Forster who died 21 October 1805. I wondered if the Naval Hospital building then was the same one that my daughter would be born in 172 years later? Probably not.

Being ex-Naval I see something very respectful about a senior officer looking out for those serving under him and in a weird sort of way that still seemed to be the case (to me) even though all three are dead, purely on account of where Nelson’s statue has been placed. The road junction outside the Cemetery is far more developed now with a couple of pedestrian crossings to help walkers avoid what seems to be a lot more traffic in Gibraltar; but in 1974 I just crossed the road, walked down the hill and went through the archway at Ragged Staff Gates.

Walking along the quayside is something I’ve always loved to do and as a boy in Newcastle I spent a lot of time watching the ships come and go up and down the River Tyne. Looking over at the dockyard I could see my ship HMS Scylla berthed and it was quite surreal to think I would be on her, sailing off to tour the Far East in a few hours time. All the more reason, I thought, to keep walking in the other direction and make the most of my remaining free time on the Rock.

Although it felt familiar the quayside wasn’t especially memorable so much as it was functional, a place where ships berthed alongside and took on stores. I couldn’t have known then that in a few years time I would be living and working in Gibraltar and part of my role would involve me working on this quayside storing visiting warships.

That quayside may well not have been memorable in 1974 but that was not the case 42 years later when I returned in 2016. It was totally unrecognisable to me following the major development of a beautiful Small Boats Marina, a number of apartment sky-rises and a host of restaurants; indeed I checked out a couple of the eateries and they were excellent, particularly the Waterfront. Come to that I checked quite a few out in the town too and all of them were excellent and catered as you would expect them too. I must admit Jurys on Main Street was visited more than once and a lovely little Moroccan restaurant called Marrakech up behind the Gibraltar Art Gallery was also an amazing find. With apologies (just jumping a few years ahead here) if I had one disappointment at all it would be that St Michael’s Cabin now no longer serves meals in the evening (as it did in 1976) and has evolved into a daytime snack bar though that’s a story for Chapter 2.

A few shipmates had said that Irish Town was somewhere I should go to eat as there were loads of cafes and restaurants there although I decided to keep an open mind in case they were setting me up; last time I took their advice as a naïve youngster in Flensburg I ended up in a red light area to their hilarious delight although I’m in no way suggesting Irish Town boasts those services. I’m not altogether quite sure how I got there from down on the quayside but I think I asked for directions; when I got into the area I immediately recognised being back at the Piazza and I think it was then that I realised how small Gibraltar actually was (which delighted me). 

Back in 1974 people said there were 25000 people living in Gibraltar which I thought was a lot for a small Nation of 2.6 square miles. Since then I’ve naturally researched to find the correct figure (out of curiosity) and it turns out there was more than that, it appears there was 29000; today, as I write, there is 32000. On my first visit I wondered where on earth so many people lived but when I returned in 2016 I didn’t need to ask; I think the sky-rise apartments are breeding as they did in Hong Kong. I did walk around the sky-rises but actually preferred the back streets. But I can see why Morrison’s opened a store here; my days back in the seventies it was either Lipton’s or the NAAFI.

1:9 (1974) An Irish Town in Gibraltar? Is that like our China Town in Newcastle?

Turning down into Irish Town from the Piazza felt a bit strange but it also felt quite exciting because I wasn’t sure of what to expect. An Irish Town in Gibraltar? Is that like our ChinaTown in Newcastle? I’m very fond of Irish Rebel Songs; I’ve performed many at Paddy gigs on St.Patrick’s Night over the years so had an ear cocked to see what I could hear – even that sentence sounds Irish.

With no sounds of the Pogues or the Dubliners coming out of the little doorways I decided my rendition of the Black Velvet Band wouldn’t be required today and so I drifted onwards and downwards on the forage for food. Turns out after the minimum of research that Irish Town was, in its past, more Welsh than Irish and probably only got its name from an Irish Regiment based there. But there was something very endearing about the place as though it had a few stories to tell and secrets to keep and I love places like that.

Not far down the street I came across a small shop window (Jacky’s?) big enough only for the one child’s frock on display and a few smaller items with embroidery. I stopped to admire the simplicity of the display and the quality of the work which must have taken someone hours to finish. My birth mother was very good at similar crafts and later my wife so I had a fair idea of the commitment and skill needed to make such beautiful things. Later when we lived in Gibraltar my wife almost became a V.I.P. in a shop called Princess Silks on Main Street on account of her always being there buying fabric to make our girls frocks.

It’s difficult to know though whether little observations like seeing a frock-in-a-shop plant themselves into your psyche because years later – and three days before my third daughter was born – I had a little frock especially made ‘by a lady who had a small shop in Irish Town’. The frock cost me £4 which was quite a lot then and I remember my wife asking me “But how do you know it will be a girl?”. I didn’t know how I knew I just knew, and she was; though that tale belongs in Chapter 2 – along with another funny one about Princess Silks.

 
Irish Town was indeed full of places to eat and so there was plenty of choice although at 18 I wasn’t particularly a discerning foodie; like most young people I had a penchant for fried food – I still do but try to balance it now with the odd healthy number…(sometimes). Eventually though I sat down at a table outside a cafe which I didn’t choose from reading their menu, I chose it because it was on the corner of a side street going up towards Main Street and it was an interesting place to people-watch. I ordered something to eat and came to the conclusion that I was quite nosy; even years later when I was recently in Gibraltar I spent a bit of time again sitting on that bench outside Marks and Spencer people-watching.

Tucking in to my meal I noticed a sign across the street advertising childminding but could never have known (in a million years) that in years to come my wife and I would use their services often. A certain Mrs Dumoulin would look after our eldest daughter prior to her going to play school and occasionally have all of our children for the day when we had a rare break to Morocco.

As I finished my meal the Cathedral bells peeled three o’clock and wanting to make the most of my last hour of leave I slipped up the side street, crossed Main Street and vanished up into the back streets of the old town.

1:10 (1974) Old Town. Gibraltar’s labyrinth.

There was something about the Old Town that felt very familiar and safe to me; it reminded me of the back streets of Newcastle where ordinary people live and where I was brought up alongside other kids with big aspirations but limited opportunities. In those days we all wanted to play for Newcastle United but most kids settled for a job either in the pits or the local factories, assuming they didn’t end up marrying early because of an unplanned pregnancy. I’d only escaped those natural outcomes because of a seed my cousin Paul had planted when I was about 9 which made me determined to join the Royal Navy and see the world, in particular Gibraltar and here I was.

Wandering the back-streets I wondered if the locals felt they were fortunate to live in such a beautiful place or whether they never thought about it. In a previous memoir I remember describing how traumatised I was at being forcibly taken out of Newcastle as a child and now (here in Gibraltar) it bothered me there might not be enough opportunities for the young people and that they may have to leave the Rock against their wishes to find work; the idea that I was even thinking that spoke volumes.

The back-streets that afternoon were very quiet, I don’t remember seeing a soul although later when I lived in Gibraltar I learned that in the afternoons people often have a siesta which probably explained the quiet that day. The streets seemed to be on tiers which ran parallel with one another connected by fascinating passages and alleyways, some of which consisted of what looked like hundreds of steps. It was like a labyrinth and I loved it. And I loved that a lot of people had Union Jacks flying in their streets; it made me feel very welcome and at home and clearly Gibraltar saw itself as British beyond a doubt. That Spain had closed its border with Gibraltar very much reinforced that but as previously mentioned I had no desire to visit Spain. I hate the whole idea of bullfighting and (as an animal lover) wonder about people who don’t share that view.

The Cathedral bells peeled twice so I knew it was three thirty and that I needed to make my way back to the ship. I was planning to phone the number I had for a taxi but having realised that Gibraltar was quite a small place I decided that I would rather walk. I’m still not sure whether the ship was at Rosia end or Queensway but I soon found myself standing at the bottom of the gangway and looking up at the Rock.

I’m not sure even now whether that first visit was 24 hours or less but I’m very sure of the impact it had on me. I boarded my ship at a couple of minutes to four o’clock to a beaming smile from the Chief. As we sailed, a friend took a photo of me on the flight deck. I was off to the Far East and it would be eight months before I returned – but in the scale of things I at least had that to look forward to. 

What I didn’t know then was by the time I got back to Gibraltar in September 1974 I wasn’t the same person. During visits on the African continent I’d had very bad experiences and likewise in Australia and New Zealand; but those stories are not for this memoir, they are being written in my Royal Navy memoir. I only touch on them to explain the changes in me.

Perhaps what is relevant within these tales is that between my two Gibraltar visits that year, other than what I’ve touched on, I was flown home from Mombasa because my foster father had had three strokes and whilst in the UK my foster mother died. Returning to my ship in Singapore after compassionate leave I hit the bottle. By the time I got back to Gibraltar I was alcohol dependent and a mess.

1:11 (1974) I’d seen the world’s underbelly and thanked God for Gibraltar.

Arriving back in Gibraltar after eight months in the Far East felt like coming home. As we berthed alongside I felt a huge sense of relief to be back where I felt safe and welcome after what had turned out to be a six months nightmare; life had hit me from all of those angles I wasn’t ready for from drink, being ‘come-on-to’ by both women and men, being beaten up, almost drowning, being locked up and being in very dangerous situations, all during the time I was grieving for my parents. With no real home left to go to in the UK it wasn’t surprising I felt as though arriving back in Gibraltar was like coming home. In some ways I grieved the passing of my naivety, in others ways I gave thanks for my survival. 

It was a paradox in a way. I’d looked forward so much to seeing some of the most exotic places in the world that Cousin Paul had told me about yet ended up seeing their under-bellies and so could no longer see the exotic; my eyes had been opened and I couldn’t close them again. In Thailand I was so moved by their Buddhism that I became Buddhist and remain so today; but I would have to have been blind not to be aware of the appalling poverty being shored up by their ‘in-your-face’ sex industry. In South Africa I found the apartheid shocking; while Nelson Mandela languished in jail on Robben Island for trying to stamp it out, I was sickened to see that there were still pavements for white people and pavements for black.

Having virtually drunk my way around half of the world, the temptation to visit a few of those 365 Gibraltarian pubs (my shipmates had told me about) and drink myself ‘mortal’ was massive rather than walk the back streets or check out the apes. But although I was aware I had a serious drink problem I didn’t want that to interfere with my love of Gibraltar; worse still I didn’t want to end up drunk in a gutter there and have that forever in my memory. I walked the back streets.

During my brief second visit to the Rock the Chief gave me the maximum time off which in real terms was only a few hours but those few hours (he knew) were so cathartic. Wandering the back streets allowed me to touch base and to get back in touch with myself. I had an almost pathological need to walk and walk and walk to give myself time to think and reflect. Right now Gibraltar was the only place in the world I could do that; to walk those streets that I was becoming familiar with, where ordinary families lived and which reminded me of childhood days in Newcastle.

Parts of the Old Town were very challenging with their long sets of steep steps; they made me think how physically hard life must be on a daily basis for some of the older residents or young parents with babies. Yes I had problems, but so did many other people who couldn’t do anything about their issues. Long after leaving the Royal Navy I would spend over 36 years in the Social Care profession, seeing first hand the sort of challenges that disadvantaged families faced. But for now, later today my ship would sail for the UK and on the way over the English Channel I would have a skin-full of ale along with my mess mates during what was known as a Channel-ex. I didn’t know it then but in 19 months I would be back. With my family. To live. For two years.

*

Chapter 2. 1976 to 1977. Life on the Rock.

2:1 (1976) “Carol” I said “We’re going to Gibraltar”.

Not long after leaving HMS Scylla I met my wife Carol, a Welsh girl hailing from Pembrokeshire, South Wales and by 1975 we were married with a child and with another on the way. Our first daughter Tracey was born at Withybush Hospital, Haverfordwest, Wales and in due course all three of our children would be born in different countries. I loved that.

Early in 1975 we were awaiting the arrival of our second child Samantha at St.Mary’s Hospital in Portsmouth. Carol never had easy pregnancies and was often kept in hospital for extended periods before giving birth which naturally made her feel really low. And although I was there for the birth of my children I always got kicked out after delivery due to postnatal complications and so they were always worrying times for me.

Since leaving HMS Scylla I’d had several postings including HMS Vernon, HMS Danae and HMS Pembroke and these drafts often meant me being away from home for extended periods of time. Having been at sea for more than my quota I was due some shore time and with my family growing I requested a particular ‘married-accompanied’ posting. Some weeks went by before I heard anything and then one day Chief gave me news that I had a feeling would lift Carol’s spirits – and I couldn’t wait to tell her.

Visiting time at the hospital was 2-3pm and so with Tracey looking pretty in a frock, her hair in ribbons and her dolly in hand we set off for the hospital arriving on time to find Carol naturally feeling fairly low at being bed-ridden ‘having tests’. These days with the NHS being so depleted of both beds and staff she wouldn’t even have been admitted but back then that wasn’t the case; for those patients ‘kept in’ there was a massive feeling of disempowerment in terms of being dictated to when they could get out of bed, have something to eat or even use the bathroom.

Seeing Carol in that situation was really hurtful to me, she was a proud young woman feeling unnecessarily restricted and though I do accept that more vulnerable patients need special care sometimes I’ve never been comfortable with the way some professionals in hospitals become power driven and turn into little Hitlers. Not wanting to upset Tracey we put a brave face on the situation, had our rudimentary hugs and kisses and as Tracey settled down to play with her dolly I told Carol I had some ‘good’ news. 

With her eyes glued to mine, barely blinking, it was almost manna from Heaven for me to see the low subside and a slight sparkle of hope come back. Without her having to have a second longer of anticipation than necessary I said “I’m drafted to HMS Rooke. We’re going to Gibraltar”.

2.2 (1976) My daughter would be 10 days old when I flew DanAir on 11 April.

Our daughter Samantha Catherine was born on 31st March; she very nearly ended up being called Melanie on account of me quite taking to that name; I saw it on a hairdresser’s shop from the bus window as I was on my way to the hospital. Probably a good job I didn’t call her Melanie though because when I told Carol later she said she would have gone berserk. Sam’s second name, Catherine, was after my foster mother. 

One blessing about Sam’s birth date (since we were so broke) was that she was born on the very last day of the financial year which (back then) meant we were in line for a tax rebate. Meanwhile as a gift for Carol I did a serious ‘man’ thing – that I’ve never heard the last of (and probably never will and probably quite right too – not just from Carol but also my daughters). I bought her a present for having Samantha – a Marguerite Patten CookBook. In mitigation I told Carol she made fabulous puddings but that didn’t wash; fortunately it wouldn’t be long before my tax rebate would arrive and I was able to redeem myself. (Have to say though I did get a dandy pudding).  

It was a few days before Carol and Sam were allowed home which gave me a little time with Tracey on her own; although I think she was thrilled to have a little sister we didn’t want her feeling left out in any way. Big changes were afoot and we needed her to feel secure through the process. During little outings to the park and other places I was able to have the kind of conversations that Carol and I felt she needed – ‘When Mummy brings Sam home she will need you to help her sometimes because you’re a big girl now’. Looking back, parenting for us was really hard since we had no role models or extended family support, we literally had to make it up as we went along and hope for the best. It’s almost ironic that forty odd years later one of my social care roles was to support parents with their parenting. 

When Carol and Sam finally arrived home it was lovely that we were all together for the first time, I loved having my own family. Underneath the idyllic surface though was this feeling of a sort of impending doom before paradise could come. We had very little money and lived quite isolated in a (non-married quarter) private let in Gosport which meant we had to take the ferry anytime we wanted to go to Portsmouth. We couldn’t get a married quarter because we were going abroad. Having said that, whatever concerns we had were very much diluted by the fact we had each other (and our beautiful children) and had bonded very strongly. 

One of the lovely things we did do, that brightened our days, was to sit down and anticipate our new life in Gibraltar and talk about what it would be like; Carol loved the idea of a sunny climate because she liked a tan and Tracey couldn’t wait to see the monkeys. It was so nice for us all to have that hope and a future to look forward to even though there were still challenges ahead to overcome.

Gibraltar is a very small nation and (in 1976) with quite a large military presence accommodation was of a premium, there were waiting lists for married quarters. As a result the serviceman (me) had to travel to Gibraltar in advance and either wait for a married quarter before the family could follow, or acquire a private let. If going for a private let the property had to be inspected and passed by the Navy. Regardless, we didn’t want any unnecessary separation and so agreed that I would look for a private let. It wasn’t long before my flight tickets arrived; I’d be flying DanAir on 11 April when Sam was ten days old.

2:3 (1976) Life was now a surreal mixture of anxiety and excitement.

Our house in Gosport was a private let owned by the Dame Elizabeth Kelly Trust which accommodated servicemen and their families who, for whatever reason, couldn’t get a married quarter. It was a small terraced house with a back garden that Tracey was able to play in safely and nearby was a park where we often took her.

After Carol came home with the baby we needed to discuss and decide where she and the children would stay until I got a Family Passage (FamPass) and it wasn’t easy; I had to know they were safe and would be looked after but at the same time had no choice but to consider the cost. Eventually it was agreed they would stay with my sister Kerrie and her husband Graham in the North East; of all of my three sisters Kerrie was the one I was closest to and she was also very laid back which I thought would be good for Carol and the children. Kerrie lived in Rowlands Gill in the same house she had been brought up in as a child. Her husband Graham could appear loud at times but Carol would find that during her stay there he was an absolute diamond whenever problems arose.

Meanwhile in Gosport we had a few days to kill before giving in the house keys and going North during which we made a big fuss of Tracey as she got know her new sister; Carol encouraged her to help her tend Sam’s needs, getting clothes and nappies ready or joining her for a walk while I gave her loads of praise for being a brilliant big sister.

It’s difficult to put into words the mixture of anxiety and excitement we both felt knowing that our lives would be changing in less than a week when I would fly to Gibraltar not knowing when my family would follow; life was very surreal as we continued with normal things. One of the hardest things for me was Tracey’s bedtime routine, particularly reading her story and knowing that next week I couldn’t and didn’t even know when I could again. I don’t remember which story I read to Tracey on our last night in Gosport but I do know how I felt when I read it. At the end of the story I kissed her goodnight and said “Tomorrow sweetheart we’re going to see Auntie Kerrie “.

2:4 (1976) Touch down in Gibraltar felt like landing in a ploughed field.

After handing in the house keys we boarded the coach for Newcastle; it would be nearly nine years before I had a driving licence and so coaches and buses would become our main source of travel. When we arrived it was lovely to see my sister again; even though we had been separated and brought up hundreds of miles apart as children we had reattached as adults and I was so thankful for that. I think that experience very much fed into my current concerns of being separated from my family and the need to ensure it was as short as possible.

For many years now I’ve worked in children’s services and over that time have become increasingly aware of not just the importance of attachment between children to their primary caregivers (usually their parents) but also some of the perinatal issues that new mothers experience (e.g. severe depression). At 20, I knew nothing of such things but if I had I would not have left my daughter at ten days old or indeed my wife so soon after having given birth. I’m sorry if some of that sounds a bit clinical, it isn’t my intention it’s just something I felt the need to include in order to explain my feelings.

Whilst in the North East I was able to take Carol and the children to meet my foster Dad, Billy, who was, by now, resident at Hunters Moor Hospital, Spittal Tongues, Newcastle following (as mentioned in Chapter 1) three strokes. The last time I saw him was about a year previous when I went north on leave to try to encourage him with his physio but he was having none of it. Whenever I tried to help him with his exercises to straighten his leg he would use foul language and lash out at me; he wasn’t one of those people who wanted to get back up into life again and so the hospital had moved their focus and energies on to people who did. As a result he had now become wheelchair bound and dependent on others for most of his needs.

What was awesome though was that he loved the children and really took to them, in particular Tracey and made a lot of effort with her which I loved. There was something really delightful seeing them happily interacting with each other; seeing him in his grandad role almost let me forgive the fact that he was pretty emotionally absent as a dad. As the day of visiting my Dad came to a close, so too did the week and after really difficult goodbyes to my family it wasn’t long before I found myself sitting on a plane which was preparing to take off. 

I don’t remember which airport I left from but (as always) I do remember the thoughts going round in my head….’they’re all safe and being looked after, they will be back with me before I know it, I’ll start looking for a flat as soon as I land….’. As the plane’s engines revved higher and higher Bowie’s Space Oddity began taking over my thoughts (and still does today whenever I board a plane); ‘Ground control to Major Tom…’. When the revving had got to the point that I thought the plane would explode it felt as though the pilot just let the clutch out and sent us hurtling down the runway and up into the air. A few hours later our touch down in Gibraltar (after a sharp turn to stay out of Spanish air space) felt like we were landing in a ploughed field.

2:5 (1976) Being back in Gibraltar I felt a familiar calm.

Although I’d been to Gibraltar twice I’d never flown in before and so hadn’t been aware (until a few minutes before arriving by plane) that it was a notoriously bumpy landing. But once my vibrating body had calmed down I was thrilled to be back. As the plane doors opened I felt the warmth of the climate and when I stepped out and saw the Rock I just stopped dead at the top of the steps to take it all in. Within an instant I felt a familiar calm.

Transport from HMS Rooke had been sent to pick me up and as we drove from the airport to Rooke Barracks my eyes were all over the place spotting familiar places, landmarks and streets. Recently (in 2016) when I made a similar journey from the airport to the town centre I just about managed to still spot a few familiar places (e.g. Edinburgh House) although because of modern developments it wasn’t easy; by contrast today (1976) I recognised many, and I loved that.

Arriving at Rooke some of the first people I met, after security, were my new work colleagues since part of our role (in stores) was to issue bedding etc to new arrivals. Within a few minutes I had met my new Petty Officer Brian, a Leading Rate Sandy (who would become a good friend) and Phil, one of the Jack Dusty’s who would become quite a regular babysitter. 

After collecting my bedding Phil took me down to the mess deck where I claimed an empty bunk and sat down. At this time I had no idea how long I would be in barracks or how long it would take me to find a flat and get it passed by the Navy so that I could get my FamPass. Looking at my single bunk was a massive reality check; the journey was over, the anticipation was over, the excitement was subsiding and my family were hundreds of miles away. All of a sudden I felt as though I’d been hit with a sledge hammer. I think Phil (bless him) picked up on how I must have been feeling and bade a quiet ‘Catch you later then’ before closing the door behind him. 

2:6 (1976) I had the best job in the world in the best place in the world. Gibraltar.

Younger readers might find it impossible to imagine life without instant and constant communication with their family, friends and loved ones but here we are talking 1976; there was no such thing as Internet or social networks, there was no such thing as emails or mobile phones. Phoning home meant standing in a queue outside a phone box with a load of coins in your hand hoping that the line was clear and the person you were calling was ready outside their phone box.

Phoning home from abroad could be an absolute nightmare and so the real deal was airmail. Writing letters and receiving replies is very much a dying art now and, in my humble opinion, a very big loss to the social fabric of life but back then it was a lifeline. To spend time and effort writing a letter to someone showed a real element of care for that person and the excitement of receiving a reply could never be understated, it was a clear message that someone cared equally about you. That I still have all of my letters after 40 years and virtually none of my emails from yesterday says it all – and yes, I often read them.

Although my highest personal priority was to find a flat and have it pass the inspection I also had a responsibility to my job in the Royal Navy. After posting my first letter home I immediately applied myself to my new role which was to die for; I was really proud to have my HMS Rooke cap tally. Readers will recall how (in Chapter 1) I envied the Stores Team working in Gibraltar as I watched them storing my ship (HMS Scylla) knowing I was leaving the Rock and now I was on that very team storing other people’s ships: I had to keep pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. My job in a nutshell was receiving orders (known in the RN as ‘demands’) from warships due to arrive in Gibraltar and make sure they were on the quayside when the ship arrived. Since some things had to be ordered from the UK and other countries it was quite a challenging job but one with a great sense of satisfaction when it all went well. To not meet a ship’s ‘demand’ was not an option as it is always assumed that the ship could go to war at any time and so whatever they wanted, they got. 

Back in those days the Royal Navy was a lot bigger than it is now and many ships came through Gibraltar on their way out to the Far East or on their way back so our small team had to be very much on the ball – especially when the big boys (Ark Royal, Hermes) came through. Whatever, I had the best job in the world, in the best place in the world and so was on top of the world – well nearly, but I would be when my family arrived.

2:7 (1976) I loved Gibraltar but now wanted my family with me.

Just outside Rooke Barracks on Queensway is Edinburgh House, the colony of married quarters where all married servicemen serving in Gibraltar aspired to live. It’s a place that I thought (when I revisited Gibraltar 40 years later) may have been demolished but was delighted to find it hadn’t been and even more delighted to have a long chat with the present-day incumbent – more of that in Chapter 3 (2016). However, before I could have a married- quarter I would first need to get to the top of the waiting list which from what I could gather was about three months long but there was no way I was going to wait three months to see my family again and so the search for a private letting began.

Although I knew Gibraltar well enough to find my way around I had no idea where to find an estate agent offering rentals and so at the first opportunity I hit the town on a mission to suss them out. In those days the hub, or epicentre of Gibraltar was John Mackintosh Square known locally as the Piazza and was a place (in months to come) I would often take my children at the weekends because it was very social and there was always something going on there; these days I think the place to be is Casemates Square.

As Gibraltar is such a small place it isn’t long before everyone knows everything about everybody and there’s a part of me that loves that and finds it very endearing. I suppose you could argue that such a Grapevine lifestyle borders on a lack of privacy but on the other hand it is also an incredible support system within the community. (It often makes me smile how on Twitter now the Gibraltar community know each other and almost everything about each other.

On the first occasion I went up town I decided to start with a drink in the Piazza and looking back I must have stood out like a sore thumb because clearly the locals recognised me as a ‘new arrival probably wanting a rental’. I don’t think I’d had a sip of my drink before being offered to check out an apartment and from that moment on I didn’t need to look for an estate agent. I certainly didn’t mind that and though I knew it was in their interests they also knew it was in mine; but I also sincerely believed they wanted to help me and so I found their approach very supportive.

After talking to local people I felt a real sense of hope that I might be able to get a place fairly quickly; it was Carol’s 21st birthday coming up on the 21st April and the idea of sending her a FamPass as a present really inspired me to push on; the photos on my bunk wall were also a constant inspiration. I loved my job and I loved Gibraltar but now I wanted my family with me.

2:8 (1976) When the second flat failed inspection I was on the floor, hurting.

I can’t remember where the first flat I found was but it failed the Navy’s test and I was devastated; I’d already written to Carol and told her I’d found that place so now I had to write again to give her the bad news. For some reason best known to myself I thought that any reasonable flat I found would pass but it turns out I was quite naive. If I remember correctly the assessors took into account family dynamics and were aware we had an infant in the family so if the place was even remotely damp it would fail. 

Mindful of my vulnerability towards alcohol I decided not to drown my sorrows; it wouldn’t solve anything or get my family over quicker even though the temptation to get ‘mortal’ was pervasive. Instead I decided to ‘get straight back on the horse’ and find another flat so that when I wrote home I could at least say to Carol (that although the first flat failed) “keep your spirits up because there’s another in the pipeline”. Meanwhile between my searches I’d walk around and spend time in Alameda Gardens and imagine doing just that on Sunday mornings with my family when they arrived. There’s many places all over Gibraltar that are so peaceful and restful and where a mind in turmoil can be restored to calm; among those I’d include the Mediterranean Steps and Europa Point but right up there with them (for me) is Alameda.

The second flat I found was above the Angry Friar pub off Convent Place with an entrance on Main Street; the door is to the left of what is now the Imperial Newsagency. I thought the location of the flat would be good for Carol to feel in the middle of the community with lots of resources nearby such as Liptons and Marks and Spencer although she would still have to negotiate a pram up and down one flight of stairs. After the last failure I decided to not tell Carol when the inspection was because I didn’t want her getting her hopes up (again) only to be let down. When I knew the flat had passed its inspection I would treat us both to a phone call so that we could literally share the moment. 

Around the time I was waiting to hear news of the flat we had become really busy at work as there were a lot of ships passing through Gibraltar so I needed to apply myself to my work. I was also aware from her letters that everything wasn’t all rosy for Carol back in the UK although it was evidently ‘nothing for me to worry about, concern myself with or that she wasn’t able to deal with’ although as Sam was a new-born it didn’t stop me worrying. After Carol arrived on the Rock I found none of that to be the case and that issues she was having to manage were very serious but that her main focus had been to not upset me or compromise my situation which may delay things. Later (in this chapter) when I became more aware of things in Newcastle I would make major decisions that would directly affect both my career and my family’s future life but for now I had to (nervously) accept what I’d been told.

When the flat above the Angry Friar failed the inspection I was on the floor, hurting.

2:9 (1976) FamPass signalled. I didn’t know whether to scream with delight or bawl my eyes out.

Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick and when it does you make a choice. The easiest one for me right now was to take a break, ease the pressure and go have a night on the lash; do the Hole in the Wall, Tivoli, Main Street, the Buccaneer. And why not, that’s how I roll? But no that’s not how I roll. Not anymore. Especially not now as a family man with three people depending on me; and I never was one to take the easy option anyway. I hadn’t told Carol about the Angry Friar flat so at least I didn’t have any explaining to do. What I did do was give myself a good talking to, stopped being a wimp feeling sorry for myself and focused on being positive.

On Carol’s birthday I phoned her and although it was always difficult for us both hearing the other on the phone it was good to hear she was okay and that Graham and Kerrie were looking after her. Geordies are very good at looking after people although they did have a few bizarre customs I knew Carol would be exposed to; much later I had to smile when Carol told me about a ‘pickled egg eating competition’ she had with Graham on her birthday evening. Even though it was a very difficult separation for her I loved that she retained a few happy and funny memories.

Not long after I had given myself that good talking to a game-changer happened. Someone living in Edinburgh House had left Gibraltar and returned to the UK which meant that his married quarter was now vacant. As a result another sailor who had been living in a Naval caravan could now move into that man’s married quarter. Naturally a third sailor who had been living in a private flat up town was then able to move into the vacant caravan which meant ‘Bingo’ I could have his private let – and because it had already been passed by the Navy the inspection was swift and it passed again!!! Don’t you just love evolution? I immediately applied for 10, Trafalgar House, got it then sent Carol a telegram; it was 23 April 1976, two days after her 21st birthday BOOM!!! 

Even after finding the flat, paying a hefty deposit and informing the Navy, the protocol of having a FamPass signalled to the UK took another week and still didn’t give a clear date when my family would arrive, though they did estimate 10-13 May. But that was irrelevant really because the reality was that my family would be with me within weeks. I didn’t know whether to scream with delight or bawl my eyes out. I treated myself to a walk.

As I sat in Alameda gardens looking up at my new home-to-be I realised the view from the window looked straight out over…..Alameda gardens! Words failed me.

2:10 (1976) My 21st birthday on the lash in Gibraltar

The 4th May 1976 was my 21st birthday and as always I was the envy of ‘Trekkies’ everywhere (May the Fourth be with You) even though I wasn’t particularly a fan. What I was a fan of though was the fact I was 13 days younger than Carol and revelled in being her ‘Toy Boy’ for almost two weeks every year – much to the delight of the children – particularly when Carol would physically show her disapproval by clouting me around the ear.

On the 21st day I received a huge card with loads of kisses, messages and handprints from the children and Carol, which I still treasure; I also received a telegram which was hand delivered to me …… by the ‘heavies’ – Naval Security? Bemused why the ‘heavies’ had delivered the telegram I opened it up under their watchful eye and was delighted to get a ‘Happy Birthday’ message from Carol and a confirmation that she and the children would be arriving on 13 May 1976 – what I couldn’t have known then was that exactly 40 years later to the day (13 May 2016) we would both finally return to Gibraltar – but then that’s a story for Chapter 3. As for why it was the ‘heavies’ who delivered the telegram I’d have to wait until Carol’s arrival because no-one was forthcoming with an explanation. Later, when I eventually did find out and make sense of the implications, I was outraged.

Since my arrival in Gibraltar my main focus had been finding a flat and settling into my job; I hadn’t really been out drinking or anything because I had very little money and also needed to keep my drink problem at bay. But on my 21st Birthday my colleagues were having none of that and insisted on taking me out on the lash. Needless to say the only thing I remember about any of it was that I evidently got totally’ rat-arsed but (to both Carol’s delight and mine) the lads looked after me throughout and then put me into my own bed at the end of the night. What was a lovely touch was Brian (my P.O.) let me sleep it off the following day and if I remember rightly I finally returned to work on May 6th. I also realised my family was arriving in 7 days!!!! Eeeeeek. I had work to do.

2:11 (1976) 10, Trafalgar House

The days since my birthday had flown by, and although I had done a lot of preparation there still seemed to be loads to do. Day by day I’d been buying things I felt we would need like cutlery, plates, bedding and stuff but I was pretty certain there was still other stuff I just couldn’t think of. The problem was that in married quarters you are supplied with everything and so I didn’t want to buy things if I didn’t absolutely have to. Writing that I sound quite mercenary or tight but I’m not really we just didn’t have spare cash. In the end I decided that as long as we had the basics to get by we could shop again when Carol arrived because I’d got several days leave booked.

What I did realise (going backward and forwards to the flat) was the downside – our flat was several floors up, almost at the top of the building, and if a fit serviceman like me found that challenging then it was going to be a nightmare for Carol with a pram and a toddler. Hopefully, I thought, it wouldn’t be long before there was movement again and we got a Naval caravan without too long a wait. On the upside we’d probably both prefer to manage the issues than be separated any longer than we needed to be.

Back in 1976 St. Michael’s Cabin was one of the most romantic little restaurants in Gibraltar situated halfway up the Rock overlooking the dockyard, the Town and the small coastal town of La Linea, Spain. I’d gone up there in the evenings to check it out and the views were to die for so I booked a table for the very evening Carol was arriving. Sadly today it isn’t open in the evenings and only serves snacks for tourists during the day which to me is a crying shame and a very sad decline of a wonderful resource. Once I’d booked the table I arranged a female babysitter through the Naval Wives Club so finally  things were starting to come together.

On the day before Carol was due to arrive I decided to go uptown and buy her and the children presents. Quite a lot of the shops in those days sold those leather goods and ornaments from Morocco but that wasn’t really what I was looking for. In the end I decided on teddy bears and eventually found three in different sizes and colours that I liked. Tomorrow I would take them to the airport.

2:12 (1976) As my family arrived in Gibraltar a tear rolled down my face.

Standing at the airport holding three teddy bears looking up into the sky said it all. 

It had been over five weeks since I had seen my family. My new little girl is now nearly seven weeks old. When she was born she had a lovely head of hair that I remembered looked like a coconut and smelled very ‘baby’ which I loved. I’d missed that. I used to have a bizarre habit of sticking my head in the ‘baby’ cupboard to smell the freshly laundered terry-towelling fabric-softened nappies and I’d missed that as well (weird as that sounds). I wondered if the cupboard would still smell the same and whether I would still do that.

I’d missed my little girl too; just before leaving the UK we’d spent a lot of time together while Carol was in hospital. I’d missed taking her to the swing park, I’d missed reading her bedtime story, I’d missed talking to her about our new life in Gibraltar, I’d missed her smile. And yet I hoped she hadn’t missed me too much; I didn’t want her hurting because I wasn’t there. Now as I stood there at the airport looking up into the sky I so wanted her to be with me and know she felt alright; I wanted to hug her and see her smile.

Naturally I’d really missed Carol. We hadn’t been together that long but were very emotionally close and interdependent. Part of me knew our separation had been very difficult for her, and no picnic for me either; I had a desperate need to know about everything and put her mind at rest. But not today. Today was not a day for complex conversations; today was a day about joy.

As I looked up into the sky it was surreal to think my family was up there somewhere (at 35000 feet) flying at hundreds of miles an hour. When I think about that rationally I know flying is just a normal part of life but sometimes I’m not always rational. I wanted them down, safely down on the ground. At that, a plane came into sight. 

As I watched the plane turn and descend my heart was in my mouth. None of my family had flown before and I knew the landing would be bumpy. As it descended and I saw the DanAir logo I knew it was their plane. Just as the wheels were about to touch the ground I shut my eyes tight and kept them shut until I heard the plane slow down and the engines ease. Finally I opened my eyes and felt my heart thumping with excitement. My family had arrived in Gibraltar just at the same time a tear rolled down my face.

2:13 (1976) “Why are you crying Daddy?”

As the plane doors were flung open it immediately became one of those moments when I just didn’t want to blink in case I missed my family walking out. And these were the days long before camera phones so there was no way for me to capture and cherish that moment in a photo. What hadn’t occurred to me was that the airline would let all the solo travellers off the plane first to clear the decks for families with small children so it almost seemed like ages since I’d blinked. My eyes were starting to feel like one of those nocturnal animals that always seemed really wide eyed. 

With the bright sun in my face I finally faltered, closed my eyes to rest them and then wiped the sweat from my face with a handkerchief. When I opened my eyes again I saw my little girl standing at the top of the steps looking up at the Rock in wonder. I burst into tears.

Almost instantly I morphed into a barking mad cheerleader frantically jumping up and down waving my arms in the air while hanging on to my three teddy bears in an effort to get my daughters attention but her eyes were glued to the beautiful Rock. I loved the idea that her eyes were full of the very same wonder that was in my own eyes the first time I saw Gibraltar and I knew it would make a lasting impression on her.

My ‘tribal rain dance’ – the one that was having absolutely no impact on my daughter whatsoever – came to an immediate halt the minute I saw Carol emerge from the plane holding Sam; almost immediately she came out she waved over at where I was standing and encouraged Tracey to do the same. I was a mess. I just stood there, bottom lip wobbling like a rubber dingy in a tidal wave and my arms stretched out like my #AngelOfTheNorth.

Just reading back it isn’t difficult to pick up on how emotive things were and although I don’t profess to be a skilled writer I’m making no apologies for at least having a go at expressing how I felt. At the time of this event I was a young 21 year old working class Geordie boy, quite sexist and damaged from childhood and even though I probably appeared to be quite immature I literally couldn’t give a monkeys because I adored my family and didn’t care who knew it. Having said that I did sense that local people watching quite admired my passion.

Eventually after what seemed like forever Carol and the children came through the barrier and I just grabbed them all as though everyone in the world wanted to take them away from me. For a time I just held Carol’s face and looked into her eyes giving her one of those Eskimo nose kisses without saying anything; I didn’t want some inane conversation spoiling such an intimate moment. After all the anxiety of waiting to be separated, then the actual separation, then the stress of finding flats, failing inspections and knowing it had been really hard for Carol I wasn’t having negativity in our lives today. It was so lovely to think in terms of ‘our’ lives ‘today’; it was real. I picked up my daughter Tracey and looked at her beaming little smile. “Why are you crying Daddy?” she asked. “Because I love you darling” I said.

2:14 (1976) Everyone was shattered but no-one wanted to sleep.

In the taxi from the airport I just could not get enough of the physical contact and went into octopus mode with one arm around Tracey as she sat on my knee and the other arm around Carol as I kissed Sam on the head…then Tracey on the head…then Carol…. At one point I had to ease off in case I literally crushed them all – on top of which I suddenly became aware of them wanting to look out of the window at their new home; of course they did. The other thing was that they were naturally all exhausted from the journey which had begun over twenty four hours earlier in leaving Newcastle, travelling to the airport and staying overnight somewhere which may sound like a walk in the park now but back in 1976 it wasn’t easy for a young mum with two children. I’m not sure slobbering all over them was any help at all. As the taxi wound its way towards Trafalgar House I don’t think Tracey took her eyes off the Rock while Carol just soaked up her new environment on her very first trip outside of the U.K. Finally we arrived at the Trafalgar building and somehow managed to get everyone and everything including all the baby paraphernalia up umpteen flights of stairs to Flat 10. 

Tracey was quite fascinated that the Trafalgar building was triangular on the outside (like a toblerone) and hollow on the inside where residents had their washing lines on pulleys. It crossed my mind that Tracey mustn’t be allowed out of the flat unsupervised as it was a sheer drop to the ground floor. On my recent trip to Gibraltar (2016) I sneaked into the Trafalgar building and went up a few flights of stairs to see if I still felt the same way as I did forty years ago when I looked over the internal balcony and I did.

Inside the flat Carol and Tracey had a look around and were really happy with it. It was spacious and had quite a nice big lounge, bunk beds in the children’s room and best of all a balcony off the kitchen looking directly over Alameda Gardens. Both Carol and Tracey loved looking out over Alameda. Likewise as with the internal balcony we decided Tracey mustn’t be allowed on the outer balcony unsupervised.

It was one of those situations where although everyone was shattered no-one wanted to go to sleep so we all just jumped onto the double bed and had a group hug. For the first time in weeks I felt whole again, my herd was back with me. Lying on the bed Carol handed me a small present and said “Happy belated 21st birthday darling”. A beautiful watch which nearly 50 years later I still have.

2:15 (1976) St.Michael’s Cabin.

I’m not sure how we all four of us got on the bed with three great big teddy bears but lying there with Carol, the children and the bears was a ‘I never want this to end’ moment. The smell of baby Sam’s coconut head was exactly how I remembered it as she lay on my chest; and having Tracey on one side and Carol the other made me feel like the filling in a sandwich of love. Eventually though we did all have to move because naturally Sam needed feeding and changing and it was lovely for me to be able to tend to her needs again. In the short six weeks or so that we had all been apart Sam had changed so much I was really glad the separation wasn’t any longer. While I tended to the baby Carol and Tracey freshened up after which we all went down for a stroll around Alameda gardens. I had died and gone to Heaven! As we walked around the gardens we ‘bumped into’ a couple of mums from the Naval Wives Club who I had deliberately arranged to bump into and asked to babysit while I took Carol out for a meal; point being I wanted Tracey to meet them beforehand. Fortunately Tracey was very relaxed with them and after an hour or so was delighted they were going to watch the television with her while Mummy and Daddy popped out for a little while.

That evening, dressed up to the nines, we sat in the back of a taxi on a beautiful warm evening and cruised slowly at my request up the Rock to St. Michaels Cabin. When we arrived we got out of the car and looked out at the view below – speechless. Carol was in awe of the Rock and the view and I was in awe of her; she looked beautiful. It was over forty years ago but in my mind it may as well have been forty minutes ago the memory is so crystal clear.

As we went into the cabin we were greeted by a waiter who showed us to our reserved table by the window overlooking La Linea; in the background a live folk band played beautiful gentle instrumentals. Back then whenever we went out for a meal – which was extremely rare because we never had spare money – we always had a steak and although that may sound naff now it was an amazing treat for us then. Oddly enough I don’t particularly remember the steak that night so much as the most amazing French Onion Soup with Cheese Croutons we had for starters. 
As the sun went down we alternated between looking out of the window at the lights flickering on in the town and staring each other straight in the eyes. We were two ordinary people who had somehow survived difficult, abusive, lonely childhoods to find each other, connect and land in paradise.

2:16 (1976) Treasured memories of Nirvana.

By the time we got ‘home’ (what a great word for our new flat in Trafalgar House that we hadn’t even spent a night in yet) it was really dark. As we entered the lobby of the building there was a really weird rustling sound coming from the bins that were kept there. Immediately Carol got quite alarmed and whispered “What’s that?”, then froze hanging on to me for fear of death – or even worse!. Not knowing what it was I moved closer to the bins to try to see but with every step I took Carol had to take a step too and with the rustling noise getting louder and louder she was starting to freak out.

Just then I had a light bulb moment (for want of a better phrase) – I’d reach over and switch the lights on and then we’d both see what it was making the noise. Reaching over to the switch I became aware we were both staring, eyes wide open at the bins; the second I flicked it on Carol let out a blood curdling scream as hundreds of cockroaches ran all over the walls and floors for cover. We were not alone.

I can’t say it was one of my best moments and it certainly wasn’t how I had hoped the evening would end – not that I minded Carol jumping up into my arms I would just have preferred it to have been a little more romantic. Carol has something of an insect phobia and so it took me some time to calm her down but eventually we made our way upstairs to find our babysitters happily telling us Tracey and Sam had been lovely and both were flat out asleep.

Apart from cockroaches in the bins our time at Trafalgar House was lovely, Carol and the children settled well in the flat and we took advantage of me being on leave to get out and about a little so that everyone could become orientated. Naturally we had to think carefully before leaving the flat because it was a long way back up if we forgot anything but just being together again compensated for any inconveniences. In total (if I remember rightly) we were only at Trafalgar House for two or three weeks before a Naval Caravan became free but I have very treasured memories of those times. We even had a cat. Okay it was a Feral cat but it was a cat that kept the cockroaches out. For me the loveliest thing about it all was that we had finally come through a really emotionally difficult transition and now had a normal family life. Just watching Carol feed Sam on the couch or Tracey laughing out loud was nirvana; not even winning the lottery could have come close.

2:17 (1976) My faith had been shaken to the core.

One evening when the children were in bed Carol and I began talking about how being separated had been for us both. Carol really complimented me for keeping my head and not hitting the booze when things got tough because I was still quite vulnerable in that direction; I praised her too for managing the children on her own through difficult times in the often unforgiving environment of Geordieland. With not having any extended family to speak of we only had each other to top up our ’emotional bank accounts’; praising each other was one way we were able to build up our self-esteem and continue bonding. During our separation we had both had our 21st birthday without the other and both had tough challenges and decisions to make without having the other for support. It had been quite an isolating time for both of us but for Carol it turned out to be extremely worrying too.

Not long after I had arrived in Gibraltar our baby Sam had begun having seizures and become extremely ill, so much so that it wasn’t known if she would survive. Tests were inconclusive and so a diagnosis or prognosis wasn’t possible. Things became so scary for Carol after being convinced by the medics that we may very well lose the baby she contacted SAAFA (Sailors, Army, Air Force Association) and asked them to request the Royal Navy to send me home on compassionate grounds.

SAAFA contacted the Commanding Officer of HMS Rooke on Carol’s behalf, explaining the circumstances, and requested compassionate leave for me. It was refused. The reply from Rooke said that I would be given compassionate leave only ‘if the baby died’. The effect of this response on Carol can only be imagined; our child may die, she would have to face that dreadful prospect alone after which she would have to manage her grief until I got home after I had been told by a total stranger that my daughter was dead. What an awful thing to cope with.

Of course I knew nothing of all this at the time, because the Navy didn’t inform me, but as Carol spoke that evening it all started making sense; particularly when I thought back to my birthday and the Bootnecks wouldn’t leave until after I had opened my telegram. They must have thought Carol was updating me and were wary of my reaction. As it turned out Carol’s telegram was only a genuine birthday message and so they left me be. As I slowly took in the implications of what Carol was telling me I was outraged; so much so that later in the year the Royal Navy would learn just how sickened I was; how much my love and faith in them had been shaken to the core.

2:18 (1976) Hard Talk.

I can’t deny being shocked and saddened when I realised how traumatic things had been for Carol during our separation; to think I hadn’t been in a position to help her was frightening and heartbreaking. And while I couldn’t forget how vulnerable our family was while we were dependent on the Navy I didn’t want to spoil what we had finally got. Here we were in beautiful Gibraltar with a two year posting to look forward to and although I did need to analyse carefully my ever changing circumstances – in terms of my ‘work-home life-balance’ – I had to keep those good bits in mind to ensure our stay in Gibraltar was a positive one.

As a serving sailor the Royal Navy’s interest in me would always be first and foremost military but that didn’t mean to say they weren’t interested in my well-being. Just acknowledging that took the sting out of personalising the issue; after all I’d been in the Navy five years, loved my job and the culture and I understood how things worked. I was well liked, well respected and later in the year I was due for promotion so naturally the Royal Navy was a massive part of my identity. What had changed, however, was that I was now a married man with children and therefore my priorities were changing and were now very different to when I first joined up. That wasn’t the Navy’s fault but what I needed to do was get a grip on it all.

For me the whole thing was a massive learning curve; as a family man I now had to develop the skills of anticipation, to be able to look forward and spot obstacles or issues that might negatively impact on my family, and begin to think more about prevention than cure. Being able to talk through hard things with Carol while balancing the positives lifted a lot of our anxieties and fears.

2:19 (1976) I love that my children had some of their Early Years in Gibraltar.

Gibraltar is a fabulous place for children, and for parents to bring up children – it’s also fabulous for adults like me who never grew up; I say that last bit tongue in cheek because in my profession (working with children and young people) we often say that ‘great  Childcare workers never grow up’). Now, in my 60s, still working with children and young people I have no intention of growing up. Given my own childhood took place in the cold back streets of Newcastle during the 50s and 60s I loved the idea of my children having the opposite – and you couldn’t get more opposite than Gibraltar; indeed many of my Gibraltarian readers tell me of halcyon days during their childhoods and you need only to do the minimum of research to discover that life for children and young people on the Rock is still full of sunshine and opportunities.

In 1976 our children were very little (one age 3 the other just a few months) and one of their favourite things to do was to go to the beach or somewhere else they could paddle in the water and cool off from the Mediterranean sun. Gibraltar has six absolutely gorgeous beaches and naturally we spent a lot of time on all of them; my personal favourite beach was always Catalan Bay but we did chop and change often to give the children variety. But as well as beaches we also took the children to other places where they could paddle to cool off; Nuffield Pool was very much a regular haunt and another was Montague Pavilion which was just a short walk down Queensway from HMS Rooke. It was a sort of enclosed concrete quayside with deck chairs on it and where you could climb down steel ladders for a dip in the sea water. Halcyon days.

2:20 (1976) Eastern Beach, Bambinos and the Hacienda.

On the weekends when I wasn’t on duty we would often walk around the North Face for a day out at either Eastern Beach or Catalan Bay. Although Catalan Bay was my favourite it was a far longer walk for Tracey and Carol and so Eastern Beach was a more regular haunt. It also had a coffee take-away place nearby called the Hacienda Bar which sadly has since been demolished but since writing these memoirs I have become friends with the architect who built it, William Serfaty.

Thinking back I suppose Eastern Beach is the Bondi Beach of Gibraltar because of its size; it’s by far the longest beach, stretching over the border to Spain, and although I’m not fond of big beaches it does have its saving graces. Because it’s so open it has a lovely breeze – and because the sea comes well in it wasn’t far to take the children for a paddle. 

These were very special times which I doubt my writing skills will ever be able to convey properly. I absolutely loved to see my children in their matching frocks and hats, all of which Carol hand-made from materials she would buy at Princess Silks on Main Street. What I also loved was how local people loved the children too and would often ask to ‘look after bambinos’ while Carol and I had a break for a swim or a walk. 

2:21 (1976). The mystique of Catalan Bay.

As mentioned earlier Catalan Bay was, and still is, my favourite beach in Gibraltar and whenever I think about why that is I suppose it’s partly to do with the mystique of the place. The first time I ever went there I walked the beach and then wandered around the little village with its coloured houses and church but didn’t see a soul. Looking back there was probably a perfect explanation for that, for example it may have been ‘siesta’ I don’t know, but the whole place was very enigmatic to me. If you ever walk around a place and don’t meet anyone it can be a very surreal experience; in the absence of people or knowledge you fill the gaps and make things up.

Looking up at the water catchment on the Rock behind Catalan village my creative mind would go into overdrive. Had there been a landslide that had sent all the people into the sea but left the buildings empty but intact? Pompeii or what? No, of course not but I guess some places just capture your imagination and Catalan Bay did for me and still does. I don’t think I ever did meet a real live Gibraltarian ‘Catlander’ until 40 years later in 2016.

Something that added to the mystique of Catalan Bay was when we would walk through a tunnel – which literally went from somewhere near Rosia – right through the Rock to get there. For Tracey, as a little 3 year old, it was must have been a bit like like something out of the ‘Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe’ walking through a very, very long tunnel to come out at a ‘Palace’ at the other end – Caleta Palace of course, now more mundanely named Caleta Hotel.

Catalan Bay today has many more eating places than in the early days of 1976 – very good ones I have to add – and though more busy as a consequence, it still has a very captivating air which gets my whole-hearted approval. For those brave enough to take a dip the water is a bit choppy to say the least. However, once a year, I think on Boxing Day, locals traditionally charge into the water for a little self-flagellation although I’m not sure why; but then why not? For me, my endearing memories are of spending time there having picnics with my young family.

2:22 (1976) Nuffield Pool and Europa Point.

Nuffield Pool was where I found out I had developed a stomach ulcer from my years on the booze. When I look at photos of the pool I can still identify even now the exact spot I found that out. That recollection is particularly clear and very poignant to me since said ulcer very nearly killed me; the fact that I neither drink alcohol nor smoke today is my personal thank you to the doctors who literally saved my life.

As a young adult I was an excellent swimmer – naturally you have to be a strong swimmer to be in the Navy in the first place. As well as being a leisure facility Nuffield pool was also the venue for the Armed Forces swimming galas and it was during one (as I was swimming up the third length of a four-length freestyle race) that my abdomen felt like it had been stabbed with a carving knife leaving my innards feeling as though they had liquidised with hot fluid. Somehow (Heaven knows how) I finished the race by literally crawling to the finish line in total agony (amid Carol’s horror) taking last place after having led for the first two lengths. Not long after that event I found myself in RNH (Royal Naval Hospital Gibraltar) having some very unpleasant tests (at the same time our baby daughter Sam was admitted for surgery) but that story is for later.

Probably one of the most defining memories I have of Nuffield Pool isn’t my favourite, in fact looking back it’s one of my worst memories and not something I’m especially proud of. To cut a long story short I wanted my daughter Tracey to get in the water so I could begin teaching her how to swim but she wouldn’t get in. In those days I wasn’t the most tolerant person and to my eternal shame (although my daughter has long since forgiven me and we laugh about it now) – I lobbed her in! 
Quite recently Tracey referred to that ‘baptism’ (tongue in cheek) as child cruelty because she knows it winds me up and we both have a similar wicked sense of humour. Today, I cringe even thinking about it but do console myself that it WAS forty years ago and she now sees a funny side to it. (And she’s a great swimmer).

On my recent visit to Gibraltar (May 2016) I walked past Nuffield Pool on my way to Europa Point and was really pleased to see it had been well refurbished. From the road side it looked as though it was now a private complex (although I don’t know if that’s the case) and I think someone told me the name had changed too to Europa Pool. As much as I admired it I didn’t feel as though I could knock on the door and ask for a dip – but then given some of my past experiences in the place that was probably no bad thing. It was good to see that it was being so well looked after though – just like so much of Gibraltar today. I loved that the waterfall opposite still cascaded down from the Rock, some things never change.

After passing the swimming pool there’s a tunnel which eventually leads to Europa Point and although I have no recollection of ever going that far in the 70s with my family it seems inconceivable not to have done so. My only real memory of Europa was of the lighthouse and so I was amazed to see how much was going on there today. I had no recollection of the Mosque and wondered if that had been built after the 70s? The cafe was definitely not there previously and the bus terminal looked as though it had been recently upgraded. I think what shone out for me above everything else was the new Gibraltar University, a gorgeous building right on the seafront. If a student cannot be inspired there, then he/she will never be inspired.

2:23 (1976) Finally to Queensway, Gibraltar.

It’s sometimes really hard for me to remember things from so long ago and then write them down in the right order so apologies if continuity is compromised occasionally. For me, my memoirs are a collection of thoughts and anecdotes rather than a story but still a very cathartic experience for me, and hopefully enjoyable to readers.

Our leisure time in Gibraltar was always going to be lovely for us all because there is always somewhere different to go and something different to do. However, as well as the fun days there were also practicalities to consider such as balancing my job with our family life. Although our flat at Trafalgar House was lovely with its views over Alameda Gardens it was always a challenge for Carol (when I wasn’t there) to get in and out with the children, the buggy and all the paraphernalia that comes with that. It’s worth making a note here that the seventies was a very sexist period in time; in UK I remember waiting at a bus stop on my own with our three children and when the bus arrived several people got off to help me on – Carol in the same situation would often be ignored or left to struggle on her own.

After a few weeks at Trafalgar House we finally got the news that we had been allocated a Navy caravan and were thrilled; it was one stop away from a married quarter. The caravan site was situated on Queensway not far down from Rooke barracks and so it meant Carol was going to have far easier access to places – for example the NAAFI which was just up the road.

It was once we had moved onto Naval property that we finally started connecting with other Naval families and becoming part of a social network; I think living up at Trafalgar House had sort of stunted that. And life on the caravan site soon became a lovely ‘norm’ for us all; Tracey would play outside again and the view of the Rock from our lounge window was to die for. Life was good. Today I believe the old caravan site is now a bus terminal

2:24 (1976) Bohemian caravan days.

There’s something quite attractive, even romantic at times, about living in a caravan which probably stems from images and stories of New Age travellers, Romany Gipsies and others who either choose, or inherit, one of those alternative lifestyles. For people who are stuck in a ‘normal’ life working five days a week and with a mortgage and bills to pay it can almost be seen as utopia. We didn’t exactly have the ‘no bills’ bit but we did have that alternative Bohemian lifestyle for a few months and though it had its ups and downs they were very special days.

I think to a certain degree we felt some of those lovely sentiments; it was a very close and cosy lifestyle which is exactly what we needed at that time (after our separation); there was also naturally less housework to do than in a bigger living space leaving far more time for leisure and recreation. My morning walks to work at HMS Rooke in the sunshine are still very much ingrained in my positive memory bank as is the relaxed laid back culture which allowed Carol to call in at my office in Rooke on her way back from the NAAFI with a tasty snack for me. Carol, too, found popping up to Main Street was far less arduous and more often a nice experience.

In parallel with the good bits though there were downsides which, in the main, Carol had to cope with. One was a lack of space for clothes, prams, toys, uniforms and a million other things. With four people in a small space she had to think twice before for example getting an ironing board out. Precision planning became essential and this was particularly highlighted at bath time; the caravan site had communal bathrooms and so people had to sort of book slots to use the facilities.

On the subject of the communal bathrooms there were actually two, each equipped with a bath, a sink and a toilet. Often, once the children had been bathed, I would have them in the caravan while Carol popped over to the bathrooms to have her own bath. On one particular evening however Carol was late going over to the bathrooms and it was quite dark. Entering one of the bathrooms she turned on the light to find there was no plug in the bath and so went next door to get the plug out of the other bathroom. When she went into the second bathroom and pulled the light cord but found the light wasn’t working as the bulb had blown. Knowing roughly where the bath was and at which end the plug would be, Carol made her way into the room and stuck her hand in the bath to fish out the plug…

Thirty yards away (in the caravan with the children) all I heard was a blood curdling scream. I shot over to the bathrooms to find Carol in the darkened bathroom frozen in fear. Realising the light bulb had blown I ran and got the bulb from the bathroom next door and turned on the light. There then followed….another blood curdling scream. When Carol had put her hand in the bath (in the dark) to fish out the plug, what she had done was stick her hand into a six-inch deep colony of cockroaches. It appeared the bath is where they slept, mated or did whatever when the lights were low. 

Being pathologically terrified of cockroaches it took me a long time to move Carol’s psyche from ‘I want to go home to the UK NOW!!!’ to ‘I’ll stay but you better check everywhere they might be before I go in or you’re dead’. Somehow I managed to achieve the latter because our stay in Gibraltar didn’t end for some considerable time. And I’m not dead.

2:25 (1976) “Daddy can we go to see the monkeys now please?”

Carol and the children had been in Gibraltar for I guess about six weeks when one Saturday morning Tracey asked “Daddy can we go to see the monkeys now please?” 

I was shocked, outraged and speechless but not at Tracey. At myself. After everything she had coped with over the past months the only thing she had wanted was for me to take her to see the monkeys – and I’d forgotten! Without saying a word my little three-year-old had sensed I had been busy with other things so had waited and trusted that I would eventually plan it and that one day I would say to her that today was the day. But I hadn’t (because I had forgotten) and so she had had to come to me and ask. I felt totally dreadful. 

Lifting her onto my knee and giving her a massive hug I said to her “Yes sweetheart, today is the day we can go to see the monkeys”. After watching our conversation Carol (thinking quickly on her feet) said “Come on then. Let’s choose our frocks and get ready for our day out then you can help Mummy to get Sammie and the bags ready” to which Tracey bounced off my knee with an excited smile on her face. That one short conversation I had with my child taught me more about parenting than anything else. The idea I wasn’t in tune with my child really hurt me inside and I vowed not to let that happen again.

The wild Barbary macaques of Gibraltar are the monkeys Tracey was talking about; they are world famous and thought to be the biggest tourist attraction of the Rock. Wikipedia will tell readers that there are 5 separate troops of apes on the Rock numbering 300 individuals although on my recent visit (May 2016) the Ranger said there were 6 troops numbering an estimated 250. Whatever the correct figure is isn’t really relevant within this memoir so much as the fact that if you don’t visit the apes on a trip to Gibraltar – you have ‘not’ been to Gibraltar, such is their relevance. Legend has it that if the apes ever leave the Rock it will cease to be British.

In the cable car on the way up to the apes den Tracey was so excited – and we were even more excited for her. The minute we stepped off the cable car her eyes were all over the place like lighthouse beacons as they searched for the monkeys and it wasn’t long before she found them. To see the wonder in her eyes on that day remains one of my favourite memories – and also one of hers.

I loved how she literally kneeled down to get a closer look at the monkeys, she’d heard so much about them there was almost this need in her to get as close as possible to check out the information she had in her head. What was even more amazing was how the monkeys related back to her; most of them were bigger than her and could easily have hurt her but the opposite happened. The monkeys seemed to warm to her and were aware of her vulnerability. She totally loved her day and I totally loved that she loved her day.

 2:26 (1976) Camp Bay, Rosia, Gibraltar.

One of the great things during writing these memoirs was being in touch with many Gibraltarians on Twitter; quite often I have been able to ask them if my writings are correct allowing me to make any changes. During these Twitter conversations a really interesting discussion ensued about the ornamental ‘Dolphins’ in the Camp Bay pool. People said there were three of them and that they used to spout water like fountains but were no longer there today. Although I couldn’t remember them at all, they are in one of my own photos. Hopefully one day these iconic dolphins will be included somewhere within the Camp Bay complex.

*UPDATE from Gibraltarian NICKY DANINO: “Hi Alan the dolphins are still there, just not in the actual pool. When they refurbished the pool they took them out and they are now lined up to one side!”. (Thanks Nicky, great to hear).

2:27 (1976) At the top of Gibraltar I’m on top of the world.

It isn’t often I’ve stood on top of a mountain but on the rare occasions I have there’s something very liberating about it. It reminds me how small and insignificant I am in the scale of things which I think is really healthy. To look out at the land, sea and air from up on high puts me in touch with my own mortality; what I’m looking out at has been there for millennia and has probably been seen by millions of people – if it ever looked back at me all it would see would be just one ordinary 60+ old man. 

Standing atop the Rock of Gibraltar is awesome for all of the reasons mentioned but also for something else; a massive sense of belonging. I felt a connection with the Rock from the very first time I went to the top and still feel it now even after a forty years absence. When I look at photos from the seventies and compare them to more recent ones I love seeing the familiar things blending with newer developments; it’s almost like seeing an ongoing maintenance not dissimilar to looking after a vintage classic car. There’s something very reassuring about seeing the Trafalgar House building in a seventies photo and then still seeing it there in a 2016 photo alongside contemporary high-rise apartment buildings.

There’s several ways to get to the top of the Rock including taxis, Rock Tours operators, the cable car or even (for the fit folks) walking up. When you arrive at the top there are fabulous views and photo opportunities from all sides and a cafe to chill with refreshments and pick up a few souvenirs. All around the cafe a troop of Rock apes welcome the visitors, play, feed and pinch whatever isn’t held tightly.

As well as the Cafe summit there are other peaks on Gibraltar. One is towards Europa Point which you can ascend via the Mediterranean Steps from Jews Gate and another is quite a steep walk up the North Face passing Moorish Castle, the World War 2 Tunnel and the City Under Siege along the way. Having climbed up all three described I love all of them for their totally different experiences and their beautiful differing views. When I’m at the top of Gibraltar I’m on top of the world.

2:28 (1976) 21 Edinburgh House, Queensway.

Living in our caravan was always really cosy and the views of the Rock from our lounge window were fabulous but space was very limited and so when we finally got the news we had a married quarter we were dancing – albeit my dancing is a bit like Mr Bean’s). Our new and final abode in Gibraltar would be 21 Edinburgh House, a three bed flat on the first floor, opposite Rooke barracks on Queensway. 

Edinburgh House was, and still is, a collection of several hundred flats in two storey buildings occupied then by both Royal Navy and RAF personnel; they were designed in quadrangles with communal space in the middle. In the seventies our communal space was a play park for the children; today it is car parking spaces and the flats are no longer for military personnel. On my recent trip (2016) I spent almost an hour having a fascinating chat with the present tenant which I relay in Chapter 3. Back then the NAAFI was where most service families shopped and conveniently it was just over the road. Another attraction of the NAAFI was that service families could have credit for things like electrical items and there was also a Christmas Club which allowed us to buy stamps and save up for presents and the festive season. For our family things like that were really helpful.

Our flat was in the quadrangle nearest to Rooke barracks and so nipping home for lunch was quick and easy; another great thing about it was that most of our new friends were also in our rectangle. Virtually opposite was Steve (Funky) Gibbons (an electrician) and his wife Claudia; looking left from our balcony was Penny and her hubby Sandy Saunders (a leading rate in my own department). Both Funky and Steve appealed to me the minute I met them because of their dry senses of humour. Although those two couples didn’t have children they were still very close to us in our social circle; all of us would often go over to the Fleet Pavillion (Fleet Pav) across the road for bingo nights, socials and those more formal evenings that inspired the women to make new evening gowns for the occasion. On several occasions Sandy and Penny came with us on trips to Morocco which I recount later.

One couple who did have children and were very good friends were Jim and Betty Simm; their two daughters often played with ours and we all had many a birthday party in each other’s flats or a trip to Alameda Play Park. 

Life in Gibraltar had just got even better.

2:29 (1976) When I looked into her eyes I saw love, and felt love.

Since Carol and I had first met we’d lived in a variety of temporary houses; the first was a basement flat in Southsea, followed by a rented semi in Gosport owned by a charity called the Dame Elizabeth Kelly Trust. From that house I went on to be accommodated in Rooke barracks while Carol and the children lodged with my sister in Newcastle. Finally when my family came out to Gibraltar we all first lived on the top floor of Trafalgar House and then later moved into a Navy caravan for about six or seven weeks. Life for us all had been move after move after move and so we were really looking forward to putting down roots somewhere.

Edinburgh House was our first real home which we knew would be ‘long stay’ and from the day we moved in we felt very secure and as though we had finally ‘landed’; we weren’t going to be moving on anytime soon, we didn’t feel dependent on others for the roof over our heads and we finally had our own private family space which we could furnish to our own tastes. 

To describe how that felt to me is almost impossible without connecting it to childhood pains; but what I can say is that this was very much the first time in my life I had ever felt secure in that I had my own house, my own family, my very own world. For the first time in my life I didn’t feel that my family was vulnerable and that was something I would never forget. Looking at Carol I knew she felt exactly the same and so wherever I would go in the future Gibraltar would always remain profoundly important to me. 

2:30 (1976) She may be old but she’s priceless (and from Gibraltar).

Life in Gibraltar was very social between service people with parties to celebrate all manner of things. The community was also very supportive of each other, helping others with whatever they needed. At some point, Carol was gifted a small amount of money in her grandmother’s and so we bought a 3-in-1 music centre after which a serviceman neighbour made us some cassette tapes with our favourite music. The music centre was our pride and joy and the cassettes were played at all of our house parties during our entire time in Gibraltar. Not surprisingly they bring back wonderful memories of wonderful times and I still play them to this day.

As a child in the 60s I was a massive fan of the music of the day, to me it was a fantastic era for progressive artists, bands and rock and roll; I was addicted to the Beatles, the Stones, the Kinks and the Who, all of whom made a huge impact on me. Even more influential to me were the solo singer/songwriters Bob Dylan, Cat Stevens, Donovan and others; to see solo musicians with a guitar captivate audiences was so magical to me; by the time I lived in Gibraltar I was desperate to have my own guitar and learn to play. 

I don’t remember if it was a birthday or a Christmas present from Carol but I do remember her buying me my first guitar in Gibraltar and it was the most amazing surprise. On that nylon string acoustic I would learn to play many of the songs of my heroes and later perform them at gigs all across the UK. Today I own several guitars including that very first one which I call the Duchess. She may be old, but she’s priceless. And she still comes with me to entertain toddlers in pre-school playgroups and crèches.

2:31 (1976) Some days I swore we’d morphed into Gibraltarians.

Now happily installed in Edinburgh House, with lots of good friends nearby and gorgeous weather we were finally beginning to feel as though we belonged somewhere. Thinking back our network of friends was strong and so our social life was really good; typically there were regular functions at the Fleet Pav – now a multi-storey car park – including bingo nights and summer balls, there was steak nights at the Rock Hotel and for raucous dance nights there was the Buccaneer nightclub (alas now no more though I believe it has become an eaterie).

One enduring memory I have of the Buccaneer was standing at the bar in there and watching a Royal Marine being thumped so hard he was laid out; the reason it’s so memorable is because as I looked at the marine flat out on the floor Carol said ‘she’ had clocked him one because he had ‘touched her up’. Shock mixed with total admiration on the way home.

But our sense of belonging wasn’t just as a result of being connected to other military families; we were becoming very close as a family and loved spending time together. As well as that we were also beginning to connect with local people too. As the children were growing it was lovely seeing them become more aware and fascinated by both their surroundings and local people; often we would take them for walks into town where locals would stop us to talk to the children (bambinos) and make a fuss of them – they loved it and so did we. If we paused at the Piazza for drinks they would take the children for a walk around the square to give us a break.

I think our connections with local people were also quite strong because Carol made all the children’s clothes, and many of her own, so often shopped locally in those little shops such as Princess Silks which was small in those days with no cellar. In doing so she got to know local traders selling fabric and haberdashery and the like; thankfully Carol was a very talented tailoress. Later, we also began using the services of local people to babysit the children when (for example) we got the chance for a day trip out (sometimes to Morocco).

2:32 (1976) In Alameda Gardens my children’s faces said it all.

The play park in Alameda itself was very basic back in 1976 but in those days that’s exactly what children wanted, uncomplicated play. Alameda children’s park has changed quite a lot since then, if I remember rightly it looks much more like an adventure playground with nets to climb and obstacles up a height. I guess play parks have had to up their game to compete with technology these days but there’ll always be something lovely about simplicity for the little people in a play park whose faces say it all.

On my recent visits in and out of Alameda (May 2016) I noticed loads of new ideas taking shape and loved them all particularly the children’s garden that was planted with all sorts of vegetables and which even has a bee hotel; also the new and wonderful indoor botanical garden inaugurated by the Chief Minister Fabian Picardo. Sadly it was locked on the day I went to see it but I did get a grasp of things looking through the windows. A personal favourite new arrival that was certainly not there in 1976 is the Monkey Totem Pole.

For me I think much of the charm of Alameda is that even when I’m on my own I find it almost like a retreat; I can be lost in there all day – as though in David Bowie’s Labyrinth – either walking the walks and enjoying the flora, or sitting in the midst of a rockery smelling the herbs and reflecting on life. I can be in a place where the only thing I can hear is silence and then a few minutes later the sounds of children playing. 

2:33 (1976) Royal Naval Hospital Gibraltar (RNH)

Earlier (2:22) I’d mentioned having a stomach ulcer and as time went on I began having severe abdominal pains which eventually led me to being admitted to RNH for some pretty invasive and unpleasant tests which I don’t really think readers want to know too much about. What was interesting though was our baby Samantha also ended up in RNH at exactly the same time although not for anything serious, just to have a small cyst that she had been born with removed from her nose.

Naturally Sam was in the children’s ward and my ward was on the floor below but that didn’t stop me sneaking out of bed when I could and nipping up to see her; the only time I wasn’t able to do that was when I was ‘spaghetti man’ with tubes coming out of everywhere. Carol, bless her, had two of us to visit twice a day which was no easy task considering RNH was quite a distance from Edinburgh House and she also had Tracey to consider.

Not long before I went into hospital Carol and I had been to see an Irish trio (popular at the time) called the Bachelors perform at Inces Hall; as a child I learned most of their songs because my foster parents had lots of their records which they played every Sunday. During their time in Gibraltar the Bachelors called in at RNH children’s ward and met my daughter Sam who they ‘kissed on the cheek’. When Sam was older and we told her about this ‘claim to fame’ – her unimpressed response was ‘Who are the Bachelors?’

It wasn’t just the Bachelors that Sam rubbed shoulders with, celebrities seemed to often cross her path. One day while I was at work Carol had taken the children for a walk up Main Street and bought them an ice cream. Just as Sam was about to lick her ice cream a very tall man accidentally knocked it out of her hand onto the floor; the man turned out to be the magician Tommy Cooper. As Sam screamed Tommy tried to console her but was castigated by his wife who ushered him off before he had a chance to make amends. It wasn’t something Carol ever forgot or forgave and when she told me about it I was horrified.

After Sam had her cyst removed she made a full recovery and we were thrilled that the surgery left no scar whatsoever. As for me I ended up on medication although twenty years later needed surgery for a perforated ulcer. All of my recollections of RNH are really positive; the staff were a fantastically dedicated team who (during 1977) would also care for Carol during a six weeks stay in the hospital which I will recall later.

2:34 (1976) A boat to Morocco.

Among the relationships we made with local people was a lady called Mrs Dumoulin who became a trusted and regular childminder for us. Initially Mrs Doumolin would look after the children for short spells (a morning or an afternoon) if we needed her to but then later on several occasions she cared for them for whole days to give us both a really good break. A couple of those breaks were outings with the Naval Wives Club and a couple were with friends but certainly at least three of them were trips over to Morocco.

The first time we visited Morocco was with friends Sandy and Penny and we took the Mons Calpe boat to Tangier. I’d visited Africa in the past on several occasions to Sierra Leone, Cape Town and Mombasa and sadly they were all negative experiences. However, Carol hadn’t travelled very much and had a deep desire to go; in fairness the culture of Morocco (dress, food, smells, traditions) has remained a great love of hers.

If I have one anecdote that still makes me smile it must be the one when we were all sitting in a cafe and I asked the waiter for a packet of cigarettes. ‘One moment Sir’ he said and then shot out of the cafe, ran into the desert and over the horizon. As we all looked at each other agog – before laughing out loud – I eventually managed to mumble ‘Something I said?’. Eventually about half an hour later we saw an image reappear on the horizon getting bigger as it came running toward us; it was our waiter and in his hand was a packet of cigarettes. Heaven only knows where he’d been to get them (Rabat?) but clearly they were not easy to buy, in fact it appears it would have been easier for me to buy any drug you could mention than a packet of cigarettes – and a sight cheaper. The cigarettes were so expensive in Morocco that on future visits I took loads to barter with tradesmen and sellers.

For Carol, though, this first visit was very magical and I loved that and was thrilled that she could take away great memories. The day had all the ingredients of a fantastic tourist trip including camel rides, the King’s Palace, the Kasbah…but it also had an amazingly special memory (for Carol) which even I struggled to believe.

Right in the middle of the Kasbah, in a very thin back alley we were all trying to push our way through the crowds when someone shouted to Carol ‘I know you’. Astonished, we all looked to see who had said it and saw a local man in traditional dress sitting in his tiny shop; elaborating he said he recognised Carol from a visit he had made to Wales selling rugs once at a Trade Fair. Immediately Carol confirmed that as a teenager she worked in the Bay Hotel in Goodwick which hosted the event; the man said he recognised Carol by her very unique steel blue eyes. I think that sealed Carol’s love of Morocco.

With Carol’s love of Moroccan culture, in particular the food, it’s worth mentioning that on our return visit to Gibraltar in 2016 we discovered the Moroccan restaurant Marrakech situated behind the Gibraltar Art Gallery which we very much recommend. 

2:35 (1976) What a wonderful legacy to Mrs Dumoulin.

Initially when I wrote these memoirs I did so as an online blog which was regularly commented on particularly by Gibraltarian readers who would kindly clarify things for me or update me on relevant issues. 

One sad, yet very praising tribute made by reader Maruchi Golt commented on a post about our childminder. Maruchi said: “Mrs Dumoulin lived in Baker’s Passage where she kept a nursery; my children also attended. Sadly Mrs Dumoulin passed away a couple of months ago. A lovely woman. A beautiful family”.

When I read that comment I was really saddened because if I could have  remembered where the lady lived I would certainly have called in to see her when I revisited Gibraltar and unbeknown to me that was the last opportunity I would ever have. Perhaps I may find a way in due course to respectfully offer my condolences to Mrs Dumoulin’s family; as Maruchi said she truly was a lovely woman.

On a happier note, as a result of her input from Mrs Dumoulin, Tracey was well prepared to join her pre-school playgroup and adapted very quickly; she was also able to cope with all of her transitions in later years. I often wonder how many children passed through Mrs Dumoulin’s care over the years; what a wonderful legacy.

2:36 (1976) The Military Wife Abroad.

When I think back, though I didn’t realise it at the time, Carol’s experience of Gibraltar was a totally different one to mine, as naturally it would be; my days were all about serving in the armed forces while hers was all about being a mum, a wife, a housekeeper, a cook and a million other things. To use her words ‘We were sometimes on the same bus journey but looking out of different windows’ and that probably explains why when we had family time we made the absolute most of it.

The role of the military wife abroad isn’t really something I’d ever thought too deeply about until recently when I was writing about childminders and pre-school playgroups to a large extent (due partly to the sexist culture in the armed forces at the time) there was certain expectancy on wives be seen in a certain way, to do homely/wifely/motherly things and conduct themselves in a manner the service approved of. Just writing that looks so offensive to me now and reading it back speaks volumes on how dreadful the pressure must have been on Carol and other military wives – particularly since they hadn’t ‘signed on’ or ‘taken the oath’. I suppose if I was to comment now I would say that whatever freedoms and equalities women have achieved since those days they richly deserve.

One of the things I found most attractive about Carol when I first met her was her strength; life hadn’t been easy for her and she had long since stopped suffering fools gladly. Although mindful of being a military wife she was also very much her own independent person expecting to be treated respectfully. Life for her was very much about the children and me, and to that end much of her time was spent on us all. 

I think I’d mentioned previously Carol made all of the children’s clothes in really nice fabrics that she would take a lot of care in choosing, usually from her favourite shop, PrincessSilks on Main Street. That shop is still there today and even bigger than it was then as it now has a cellar full of rolls of fabric and other haberdashery. But as well as the children’s clothes she also made her own clothes including evening dresses for the formal social functions at the Fleet Pavillion. Whenever we went out to those social functions I was immensely proud of how fabulous she looked and likewise whenever we were out with the children I totally loved the way they looked so gorgeous and were made such a big fuss of by everyone we met.

To some degree sewing was very much a passion for Carol since she trained as a tailoress but having the children to manage meant she had to plan her sewing time and literally timetable it in. Much of her day was spent walking from Edinburgh House to Bakers Passage, dropping Tracey off at Mrs Dumoulin’s nursery, doing the shopping at Liptons, walking home, feeding and caring for the baby, making my lunch, eating lunch with me, doing housework and preparing an evening meal, walking back up to collect Tracey and perhaps finally calling in at the Emporium (now Mothercare) to buy little bits and let the children choose sweets. Some days for Carol squeezing in a pot of tea with cake in the English Tea Rooms was a serious treat and so I guess compared to her life mine was pretty cushy, I was just a sailor and thankfully not a military wife.

2:37 (1976) Promotion, pride and pain.

Running in parallel with the life of a military wife runs the life of the serviceman and whilst I had little conception of Carol’s trials I don’t imagine she had much conception of mine either unless of course real issues arose on either side and then we would discuss them. As far as we were concerned family time was sacrosanct and not reserved for the moans and groans of daily life but one thing about my working life that was on our joint agenda was my promotion.

When I first joined the Royal Navy I had no real interest in promotion, my goals were more about seeing the world and then later getting drunk at every opportunity. After meeting Carol, however, things changed and she would be quite direct in asking me what I was going to do about my advancement; I also felt that now I had a family I should do whatever I could to better us all and so between her encouragement and my need to improve our lot I took my Leading Rate course and passed. The process after passing the course for Leading Rate was that individuals then went onto a sort of waiting list and accrued a certain amount of points each month; the points list was published in Navy News every month and when an individual finally got all his points he was promoted.

In September 1976 I received my promotion and was immensely proud of the shiny gold anchor on my left arm sitting above my first long service stripe; a Leading Rate with one stripe is known in the Navy as a ‘One Badge Killick’ and carries quite a lot of respect from both those above and those below. What comes along with that respect naturally is more responsibility and it wasn’t long before I found myself leading a small team of men and standing in for the Petty Officer when he was absent.

Apart from the esteem I got from my promotion, another benefit was the pay rise; there had never been a time as a family when we hadn’t struggled and so it was lovely to have some spare cash to treat ourselves occasionally rather than see all of our money going out on bills. Around about the same time as receiving my promotion I also received a really good tax rebate because my daughter Samantha had been born just before the end of the tax year on 31 March. In celebration of our new found fortune I bought Carol a truly beautiful eternity ring of three sapphires and four diamonds set in gold; I don’t remember which jeweller I got it from but suffice to know it was excellent quality and was bought in Gibraltar.

One of the new challenges I had having been promoted was disciplining people who were previously my peers, my friends and occasionally even my babysitters. Phil Bamford comes straight to mind; as a single guy he was often on the lash in the week and so often late to work in the mornings. After giving him several warnings I found myself in the unsavoury situation of having to take him in front of the skipper and him having to explain himself which naturally resulted in him being punished. I don’t remember if that had a long-term effect on my relationship with Phil but I don’t imagine it did it any favours.

Probably more concerning than the new challenges were the ongoing unresolved underlying issues mentioned previously at (2:17) and (2:18). The pride I felt at my promotion to Leading Rate was immense; it was the biggest achievement of my life and held strong connections with my childhood days of having time with my cousin Paul who had also been a Leading Rate. But my pride and love of the Royal Navy was in constant permanent conflict with the pain I felt inside from when my daughter was seriously ill and the Navy decreed I would only have been allowed home if she died. Worse still, and very worrying, was that these two sets of feelings were on a collision course and very soon it would be decision time.

2:38 (1976) Between being a husband, a father and a sailor there was also some Alan somewhere.

As a child one of the things I found great comfort in was drawing; over the years I had developed considerably good artistic skills and had a very sharp eye for perspective. At sea I would often illustrate letters home for shipmates or even design tattoos for them that they would then have done in the Far East. Later in life (after release from the Royal Navy) I would win a National Art Competition in the UK and work as a freelance illustrator for local, regional and national press (for about 15 years alongside holding down a full time job) but to put that in context it was in Gibraltar that I honed my skills. Skills which were far easier to hone than those needed to play the guitar.

I mentioned earlier that Carol’s passion was dress-making and (after the children were in bed) she would often sit at her sewing machine making frocks for the children or dresses for herself; it was then that I would sit down at the table and draw. During our time in Gibraltar I took part in a few local art exhibitions including one in 1977 celebrating HM Queen Elizabeth 2 Jubilee Year although I don’t think my abstract style was quite what the judges were looking for. On the bright side though, taking part in those exhibitions brought me to the attention of people who liked my style and so I did get a couple of commissions including one from the Gibraltar Scouts for a First Day Cover. Although fine pen work wasn’t quite my skill I somehow managed to produce it and I’m glad I did. It will never go down in history as a masterpiece but my copy is very much a treasured possession.

I suppose the reason I wanted to include a note about my art was that I seem to have concentrated only on my career and my home life and I didn’t want readers thinking I was totally obsessed with them alone, there was also a bit of Alan in the equation somewhere. In fact art became such an obsession that as I have grown older I have produced several books and staged three biographical exhibitions.

2:39 (1976) HMS ROOKE – A short history (with a little help from a friend).

When I think of the very close emotional connection I have to Gibraltar it would be natural to think, since I was based at HMS Rooke, I had a keen interest in the history of the establishment. To be really honest I didn’t back then but I do now since writing these memoirs, and that’s largely due to a reader, William Serfaty, sharing his amazing historical knowledge with me. 

Even up until quite recently I had forgotten how extensive HMS Rooke and the Naval dockyard was in 1976 and it wasn’t until I googled a few photos that I remembered about the size of the warehouse complex within the Base. Having said that since it was our responsibility at HMS Rooke to ensure warships passing through had everything they needed it’s not surprising the storage facilities were massive particularly when a ship like HMS Hermes docked as she did in 1976.

For me, William’s recollections were so historically interesting and relevant to my ramblings I thought I would include them here:

“I was also busy bringing up a family in Gib in 1976. I had a building company which was in joint venture with a Glasgow builder. Our main cooperation was on building HMS Rooke which we were completing around then.
Rooke was started early in 1969 at the junior ratings end (NORTH). On Saturday June the 9th the labour force was withdrawn. The frontier closed. It took more than a year to prepare accommodation to find a new labour force and another to bring in the necessary 5,000 people to Gib to get working again. Consequently Rooke was quite recently completed when you arrived in the mid -70’s.
The demolition of the Old HMS Rooke was still in progress at June 69.

Built by Whatlings (Overseas) Ltd. in Joint venture with Constructors Ltd. Whatlings was a Glasgow civil engineering firm later taken over by MacAlpine’s. It has been taken over by the Government. The plan was to move the Essential Services and Police and Fire Station there”.

I’d like to extend my sincere thanks to William for sharing his story which for me really compliments these memoirs and which I hope readers also enjoyed reading. Perhaps to finish this more historical piece I thought I’d also include some data from Wikipedia:
“HMS Rooke was the naval base at Gibraltar. It was commissioned in 1946, succeeding HMS Cormorant, and operating until becoming a Joint Service Base in 1990. The Royal Navy closed the base and paid it off in 1996 and it is now headquarters for the Gibraltar Defence Police. The base is named after Admiral George Rooke who led the Anglo-Dutch Capture of Gibraltar in 1704.

One final update on Rooke came from two Gibraltarian readers of my original online blog. Sandra Capano updated me to say: Rooke was currently closed and Jess Jewelry added: Rooke is being handed over to @GibraltarGov to be used for Essential Services.

2:40 (1976) The winds of change are blowing…

As 1976 rolled on it was lovely to see the children increasingly bond as Sam became more aware of her surroundings and the people in her life, and Tracey began enjoying having a sister. Carol too was very much more settled now that we were finally ensconced in our married quarter at Edinburgh House.

Sometime during September 1976 Carol found out that she was once again pregnant and though we were shocked we were also thrilled; as we pondered some of the challenges of having three children at the age of 22 we also thought about the advantages, one being we would still be relatively young when they were adults and our grandchildren arrived. 

But without racing ahead with excitement we had to start thinking about practicalities; the baby would be due in July 1977 which in Gibraltar was a hot month and probably not the most pleasant for a heavily pregnant woman – and if Carol had pregnancy complications requiring her to stay in hospital for periods of time I was going to need support with the girls. Always lurking at the back of my mind was how I felt shocked and let down by the RN when they refused me leave after Sam was born and nearly died. As if by fate I think it was about mid-October 1976 when the RN introduced a brand new exit strategy for servicemen wanting to leave the Navy; if a man gave 18 months notice he could leave freely, without penalty and with an exemplary discharge. The winds of change were blowing.

2:41 (1976) Hope it’s not too cold outside.

In 1976 I decided to put in my 18 months notice to leave the Royal Navy without first consulting Carol; although I had done it for what I considered to be all the right reasons I was terrified of telling her and for good reason too. When I finally plucked up the courage she was very less than happy and felt not only that we should have discussed it together but that I had acted on impulse without considering the whole family. 

Looking back she was right I did act on impulse, my decision ‘would’ affect the whole family and do feel now that it was a decision we should have taken together; the whole business was very much a learning curve for me in terms of relationship equality because, without making excuses that I was raised in the very sexist environment of Geordieland in the 60s, in reality I absolutely didn’t want to be dominant within my marriage. I can’t even tolerate dominance in the animal world let alone the human one and very much wanted Carol to be her own person. Clearly I still had things to learn even though I still feel the decision to leave was the right one albeit having an element of sadness about it in terms of loss for me personally.

The thing about the 18 month notice was that it was something I could take back almost right up to the date of being released and so for me there was always the opportunity open for me to change my mind and I think both Carol and I sort of thought that might still happen, even though if it did I was guaranteed to be sent to sea after our Gibraltar stint.

Watching my children playing, I would ask myself often if I’d made the right decision. There’s an old saying in the Navy which refers to men leaving the service that goes “It’s cold outside” and that was something that began filtering into my psyche quite often. Although I didn’t know whether (in my case) it would be cold outside – in other words tough to get a job with the same salary and esteem – what I did know was that if I did decided to leave it would happen sometime in April 1978 after which I would be obliged to serve Royal Naval Reserve time whilst in civvy street? 

Christmas 1976 brought light relief especially since it was Sam ‘s first. We all had a lovely time, particularly the children; the celebrations were always quite extended in our house on account of Tracey’s birthday being on the 27th December. This year was her 4th birthday and it was lovely to see her at the top of the table in her pink/purple and white frock with all of her friends around her. Watching her so happy I really hoped if I did leave the RN that it wasn’t too cold outside.

2:42 (1976/77) Hello 1977. Happy New Year!

As 1976 came to a close I found myself reflecting back on the year with its ups and downs and emotional roller coaster rides. The year had been challenging not only for me but my whole family. We had been through incredible uncertainty and strain during the year and had to cope with very swiftly changing emotions which would probably have buckled many people if not split families apart. But if anything the challenges had brought us even closer together.

Throughout 1976 we had lived in six different addresses, been technically homeless, were forcibly separated for almost two months and had both of our 21st birthdays apart. We started the year with one child and finished it with two. Carol started the year pregnant and then finished it pregnant. I had spent time in hospital as had Sam and following the worries we had following her birth we were more than nervous about the new pregnancy. For me I had finally achieved the promotion I had dreamed of for years only to put in my notice to leave the RN a few weeks later.

As we finally greeted the New Year on the balcony of 21 Edinburgh House Carol asked “We will be alright Dixy won’t we?”. “Yes, love, we’ll be okay” I replied, hugging her and looking up at the Rock. The new year couldn’t be any more challenging than the last one. Could it?

2:43 (1977) Yes, I know love. Book your flight and I’ll ask for leave.

And so here we were, at the start of a new year, expecting our third child in July (which I had already decided was another girl) and enjoying the safe security of family life in the beautiful outpost of Gibraltar. After the ups and downs of 1976 we both really did just crave some ordinary family time; time when our biggest decisions would be about which beach we should go to at the weekend or what we would eat for dinner. We wanted ordinary family time when we could enjoy life as the beautifully closely knit family we had become and even laugh out loud at each other’s funny little ways.

At the time, of all of us, I think our daughter Tracey had far more funny little ways than the rest of us partly because of her age and the naivety that comes with being a child of 4. 

Periodically, because of the heat, I would shave off my beard and one morning I did that before the children got up. When Tracey got up and saw me she said “Daddy where’s your beard?”. Touching my bare face I said “Oh dear I’ve forgotten to put it on, I’ve left it under my pillow”. Immediately she went to our bedroom to try to find it and became quite upset when she couldn’t – it took me a lot of cuddles and explanations to get myself out of that sticky situation! On another occasion when Tracey wanted to do something but was told she couldn’t she pulled the kind of face that looked as though she had eaten a wasp. I don’t remember whether it was Carol or me who said “Tracey, wipe that look off your face” but the next thing we knew was that she was in the bathroom wiping her face with a towel trying to do exactly that. From that incident onwards we were very careful how we worded things – and just so that readers don’t think she was permanently emotionally damaged by such incidents we often laugh at the memories.

Sam too was growing into a lovely little child with the kind of curiosity you would expect to see from someone nearly a year old. She was into everything and her eyes were like beacons never missing a trick. She was one of those children who because of her will power would always get to where she wanted to go, even before she could walk, and who never had a problem having her needs met or even getting her own way. Like Tracey she loved the stimulation of going out to the beach or to Alameda Gardens and would always take those opportunities to ‘people watch’ which is something I think she gets from me.

Evenings and weekends then were often geared around the children as more and more we would venture out to places we hadn’t visited before. Quite a few times we walked through the Rock via that massively long tunnel from somewhere near Rosia to Sandy Bay/Catalan Bay. Carol wasn’t particularly keen on going through the long tunnel but the children found it quite stimulating and different.  However, walking one way was enough so we’d usually catch a bus home. By now Carol was about 3/4 months pregnant and so the longer walks needed to be scaled down a bit.

I suppose it’s never a healthy thing to take anything for granted and I’ve now long since stopped doing that. Just at the point we were enjoying family life Carol’s Aunt contacted her to say that her Father Viv had been seriously hitting the booze and the whole family were concerned because he wouldn’t listen to any of them. As Carol looked at me I saved her asking the question and just said “Yes I know love. Book your flight and I’ll ask for leave”.

2:44 (1977) Carol was very relieved she was home, so was I.

It was sometime during January or February that Carol flew home to the UK for a week to see her Dad and to see if she could talk some sense into him; he had hit the bottle big time and wouldn’t listen to any of the family. I can’t say I was overjoyed about Carol flying at three months pregnant but I understood her need to go home and so had to put those concerns to one side. I’m fairly sure I took some leave that week but no doubt also had the support of friends and the Naval Wives Club with the girls.

Carol wasn’t the best air traveller in the world in fact to date she had only had one flight in her life and that was out to Gibraltar. Her brother John had arranged to meet her at London Heathrow and take her back down to Wales but things didn’t go quite as smoothly as hoped. I learned later from Carol that the undercarriage of the plane wouldn’t go down on the approach to London airport and so flight staff had to rip up the carpets and belt it with a sledge hammer till it did. I can’t imagine what went through people’s heads as they watched that, let alone a novice traveller. 

Back in Gibraltar I had a week on my own with the girls and though my memory of that week is quite sketchy I do know we got out and about a bit. I hated being separated from Carol but needs-must and my main focus of the week was to occupy the children and ensure they felt secure while Carol was away. 

Carol’s week away was far more emotionally heavy than mine, she had always been close to her dad and the situation was very distressing for her. Having alcohol dependent issues myself I understood where Viv was coming from in terms of him hitting the booze; sometimes we all need to drown our sorrows. Unfortunately once he had started drinking heavily it was extremely difficult to encourage him to stop. I didn’t envy Carol’s lot.

Of course this was in the days before mobile phones or the Internet and although we had a couple of phone calls we didn’t discuss anything in depth; I probably reassured Carol the children were fine and she probably said something similar about her Dad. We wouldn’t really have a good talk about it all until she came home.

When the day finally arrived for Carol to come home I took the children to the airport to see her plane land. Just as it was touching down I said to the children to wave to Mummy on the plane and as they did the plane revved up and took off again. As the three of us watched the plane go back up into the air I remember saying something stupid like ‘Ah that was a practice, they’ll be landing in a minute’ although my stomach was in my mouth. When it happened for a second time I was almost at the point of projectile vomiting and finding it almost impossible to explain things to the children. Finally the plane landed on the third attempt and it later transpired that the pilot was inexperienced at landing in Gibraltar while trying to avoid going into Spanish air space. After two dodgy flights and a week trying to sort out her dad I think it’s fair to say Carol was very relieved she was home; so was I.

2:45 (1977) Family-time, Me-time, You-time, Us-time. It’s how we roll.

Carol’s week away to see her Dad had been neither easy nor pleasant; he did listen to her at times and comply to a certain degree but since he was very much alcohol dependent monitoring him had been constant and exhausting. By the time Carol arrived home she looked totally drained. The fact she knew he would revert as soon as she was out of sight was to be an ongoing concern for her and as a pregnant mum of two additional stress was something I would rather she didn’t have to cope with. I decided I needed to think of ways to ease some of Carol’s stress, perhaps by making sure she had some ‘me-time’ to herself and we had some ‘us-time’; a day trip might be nice? Morocco? She loved Morocco.

As a family we were all thrilled to be back together and celebrated by focusing on some quality family time with trips to the beach, Alameda Gardens, the Monkey den and some of our other favourite haunts. We also just spent time together at home which was lovely.

By now Carol was four months pregnant and under consultant Colonel Price at The Royal Naval Hospital who she trusted, respected and liked very much. She felt he listened to her and understood her concerns better than any other doctor she had ever had. Quite soon she would need to have check-ups as she had never had easy pregnancies; I suppose we both had a few concerns although at this point in time chose not to discuss them. One practical worry I had was that we lived on one side of the Rock and the hospital was on the other but I guess I still had five months to get my head around that. Instead of worrying about what might never happen we decided to get back to enjoying our life in Gibraltar. It was almost as though by fate that the Naval Wives Club announced they were arranging a trip to Fez, Morocco!

2:46 (1977) Yogi Bear (GIBAIR) to Fez.

Although Carol had had two quite frightening recent experiences on aircraft visiting her dad in the UK clearly she was not about to pass up the chance of a Naval Wives Trip to Fez, Morocco and was one of the first to put her name (and mine) down.

When the big day came there were about twenty of us waiting at the airport looking over at what was affectionately known as ‘Yogi Bear’. It was said at that time that Gibraltar Airlines consisted of just one plane emblazoned ‘GIBAIR’ which is why it was given that nickname ‘Yogi Bear’. As we all stood admiring our plane – and tried to guess its considerable age – our Captain suddenly came into view wobbling and tripping his way across the tarmac with his cap on back-to-front looking as though he’d had one too many. Very funny although I think it was just his way of putting the wind up his passengers.

I can’t admit to Morocco being my favourite destination because as mentioned earlier I’ve had many negative experiences on the African continent; but Carol didn’t have my history, she loved the place, needed a real pick me up and so a trip to Fez was exactly ‘what the doctor ordered’. Even though I wasn’t especially looking forward to the trip I was very relieved when, after rattling its way down the runway, our eccentric looking Captain managed to lift the plane off the ground into the air. 

Landing in Fez was one of those memories that has seared itself into my psyche and not something I’ll ever forget in a long time. The runway resembled nothing short of a ploughed field which is exactly what it felt like landing in. As we hit the ground and continued on for a further couple of hundred yards it felt as though we were all being given a smacked backside before being allowed off. When we finally did get off we had to walk through a couple of hundred yards of donkey muck to get to the entrance of what later transpired to be the Medina (walled city). I wouldn’t have minded the donkey muck so much if I had been wearing wellington boots but I was wearing my ‘million-milers’ moccasins which sadly had to hit the dustbin at the end of the day.

Spending the day in the Medina was a magical experience in many ways. The snake charmers, the tiny passages and ancient buildings coupled with the smells, sounds, and market trading of exotic spices and goods transported me back centuries into the past; it was almost as though time had stood still.

Fez is famous for its leather tanneries and so naturally we visited those to see the processes; Fez is also known for its hand woven rugs and carpets although what I found quite disturbing was that very small children were employed in making them. We were shown the children’s sleeping quarters and told they were well looked after and given several hours of education a day too but as a parent that didn’t ease my concerns. I’ve never felt it was my place to judge the culture or traditions of others and I’ve come across very young child workers before in the Far East but having said that I am absolutely against it and don’t buy any goods made by them. Although my own childhood was far from rosy, seeing children in situations like that actually made me reassess my lot. 

On a high note one of the highlights of my day was having my photo taken outside the Royal Palace; to me that was really cool. But the best thing was really that Carol had once again had a fabulous experience in Morocco that she still cherishes to this day and it came at a time she really needed that lift.

2:47 (1977) If I close my eyes right now…I’m back there.

As I’ve grown older I’ve realised memories are not only related to actual events or places, they are also related to feelings. Sometimes a pop song can take you back to a particularly happy time. Whenever I hear Ms.Grace by the Tymes, it reminds of being pushed onto the dance floor at HMS Vernon to dance with a complete stranger by her friends. The stranger turned out to be Carol and by the end of the dance we were an item. Even if I was unable to recall the event or the place I would always remember exactly how I felt.

Similarly, in recalling my memories of Gibraltar I can remember exactly how I felt in every scenario. And while we did have challenging times we also had far more happy times. Looking at photos from those days, especially those yellowy ones, gives me enormous pleasure and takes me straight back to that time, that place, those people and how joyous I felt. Sometimes, today, if I close my eyes I’m right back there.

2:48 (1977) HM Queen Elizabeth’s Jubilee Year in Gibraltar.

1977 was HM Queen Elizabeth’s Jubilee Year and naturally there was a lot going on in Gibraltar. Come to that there is always a lot going on in Gibraltar which makes it such a great place to visit; a basic search on Google would almost certainly flag up the Mediterranean Steps Challenge, the Chess Tournament, the Darts Tournament, Classic Car Rallies and much more. 

Back in 1977 one of the events that attracted me was the Art Competition which I did contribute to but didn’t particularly shine at; I still have the artwork and when I viewed it recently I made the decision that it was so dreadful I’m surprised they even accepted it all. However what was important to me at that time wasn’t so much winning a prize but taking part with everyone else and feeling part of it all; learning from the experience was also a massive advantage because the following year I entered a National Art Competition in the UK and won it. Thinking back though, what I loved about the Gibraltar exhibition was how local people painted and drew their interpretations of the Rock and their beautiful environment with such feeling – something they still do today judging from what I saw when I visited Gibraltar Art Gallery during May 2016. 

Carol was born on the Queen’s birthday (21 April) and as a tribute was given the middle name of Elizabeth by her parents. As I was born 13 days after her (May the Fourth be with you) I often referred to myself as her toy boy – particularly just after her birthday when she was technically a year older than me. That period of time between our two birthdays became known as my Toy Boy Fortnight during which I certainly ‘took the rise’ out of Carol although she did always have the girls coming out in support of her and so I was always outnumbered.

It was during my ‘Toy Boy fortnight of 1977’ that we decided to celebrate our joint birthdays with a trip up the Rock to see the apes and visit St. Michael’s Cave. Carol was 22 and I was 21 but since she was six months pregnant I was very much in an ‘I will look after you and protect you’ mode although that absolutely didn’t bode well with the independent strong young woman she was who seemed to be on constant playback – “Don’t fuss, I can manage by myself”.

So although it was quite a windy day we took the cable car up to the top of the Rock but as we travelled further and further up the wind became worse and worse. By the time we approached one of the pylons our cable car was swinging almost at right angles from left to right and it was clear the car was going to hit the pylon. At that the cable car attendant opened the door and used a pole to push the car away from the pylon as we went past it and as he did that Carol found herself literally looking through the open door straight down in terror at Alameda Gardens. When we finally got to the Apes Den and got off the cable car Carol (ashen faced) said that there was no way she was getting back on it.

It took me some time to reassure Carol that we could go back down to the town via King Charles V Steps and that we didn’t need to get back into the cable car; the fright had been such that I have no idea how she didn’t give birth on the spot. Eventually though she did calm down enough to enjoy the visit and also enjoyed the trek back down the Rock via the steps with those breath-taking views. But it would be a long time before she got back into the cable car.

2:49 (1977) Why do I bother writing a memoir?

Carol’s grandad Pop spent most of World War 2 in Burma and had been awarded the Burma Star. I first met him in 1975 and over the years we developed a very close relationship; having military backgrounds in common we bonded quickly and would spend hours talking, reflecting or just being. 

Whilst serving in Burma he had written several volumes of his memoirs which he loaned to me to privately read although after reading them I was so moved emotionally that I offered to publish them for him. Although he agreed I can remember him telling me that to publish his diaries was not why he had written them; in fact he hadn’t written them for anyone to read or even expected they would want to. Writing a short piece every day during years of conflict and misery, thousands of miles away from home in a hostile environment was a massive form of comfort to him. When he died I remember an immense sense of pride in him as the Burma Star Association carried his coffin and gave their mantra to the gathered: ‘When you go home remember for your tomorrow we gave our today’.

Recently I spent a little time revisiting some of Pop’s memoirs, in particular the final entry. Written on 24 September 1945 (ten years before I was even born) Pop relays how he feels to finally arrive safely back in Gibraltar en route to the UK – which for a man not comfortable with airing his feelings was moving to read. Although he never knew it, it was his writings which inspired me to keep a diary and write memoirs, though not necessarily to publish but rather as a way of therapeutically managing my own feelings effectively.

2:50 (1977) It’s those little memories that knit a story together.

I’ve always felt that it’s the little anecdotes knitted together that really give the best overview of a story and tell it well; big events are easy to remember, but it’s the little ones to me which are often more interesting. Throughout these memoirs I’ve tried to include as many of the major events that I can remember but I’ve also tried to include the smaller day-to-day ones because to me they enrich the mix which make up my experience of living in Gibraltar. 

One of the smaller day-to-day things that had everyone talking was the arrival of a massive aircraft carrier from the United States, the USS Nimitz, which it appears was so big that it couldn’t berth alongside and had to anchor off. With a crew of 6000 personnel it certainly put any British warship in the shade. For locals there was an element of fascination about having such an impressive visitor to the Rock although we tended to avoid going out to eat or shop on the Main Street because we found Americans to be a little loud and over familiar. On the upside of course local traders and restaurants benefited economically.

One of our regular eating houses was the Lotus House Chinese which even got into the habit of contacting us with their current offers particularly when bookings were down. Although it would never be my intention to circulate spurious rumours about any restaurant, there was an occasion when the Lotus House was closed down the day after we had eaten there. Sailors being sailors comically wondered if something unpleasant had been found in the fridge but in fairness it wasn’t long before it reopened and it didn’t stop us eating there on a regular basis.

Perhaps one last little memory I’d like to include would be to give a mention to the Moroccan painters who periodically would come around Edinburgh House and give all of the flats a fresh lick of paint. The painters who came were really super fast and could paint an entire flat in no time; I can still smell how fabulously fresh the place smelled every time they finished. With a new child on the way it was lovely to have the painters in just beforehand and it certainly wouldn’t be long before Carol had a date at RNH Gibraltar.

2:51 (1977) Some decisions are literally life or death.

Towards the end of Carol’s pregnancy we learned there had been an increase in babies born in Gibraltar with spina bifida and that the parents of those children had to make life or death decisions regarding their child. For the child to survive it appeared it would need to be flown to the UK for an operation almost immediately after birth. At the time spina bifida wasn’t something they could detect before birth and so naturally it was very shocking and traumatic for parents to be given such news on the spot – doubly so being asked to make that split decision straight away.

Rumour had it that the ‘spina bifida outbreak’ was as a result of something to do with the water so it appeared all expectant mums were at risk; our fate was in the lap of the gods. Carol and I talked endlessly about our worries and concerns, at length, day in and day out, losing sleep about being faced with such an appalling situation.

It was against that backdrop I woke up one morning to find Carol really distressed in the bed saying the baby was coming even though it was nowhere near due. Naturally I went straight into overdrive, sent for the transport to take her to RNH and contacted friends to mind the children. Once in hospital Colonel Price and his team managed to stop Carol’s premature labour with medication and planned to keep her in overnight to monitor her; six weeks later she was still there. 

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

Carol’s lengthy stay in hospital was a very worrying time for us all. Having said that she trusted and liked her consultant Colonel Price and would often say he listened to all of her concerns and gave her all the time she needed to express them. This was very reassuring to me given much of my time centred around the children’s needs.

One thing I definitely felt was that the Navy was only supportive to a point; they wanted me back at work as soon as possible. After being granted a certain amount of leave I had no choice but 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.

Facing the attitude of “either you make arrangements for your children or we will” left me feeling totally disempowered and beholden 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 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.

My days evolved into taking the children ‘somewhere’ for their day, going to work while worrying about them all day at the same time I worried about Carol, 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. 

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 the UK my foster Mam Katie had been taken into Nottingham hospital for an operation. Whilst in the 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. 

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 it wasn’t long after that I began hitting the bottle. 

Throughout the duration of Carol’s pregnancy I had a feeling 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 a frock in pink and white with embroidery on to match the 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.

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 day the real thing happened I turned over to go back to sleep. When it finally realised ‘this was it’ I sorted the transport and we got to RNH just 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.

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

The very first photo I took of our new daughter Benita was with her sisters Tracey and Samantha and their Mum in Alameda Gardens. Where else? Perhaps it’s worth reminding readers who would like to see my photographs they are online with my original blog at memoirsofgibraltar.com. 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.

Whenever I look at that photo I feel 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 family and as a result I would always see Gibraltar through my eyes as paradise.

Over the months following Benita’s birth I had many a meeting with my line manager, Petty Officer Brian who (in fairness) 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 for me between Naval life and Family life was becoming wider by the day.

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 shoves 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”.

As I come 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 in having to make such an awful decision.

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

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 in the lead up to the big day.

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. 

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 I 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 adverse to clearing out our biscuit barrel (much to my horror). 

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).

On his final visit before the Christening service the Reverend (no doubt aspiring to become the…) 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. When I got home at teatime however the air was blue. I don’t think I’ve ever been closer to either a divorce or being murdered then or since.

2:55 (1977) Our children’s Christening at the Cathedral of The Holy Trinity

The Cathedral of The Holy Trinity in Gibraltar doesn’t look particularly Cathedral-like from the outside but to me that’s to its advantage because what it does look like is incredibly majestic and very Gibraltarian. The architecture is unusually beautiful with its lovely arched entrances and castle-like plinths holding up the eaves; being square in shape it fits in very well with my geometrically programmed mind (I love squares and things like Lego that all fit together well. Sad, I know). 

Located just off Main Street, next door to the beautiful old vintage Bristol Hotel, the Cathedral benefits from being right in the middle of town because whenever they have an event the public have a birds eye view. Even when there isn’t an event happening I find it very reassuring that the Cathedral bells ring every fifteen minutes to remind me of the time – particularly when I’m just sitting on that bench outside Marks and Spencer ‘people-watching’.

On 4 August 1977, at a really lovely ceremony, our children were duly Christened in the Cathedral and along with Carol they all looked, in my eyes, absolutely beautiful. No-one on the Rock that day was unashamedly more proud than me and as well as having all of our friends there it was lovely to see so many locals come too to wish us all well. It was especially lovely to see our very own Mrs.Dumoulin being part of our special day.

Of all of the many family occasions, events and experiences while living on the Rock our children’s Christening was probably the single most endearingly poignant to me and the one to permanently cement Gibraltar into my DNA. With our time now fast running out, today was a day I would cherish all my days.

2:56 (1977) Just chatting about the kids.

I’ve always been a very big cereal lover, particularly fond of large bowls of bran flakes into which I throw 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 so maybe as I go along it will become more clear and connect somehow. Then again maybe it won’t.

Back in the seventies fresh cow’s 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 every day. 

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 so much that I stopped having my beloved bowl full until I got back to the 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 use.

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 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.

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. 

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 the baby to wind down and off to sleep that night was by putting the headphones on her and playing John Lennon to her.

2:57 (1977) Countdown to leaving.

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 the UK in March 1978 for my release in 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.

It wasn’t long before I became aware that our stay ‘could’ be re-extended ‘if’ I withdraw 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 paradise would change that.

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.

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 whichever 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.

2:58 (1977) Mentally we were having to leave before psychologically we were ready.

As with most people, whenever I look forward to something such as a holiday, it takes ages to get here but whenever I’m dreading something – dental appointments spring to mind – all of a sudden it’s there. Before we knew it our six remaining weeks had shrunk to four and there was something horrible about being within the last month of our stay. 

Everything became temporary. Friends were starting to talk about Christmas and the upcoming Christmas-do at the Fleet Pav; all of a sudden we just felt out of it all. Mentally we were having to leave Gibraltar before we were psychologically ready to and so our world virtually shrunk overnight and morphed into a dreadful sort of void at times. Within the realm of work I was aware that my replacement was due to fly in any day.

Although we ‘felt’ quite isolated at times we weren’t really; it was more about our own feelings rather than our friends’ actions because they all continued to be very understanding, caring and supportive of us. In fact Sandy and Penny, who had always been our closest friends in Gibraltar,  organised a final trip to Tangiers with us which was really lovely of them. Once again Carol had another opportunity to enjoy a camel ride and eat her favourite Moroccan food which she loved.

Sandy and Penny, along with our other close friends Funky and Claudia Gibbons, also began arranging our leaving-do in the Fleet Pav for us with all our friends which was lovely too because it took all the worry away from us of having to plan that with everything else we were coping with. That invisible clock that had been ticking time away in my head was now down to just its last few days….and becomminglouder and louder and louder.

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

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 , the Montarik, somewhere up either on Main Street or up a side street near there. During my recent visit to the Rock (May 2016) I did a search to try and find it but wasn’t very successful; it was as if it had vanished beyond trace.

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.

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.

Having a drink problem it was very rare for me to really let go but as I recall I had something of a skin-full 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  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.

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 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.

2:60 (1977) Goodbye Gibraltar.

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 mental images. Alameda Gardens, the back streets of the Old Town, Rosia, Montague Pavillion, the Piazza, Catalan Bay……

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. 

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.

Chapter 3. 2016. Return to the Rock.

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

For someone with a ‘million’ reasons why I love Gibraltar it would be fair for readers to ask why it took me forty years to return. And 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?

But I’m not a reader, I am the writer; happy to hopefully answer some of those questions and complete my trilogy. Before fast forwarding forty years to 2016 however I wanted to just reassure readers that all five of us are still alive and kicking for which I feel incredibly blessed. If I said that the past forty years had been a picnic I’d be exaggerating, but then whose life has been a picnic?

No doubt during this final chapter I’ll drop in occasional anecdotes about the children and their lives but will try not to ramble off on tangents and hopefully stick to sharing my thoughts and feelings about returning to beautiful Gibraltar after such a long absence. Welcome back to RockHeart.

3:1 (2016) ‘Happy Ruby Anniversary love. We’re going to Gibraltar’.

During the ‘absent years’ between 1977 and 2016 I would often broach the subject with Carol about revisiting Gibraltar but for a variety of reasons it just didn’t happen. After returning to the UK we were so broke that even the cheapest holiday on home land took enormous planning and a lot of saving up for. If we were lucky we would get the kids away camping in Wales (Carol’s homeland) but only if I could supplement our money by working in the fields for a couple of days (on our arrival) or doing a gig in a local Welsh pub. No denying life wasn’t easy financially or emotionally, we didn’t have much in the material sense; but what we did have was each other and an incredibly close mutually-protective bond which so often helped dilute the hard times; money couldn’t buy that.

The very first occasion we did have a little extra money was (about 1986) when Carol’s Grandmother left her a small amount in her will; as Carol hadn’t travelled widely she wanted us to all have a holiday somewhere we hadn’t been before so we had two weeks in Turkey. Later when the children were grown and had left home we naturally had a bit more money and were able to travel more; holidays then included a few trips to Crete, Gambia, a further visit to Turkey and then (of all places) India where (after about a dozen holidays there) we actually ended up living for a couple of years but only because I was offered a job as a singer. 

Throughout those years my own yearning to go back to Gibraltar never subsided, quite the contrary. But Carol wasn’t keen. She worried that it had changed beyond recognition, that she would hate the changes and that it would damage all of the positive memories of the Rock she had cherished all of her life. It was very much a barrier for years to us even having the conversation.

Meanwhile, on many of our foreign holidays, our close friends Sheila and Joe joined us; we got to know them because Sheila used to work with both Carol and me when we were all employed by Social Services. Although they were older than us we were all very good friends..

The 19 December 2015 was our 40th wedding anniversary; it had been forty years since we tied the knot in Portsmouth Registry Office (for the princely sum of £12) after which we had our union blessed in the Royal Naval Dockyard Chapel. On this prestigious anniversary I’d made the decision to ‘take the bull by the horns’. A few days before the big day I texted Sheila to ask if she and Joe would like to come to Gibraltar with us as I was thinking about surprising Carol; I got an immediate ‘yes’ reply. So I booked it!. 

On the big day we decided to have a Chinese take-away at home with our feet up watching a movie and just as Carol was devouring her last prawn cracker I happened to say ‘Happy Ruby Anniversary Love. We’re going to Gibraltar’.

3:2 (2016) “You’ve done what!!”

Carol’s first reaction to me telling her I’d booked Gibraltar was shock. Her face was a picture for about ten seconds, almost as though it had been frozen in time, then I got: “YOU’VE DONE WHAT!!!!!!! I told you I didn’t want to go back in case it had changed for the worse. We didn’t TALK about it, why didn’t we TALK about it, why didn’t you CONSULT me first?” (or words to that effect – with a few other expletives). We both knew if we’d ‘talked about it’ it would never have happened which is why I took the bull by the horns. For me the idea of never going back was unthinkable.

Of course I knew I would get that reaction and I was ready for it, in fact I had long prepared for it but my primary aim was to take away Carol’s concerns as quickly as possible and put her mind at rest. I began by reassuring her that (judging from what I could see on the Internet) there had been massive change but all of the changes had been positive. 

“Yes Carol” I said. “Gibraltar has changed love, but so have we too. And that old Rock is like an old friend, just like Sheila and Joe who we don’t see very often but love when we do…which …is why… they’ll be coming with us”.

At that I think I detected a little glint in her eye but what came out of her mouth was “But Joe is in his eighties and struggles with his mobility now”. 

“Which is why I’ve booked rooms at the Bristol Hotel bang in the middle of town” I replied. 

“You know if I don’t like the changes I’ll never go back again don’t you” she said. 

“Yes love, but I’ll take that risk” I said. 

As the shock began to ease I put the kettle on to make a cup of tea. “It’s a lovely idea Alan” Carol said “and I don’t want you to think I’m unappreciative, it’s just that it’s so sudden I haven’t had time to get my head around it”. I gave her a hug. “Don’t worry love, we’re not going just yet. It’s still a few months away so you have loads of time to Google search Gibraltar and the Bristol Hotel. It’s May when we fly. In fact it’s 13 May 2016 when we fly. Exactly forty years to the day that you flew out with the children to join me. Difference this time is we go together”. 

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

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. 

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 foreign holidays together, some of which didn’t score anywhere near 10/10, but things were starting to sound very positive. I caught occasional conversations going on in which 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”. 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?’.

In my world I didn’t need any inspiration at all 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. 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. 

The only thing better than looking forward to something is to actually do it. Even just recalling these memories is taking me back to the excitement I began to feel in anticipating returning to the Rock. 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 the days. 

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

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 for two years and so when the time came for us to return to the UK we flew him back – straight into six months of quarantine kennels – where every Saturday we would sit in his pen with him until he finally got released.

Though not to dwell on Mowgli’s story, 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. 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 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. 

Finally, on 13 May 2016 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.

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. 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………”

3:5 (2016) Hello Gibraltar. Good to be back.

As the plane took off from Birmingham I suppose I was full of ‘what ifs’ but totally adamant this was the time; this was my time. As the flight crew came around asking me if I’d like coffee or sweets the whole journey began taking on quite a surreal element. I began realising that although this flight was about as massive as it could get for me it was just another day at the office for everyone else; having said that I was thankful I wasn’t too transparent and was able to hide how I felt. 

I looked over at Carol who was gazing out of the window and wondered what she was thinking; after all it was she and the children, not me, who had made this very same journey forty years ago to the day. I wondered if she was reflecting on that day in 1976 or whether she was more into the present still wondering if she was going to love or hate the changes on the Rock. Just then the same thought passed through my mind – what if I hated the changes? What then?

“Your drinks Sir” a voice said. As I turned around one of the flight attendants stood smiling at me with a tray of two red wines and two coffees. Her smile was really beautiful (as all flight attendants’ smiles are) and I wondered if they are taught how to smile like that during their training. No prizes for guessing who the red wines were for as Joe and I settled down with our coffees, and me with my thoughts.

Some time later as I was coming round from a doze I heard the Captain speaking over the tannoy telling us we were beginning our descent into Gibraltar even though it didn’t seem as though we’d been in the air for five minutes. I think I must have still been conditioned to the long haul flights we used to have to take when commuting back and forth to India but I wasn’t complaining.

I’d never flown into Gibraltar before but was aware of the reputation it had; the short runway sticking out to the sea and the dodgy turn needed to stay out of Spanish airspace. But just as I was pondering all the ‘ifs-and-buts’ we landed – in one of the smoothest landings I’ve ever had! When the plane eventually parked and the doors opened I stepped out and looked up. It was almost like a dream come true. I’d finally got back. The lump in my throat felt as though I’d swallowed an apple.

Passing through the airport terminal was quite a quick process compared to most other countries I’d been to and within about fifteen minutes we were in the transfer vehicle on the way through town to the Bristol Hotel. During the journey my eyes were literally everywhere as I continually asked our driver for clarity on just about everything I saw: “Isn’t that Queensway, isn’t that where the Fleet Pav was?”. I think he was quite relieved when we arrived at the hotel. 

Standing in the foyer waiting to check in I looked out of the door at the Cathedral where our children were Christened. Although I felt totally washed out and exhausted from the journey as I looked at the Cathedral I was instantly back there (in 1976) and knew my connection to the Rock was as strong as it was on the day I left. It was so good to be back. 

3:6 (2016) The Bristol Hotel, Gibraltar.

The Bristol Hotel (Wikipedia tells me) is Gibraltar’s oldest hotel established in 1894 and until 1932 was the flagship hotel of the Rock until the Rock Hotel opened in that year. Without going too deeply into Bristol’s history it was used as the RAF headquarters during WW2 and then for a short time after the war declined as an establishment before coming back into its own again from the 1960s onward following financial investment.      

Looking around, as I stood in the foyer, I felt as though I’d stepped back in time to an era I was familiar with, felt safe in and loved. This beautiful 120 year old building, with its 60 rooms, had retained its lovely retro ambience despite its ‘modernisation’ receiving a hot water supply, a bigger kitchen and a bigger pool; its beautiful chandeliers and stained glass windows reminded me of Raffles in Singapore where I ended up for reasons I can’t remember with shipmates after a run ashore.

I’d chosen Bristol for no other reason than it being close to the town for Joe and Sheila, who are in their 70s and 80s respectively, because they both enjoy going for walks when it’s not too far. I also felt Carol would appreciate being near Main Street too for whenever she wanted to browse the shops or just go for a stroll.

Having been on holiday often as a foursome I knew all three of my fellow travellers loved lolling about around the pool during the day when the weather was warm, and they all knew I preferred to go walkabout and meet the natives. Needless to say they were thrilled at having a private subtropical garden with pool and bar. First impressions from all of us on the Bristol Hotel were really positive and those impressions remained with us throughout our stay – not least because the rooms were lovely and the breakfasts were good but also because the staff were very friendly, accommodating and helpful. 

Speaking of staff, when I finally got to the reception desk to check in I began talking to the lady about the Mediterranean Steps Challenge I was doing the following day, or rather she began talking to me. ” Oh sure,” she said. “You’ll love it, I do all the time, maybe I do tomorrow too. Take a taxi cab to Jews Gate in the morning after breakfast, I will book for you. You want a morning call I will give you. Till then here is your room key, you can freshen up, have a nap then eat”. Been a while since I’d been pampered to that degree, but I loved it.

3:7(2016) The Angry Friar.

After receiving our room keys we bumbled on up to unpack and settle in; the whole place was a bit like a labyrinth with corridors and staircases leading everywhere. It took me a few attempts to find my way from reception to our room and back. But what was lovely was that the retro style in the foyer wasn’t just reserved for downstairs, it was all over the hotel. On occasions when I got lost up the wrong corridor I would find myself looking at an exquisite painting on a wall depicting a view of the Rock in days gone by. The whole building had really been nurtured.

Looking out from my room window was to look directly at the Cathedral with the Rock to my left and the new Commonwealth Park to my right although naturally I couldn’t see the grass as this was lower down – plus I didn’t even know that park existed yet. The room itself was quite nice too with easily accessible wardrobes and its own mini en-suite; it was simple but perfect! After unpacking my bag and having a shower I did take the opportunity to check out my bed with a few bounces and decided it was perfect too. Having said that ,as an old sailor who has slept on everything from a suitcase to a railway station, I’m not the most discerning and so to me any old mattress would have passed the audition.

It must have been about 8.30pm by the time the four of us had rested, scrubbed up and met in the foyer ready to go foraging for food. It had been a long old hike for us all when considering the driving as well as the flight – our road trip alone had been four hours up to Birmingham from Wales and so I guess we were all ready for some sit down and pampering. As we came out of Bristol and up onto Main Street I naturally went right and everyone just followed; I just thought The Angry Friar isn’t far and so we could sit outside and soak up a bit of atmosphere while some nice person went off and brought us four plates of whatever. 

As we walked past the bookshop I glanced in the window at the many books on display telling the History of Gibraltar, the Battle of Trafalgar and the contribution of both the Royal Navy and the apes to the safety of the Rock. What also caught my eye were the myriad of journals produced by local people depicting their ‘love of their homeland’ either through words, paintings or prose and I found these particularly touching – especially seeing so many offerings from such a small community. At the time I knew I would soon be writing these, my own, memoirs of Gibraltar and so as well as the books in the window being very touching, they were also very inspiring to me. I wondered if one day someone else would walk past that bookshop window and see a copy of my RockHeart?

At some point we crossed Convent Place and found a free table outside the Angry Friar where I took a few photos of my three companions. Sitting at the table I looked up at the accommodation above the pub and reflected back to 1976 when I had applied to rent it for my family but it failed the Navy inspection. Glancing around at some of the other tables outside the pub took me back even earlier to 1974 when I was on my way out to the Far East aboard HMS Scylla. I remembered one memorable evening when one well-oiled matelot got up onto one of the tables and entertained the gathered with a ‘Zulu Warrior’ (striptease).

“Alan the waiter is waiting for your order” Carol’s voice brought me back to the present day, “We’ve all ordered and now we’re waiting for you”. 

“Oh sorry love, I was miles away, yes please fish and chips” I replied. 

It was the first meal of our stay and my fish and chips were really lovely. As a boring non-drinker/non-smoker I do love nice meals out (and good cups of tea) and so it was a great start to the week. The week! Even just saying ‘the week’ brought an immediate touch of reality to the fact that I would only be in Gibraltar for one week and so had to make the most of every day. 

Just acknowledging that then made my stomach sink. And just writing it did the same thing because it reminds me these memoirs are very close to coming to their end. For now though as the day ended tomorrow, day one was on my mind. It was the MedStepsChallenge.

3:8 (2016) “Alan, wake up! You’re doing the Med Steps.

Our first evening ended with night caps in the hotel bar by the pool which was accessed by a sort of flyover walkway; you went through a door from the lounge, up some stairs and then across the street via a glass walkway before descending some more stairs into the bar which was situated in the Bristol’s own private walled garden. That routine would become a regular one throughout the week as a sort of last stop oasis whenever we got back from wherever we’d been. Eventually by the time I ‘hit the sack’ on that first night I was totally cream-crackered. Next thing I knew it was morning!

I’m not especially good first thing in the morning; my eyes have a tendency of waking up long before my body, which always needs a really hot shower to get the old muscles and bones moving. Some of that is about age and arthritis but some of it is also about being someone who totally loves bed, particularly when I wake up in the mornings. Sometimes it can take me a while to drift off at night because of discomfort/pain in my shoulder but then when I wake up in the morning I’m moulded into the mattress and don’t want to get out.

“Alan! Wake up! You’re doing the Med Steps Challenge today. Alan!!”. 

After being unceremoniously evicted from my nice warm bed onto the floor it crossed my mind that for a slim woman, thirteen days older than me, she still packed a clout though looking up at the ceiling the penny slowly began to drop. ‘YES!’. After months of looking at that poster above my desk at work – that one taken from up the Rock with loads of sunshine beaming down – I was FINALLY going to climb the MedStepsChallenge TODAY! “Don’t think you’re going anywhere without a good breakfast in your belly first and don’t forget to take your water” Carol continued.

Breakfast at the Bristol was a simple help-yourself affair with toast, cereal, fruit and yoghurt which suited me really well because traditionally I don’t eat much till lunchtime. However to keep the peace I managed to push down a couple of slices of toast followed by a tea and a coffee and just as I was digesting it all the reception lady called over to me that my taxi had arrived. Carol, Sheila and Joe had decided to spend the morning relaxing and sun-bathing by the pool and so as I departed they all bid me farewell and good luck with the kind of look on their faces that suggested I was as mad as a box of frogs. I think they would all rather have stuck pins in their eyes than climb Gibraltar although by the same token they all knew how much it meant to me.

Sitting in the taxi as it wound its way up to Jews Gate was about as good as it could get for me; even a lottery win would have faded into boring compared to that. Passing so many familiar places was such a reassuring experience and seeing new developments was so exciting too – particularly because I thought the ‘modern’ blended in so well with the ‘old’. Seeing so many new high rises reminded me of Hong Kong which like Gibraltar only had one development choice and that too was upwards. My initial feeling was a sort of positive fascination mixed with the hope that most of the Old Town hadn’t been touched.

Ten minutes after leaving Bristol we arrived at Jews Gate where the crowds were gathering and some discerning climbers had already set off on their first lap. As I got out of the taxi and morphed into one of the crowd I felt a total sense of belonging.

3:9 (2016) All Gibraltarians are British but all Brits are not Gibraltarian.

The MedSteps2016 Challenge is an annual charity event organised by members of the Gibraltar Prison Service to raise money for Cancer Relief. This year was its second year and the idea is that those taking part climb the steps five times. Each time a lap is completed the climber gets a CR stamp on a wristband they had been issued. Everyone taking part pays £10 which is how the cash is raised for Cancer Relief.

For weeks before I flew out to Gibraltar I’d been reading on social media about how people were preparing for the event. Awards for the best individual, the best team and the best effort were to be given and so many people were practising the course in their spare time to improve their performance. For me though I made the decision weeks before the event that I would only be doing one circuit (slowly) and that I would use the opportunity to view my old friend, the Rock, and take some amazing photos. Actually I’m not sure my knees would have gone round more than once anyway but after paying my tenner and being given my wrist band I was happy enough to just take part.

Although I wasn’t quite sure what to expect I eventually set off and as I did so one of the thoughts going through my mind was a story I had read recently about a young girl with cerebral palsy who had successfully completed the climb. If I needed any inspiration at all she was it but then I didn’t need any inspiration at all because from the very first step I was exactly where I wanted to be. It wasn’t more than a few minutes after setting off that I found myself looking out at a breath-taking view of Europa Point and so sat down awhile to ponder as I admired it.

In writing RockHeart I’d hoped to express the very deep affection I have for Gibraltar, and from some of the many comments I’ve received I do feel I’ve gone some way to achieving that. While Gibraltar is British, and extremely proud of and protective of that status, the people of the Rock are also uniquely Gibraltarian, which is a very special identity in its own right. However, even though not Gibraltarian myself, I was deeply honoured that one dedicated reader, Nicki Dando, shared that unique identity with me, referring to me as an ‘Honorary Gibbo’. Such a lovely comment,

Everyone who did the MedSteps challenge that day had their own reasons and agendas for doing so. As I looked out over Europa point and the African continent my own reasons were becoming more and more clear.

3:10 (2016) Every step was one into a new world I hadn’t been into before.

Built by the British, the Med Steps were originally designed as part of their military communications system to allow access to their various defence posts on the southern side of the Rock (Wikipedia). Today, however, after being restored in 2007 they are now used by civilians as a pedestrian route to access amazing views over the Straits and of Gibraltar’s Eastern beaches as well as Europa Point and beyond.

The Med Steps are also such a wonderful place to ‘just be’; to be yourself, to be you, or in my case to be me. Like most people much of my life is spent being someone or something for someone else whether that’s as an employee, a parent, a sibling, a spouse, a friend, the list is endless. Though all of those relationships are very much a blessing to me I still cherish ‘me-time’ and where better to spend a bit of solitude than on the Med Steps under a Mediterranean sun. 

As I lay back pondering, to the sound of tweeting birds and the occasional wave, someone suddenly said: “Excuse me, can you take our photo please?”. Two young women on the challenge wanted the first of many photos taken on their way round. I know it was the first of many because I took quite a few more of them later in the route. Having said that, they too took photos of me including my RockHeart profile photo on the cover of this memoir. By the time we all eventually got to the top we  became fair friends who I’m still in touch with today. For now though I took their photo with Europa Point in the background and they then shot off, wearing all the latest climbing gear, leaving me to continue my bumbling onwards and upwards dressed in chop-offs, badly fitting sandals, a ‘Why Aye Man’ tee shirt and a hat.

Naturally many people doing the challenge that day were locals who knew the route like the back of their hand and judging by the way they overtook me they were doing the challenge against the clock. For me though every step was one into a new world that I’d never been into before and I wasn’t about to blink and miss it. Whenever I heard athletes behind me I just stepped to the side to let them charge past but moreover I spent most of the time just sitting down and soaking up the views. Every view I looked at invoked a different emotion which in that environment I was able to examine safely; I sat down next to wild poppies for a while which, apart from being my favourite little flower, reminded me of my birth father who had survived being shot in the head during WW2 only to develop schizophrenia as a result of it. Looking out at the ships passing by reminded me of my own years of service in the Royal Navy and some of the amazing countries I had visited during that time. 

Periodically my two new ‘friends’ would either wait for me to catch up or offer to push me when the going started to get a bit tough, for example when the steps were so deep I had my knees in my mouth. The blend of ‘me-time’ to myself and sharing time with others was really nice; as well as having the space to examine deep seated feelings I also felt as though other people were watching out for me and that I ‘sort of’ belonged Feeling like I ‘sort of’ belonged was better than feeling like I didn’t; in fact it was very touching.

If I’d never been to Gibraltar in my life and suddenly found myself up on the Med Steps looking down on the Eastern beaches I’d think I was in a dream; and so to be revisiting after 40 years and find it was still the paradise I had left behind was a moment so special to me I find it difficult to put into words. And so I won’t even try.

3:11 (2016) At the top of the Rock I’m on top of the world.

Climbing the Med Steps is one of those things you just don’t want to end, in fact if I’d taken a picnic with me I’d probably have stayed up there all day. Just sitting down and looking out at the incredible views was enough to take me away from all of the humdrum things in life we suffer from in order to survive. Work, bills and bad weather spring to mind; I wasn’t sure whether I’d landed in Narnia or Utopia but couldn’t care less – I was just happy to be in the moment and sit.

As I sat enjoying the views with the warm sun on my face some of the slower climbers went by me grunting and sweating; it was reassuring to hear a few other knees clicking as well as my own. “You’re nearly at the top” someone said as though they thought I was struggling. “I know. But it will still be there in five minutes or so” I replied, knowing that as soon as I reached the top it would be all over and I would be making my way back down again on the other side away from the views I was currently enjoying.

Soaking up the beautiful view of Catalan Bay, Caleta Palace and Eastern Beach I managed to take what I thought was a great photo of the scene which was complemented with birds flying in the skies above. Having said that, I’m not really the best photographer in the world and only have a phone camera but was happy (and to capture the image. What happens is that when I take a photo in the sun I’m not able to check it until I’m indoors somewhere because my vision isn’t very good and it’s even worse looking at a black phone screen in the sun. Meanwhile I continued to sit back and ponder.

Displacement as a child from my home town of Newcastle is something that has often pained me over the years and sometimes left me forever grappling to attach ‘somewhere’. For a few years I lived in India and whilst there I did connect on some levels but in honesty so much of their varied cultures were just so alien to me. It got to the point that in one day I would meet people from so many different walks of life, ethnic backgrounds and religions, speaking so many different languages, that I just couldn’t relate to people on that many levels. When writing this I am living in Wales which is Carol’s homeland and though it is a beautiful country with gorgeous views there are times when I struggle with the culture, the lifestyle and the politics. Although I lived here for four years I couldn’t say I was particularly emotionally connected. 

Including Gibraltar, Carol and I have lived in four different countries and so I guess we are a bit of a nomad though as mentioned earlier I love the idea that each of my children were born in a different country. I guess at my age I’ll always have that feeling of being displaced and not belonging but if there’s anywhere in this world that I don’t feel that way and feel a very strong connection to, it is Gibraltar.

“Come on Alan get up here for your Top of the Rock photo” a voice came down from the top from one of the women who had been doing the climb with me. I climbed the last few steps to the top, stretched out like the Angel of the North, took a deep breath of fresh air and felt on top of the world.

3:12 (2016) ‘My Gibraltar’.

I learned a long time ago that I don’t need to know all of this world’s secrets or how everything works; I’m quite happy to leave that to those who do. The idea that less than 24 hours ago I was driving up a lorry-laden, wet motorway from Wales to Birmingham and now find myself at the top of Gibraltar in beautifully warm sunshine is a prime example of something I can love and wonder about, but have no desire to examine for the whys and wherefores.

I had a similar experience years ago when I flew out to Singapore from RAF Brize Norton and stopped en-route at Gan. When the Captain said he was about to land our massive Hercules aircraft on Gan I looked out of the window and thought he must be joking. I’d seen bigger aircraft carriers than Gan. I didn’t even know there was such a place, but down we went and somehow he landed this humongous thing on what looked like a little piece of grass.

Travel mysteries and pilot skills aside, just being able to do a 360 degree turn and look in every direction from the top of the Rock was exhilarating. And as well as the awesome closeup views I had of Gibraltar the distant ones of Spain and Africa just reminded me of how puny I am in the scale of things. It’s probably one of the most sobering places in the world for someone to go who has arrived at a point in their life when they may feel they are more important than other people and get a free wake-up call to bring them down to earth.

I’m not sure how long I sat up on the summit but it must have been some time because my travelling companions had long since gone off to do another circuit. I was starting to think that if I didn’t clear off soon they would be catching me up and overtaking me again. 

As I’d looked down on familiar places like Edinburgh House, Trafalgar House, RNH, the dockyard, and of course the Alameda, I began realising it wasn’t so much the literal places which made up ‘My Gibraltar’ it was more the memories within them. Wherever I looked there was a story I could tell; in fact with some of those places such as the Alameda I could probably have written a stand alone book. And although those memories were from forty years ago it was of great comfort to see each of those places still there in the glorious sunshine holding on to them for me. With that thought in mind I stood up and began making my way back down the other side of the Rock to add a few more memories and experiences to ‘My Gibraltar’.

3:13 (2016) St. Michael’s Cabin revisited after 40 years.

On my descent from the summit one of the first places I encountered was St.Michaels Cabin. Readers will know that the Cabin was the very first place I took Carol to for a meal when she flew out to join me in 1976 (see 2:15) and so it would always remain a special place in our lives. I had hoped to take Carol back there again for a meal but sadly found that the Cabin had changed from a restaurant to a cafe and no longer served evening meals.

Back in 1976 the Cabin was truly a lovely restaurant serving bespoke meals in an enchanting environment. All these years later I still remember the fabulous French onion soup to die for served to the sound of live musicians playing beautiful instrumentals in the background. The lights were low, the ambience was beyond words and the views from the little windows were mind bogglingly beautiful.

Standing outside the Cabin, looking at it as it is today, was quite a sad experience. I found it impossible to reconcile how such an amazingly situated venue overlooking both Gibraltar and Spain could decline and be allowed to be reduced to what appeared to be a glorified ice cream shop. Not able to bear the thought of going inside, I took my leave and continued down the Rock towards the town. Thankfully the St Michaels Cabin image and ambience I had stored away in the memory bank of ‘My Gibraltar’ and on this occasion I preferred to cherish the past over the present.

3:14 (2016) Can’t sit pondering on the Steps all day…need to go ponder in Alameda.

As I walked down from St. Michael’s Cabin to Jews gate in the lovely warm sunshine it wasn’t long before I found myself back in the middle of a crowd of people, some of them having a break between laps of the Med Steps, others there to support the participants. Finally back where I started I was duly ‘awarded’ the CR (Cancer Relief) stamp on my wristband in recognition of my lowly lap. Of course many people were out to achieve the full five stamps but for me I was really pleased to have my one stamp and to have been a small part of an amazing event. With my Med Steps Challenge over I began my final walk back feeling just a little bit proud of myself.

The walk down the Rock was as lovely as the climb up and just a little bit easier on this old man’s knees. As I made my way down the road, periodically pausing to soak up the tranquillity, I wondered if local people ever just got to the point of taking their environment for granted because they saw it every day. Unlikely. Almost as soon as that thought entered my head I threw it out. 

Ponderings and musings over I carried on down eventually leaving the Upper Rock Nature Reserve and on a direct course for one of my all-time favourite paradises, Alameda Gardens. Looking back up the road and seeing others on their way to the Steps you could say I was a little bit envious and sorely tempted to go back and do another lap. But even if I’d had the energy, which I doubt, I’d just be up there for hours sitting down somewhere still pondering and I didn’t really have the time to do any more of that. Because I had such a lot of sit-downs and pondering to do in the Alameda.

3:15 (2016) A single picture (in Alameda) can speak a thousand words.

Slipping down left from the Main Road into Alameda Botanical Gardens was like walking into the garden of Eden; the minute I entered it was almost like arriving on a different planet. If there’s such a concept as a place being happy to receive an old friend then the way I felt needs no explanation. It was almost as though I was having a telepathic two-way conversation with the trees, the bushes, the cacti and the shrubs. We were all welcoming each other. Especially the Wonky Tree that looked as though it was bending down getting ready to whisper something to me.

Just a few yards in and the sound of traffic was replaced by a very beautiful silence, a silence I hadn’t heard since 1976 (see 2:59) when the only sounds to break the silence then were the sounds of our children playing in the park. Walking down into the hub of the gardens was both astonishing and thrilling. It was astonishing because it felt as though I’d never been away and it was thrilling because wherever I went within this gorgeous labyrinth I knew exactly where I was. Although there had been new developments fundamentally the only change I detected was that it was ever more tranquil and beautiful.

I could tell you that Wikipedia says the gardens were commissioned in 1816 by the then Governor of Gibraltar General George Don so that his soldiers had somewhere recreational to go when off duty and that local people could enjoy the outdoors and be protected from the extreme sun. But you can easily read that for yourself along with the history of the Rock, its politics and other statistics of general interest. However if  I had anything at all to say about George Don’s vision and the creation of the Alameda it would be – thank you.

Sometimes I think words are not always necessary; as the old saying goes, a picture can speak a thousand words. When I look at some of the many photographs I took as I walked through the Alameda I don’t think anything I say today could add to what they say. This enchanted corner of the Rock enchants all who encounter it all on its own without any help from anywhere. What I did know was that during my seven day stay I would visit the Alameda every day.

Although I didn’t have a lot of time, having spent the whole morning on the Med Steps, I was happy enough to take a seat and spend a little time with ‘my old friend Alameda’ and for us both to reconnect, if only for a while. 

3:16 (2016) Alameda Children’s Garden.

I’m not sure how long I’d sat pondering in Alameda but eventually I just stood up feeling very relaxed, refreshed and happy that over the coming week I would be able to explore the gardens more leisurely when I didn’t feel so pressed for time. At the back of my mind I was aware my travelling companions Carol, Sheila and Joe might be holding back on going for lunch pending me getting back and so I thought I’d better head back to the Bristol.

In good faith I headed off toward the main entrance although being very easily distracted I hadn’t gone far when I came across the footbridge by the beautiful Dell.  For me to not stop and admire the Castle and Keys on the lawn and the lovely water fountain would have been a travesty. From what I’ve read online recently the Dell has become an increasingly popular wedding location and I’m not in the least bit surprised; I don’t think I’ve ever seen such beautifully greener grass anywhere other than possibly in New Zealand and the sound of the water from the fountain just gives it all that lovely Zen finishing. 

Dragging myself away and over the footbridge I turned left to go down to the lower lane where the playground used to be and spotted a new Children’s Garden on the bend. Craning my neck to look between the bars of the fence for a better view I was totally captivated and rewarded with lovely views of a delightful project; local children who were members of their own Garden Club were growing herbs and vegetables and heaven only knows what else all of which were labelled and flourishing. As I looked between the bars of the fence I felt like a child looking into Santa’s Grotto. It was lovely.

From what I could see the children also made crazy pavement and raised garden areas with their own very unique scarecrows – one of them, made from plant-pots, looked like something out of a TV show that was on in the 60s (Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men). And just as I was thinking that it was one of the most magical things I’d ever seen I spotted their ‘Bee Hotel’ and was totally hooked. I loved the whole concept so much that I decided there and then it was an idea I would be taking back to the UK for the children I work with professionally. A ‘Bee Hotel’. Priceless!

I’m not sure how I finally managed to drag myself out of the lovely Alameda but at least I knew it wouldn’t be 40 years before I got back…it would be tomorrow.

3:17 (2016) “Hey, remember me?” It’s good to see you again.

After leaving the Alameda I came down into the car park by the cable car terminal and saw directly in front of me a very familiar building, my old home Trafalgar House. 

To my left were the apartment blocks by the Fire Station where one of my readers (MG) recalls lovely memories of having lived there as a child particularly with having the Alameda right outside her door; what a blessed childhood! From where I was standing I could only imagine the views from her apartment which must have been awesome; from one side there is the Alameda and the Rock and from the other side I imagine sea views over Rosia? 

Passing the cable car terminal naturally brought back many lovely memories of trips up the Rock with the children to see the apes and I know Carol, Sheila and Joe all wanted to do the trip during the week and so I checked out times and prices. I often think that if you didn’t visit the apes during a stay, then you didn’t ‘do’ Gibraltar.

As I finally approached Trafalgar Island I looked up at the old building with both affection and thanks; although we lived high up in Number 10 Trafalgar House, climbing the steps to our apartment was a small price to pay to have my family with me earlier. Although I knew full well where the entrance was, I deliberately walked around the whole building just to touch base and sort of say ‘Hey,remember me? It’s good to see you again’. 

After walking completely around the building I finally arrived at the entrance which was almost opposite the Trafalgar Cemetery. The first thing I noticed that had changed was that there was now a locked outside door where there used to be an open lobby – you may recall (see 2:16) I wrote about that lobby and an incident that happened when Carol and I returned from our night out at St.Michaels Cabin – there was also a new shiny brass plaque by the door.

As I stood looking at the door from a few yards away a man came out and walked off in a hurry; as he did so I noticed the door was closing very, very slowly and on the spur of the moment as if by instinct I shot forward and slipped inside before it closed behind me. Inside, my heart was pumping because part of me knew I shouldn’t be in the building as it was clearly private to residents only, but the temptation to revisit had just been too much. For a while I stood frozen as I listened to hear if anyone else was moving around until I finally convinced myself it was safe to move. I quietly began climbing a set of steps that I recognised until I literally got myself outside the very door of my old apartment, terrified that the present resident might just open the door and ask me what I was up to. 

Fortunately no-one did come out and for a wonderful five minutes I was back there at my apartment in 1976 with my family chatting to other residents across the inner triangle where we all had a washing line. No amount of money could have bought that experience for me and I don’t imagine any amount of explanation from me would ever convince readers or anyone else how much those five minutes meant to me.

Although a part of me could have stayed there all day I knew I had to go and somehow managed to slip out of the building as quietly as I’d slipped in.  As I looked back I almost felt the old place say thank you. So I said it back out loud. “Thank You”.

3:18 (2016) Walking down Main Street could almost have been as though I was walking to work.

After leaving Trafalgar House I passed by Trafalgar Cemetery which is steeped in history and although I was dying to go in (bad joke) I decided I really did need to press on and meet up with Carol, Sheila and Joe at the Bristol – heaven only knows where they thought I was, I seem to have been out hours. And so with enormous self-discipline I walked past the cemetery and through the archway onto Main Street promising myself I would be back to visit the cemetery later in the week.

On the other side of the road I spotted Inces Hall and paused for a while to reflect. We’d been to quite a few functions there, notably the one I remember most was a concert by an Irish Trio called the Bachelors which I wrote about earlier (see 2:33). Looking at the building it was nice to see it was so well looked after – it looked as though it had just had a fresh coat of paint – and by the look of the posters outside it was also still very much a ‘happening’ place for cultural events. 

A little further down the road was Sir John Mackintosh Hall which I’m not sure if I remember being there in the 70s and wondered if it had been built since? It looked very modern. From where I was standing I saw what looked like military personnel in white uniforms gathering outside the Hall in preparation for an event. As I got nearer I looked through the windows of the hall and saw there was a library and other facilities such as reception rooms for corporate events; I got the impression as with Inces Hall it was also a cultural establishment but on a slightly posher scale? The military personnel I’d spotted from a distance were a band who were indeed getting ready for an event and so I thought I may just hang around a while to see what it was.

Looking down Main Street towards Convent Place seemed so familiar and as though time had stood still; as I walked down the road it could almost have been as though I was walking to work from Trafalgar House to HMS Rooke. 

As I walked further I noticed quite a crowd beginning to gather in Convent Place and realised straight away what the military band were preparing for; they were getting ready for the Convent Guard Mount. Somehow I had a feeling I was going to be even later back to Bristol than I thought I would.

3:19 (2016) Ceremony of the Guard Mounting.

By the time I got down to Convent Place quite a crowd had gathered and although I was vaguely aware of the Ceremony of Guard Mounting it had been so long since I’d been a spectator I couldn’t remember too much about it. Almost as though by fate I found myself once again standing outside the door to the apartment above the Angry Friar – the apartment I’d applied for back in 1976 but which the Navy wouldn’t let me have (see 2:8) because it didn’t pass their inspection. Looking at the door I recalled how absolutely gutted I felt back then and yet today I felt a certain endearment toward it as it has somehow managed to secure itself a very unique place in my life story. I can never walk past that door without recalling the day I walked through it.

As I mingled with the crowd I noticed that most people were holding a leaflet and so I stuck my neck out and asked a nice roving policeman for one – he kindly obliged. As I stood in the crowd reading my leaflet I noticed people coming out onto the balcony and it wasn’t long before it was crowded with dignitaries including the Governor himself. The Ceremony began with soldiers marching out in ceremonial style and taking their place in the square; after a dialogue between the Governor and the Officer in Charge of the parade it wasn’t long before the military band arrived to the crowds delight.

Although the pomp and ceremony was wonderful to watch I also loved the way the steeped history of how the Royal Gibraltar Regiment keeps the Rock and her residents safe was illustrated; I also loved how the changing of the guard took place to the wonderful music (including By Land and Sea) of The Band and Corps of Drums of the Royal Gibraltar Regiment. 

I felt very lucky to have caught this ceremony almost by chance after already having had such an amazing morning on the Med Steps, in Alameda and gate-crashing Trafalgar House. When the ceremony ended I finally set off for the Bristol Hotel to meet up with Carol and our friends for lunch with quite a few tales to share with them.

3:20 (2016) Nirvana didn’t come close.

It must have been somewhere around 1pm when I finally arrived back at the Bristol Hotel to be greeted by Carol, Sheila and Joe who had all had a very relaxing morning around the pool. My timing couldn’t have been better really as they had all decided they would like a lunchtime stroll down Main Street to find either a sandwich or a panini to take back and eat beside the pool; not being someone who needed telling twice I was delighted to join in the forage because I was certainly ready for something to eat. I also quite liked the idea of taking a sandwich back to eat beside the pool as I quite fancied chilling out with a dip after lunch.

It didn’t take long to find a sandwich/pastry take-away shop and it wasn’t long before we all decided it would become our regular pit-stop because the food was excellent. I don’t remember the name of the place but it’s just down Main Street from Bristol, on the left before Marks and Spencer and I can highly recommend it.

Back at the hotel we all sat around the pool eating our food as I shared stories about my morning, and they shared stories about theirs. Naturally my morning had been the most physically active but with regard to enjoyability my feeling is that we were all very much equal; the morning around the pool in the warm sunshine had been very relaxing and restful for them all and after the morning I’d had I decided I’d like some of that for myself during the afternoon.

With lunch over I got myself a sun bed, towels and a book given to me as a gift from an old Royal Navy comrade) then lay down looking up enjoying the view of a palm tree in the blue sky. It wasn’t long before my eyes closed and I was reliving my morning for a second time in a wonderful day dream. Nirvana didn’t come close. 

3:21 (2016) Just when I thought Gibraltar couldn’t get any more beautiful…

Sometime, late afternoon, I felt a prod in the ribs and woke from my semi-slumber to hear Carol saying she was going for her afternoon nap and could I wake her later with a cup of tea – after I had been out and found some semi-skimmed milk. “There’s a new Morrisons somewhere Alan, they’ll have it and you know you like to explore” she said, and then she was gone.

Although Carol has always enjoyed an afternoon nap I’ve never liked sleeping in the daytime and then waking up to go to bed, it makes me grumpy. On top of which I was quite happy to go off into the unknown to find this new Morrisons; I had a feeling it was somewhere down by those new high-rise apartments on the other side of Edinburgh House and so I got myself together and headed off in the general direction.

Turning right as I left the Bristol I crossed over the road, briefly turning back to glance at the Cathedral and promising myself to visit it soon. A few seconds later I realised that Morrisons wasn’t the only new thing to have been built in Gibraltar. I could hardly believe my eyes when, after I’d walked through an archway, l was looking at the most beautifully designed outdoor space complete with lake, bandstand, lawns and all manner of trees, shrubs and flowers complementing the lovely stone ornaments and plaques. Somehow part of me was expecting to see concrete steps leading down to the old Fleet Pavillion site but what I discovered was the new Commonwealth Park and was totally blown away. 

Standing on the balcony surveying the park was almost as though I’d climbed out of a wardrobe and landed in Narnia; in fact for a minute I had to look back just to check that the archway wasn’t a wardrobe door. Soaking up the atmosphere of the park with the new high-rise apartments as its backdrop was almost like standing in New York’s Central Park, only a million times better. From the balcony down to the park level was the choice of a lift or steps which I thought was brilliant for people with dodgy knees (like mine) although not wanting to miss any of the ambience I took the steps.

Although I was on a mission to find the Holy Grail (the new Morrisons) I wasn’t about to just bypass such a gorgeous place without at least doing a couple of circuits and getting a closer look; just at the point I thought Gibraltar couldn’t get any more beautiful I was delighted to be proved wrong. 

3:22 (2016) Old sailors never die, they just fade away.

I don’t know how long I’d been wandering around Commonwealth Park but finally, somehow, I managed to reluctantly drag myself out of it. Any other day I could have stayed there till the sun went down but on this occasion I’d been specifically dispatched on a mission to find this new Morrisons.

When I came out of the park onto the Main Road I wasn’t totally sure where I was because I didn’t recognise the high-rise apartments or the carriageway but eventually I made the decision that I must be on Queensway. I also had a feeling that I needed to go right not left and it wasn’t long before I knew exactly where I was. After passing what looked like a bus station – which I’m sure used to be the Royal Naval Caravan Site – I found myself looking across the road straight into the main gate of the Rooke Site, formerly HMS Rooke. 

For a minute I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even breathe, I just stood there gawping at a massive lump of my military history. As I looked past the Main Gate at the buildings within the complex I swore blind I could even recognise what I thought was my old office, even my old desk, although on reflection that may have been my mind playing delusional tricks on me . At some point I realised one of the Gate Guards was looking at me as though I was Gibraltar’s Number One Enemy and so decided I’d better cross the road and explain myself.

Face to face with the Gate Guard – the first of many real live Gibraltarians I would meet, speak to and become friends with during my stay – he began a conversation before I could even open my mouth. I must have looked as though I was frightened of being in trouble for spying on the barracks or something and so he said to me “Don’t worry, I know what you want. Many come here all the time to visit the old place. Many old sailors. Today this is the Police building. Would you like me to take your selfie here?”. “Yes Sir, thank you” I replied, “I would like that”.

3:23 (2016) Pilgrim Sailor.

Chatting to the Gate Guard on the Rooke Site was really nice; he was a man who knew about Naval history in Gibraltar and so he certainly spoke my kind of language. Aside from that though he also cared; he cared about Pilgrim Sailors such as myself who, for reasons best known only to us, make that trip back to the Rock years after leaving. For a man who must have met dozens of us, I found the fact that he appeared to care for each of us individually very touching. 

Just before leaving the gate the guard shook my hand and said “You’ll be going past your old house for a look, yes?” pointing across the road at Edinburgh House. For a minute I was speechless; for some strange reason I hadn’t realised I was so close to the married quarters because I’d been so wrapped up in seeing Rooke again it hadn’t even occurred to me. “Oh. Yes my friend” I replied during a man hug, “Of course”.

After walking through the archway into the married quarters, the one I had walked through thousands of times before in another life, I found myself standing in the quadrangle courtyard staring straight at our old home, 21 Edinburgh House. What was really nice about it was that all of the buildings were looking well presented, recently painted and very homely. 

A few slight differences abounded which to me were very much improvements such as new blue and white sun shades fitted to the balconies. I also noticed that each of the buildings had been inaugurated with its own individual name, I think after famous Gibraltarians of note. In the case of my building the name ‘Manuel Olivero House’ had been placed above the outer door.

As I stood looking up at my old apartment wondering whether to knock on the door to say hello, a voice said “Hello there”. In one of the lower apartments an elderly gentleman and his wife were sitting out on their balcony enjoying the shade from the afternoon sun. I immediately replied to the man and after introducing myself to him and his wife I spent the next hour having a wonderful conversation with him about all things Gibraltar; including how “Gibraltar will always be British not Spanish” and how he loved his apartment. 

Eventually I decided I’d better be moving on with my quest to find the elusive Morrisons and said to my new friend that it had been wonderful to meet him and a privilege spending time with him. As he shook my hand and bade me farewell he said “You will talk about me in your book no?”. “Oh yes Sir” I smiled.

Walking back across the quadrangle toward the Main archway to Queensway I spun round for a last look and looking up I noticed a couple more residents waving at me! Slightly flushed I waved back then slipped through the archway. As I looked at the beautiful Rock I wondered where the NAAFI had gone, and the Fleet Pav – I’m sure they were there last time I looked. But then it was a while ago since I’d looked through that archway.

3:24 (2016) I wondered if there were any vacant apartments.

For some reason I have a very poor recollection of what used to be behind Edinburgh House (apart from the sea) or even what was further down Queensway after the NAAFI (perhaps we never went that way, I don’t know) but I definitely didn’t expect to find what I did find. As I strolled past what I think used to be the NAAFI but now looked like some massive great multi-story car park under construction, it almost felt as though I’d left the Rock and landed in the middle of a city somewhere. At some point during my walkabout I came to the conclusion that there must have been some sort of land reclamation because not far down the road I was greeted by literally dozens of high-rise apartment blocks that were definitely not there in my day.

Although this abstract image of dozens of triffid-like buildings reaching up to the sky like something out of War of the Worlds seemed alien to my mental image of Gibraltar, there was something about it that worked. Their newness struck a chord with me. My memories and recollections were more of the old town and its steeped history that included the Moors, the Spanish and the British all fighting each other for ownership but of course that was a long time ago and naturally if the Rock was to survive world progress it had to move on. The fact that this massive colony of high-rises were separate from the old town pleased me; the back streets were sacrosanct in my mind and as far as I was aware at this point were still very much untouched. Just walking among the high rises reminded me a bit of Hong Kong which like Gibraltar is also strapped for ground space built and so the only way to go was up.

Finally after scouring the area I came across that new Morrisons I’d been looking for, and that’s not all I came across. Just off the car park to the supermarket was the new St Bernard’s hospital. In my day it had been Liptons on Main Street and RNH on the other side of the Rock. I loved the progress and wondered whether the locals did? While I was at it I wondered if there were any vacant apartments for sale or rent? With that thought I went into Morrisons to buy my semi skimmed milk.

3:25 (2016) It was a place I knew very well and had wonderful memories of.

Walking back to the Bristol from Morrisons I decided to go a different way to the way I’d come; I thought I was unlikely to get lost but even if I did I didn’t care, I’ve always been something of an easily distracted meanderer although I did need to get back with the milk before too long. 

I still couldn’t really get over the scale of the new high-rise developments and looking up at some of them I wondered if the residents felt they were very lucky to live where they did or whether it was just a sort of norm and didn’t think about it. Eventually, after reflecting back on how happy the present incumbent in Edinburgh House was with his apartment, I decided the residents must be very happy with their homesteads.

The view I had of the Rock as I began my walk back was awesome and so I imagined the views for those people living up in the air must be amazing; thinking about it the views from Trafalgar House when I lived there were to die for, such is life for the residents of the Rock. Pondering that theme I paused for a few minutes as I looked up at one particularly lavish looking apartment block. Having worked in social care for the past thirty years I’m not so naive to think everyone in the Gibraltar community lives the life of a wealthy resident and have no doubt that some families struggle like anywhere else; indeed there have been times when my family and I have seriously struggled in the past. I suppose I wondered whether it would have been any easier being broke and in debt in paradise than being broke and in debt in a run-down council house in Nottingham. Probably not.

Although I wasn’t certain about where I was, I had a fair idea. After climbing some steps I knew I was heading toward Main Street and it wasn’t long before that was confirmed. Almost as soon as I crossed a road I ended up in a place I knew very well and had lovely memories of – the Piazza! Standing in the middle of this wonderful outdoor space took me straight back to the days of when my children were little and we’d all have cold drinks in the warm sunshine. Back in the 70s the Piazza was very much more the communal meeting place than Casemates, which seems to have taken over that mantle, and it was here that very often my ‘bambinos’ would be carted off by kindly local women for a walk down Irish Town or up Main Street while I had a ‘respite’ from parenting.

Mindful that I needed to press on, I continued on up Main Street with a head full of happy times – very amused as a Geordie-Boy to catch a glimpse of the Newcastle Building Society out of the corner of my eye. Why Aye Man.

3:26 (2016) It was an experience that bordered on the spiritual.

It had been a long day by the time I finally got back to Bristol but that was still not the end of it. As Carol sat up in bed after her afternoon nap with a cup of tea, made with the fresh milk I’d bought at Morrisons, she said: “We thought tonight we’d go down Main Street towards Casemates to explore and find new places to eat. The Angry Friar was alright but we want to see lots of eateries”. “Sounds like a great plan” says I.

Scrubbed up and out the door we walked up onto Main Street, turned left and soon began seeing familiar places; one of the first being,to Carol’s delight,  Princess Silks. For the next ten minutes Carol recalled her fond memories of the place to Sheila and Joe and how she would spend hours inside choosing fabric and buttons for the children’s frocks and her own evening dresses (see 2:36). Probably the cherry on the top for Carol was pointing to the very spot outside the shop where she had left our youngest daughter Benita in her buggy after coming out of the shop and going straight home forgetting she even had a baby (see 2:56).

On the other side of the street the very British Marks and Spencer appeared to have expanded their floor space massively compared to what it looked like in the seventies and it wasn’t long before Carol asked “Where’s Liptons gone?” – which immediately explained how Marks had grown. What I loved about Marks and Spencer wasn’t the shop but the bench outside it that I have fabulous memories of occupying while people-watching as Carol went off to window shop or on pay week to enjoy a bit of retail therapy. *People-watching has remained a passion of mine all of my life and is most definitely up there as my guilty pleasure.

After walking a few hundred yards further down the immaculately clean and beautifully presented Main Street the ladies spotted the Gibraltar Arms and after checking out the menu decided that was where we would eat this evening. As it turned out we were all so impressed with the service, the food and the ambience that we would later return to the place several times more during our week on the Rock.

For me, having dinner sitting outside the Gibraltar Arms was far more than just eating a meal, as good as that meal was, it was also about having the opportunity to soak up the atmosphere somewhere I’ve always thought of as my most favourite place in the world.

3:27 (2016) I never did find that little shop.

Walking back to Bristol after our evening meal at the Gibraltar Arms just felt so relaxed compared to how life can be in the UK with police sirens and noise all over the place; and it was one of those really starry nights that always add something special. It would become our custom to have a nightcap in the Bristol’s own bar at the end of each day, and to talk about what people wanted to do the following day.  As the week rolled on the girl behind the bar soon got to know our order for two red wines and a couple of coffees for Joe and me.

With the following day being Sunday everyone still felt they wanted to spend a bit more time relaxing and chilling around the pool during the morning, except me of course, and so I decided I would be going walkabout around the back streets although my plans are always a work in progress. The fact that I may plan to go to a particular place means absolutely nothing because as previously admitted I’m quite easily distracted and could end up anywhere – and very often do.

In the morning after a wonderful second night’s sleep I woke up with an acute awareness that our week on the Rock was starting to go past too quickly for my liking and so I shot out of bed into the shower and hit the breakfast bar. At some point we all ended up breakfasting together although I’m not a big eater first thing in the morning. Carol, Sheila and Joe had brought down their towels, kindles, books, flannels and related paraphernalia ready for a morning of slobbing by the pool – I had what I stood up in. 

After a couple of coffees and a yoghurt I left the others stoking up on copious amounts of toast and jam, cereals, fruit and whatever else was on offer after which no doubt they would lie down horizontally all morning on their sunbed till lunchtime. Meanwhile for me it was out the door to discover places where I had never been  before…and anyway even if I had been before I wanted to go back and see it all again.

With no particular plan in mind I set off and within a few minutes found myself back in the Piazza heading toward Irish Town; something was telling me it was a good place to start and I also had a driving urge to see if I could find that little shop where I had Benita’s first frock made before she was even born (see2:52). I turned down into Irish Town, walking slowly down the empty street to soak up the memories of forty years previously. Today it was very quiet with only a few people about which really suited me well because I just wanted to look around in my own time; in its day however Irish Town was very much a social and business hub even as recently as the seventies. 

I remember a restaurant down there where I took Carol for our second wedding anniversary and we first tasted what we thought were very extravagant and posh swordfish steaks. Whenever I have them now it mentally takes me straight back to Irish Town. As I looked down the street I wondered if that restaurant with all the chairs stacked up outside waiting to open up was the swordfish one.

Sadly although I walked up and down a couple of times I couldn’t find that little corner shop where I bought Benita’s frock; I guess I’ll just have to book a flight and come back again one day for another look.

3:28 (2016) I walked through a tunnel and came out into Casemates.

As with most of my dawdling walkabouts I literally had to drag myself out of Irish Town because I could well have wallowed around in there for hours trying to answer questions from years ago and still come out without any answers. Maybe I’ll never know precisely which restaurant I had my first swordfish in, or where the little shop was that I bought my daughters first frock; and maybe in the scale of things those things aren’t really that important. Perhaps part of Gibraltar’s charm for me is that she doesn’t let me know all of the answers to all of the questions I want answering when, but tantalisingly promises to answer a few every time I return. It didn’t take me long to decide I would be quite happy to make regular trips back to have my questions answered if that’s what ‘she’ wanted.

Somehow, after leaving Irish Town at the lower end and wandering around an area I was quite unfamiliar with, I eventually ended up walking through a tunnel which brought me out into Casemates Square. 

Casemates isn’t somewhere I have any particular recollection of since as previously mentioned back in my day the social hub was the Piazza which is really the place I have an affinity with. However as I strolled through the square it didn’t take me long to realise it was very much a vibrant communal area supported by a variety of eateries and watering holes along with very interesting places to visit such as the Glassblowers workshop. 

Cool goings-on such as buskers and street artists performing for the gathered, were also very much in evidence and so I decided the place most definitely got my vote. As a musician myself I always enjoy watching others doing their thing and knowing how tough the respectable profession of busking can be I ‘always pay the artist’ handsomely. After leaving my tip the look on their faces was priceless.

As I left Casemates to the wonderful sounds of a pots-and-pans junk band, I decided to suggest to my travelling companions that we try one of the restaurants there for dinner this evening. I knew they were keen to try as many different places as possible during their stay and I was sure they’d also love to know more about the glass-blowing and when they could go to watch. Leaving the square I decided not to walk up Main Street because I had a feeling I’d be walking back down it this evening so I turned left up the back streets and headed for the Old Town.

3:29 (2016) In the labyrinth of the Old Town I was in no rush to leave.

There’s an old saying that goes something like ‘If you want to really know about someone don’t knock on the front door, go round the back’. Digressing a little, I know, but there is a very loosely-connected theme with that and what I’m writing about. Wherever I go in this world I love trying to find out a little bit about the country I’m in and their culture and if I’m lucky get to chat to some of the local people.

Over the years my nosiness has got me into temples, mosques, crocodile pits and some very dodgy situations but those stories are for a different memoir. Even on this trip I managed to somehow sneak back into Trafalgar House (see 3:17) to enjoy a little moment with my past. Possibly the point I’m trying to make is that if I’m travelling hundreds of miles to go somewhere I want to make the absolute most of it. I think my thoughts on all that were reinforced once when I asked a friend how she had enjoyed India. “I’ve never been to India,” she said. “But you’ve been to Goa haven’t you?” I replied. ” Oh” she said, “Is that in India?”

Not long after leaving Casemates I quickly found myself up the back streets and loving it. I had no idea where I was, or where I was going and I couldn’t care less; what I did know is that I felt totally safe and as though I belonged – a feeling very much reinforced by my reader Nicky D  who dubbed me an Honorary Gibbo. I felt like I’d been knighted. As I moved between the streets and alleyways I knew it was a golden opportunity for me to touch base with some of Gibraltar which isn’t usually on show to tourists such as me. I think the things most people head for include seeing the apes and checking out the beaches and although I was very much looking forward to those things I was also enjoying the nostalgia of my walkabouts.   .

Just being there in that labyrinth was so cathartic for me in terms of putting to bed some of the most painful feelings from years ago; yes I was sent back to UK before I was emotionally ready to leave the Rock, yes it took me forty years to come back and yes there had been new developments. But the Gibraltar I’d held dear in my soul was still very much there and I loved that. As I meandered around my utopia soaking up tall quiet buildings, back street businesses, cobbled pavements and painted steps I was in no rush to leave.

3:30 (2016) Dinner in Casemates.

It’s always with a great reluctance that I leave the Old Town backstreets but after several hours of doing my thing I eventually decided to slip back down into the present day of Main Street. Not least because I knew everyone wanted an earlier evening meal than usual while the sun was still up and if I didn’t appear soon they’d probably send out a search party. Having investigated Casemates and checked out the eateries I was hoping they were all up for a walk to the bottom of Main Street for dinner although I was mindful Joe could be limited with his mobility.

By the time I got back to Bristol I was quite hot and sweaty and so I threw myself into the pool where I submerged myself until I ran out of air. When I eventually began floating upwards, arms and legs outstretched, the dulcet sound of Carol’s voice began ringing around in my ears, gradually getting louder and louder as I neared the surface. “Alan, Alan, ALAN…. Alaaaaaan!! Your lunch is ready!!”. 

It reminded me of a dream I had when I was a child. Our class in school were all being given their exam results and the teacher had read everyone’s name out with their results apart from mine. Finally the teacher read my name out: “Alan….”; but before she had time to tell me my score the voice changed into my Mothers voice as she was shaking me to get up out of bed. “Alan, wake up it’s time for school”. I never did find out my score.

During lunch we discussed where we should have our evening meal and Casemates got the thumbs up which I was really pleased about because I had a feeling we would all enjoy it. It was agreed we’d go out earlier while the sun was still up and just take our time walking down Main Street. At that Carol, Joe and Sheila went off for their usual daily nap before getting ready to go out. I threw myself back into the pool.

Later, at around 5:30pm, we all managed to meet up in the reception area after having scrubbed up and powdered the old noses. We then set off for a gentle walk down Main Street which I totally loved because it gave me time to pause and notice things I’d never noticed before. Things like a really attractive building covered in blue and white tiles that formed a herringbone pattern; I remember having a jacket years ago in exactly the same pattern. And things like a shop called Bubbles which I immediately photographed and sent to my granddaughter Katie who I’ve always called Bubbles, much to her delight.

When we finally arrived in Casemates the restaurants were all open and vying for custom and the whole place was alive with people out enjoying their meals under the warm evening sunshine. Carol and Sheila took off to inspect several of the eateries; they liked the look of, paying very close attention to what was on the menus. Tagging along behind was Joe who was happy to eat anywhere he landed; behind him was the official holiday photographer. Me.

After a couple of circuits of the square both Joe and I were delighted when the ladies finally made their decision on where we would all eat. As we parked ourselves at a table owned by ‘The Tunnel’ a waiter arrived to take our drinks order. With the sun on my face I sat back soaking up the atmosphere as I waited for my coffee but was still able to multitask and check out every plate of food that the waiters went past with. 

As far as the food was concerned I have no idea what I ordered other than it was very enjoyable albeit very pub-grubby,but then I love pub grub. For me the ambience, the atmosphere, the whole experience was far more important than whatever it was I was eating – plus the fact that Carol, Sheila and Joe clearly had a lovely evening.

3:31 (2016) As I looked up at the moon I very much connected to Gibraltar.

By the time we left Casemates to walk back to the Bristol the sun had long since disappeared and night had descended. Places take on a different personality at night compared to how they are in the daytime; some, especially in urban areas of the U.K., can become quite threatening but I didn’t feel that here. In fact walking back up Main Street in the dark, for me, almost defined the word peace. While the others chatted away about how much they had enjoyed their meal, and how much they were loving Gibraltar I’d zoned out and was looking up into the sky at the moon and stars.

I’d suspected they would want to pause at the Gibraltar Arms for a drink before heading back to the Bristol and I was right. Sitting outside the Gibraltar Arms I continued to enjoy looking up at the beautiful moon as it lit up the street. It reminded me of a story a friend had told me many years before about when he was in the armed forces. Both he and his wife had made a pledge to look up at the moon for five minutes at exactly the same time every night while they were apart and just doing that kept them connected through many a lonely night. 

For me the moon has always given me a feeling of safety and warmth wherever I’ve been. Whenever life has been difficult just looking up at the moon has always had a very calming effect on me since being a child. Some years ago (2007-09) I lived in India working as a musician and when I got home in the evenings after a gig I would always take my dog Mowgli out for an evening stroll around the streets of our village. If the moon was out there it was always massive and as Mowgli and I walked I always had the feeling we were being looked after, that we weren’t alone, that we were somehow connected to that far bigger authority of the universe. As I looked up at the moon that night I just felt very much connected to Gibraltar, and I so loved that.

3:32 (2016) “Alan has Gibraltar changed for the better?”

While I’d been ‘Moon-gazing’ on our way back from Casemates, the group had been discussing what we should all do the following day. Sitting with them all at the breakfast table the following morning they shared that it had been decided we would all be going to Catalan Bay. Great, I thought, and wondered if that big rock on the beach was still there; for some reason it reminded me of those Famous Five stories written by Enid Blyton, even though the only Enid Blyton book I had ever read was the Rub-a-dub Mystery. 

“Alan the taxi is booked for half-nine so you need to eat something before we go because we don’t know if there are any eateries over there” Carol advised, and so despite not being keen on breakfast I reluctantly put bread into the toaster.

Driving over to Catalan Bay was quite an eye opener in terms of being able to have a closer look at some of the newer developments. Even though I’d already trekked around and seen some of those high-rises I still found the scale of building staggering. As we drove along there were times when both the sea and the Rock were totally out of sight and so with no reference point I had no idea where I was. I think Carol just thought she had been beamed up somehow and dumped into a yellow cab that was manically manoeuvring itself through New York City. I must admit some of it did look a bit ‘Big Apple’. At one point there were so many high rise apartment blocks they started to look like an abstract version of the stalagmites in St. Michael’s Cave.

Gibraltarian readers of my online memoir often ask what I think of the changes that have taken place in Gibraltar during my forty year absence and I’m always mindful of not offending anyone because for some people they’ve been positive and for others they haven’t. I suppose, whether we like it or not, changes are necessary to keep up with the times; I only have to look at my own hometown of Newcastle to see that as industry on the Tyne declined, a beautiful quayside oozing culture from every pore evolved which, as it did, brought new jobs of a different nature. Although my childhood days were very halcyon, fishing on the Tyne between the boneyard and the docks, my adult days are just as blessed as I walk the quayside market on a Sunday morning – albeit that market being very much smaller these days.  

For Gibraltar I would say I absolutely love some of the newer outdoor developments like Commonwealth Park and the Marina, and I could never deny the benefit of quality housing for local people even if it is up in the air. I’d be a hypocrite if I said I wouldn’t love to have one. But I’m also someone who has an absolute love of, and an emotional attachment, to the Old Town and the beaches and would hope that progress doesn’t interfere too much with those lovely traditional aspects of the Rock. Perhaps my perspective on development comes from being an artist; when I paint I have to know when to stop and say this work is finished because to continue would ruin the painting. Fortunately Gibraltar is naturally a beautiful place and so I doubt if any future development could ever change that.

As the taxi pulled over at Catalan Bay I was thrilled to see it looked almost exactly as I’d left it and with even more eateries than I remembered. Apart from the fact that Caleta Palace looked as though it could use a paint job it hadn’t changed one iota and hey, Enid Blyton’s Rock hadn’t gone anywhere either.

3:33 (2016) As I stepped into the beautiful jade blue waters of Catalan Bay…

I’ve always loved Catalan Bay with its beautiful colourful little houses and village church; in fact when I wrote about it earlier (see 2:21) I also said it was my favourite beach. I think it’s always nicer when a beach is in a cove and small enough for me to walk from end to end, there’s a sort of sheltered homely feel about it.  

But it’s not just the appearance I’ve always loved about Catalan Bay, it’s also its mystique. Of all the times I’ve been there and walked around the little village or up the steps between the residences to the main road I’ve never yet met a local. It reminds me of a fascinating village in Devon called Clovelly which is made up of the most delightfully unique little houses all built on a hill. But because the roads are too thin for vehicles the only way to get about is either by donkeys or shanks’ pony, and I’ve never met a local there either.

Stepping out of the taxi at Catalan Bay was fascinating for all of us; me for obvious reasons, Carol because she loves the beach on a warm day, and Sheila and Joe because they had never been to Catalan Bay before. As a group of friends we’d been on many a holiday together including to Crete, India, Gambia and Wales and so I hoped Gibraltar was as enjoyable. So far I was getting very positive vibes.

As Carol and Sheila led the way up a very empty beach deciding where base camp was to be Joe and I followed, happy to lay wherever the ladies chose. Eventually they picked a place very near where all of the eateries were so that they wouldn’t have far to walk come lunchtime. To be honest I wouldn’t have minded where they based themselves because after having a dip I was off on walkabout to explore the neighbourhood.

For a time I lay on the beach soaking up the ambience and admiring the views. Looking outward to sea was a very nautical experience for me, seeing so many ships out there on the horizon. It took me back to 1974 when I left Gibraltar for the very first time aboard HMS Scylla heading south for Cape Town, crossing the equator. Enshrined in Royal Navy tradition is the mandatory ‘Crossing the Line Ceremony’ which ensured all young sailors going over the equator for the first time received their dunking. It was very much a ‘right of passage’ which some say was even recorded on a young matelots official documents. Seeing the merchant ships and tankers out there on the horizon I wondered if they had any similar tradition.

At some point I realised I was starting to bake alive under the warm Gibraltar sun and decided to go check out that big rock and take the plunge, which is when I found out that the beautifully jade blue waters of Catalan Bay were freezing! It made me think of those crazy eccentrics who all run into this water every Boxing Day to wash their Christmas dinners down; mad as a box of frogs or what! Toe by toe it must have taken me fifteen minutes to get into the water but then finally when I did I turned to face the village and saw exactly what I loved about it.

3:34 (2016) Catalan. A fishing village with a fascinating history.

Once I’d become used to the freezing cold waters I lay back with arms out-stretched and legs-akimbo doing a very slow doggie-paddle to keep me afloat on the surface while enjoying the fabulous views of the village, Caleta Palace and the water catchment. It was an experience even more enhanced by a sort of musical silence on account of my ears being underwater. I felt as though I was on one of those 60s ‘trips’ the Beatles sang about on Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds – “Picture yourself as you float down a river…with tangerine houses and Cat-a-lan skies…”.

I’d never been inside Caleta Palace, now sadly known as Caleta Hotel, which I think takes away a little bit of that mystique I was talking about although looking up at it I did think it could do with a lick of paint. Its image was in sharp contrast to the beautifully painted little houses although I’ve no doubt in my mind it’s a fabulous place to stay. I’m not sure but I think that’s where they held the recent Gibraltar Chess Championships which I would certainly have taken part in, had I lived on the Rock at that time.

Glancing over at the little church, inside which I had also never been, I cast my mind back to some old photos I’d seen which showed villagers leaving after a Sunday service. It didn’t look to me as though it had changed in decades and as with the houses it was lovely to see it looking so beautifully painted and well looked after. Quite poignantly I thought the fishing boat parked outside the church was a lovely reminder that Catalan Bay is a fishing village with a very long and fascinating history of Genoese speakers and very much recommend interested readers to google for more fascinating information. 

When I eventually left the water looking a bit like a prune because I’d been in there that long I hobbled tentatively over the pebbles, found my towel and quickly got dried. I say ‘found’ my towel because it was some time afterwards before I found my glasses. Looking around ‘Base Camp’ everyone looked flat out, horizontal, mouths open catching flies and so I thought I’d go up the steps between the houses to the top road and see if anyone was about for a chat. However, just as I began sneaking off Carol said “If you’re going walkabout, check out the eateries and their menus and don’t be too long because we want to do lunch soon”.

3:35 (2016) Posh burger and fat chips? Oh yes, I can do posh burger and fat chips.

Leaving the beach I deliberately went via the big rock and after climbing all over it I gave a young mum help getting her child-in-buggy up the steps to Caleta where she was staying. Apart from that being my good deed of the day it also addressed my nosiness having never been that close to said hotel before. It must be said that the views from the terrace were lovely but I didn’t dwell ;png because I didn’t want the mum to feel uncomfortable. Would I stay at Caleta Palace? Of course. In fact I’d stay anywhere on the Rock including the monkey den if it meant me getting a week or two here. Accommodation to me is where I sleep, it’s not really where I spend the holiday and so I don’t mind where I end up.

After coming back down the Caleta steps I found myself going back up another set of steps to get to the terrace housing all of the eateries which I think numbered four or five. I don’t remember much of the names of the places of the eateries and ice cream parlours but they all looked really nice and so I decided that the group should come up and just choose which one they wanted to eat at. Having made that decision I spotted the steps up between the little houses leading to the top road, duly became distracted, and began my ascent. It wasn’t long before I was virtually outside people’s front doors which, not unlike when I had slipped into Trafalgar House, felt a bit wrong and so I continued going up until I got to the road outside the Main entrance to Caleta. If it hadn’t been that the group wanted lunch I would have gone walkabout to Sandy Bay but decided I valued my life.

I still don’t know the name of the place we had lunch but it wasn’t until after Carol, Sheila and Joe had scrutinised the menus of all of the eateries before they finally settled on the lovely restaurant with the blue canopy. As well as passing their stiff menu test it also had a certain magic about it having statues of Buddha all about the place. Typical of me, I chose a junky sounding meal but when it came it was beautifully presented and down right gorgeous. I suppose you could say it was a posh burger with fat chips? Yep, I can do a posh burger with fat chips.

3:36 (2016) Meeting local people in Gibraltar was the warmest of experiences.

After an amazing lunch we all went back to the beach for a dip and another hour or so lazing around in the sunshine; there couldn’t have been half a dozen other people around and so we virtually had the beach to ourselves. I walked the length of the beach a couple of times which is my way of sun tanning because I hate lying down on sun beds. At some point someone said they wanted to go back to the Bristol for a siesta and the other two agreed, which was fine by me because I knew I’d just go walkabout for a few hours.

Back at the Bristol with my three travelling companions tucked up in bed until early evening I took off on a walkabout with no particular plan in mind. Throughout the week I’d been uploading photos onto my Twitter account and as a result a few locals had begun taking an interest. As I walked down Main Street I heard a voice shout “Alan!” which naturally I found quite bizarre. It turned out to be a really nice local man called Kev Ruiz who had been following my walkabouts on Twitter and who came over to introduce himself. It appeared he was a reporter/presenter with Gibraltar News. We chatted for a while and talked about it being my first visit to Gibraltar in over forty years and really how thrilled I was to be back on the Rock. Although our meeting was brief, we hit it off from the start and promised to meet up for drinks and a proper chat at some point in the future. After taking a couple of selfies we shook hands, parted company and both headed off to wherever we were going, but we’re still in touch today.

Later that afternoon I was to have two similar chats with two other local people who had also seen some of my photos on Twitter. I loved the idea that they were just as nosy/curious as me because I’d have done exactly the same thing. My personal mantra has always been ‘The world is my backyard’ but I find it fabulous that because of social networks that mantra can be everyone’s.

As I wandered past the Post Office on Main Street, a First Day Cover in the window with a set of John Lennon stamps caught my eye, so I went inside. John Lennon was very much my childhood hero and there have been times when I’ve shared some of that ‘rebel’ in him. I always loved the idea that he married Yoko Ono in Gibraltar and that he reflected that in his song ‘The Ballad of John and Yoko’; a song I’ve loved singing at many gigs. Along with my daughter having been born on the Rock they are just another couple of connections I’m very fond of.

One of my more sober interests, however, is stamps and First Day Covers although these days I’m only really interested in subjects that interest me. Naturally the John Lennon cover interested me and so I bought it but while browsing inside the shop I came across stamps with my old ship HMS Scylla featured on them and began chatting to the girl in the Post Office. She was very helpful and said that although she was unable to sell me the ‘shop set’ she would be happy to bring me a set from their main office by the following day; she duly did and I duly returned and bought them.

Speaking of HMS Scylla I ended up at some point in a wonderful shop at the top of Main Street opposite John Mackintosh Hall where I spent quite a considerable time chatting to the proprietor and looking at his vast collection of photos of British warships. Eventually I bought a classic photo from him of Scylla in Gibraltar which is now among my treasures at home.

Just as I got back to the Bristol a Twitter message came in to me from another of my Gibraltarian Twitter friends to say ‘Alan there are dolphins off the Marina’ and so I shot off down there to see them. Unfortunately by the time I got there they had gone but the fact another local was taking an interest in my return to the Rock and alerting me to things they felt I would be interested in was very much appreciated. 

3:37 (2016) I imagined the Dolphins laughing at me but didn’t mind.

So there I was on the quayside, no doubt being laughed at by those absent dolphins, looking over at what I could only guess was the new small boat Marina. On first impressions it looked like a watery version of Morrisons car park with literally hundreds of berths and so I decided to take a closer look. As someone who can never remember where I parked my car I wondered how on earth anyone found their boat among so many but figured there must be some system that worked.

Although an old sailor, I have no desire to own a boat of my own but looking around at so many ‘pride-and-joys’ I could see why so many people did. I wondered if they ever went out boating around the Rock or if it was one of those hobbies where they just sat in it on a Sunday talking about boating to someone berthed next to them who was also sitting in theirs listening to them talking about boating. 

In the past I had a Rover Cabriolet Convertible and often went to classic car rallies, partly to show off my own car but also to admire other people’s Rovers – and Triumph Spitfire 1500s as I owned one of those in the past too once. Whenever I’m at those gatherings I often hear owners talking of cruising around while going out of their way to keep the mileage down on their beloved car; by contrast during one year I drove 15000 miles all across Wales, most of it with the roof down. My guess is that if I lived in Gibraltar today, and I did have a desire to own a small boat you would probably see me, and my dog Mowgli, out there on the ocean wave on a daily basis.

Walking back towards the entrance of the Marina I spied a beautiful ocean going boat called Charisma berthed alongside with a few people on deck enjoying drinks in the warm Gibraltarian sunshine. I loved that. At any time, really, they could cast off and do Malta, Spain, Morocco or who knows where but no; here they were chilling out, having cool drinks together having chosen the gorgeous backdrop of Gibraltar to complete their picture. What’s not to like? I liked it, in fact I loved it. As I left the Marina and looked up at the Rock I thought ‘I love you’.

3:38 (2016) Thank you Jury’s of Main Street, Gibraltar.

Wandering around the Small Boat Marina area I spied quite a few very nice looking eateries on what turned out to be Queensway Quay, which is a really beautiful development by anyone’s standards. Although my favourite areas of the Rock are very much up in the Old Town, around any of the ramparts or up the Mediterranean Steps I’m not adverse to enjoying some of the more modern developments which fit. When I looked along at some of those lovely eateries along Queensway Quay which included the Waterfront and the Rendezvous I had no doubt they fitted in beautifully.

Back at the Bristol I told my companions all about the very lovely looking restaurants I’d discovered down by the Quay. Although they were really excited at the prospect of eating at one of them they didn’t want to go there today, preferring to enjoy the anticipation of looking forward to getting dressed up and going there tomorrow. Today, they decided they’d like to eat at Jury’s on Main Street because every time they’d walked past the place they’d found the smell of gorgeous food wafting from it captivating. Heartily I happily agreed, got scrubbed up and was ready to rumble. 

I’ve always loved evening walks up Main Street although on this occasion it was quite a short one from the Bristol to Jury’s. Having said that, we all naturally enjoyed window shopping as we walked and, unusually for me, I totally loved the shoe shop opposite the back of the cathedral. They had a display of blue leather shoes that I fell in love with and promised myself I would buy myself a pair the following day. With all of the walking I’d done up and down the Rock my feet were really feeling the pace and I still had no intention of stopping because there was so much more I still wanted to see.

Sitting outside Jury’s, we took a few photos and had a few drinks as we waited for dinner to arrive. The service was flawlessly delivered by very funny waiters which I loved. I’m not sure but I think one of them was Irish. Throughout the evening our glasses were never left empty and the food, when it arrived, was truly divine. Slouching back in my seat after stuffing myself I watched the bin men and street cleaners busily getting everywhere ready again for the following day as everyone chatted about how relaxed and chilled out they all felt. 

Our walk back to the Bristol was even slower than our walk to the Bristol on account of us all feeling as though we weighed an extra stone; on top of that we felt so relaxed and chilled out we were almost horizontal. When we finally got back to our room Carol decided she wanted to look at the photos from the evening out and it was then she realised she had left her camera at Jury’s. I immediately shot out of the room, ran downstairs, out of the door and up the street to Jurys only to find it closed. The following day I went straight back to Jury’s to find the staff had found our camera and put it safely away for us until we were able to collect it. We didn’t just have wonderful and attentive service from very funny waiters, and a gorgeous meal from a talented chef; we were also very much looked after by a very honest team. To have lost our photos would have been devastating. Thank you Jury’s! 

3:39 (2016) It was almost as though all the loves of my life had come together.

The best thing about breakfast time in the Bristol for me was chatting to the other guests and finding out what their plans were for the day, much to the acute embarrassment of Carol who would scold me:”You shouldn’t be so nosey” she would scold, while often keeping a keen ear on the conversation as she nibbled away at her toast and marmite. 

“That lady’s visit to the apes sounded good, I think we should do that today” said Carol – after ‘that lady’ had finished breakfast and left the building. 

“How come you tell me off for being ‘nosey’ with strangers and yet sit back listening to every word?” I asked. 

“Don’t be so sensitive” she replied, tongue in cheek, sounding more like Hyacinth Bouquet than herself. “You’re only confusing the issue. We all want to do the apes. What is it you say, if you don’t do the apes you didn’t do Gibraltar. I know you want to visit the Cathedral this morning too so we can do that first then head for the cable car”. 

There was something very endEARing, pardon the pun, about Carol’s ‘earwigging’ of my conversations with strangers and then giving her opinion and taking charge of situations; very ‘Hyacinth Bouquet’ but then as someone who thrives on humour it works for me. And if we can still laugh at one another after forty years what’s not to like?

The Cathedral of the Holy Trinity sits right next door to the Bristol Hotel with Commonwealth Park almost to its front and Main Street almost to its rear. It’s a lovely square building that looks more like a cake than a Cathedral and one which naturally I have a very strong connection with since my children were all christened together there back in 1977 (see 2:55). Looking around the building from the outside there are several entrances but the one which stands out for me is the main one where we had our family photograph taken back in the day.

As you enter the building there’s no question you’ve walked into a beautiful religious environment which regardless of personal faith or belief I doubt anyone could fail to admire. Although geometric on the outside the inside is very much softened by beautifully smooth arches connecting a series of pillars which lead up to an altar framed by an amazing round stained glass window. 

After admiring the main features of this beautiful building I turned right and walked over to the font where I stood, reflecting back to the day of our children’s christening. Everyone was there as the Reverend Christopher Jarman RN (who I suspected aspired to become the Very Reverend) conducted the service and placed the Holy water on my children’s foreheads. Carol too was very moved at standing once again where we had stood all those years ago and delighted in telling a fascinated Sheila and Joe about the experience.

Looking up the right hand side of the Cathedral from the font I found it very moving to see the flags of Gibraltar, the United Kingdom and the White Ensign of the Royal Navy all hanging very dignified together from the wall; it was almost as though all of the loves of my life had come together to greet my return and although that sounds a little arrogant I don’t care. We all see what we want to see in some things.

As I left the building I made a donation; not quite the £200 it would cost to run the Cathedral for that day but nevertheless quite a generous one. As I looked back at this beautiful Gibraltar Cake I felt really proud to have it as an albeit small connection in my life.

3:40 (2016) I’ve never forgotten the wonder of looking down from the top of Gibraltar.

For Carol to revisit the apes was far more than a day out,  it was facing her nemesis. To visit the apes meant a cable car ride and the last time she did that it was a very unpleasant experience for her.

It was a very windy day back in 1976 and we’d gone up the Rock for a day out. Back then there was a stop part way up where you got off to see the apes and then got back on again to go to the cafe at the top. It had been a long day out and I think we must have got the last cable car back down from the cafe at the top. As we approached the stop where the apes were, the wind got up and within a few minutes the cable car was rocking wildly. The attendant decided to take action and opened the door then got a big stick to push the car away from the pylons. In doing that we ended up more or less looking straight down through the doorway at Alameda gardens which left Carol virtually paralysed with fright and so needless for me to say today was a big day for her.

After leaving the Cathedral we walked up Main Street past John Mac Hall and as we passed Inces Hall I heard Carol giving Sheila and Joe a little commentary on some of the events we’d been to there. Her commentary continued as we passed Trafalgar House and I detected a certain fondness in her voice as she pointed up at the window to our old apartment. A few minutes later we arrived at the cable car office, paid our fare and boarded our car.

As the cable car took off I thought I might be looking into the whites of Carol’s eyes but was delighted to see she was fairly relaxed; relaxed enough to be really enjoying the views and pointing places out to Sheila and Joe in between taking a few photos. She was also relaxed enough for me to take my concerns away and enjoy a few of the views myself even though periodically she would sheepishly turn around looking as though she was biting her bottom lip.

Seeing Sheila and Joes reactions in the cable car as they realised they were looking over at Spain one minute and Africa the next was priceless. They’d never been to Gibraltar before and so they were looking through the eyes I first looked through back in 1974 and a part of me really envied that. I’ve never forgotten the wonder of looking down from the top of Gibraltar and hope I never do.

There was no midway stop on our cable car ride, it took us straight to the top where the cafe is and where there are a troop of apes. When we finally came to a halt at the terminal we all piled out excitedly, cameras at the ready to say hello to Gibraltar’s most famous residents.

3:41 (2016) I’ve never denied having a warped sense of humour.

After stepping out of the cable car at the top of the Rock everyone, for some bizarre reason, needed to visit the loo. I’m not sure if it was the change in altitude or on account of them drinking too many cups of tea at breakfast but first stop, the loo it was. Although I didn’t need the loo I’m really glad the others did because otherwise I would have missed the chance of seeing a really cool cartoon sign outside the door depicting both a man and woman bursting for a pee;I’ve never denied having a warped sense of humour.

Somehow our appointment with the apes was further delayed when we all ended up on the upper terrace looking out at the summit and the beautiful views around the Rock. I think what happened was that one of us, who had no idea where they were going, led the way from the loo and the rest of us followed like sheep. I’m not even sure if it wasn’t me. What was really nice was being able to take a photo of Sheila and Joe as they looked over towards Spain because although it isn’t a country I’ve ever been to, Sheila had fond memories of many holidays there.

Standing on the terrace Carol was in good spirits having mastered her fear of the cable car and even enjoyed the ride; continuing taking advantage of her new found confidence she wasted no time getting to work with her camera and taking some great shots of the peak and surrounding areas which were fabulous. Although Carol seemed to have got over her fear of heights I think Sheila and Joe were still struggling with a bit of vertigo. I noticed when I took a series of photos of the three of them that both Sheila and Joe seemed to be clinging on to Carol as though they were going to fall down the water catchment but it was lovely to see them both manage a smile as they clung on.

It is quite a weird sensation being so high up and leaning against a relatively flimsy railing but somehow Carol talked me into posing for a photo and I think the only reason I was smiling was because my heart was in my mouth forcing my face to stretch into a grin shape. Uncomfortable with that photo, I took my customary selfie for my Twitter page with the Commonwealth Park in the background. I decided that photo would compliment the one of me at the top of the Med Steps. 

3:42 (2016) However placid and playful the little apes appear they can attack.

The views from the top of the Rock truly are amazing, as speaks he who has seen many fabulous views on his travels around the world. As already mentioned on a 360 degree turn viewers can enjoy the most awesome images not only of Gibraltar but also of both Spain and Africa too. Being on the terrace at the top reminded me of being at the top of the Med Steps in that it wasn’t somewhere I wanted to leave anytime soon but as Carol, Sheila and Joe moved onwards towards the apes I duly followed on.

Stepping out into the apes domain was a wonderful blast from the past, everywhere I looked there were monkeys in the frame either feeding their faces, playing with their friends or being mischievous with the visitors. It took me back to the first time we took the children to see the apes, only this time it was me feeling like a big kid full of excitement instead of them. To see these beautiful little animals living happy and free in their own habitat is very rewarding and to share that experience for a short time is an absolute privilege. But however placid and playful these little macaques appear, they are wild animals and can attack. And one did.

For a time I was leaning on a wall looking down at an area about ten feet below where half a dozen young apes were feeding on fruit; periodically I’d look up to watch the parent apes as they sat high above on a rooftop enjoying the views in the lunchtime sun. Sheila and Joe were nearby strolling up a slope to get a closer look at an ape that was sitting, posing on a wall while Carol, camera at the ready, was walking down a slope to try for close up pictures of some of the other individuals. 

What we didn’t know at this point was that the very first baby ape of the year had been born that morning and so the troop were naturally nervous. What we were also unaware of was that two of the senior males had had a serious fight shortly before we arrived, one of whom had apparently needed medical attention which also added to the tension and increased the anxiety of the other troop members. 

Looking down the slope I saw Carol about twenty feet away focusing her camera on an ape a few feet away from her; several other apes were nearby which made me feel very uncomfortable so I began making my way slowly toward her but I was never going to get to her in time. In a split second a young female, which we later found out was in heat, jumped on Carol and bit her on the arm; seconds later it jumped on her for a second time digging its nails into her other arm.

3:43 (2016) “LMAO” said my granddaughter, whatever that means.

By the time I got to Carol she was naturally shocked and very upset and in quite a bit of pain so we swiftly took ourselves up to the cafe for support. My immediate concerns were around infection and so the quicker she was seen the better. I was also really concerned that the incident hadn’t marred her day out too much or worse still her holiday but I wasn’t going to find that out just yet.

The minute we walked into the cafe the staff were immediately attentive in coming over to us, steering us to a table and ensuring we were all as comfortable as possible. The first aid box was swiftly brought to our table and Carol’s wounds were duly cleaned and checked. Before long the manager appeared from somewhere and, although a bit irritating in the way he tried to laugh the incident off, he did reassure us that these ‘small’ attacks were common and not too much to worry about. Just at the point he looked as though he was about to question Carol on her common sense in wearing a short-sleeved top but I think he caught my eye and offered us all free drinks instead.

Not long after the drinks had arrived we were all a lot calmer and Carol’s wounds, though still painful, were at least well cleaned and unlikely to become infected. As we sat chatting and slowly getting round to smiling about it all, the manager returned to check we were all okay and we thanked him and his staff for his support. 

Actually I thought he was a very funny man, which always endears me to people. but what was even funnier about him was his almost ‘Manuel (of Fawlty Towers fame) approach’ – in other words how he could stifle his laugh and appear serious and professional whenever he realised he had overstepped the mark and his customer not thinking he was funny.

After tea we left the cafe and went straight back to the apes for Carol to take more close up photographs of the apes!  “Are you sure!” says I. “Has it not put you off?”. In receiving no answer I gathered that it hadn’t put her off, it hadn’t spoiled her day and hadn’t spoiled her holiday at all and that was good enough for me. 

In the cable car on the way back down the Rock Carol looked happy and chilled; she had faced her nemesis and mastered her cable car fear, she had taken the close up photos that she was really happy with and most of all could almost smile about her incident. And as she smiled, so did the apes as they waved us off.

3:44 (2016) Lunch at Jury’s, rescue dogs, siestas for some, walkabout for me.

Stepping off the cable car when it finally landed I was aware of Carol and Sheila chattering away – although I don’t normally pay much attention unless I hear a keyword (for example lunch, dinner, snacks) and as we walked down towards Trafalgar roundabout I heard a keyword. “We need to think about lunch” said Carol, to which I immediately spun round and whispered “Jury’s?” before spinning back and nonchalantly continuing my stroll. It was a bit like planting a seed. Convinced she had thought of the idea herself Carol continued “How about Jury’s, we loved the food and their service, and they were really good about looking after my camera after I left it there”. With nods of approval all round we continued down Main Street, pausing only to admire the guard at the Convent before finally sitting ourselves down at a table outside Jury’s.

Even before a waiter had come out I noticed a gorgeous dog chilling out by the table next to ours which turned out to be a rescue dog. His owner had popped into Jury’s and he was quite happy to sit outside and wait for him to come back. One of the things I’ve loved seeing in Gibraltar during this holiday was so many people walking their dogs, often up Main Street at night, and when I’ve spoken with the owners most of their animals are rescue dogs. It’s a theme very close to my heart as my own dog Mowgli who I brought back from India was a rescue dog and who was my constant companion giving me infinite pleasure for 14 years. Long may Gibraltarians continue to enjoy the company of their beautiful rescue dogs.

Browsing through the menu we all felt that since we were going to a fancy restaurant this evening on Queensway Quay for dinner our lunches should really be more of a modest affair. However, since we all had the willpower of a gnat, and made the excuse that the morning had been particularly long and challenging, that’s not quite how it worked out. 

Without a guilty thought in sight the four of us indulged in cheese burgers, chips, chicken and pasta, all of which was top notch and gorgeous – as we had come to expect from Jury’s – before rolling back to the Bristol where my companions decided they all needed to take their daily siesta. Waving them all off to bed, not being one who does siesta, I turned on my heels and within minutes was where I was most comfortable. On walkabout.

3:45 (2016) Gibraltar Art Gallery.

One of my most satisfying pastimes is to walk anonymously around places where no-one knows me so that I can quietly observe my surroundings and the people in my vicinity. That’s not to say I don’t like meeting new people or bumping into people that I know. It’s just sometimes I find being unknown is very creative because selfishly I can absorb without having to give anything out. Within my profession of social care much of my time is spent with people and so it’s very much a treat to have time on my own. In the UK, sitting on a bench in the middle of a shopping area is more than just my guilty secret, it’s my absolute indulgence, and many an hour has been spent people-watching from the bench outside Gibraltar’s Marks and Spencer. 

As I left the Bristol and walked up towards Main Street I paused on the corner when I heard children singing in a room upstairs; ‘Row, row, row the boat gently down the stream…’. Just leaning against the wall listening to the children was wonderful but it was also a stark reminder that my days in Gibraltar were now numbered. Only last week I was singing that very song with children in my day job and would probably be singing it again to them in less than a week’s time. Not wanting to wait until the song ended I continued down Main Street with the sound of the children’s voices happily singing away and gently fading as the distance between us grew.  

As I strolled down Main Street I could see that my beloved bench outside Marks and Spencer was occupied by whom I would affectionately term ‘wrinklies’ – in other words people of the same age as me – no doubt doing exactly what I would be doing if I was sat there, ‘people-watching’. Almost on impulse I decided to just take a right turn up towards the Old Town and was delighted to come across The Gibraltar Art Gallery.

The Art Gallery was a small affair but was very much in celebration of local artists. The works on display were wonderfully varied including contemporary collections, abstract pieces and work focused specifically on images of the Rock. Mediums were varied too with oil and acrylic paintings, screen prints, sketches and more. 

Looking around the Gallery I loved all of the pieces and found them to be a massive inspiration. In my mind I had already decided to begin writing this memoir as soon as I returned to the UK but never in a million years did I think I would ever paint again since I hadn’t picked up a paintbrush in twenty years. And it had been forty years since I had sketched the Rock. But as I near the end of my writing I look forward more to once again creating images; images that complement RockHeart and that mean something to me. Paintings, drawings and sketches of Gibraltar. And, who knows, maybe one day it will be my paintings hanging up in Gibraltar’s Art Gallery.

3:46 (2016) Gibraltar Senior Citizens Social Club.

As I left the Art Gallery I felt more inspired than I had in years. Over the course of my life I’d staged many one-man exhibitions but these were only really possible because they had all been inspired by very powerfully emotive underlying, autobiographical themes and were more about the exorcism of painful memories than the art itself. Since my last exhibition (Journeys End 1995) no other theme had come anywhere near even tempting me to pick up a paintbrush again. Until now. 

Inspired at the thought of painting a series of pictures to compliment RockHeart I almost danced my way up the street towards the Old Town. With my mind in overdrive I’d already decided the works, if I did them, would be acrylic on canvas in my favourite primary colours and include scenes of Catalan Bay, the apes, the back streets, the Med Steps and more. 

In a brief moment of doubt I remembered  that apart from it being over twenty years since I’d painted a picture my hands were now quite arthritic and so I wondered whether I could even hold a paintbrush let alone drive it to create a dozen paintings. Having said that I’m no writer yet have now written RockHeart and so why not?

Not far past the Art Gallery, on the next parallel road further up the Rock, I came across a Moroccan restaurant called Marrakesh which had been newly commissioned. Although I wasn’t overly mad about Moroccan food Carol certainly was. She had hoped to revisit Tangiers during our holiday but that wasn’t possible because of time restraints and so I knew she would love to have a meal out there. Since we were eating out at Queensway Quay this evening I figured she would enjoy going there tomorrow night and so I photographed the place and the menu before moving on.

Continuing on with my walkabout at some point I ended up on a street which looked as though it could have come straight out of London City Centre. The houses were so Georgian and pristine some of them looked as though they housed the offices of solicitors, accountants and the like; maybe they did although it was the last thing I expected to see. Particularly when minutes later I came across the Gibraltar Senior Citizens Social Club. I love just not knowing what is round the corner. What was even more refreshing was the notice on the outside welcoming visiting senior citizens though sadly the club was shut otherwise I’d love to have called in. If any members are reading please add my name to your members register and I’ll call in and sign it as soon as I return. Thank you.

3:47 (2016) When I go some of you go with me and some of me stays with you.

Moving on, the temptation to keep walking straight on to Alameda was almost overpowering; I had a real need to spend some time there just to sit quietly and reflect. But knowing my travelling companions also wanted to make a visit I decided to leave it till tomorrow. Tomorrow, I thought we could all visit the Gardens but I decided I would still make a final visit on my own before leaving. 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.

As a child 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 initials 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 initials are indeed scratched in a few places around the Rock. 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. 

Just thinking about that reminds me of an anecdote 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. 

After one of these events I said my goodbyes and drove the mile or so home, parking the car outside our house. 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 through me, furiously angry doesn’t even come close. I immediately phoned the school who 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.

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 singsong so much that she didn’t want you to leave,” said the Head. “She thought by carving her name on your car you would remember to 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 singalongs to come yet”.

A reader of my online memoir once said she would miss my daily writings when they came to an end and I understood that because I would also miss writing them. 

3:48 (2016) The English Tea Rooms, Gibraltar.

Although I was aware time was getting on and that I needed to think about getting back ready for the evening I still ended up drifting straight past the hotel and continuing 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.

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 herringbone 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.

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. 

As I looked through the doorway, almost to the point of being rude towards people sitting inside, a set of memories came back 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 (see 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.

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 via Twitter that the cafe was indeed the English Tea Rooms. Thankyou Jess J.

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

3:49 (2016) Commonwealth Park, Gibraltar.

To think I could slither back into our room late without Carol noticing was a bit of a tall order and after being duly rollocked for cutting my timing so fine I jumped into the shower, scrubbed up, got dressed and shot downstairs to meet the gang in the foyer.

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 suntans and how relaxed they all looked though something told me they weren’t impressed. 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.

Turning right on leaving the Bristol we crossed the road, walked through an arch and within a few minutes stood on the balcony of Commonwealth Park looking down on the incredible image it was. During previous walkabouts I had already discovered this amazing outdoor space (see 3:21) but my travelling companions hadn’t and so I was loving watching their reactions. Particularly Carol’s as in that one instant she had totally forgotten she was annoyed with me. 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 in the warm evening sun shining down looked beautiful.

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.

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 continued on to the Quayside for dinner and I just toddled on behind them.

3:50 (2016) Queensway Quay and The Waterfront.

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.

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 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  is but one chapter – albeit my favourite chapter. Another far more important reason was because I missed my niece who was one of my few blood relatives. 

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 say I delight at recognising something familiar that has remained the same throughout the changes.

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 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 gave 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. 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.

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.

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 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.

3:51 (2016) I closed my eyes wondering what a 100-ton gun looked like.

Walking 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.

I have a tendency of either walking behind the group or walking ahead, partly because I’m either taking photos or in a world of my own. 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.

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 which had left memories 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. With a full belly and a happy mind I closed my eyes wondering what that 100-ton gun looked like.

3:52 (2016) Piccadilly Gardens in beautiful British Gibraltar.

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 walkabout to check out the neighbourhood. I have fabulous memories of us driving all over Crete looking for Zeus and dining 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 the 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 and me in my 60s, on the road again but this time in Gibraltar, a place Joe had never been to before.

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 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 Pit stop should be in Piccadilly Gardens for a cup of tea.

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 so 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 defiantly 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.

3:53 (2016) That was me forty years ago.

Feeling refreshed after drinks 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 casting my memory back and having a go at answering him. 

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 enjoying occasional memories 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 Navy vessels. Back then there was a sandwich van that would come along the quay around lunchtime and I’d often have a ‘cheese and cukes’ (cucumber) sarnie with friends from other ships. 

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 reassuring really that although I am now an old man, something I did as a young man still continues today, and that as I stood there watching could think: ‘that was me forty years ago’.

A little further 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, it particularly interested me to know what some of the Gibraltar youth enjoy doing 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. Snooker? The archways reminded me of when I was based in Portsmouth because just outside the establishment of HMS Vernon was a row of similar arches and, if I recall rightly, one was a tattoo parlour another was a cafe. I’ve always loved old buildings being respected and used in the present day.

“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 was always clear when he did.

3:54 (2016) £Billion Yacht? Rather have a cup of tea with a friend.

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 just 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. And anyway, the gun would still be there whatever time we arrived.

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 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 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.

After about an hour and a half of walking 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 he would be OK to do the return journey but decided not to mention that because we could always hail a bus or a taxi if he struggled. For now I wanted us to enjoy our visit and to that end we went in.

3:55 (2016) That the 100-ton gun was made in Geordieland thrilled the pants off me.

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. 

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 sight to see.

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 too. He had also served in the RAF for 22 years and so 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.

For me the whole exhibition was really good and well worth the nominal £1 to visit. Perhaps, given my 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.

Wherever I go in Gibraltar the views are always to die for 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.

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, formidable nation.

3:56 (2016) Rosia outdoor gym.

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 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.

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 go at a few myself.

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 tried anything let alone have a workout. 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, not unlike the Dalai Lama who as a child loved taking things like watches to bits and putting them back together.

With wobbly legs, floaty arms and a disorientated head having just disembarked the last machine I slowly walked behind Joe as we continued 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.

3:57 (2016) The Holy Grail? It’ll keep (till tomorrow).

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. As we neared town I had already decided 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. 

Arriving back at the Bristol Carol and Sheila were just getting ready to go for lunch and stated their preference to wander down Main Street to find a good chip shop. Gibraltar is noted for its many fabulous chip shops and I’m also noted for loving fish and chips so their decision got my vote 100% even though it was only just last night that I’d devoured a mega portion at The Waterfront. 

After a short walk, which was just as well for Joe because I think by now he was ready for a sit down, the ladies checked out the menu of a Bistro and Lounge, I think called Latinos, just past the Piazza where we took a seat on one of their outdoor tables. 

The fish and chips were once again fabulous; for a Northerner like me it wasn’t just comfort food it was staple diet. 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 siesta and so I figured while they all snoozed the afternoon away I might go off out to find the Holy Grail, the Buccaneer Night Club that had still so far escaped my searching eye. 

Just as I was planning my afternoon walkabout in my head – the Buccaneer, the Museum, 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 would) but I was certainly up for an extra group walk around my favourite place. 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.

3:58 (2016) I know Alameda Gardens exceptionally well but also not at all.

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 it’s probably one of the truest things I’ve ever said. 

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 at the Dell, 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. For example I’d never noticed the totem pole with the monkey atop before. Because it’s a new experience every time I go in there is always another reason why I continually keep going back. 

Carol naturally has many very happy memories of Alameda having 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. 

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. 

As everyone sat chatting and chilling I looked around at the beautiful plants and wonderful sculptures and reminded myself that I still had a last solo visit tomorrow before I left Gibraltar. After all, it would be another totally new experience.

3:59 (2016) Gibraltar’s Buccaneer.

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, tramped 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 at mid afternoon we all headed off gently back to the hotel.

Knowing there was no way I was having a nap Carol 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 there yet”. As I nodded my approval they all went off to their rooms I turned on my heels and shot out the door.

All week long during my copious 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 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.

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 between the Fleet Pavilion and the sports field, 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. Consequently, I walked too far round and ended up photographing other wrong doors in walls down past Commonwealth Park thinking one of them must have been it.

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 it 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 on Twitter and immediately responded. He even updated me saying that the place was soon to reopen as a cafe?! What a brilliant idea. When I read that I tried to picture Carol’s face while having a cup of tea in a place she had once floored a Royal Marine. Priceless, and most certainly a Pitt stop on our next trip to Gibraltar. 

Happy that yet another question had been answered, or more that 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?

3:60 (2016) Seeing Gibraltar’s Neanderthals was profoundly moving.

I think one of the reasons I like Twitter is because I can find things out quickly on stuff that interests me and during my time in Gibraltar I was seeing more and more posts from Gibraltar Museum on their new Neanderthal exhibition. Local people, who knew I was doing walkabouts, were also giving me ideas of where to go and what to see and the Museum was always right up there among their recommendations so it was just a matter of time before it had to happen.

Quite a lot of publicity was current in May 2016 around the recreation of Neanderthal people in the form of models which were on display in the museum. Although I’d seen the photos I needed to go and see the actual models which were said to be totally representative in actual size and as near the real image as could possibly be replicated. Excited didn’t even come close. 

As I walked into the museum I was so keen to see the neanderthals I initially bypassed all of the other exhibits deciding I could see them all later. As I negotiated my way through a group of school children on a field trip I turned a corner and within seconds found myself standing amidst a second class of school children with my mouth hanging open looking at the most life-like realistic models of Neanderthals I could ever have imagined.

Two characters stood lit up against a black backdrop; a mother and child, created absolutely perfectly in every way. From the hair adorned in feathers, right down to the toes. I was mesmerised, It was as though I’d just walked into their cave. Gorham’s Cave? Even the children visiting the exhibition looked on in silence such was the impact of seeing these characters for the first time.

Although I do love to study aspects of history I’m hopelessly non-academic and could never retain dates or other information in my head for long. Perhaps one of the few things I have retained about the Neanderthal people though is that the last of them probably lived in caves in Gibraltar something like 24000 years ago. Gorham’s cave? When I look at the models of this mother and child I see such love between the characters it really is hard for me to believe they are not real. The mother looks to be very kind, happy and relaxed and her child appears very secure and attached to the parent so that the overall image is not only a joy to behold but profoundly moving.

3:61 (2016) I think that Museum lady thought I was a little eccentric.

One of the easiest things to do when you’re absorbed in something you find fascinating is to lose track of time, which is exactly what happened to me during my visit to see the Neanderthal exhibition at the Gibraltar Museum. One minute I’m standing agog, mouth open amidst a group of children looking at an amazing exhibition, and the next minute I’m still standing agog looking at the same exhibition on my own as a curator lady politely coughs to let me know it’s six o’clock and the museum is closing. 

As I slowly came to my senses I thanked the lady for her patience and on leaving the building said to her that one day I would make a painting of the mother and child as part of a collection I was planning. She smiled, nodded, and closed the door behind me. I think she thought I was a little eccentric.

When I left the Museum I suddenly remembered I was under a strict promise to be back at the Bristol for 6pm to make sure everyone was up after their siesta. They wanted plenty of time to get ready to go out to the Moroccan Restaurant Marrakech and I was already late. Fortunately the Bristol was only next door and as it turned out everyone was up and about anyway. 

“Anyway where’ve you been this time?” Carol greeted. “Oh never mind now you can tell us all about it at dinner and hopefully you found somewhere nice for us all to visit tomorrow. Come on, Sheila and Joe are waiting”. 

This non-conversation reminded me of that old TV programme with Hyacinth Bouquet asking her hen-pecked husband questions then answering them herself. Because of my warped sense of humour, even though I’m not hen-pecked, I loved it. I thought it was hilarious that because of my silence Carol did indeed come across like Hyacinth Bouquet although I’m not sure she saw the funny side.

After strolling down Main Street we turned right up towards the Art Gallery because I knew everyone wanted to visit it, particularly Carol who is a very arty, creative person. As mentioned previously she spent a lot of time making lovely clothes for both herself and the children when they were little. Indeed she has made quite a few designer clothes for me too from patterns by the likes of Issie Miyake. As time has gone on she’s also dabbled in photography, life drawing, tile craft and more recently painting and so she was keen to see what was on display in the Gibraltar gallery. Of all of the paintings on display I particularly loved the ones of the Rock and the other scenes of places around Gibraltar. Carol too really loved the paintings depicting local life and landscapes. 

Dinner at the Marrakech was everything we could have expected from a Moroccan dinner with flavours, spices, colours and all. Fortunately for me the food wasn’t too spicy and we all enjoyed it. Our conversations during dinner tended to be around how much everyone was loving their holiday and how they would like to come back again. They all agreed there was so much more to see that they hadn’t had the time to, However, after I told them about the Neanderthal exhibition they immediately decided that they would be visiting it tomorrow. “Speaking of tomorrow” Carol added ” don’t plan any walkabouts in the morning because after the Museum we’re all going to see the Glass-blowing in Casemates I’ve seen a leaflet and it looks great”. Brilliant, I thought, that works for me I’ll do that in the morning  and then Europa Point in the afternoon.

3:62 (2016) The amazing Glassblowers of Gibraltar Crystal.

When the sun shines down on Casemates it’s quite a sun trap and if you happen to be chilling out with coffee and churros then you’re about as close to heaven as you can get. If I lived in Gibraltar now it’s very much where you would probably find me every  morning having breakfast and people-watching. It’s also very probably where you might find me every warm evening having tea too.
The choice of cafes and restaurants in the square is bountiful although having said that I’m the sort who would probably be sat at the same cafe every morning, sitting in the same seat, and most certainly sitting where I got the best view of the Rock.

Apart from the vast array of eateries Casemates also has many other attractions, including the amazing glass blowing exhibition with a shop selling their beautiful wares. It was where Carol particularly had said she wanted to visit as she loved seeing traditional craftspeople at work. And so following an enjoyable visit to the Neanderthal exhibition we had a steady walk down Main Street and before long found ourselves quite excitedly walking into the Glass Blowers Museum.

Although I find it fascinating how sand somehow turns into glass, I quite like the idea of not knowing, preferring to hold on to the mystery and let my mind imagine. Perhaps one difference between Carol and me is that she does like to know what’s what and so the minute we walked into the exhibition she set about reading everything on display. Meanwhile I stared in wonder at the hot furnaces, holding on to that mystery I didn’t want to let go of.

In the workshop where the glassblowers were displaying their amazing skills I was in awe. Just watching them blowing through a pipe and shaping what looked like wobbly liquid glass into some gorgeous ornament just seemed beyond belief. But of course when you look around their shop at what they’ve made you realise it isn’t beyond belief. It’s a truly amazing skill, honed and perfected over many years and so fabulously executed in public which left me feeling very privileged to have witnessed it. 

3:63 (2016) It’s impossible to not be chilled out in Gibraltar.

It’s almost impossible not to be chilled when on holiday in Gibraltar especially when you’re having breakfast, brunch, lunch or dinner, in somewhere like Casemates with the sun on your forehead and the stimulation of lots of people to watch. I’m sometimes so chilled out I’ve no idea what time it is or what meal I’m going to eat next though I think after leaving the glassblowing it was some time between brunch and lunch. At some point we parked ourselves outside a restaurant for coffee and churros and chatted about how we all wanted to spend the afternoon, and where we wanted to eat this evening. It occurred to me the best holidays are always the ones where the biggest decision you make is what to eat and where. Although I don’t mind where I eat, as a non-drinker, non-smoker I do like good food and so a nice plate of food is important to me.

As I sat nibbling away at my churro I also realised I do like to try the local delicacies although that hasn’t always been a positive experience. In Crete their local dish was goat and I quite liked that, although in The Gambia it turned out to be Cows Nose Soup and so the less said about that the better. These churros, which were wonderful, reminded me of doughnuts but in a different shape.

Over the course of the week we’d eaten out at some lovely places and, listening to the conversation of my companions, I guessed that this evening’s outing would either see us back at Jury’s or the Gibraltar Arms. In the meantime it sounded as though they all wanted to chill out (again) around the pool for the afternoon and although that wasn’t for me who could blame them? 

As I looked up at the north summit of the Rock I thought ‘yes, that has to be done’. But not today, tomorrow. Today I would go walkabout to Europa Point after which I would double back and spend some time in Alameda Gardens for the last time. As we all walked back up Main Street, the ladies paused to check the menu at the Gibraltar Arms and made an executive decision that we would all eat there this evening. “I could order Alan’s now because I know exactly what he’ll choose,” laughed Carol. “It’s always the same after his walkabouts. Fish and chips”.

3:64 (2016) Wherever I go in #Gibraltar I’m a young parent again.

It must have been somewhere around 1pm when we arrived at the Bristol and it wasn’t long afterwards we all went our separate ways. As I took off up Main Street on my way to Europa Point I knew within minutes I was in for quite an emotional afternoon. Passing through Convent Place I glanced over at the side door of the Angry Friar which very nearly became my own front door back in 1976. Although it’s just a door, a piece of wood, it’s a door with a place in my personal history (see 2:8) and so to glance over at it as I pass by seems such a natural thing for me to do. 

Recently I listened to a Radio 4 programme in which a researcher was presenting his findings to prove that trees have emotions, make friends and communicate with other trees. As I glanced at the door there was no doubt I was communicating with it though I wasn’t sure if I was saying hi or goodbye but surreally I did wonder if it knew and whether it was communicating back. 

Continuing on up Main Street I paused by the road crossing to reflect for a while and take a photo to compliment one taken of me in the exact same spot forty years previously almost to the day. In the first photo I’m holding my newborn daughter Sam and my eldest daughter Tracey is standing in the foreground. Although I don’t remember where we were going that day I like to think we were off to Alameda Gardens play park where we spent many hours when I wasn’t working. Or perhaps we were on our way to the Piazza where we often spent Saturday mornings having drinks and snacks.

When I compared the first photo from 1976 with the second taken in 2016 I suddenly sadly felt a massive loss. Although I’m extremely close to all of my children today I feel grief at my days of being a young parent having gone, knowing I can never get them back. And the fact those halcyon days were spent in Gibraltar is just another reason why the Rock is so important to me personally and why my connection with it is so strong. Wherever I go in Gibraltar I’m a young parent again. 

3:65 (2016) Gibraltarianism connects the diverse communities of Gibraltar.

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 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.

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 there having a cup of tea. And although I could never remember the place being there back in the seventies, a reader MG kindly updated me to say 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.

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 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 to acknowledge my memories were real and as I left to carry on my walkabout I felt very much at ease knowing they were.

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, albeit nominated an Honorary Gibbo, I’ve loved enjoying the 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 almost impossible not to feel welcome anywhere on the Rock.

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 don’t recall any personal connection to that community I had a feeling it was somewhere lower down from the Royal Naval Hospital where my daughter was born. And the fact there was an ornamental anchor complimenting the streets did offer a tenuous connection. As I walked another couple of hundred yards I found myself at Camp Bay, a place I did have recollections of.

Probably one of the hardest challenges I’ve found in writing these memoirs is trying not to duplicate memories but since that challenge has become virtually impossible. Having said that, I think I would rather have said something twice than not at all. 

3:66 (2016) The past, present and future of Camp Bay.

Looking down at Camp Bay I had many lovely memories of the resort, in particular those iconic Dolphins, but couldn’t remember there being so much concrete. For a minute I was sure there used to be more beach than there is now but then when I looked back at an old photo of my daughter at the venue I had to concede perhaps my memory was playing tricks on me. 

What I think I did recall, if I remember rightly, was that the days were longer in Camp Bay than over at Catalan Bay because of the shade from the Rock and so naturally it was a popular beach to take the children to after work especially given that at HMS Rooke we worked tropical hours and finished at 1pm unless we were on duty

Recently I saw a very old photo of Camp Bay before any it’s developments and it looked so fabulously natural; it was just a small cove with sand, pebbles and a couple of little cottages, a bit like a smaller version of Catalan Bay’s fishing village and very much the kind of beach I love to chill out on with a flask of tea. In contrast to that old photo I recently saw published plans of a possible future development at Camp Bay and given my old fashioned views I was horrified. To me, the proposed development looked totally out of place in that area and though it may have brought more employment to the people of Gibraltar it reinforced my view that progress is not always progress.

Not far off I knew I would encounter what I knew to be Nuffield Pool and I was really looking forward to seeing it again although I wasn’t looking forward to reliving one particular memory though I knew I would. I doubt if I will ever forget that ghastly inter-services swimming gala. With thoughts in my head on the past, present and future of Camp Bay I continued on my walkabout with Gibraltars never-changing, lovely sunshine warming my body.

3:67 (2016) Searing memories of a life-changing catalyst were overpowering.

Somewhere in the area of Camp Bay or Nuffield Pool was a tunnel that we used to walk through all the way to Catalan Bay and though I know it’s no longer open to pedestrians it’s often bugged me that I never remembered where it was. Perhaps that quest can go on my bucket list for when I return to the Rock. Having said that, it didn’t stop me loving soaking up the familiarity of things that I did recognise and as I neared Nuffield Pool I instantly spotted a very familiar waterfall on the opposite side of the road. I always love finding there are still things about Gibraltar that have never changed. 

With time now very much against me I pressed on towards Europa Point but even as I walked past Nuffield Pool I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Searing memories of a fateful swimming gala filled my mind, reminding me of how vulnerable I felt at that time, in that very pool, just fifty yards away from me. 

As I entered the tunnel which would finally take me to Europa it was with trepidation which didn’t improve as I ended up in the dark and the damp. Walking through the tunnel I wrestled with frightening thoughts of how my life could well have ended up very differently had it not been for the massive support of Carol and my girls. Finally, as the tough recollections began fading away I gave thanks for the life I had been truly blessed with and very soon after literally saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

3:68 (2016) Gibraltar lighthouse holds iconic status for me.

Coming out of the tunnel the first thing I saw was the lighthouse which for me holds an almost iconic status. As with all mariners, seafarers and sailors lighthouses are key to keeping safe particularly when traversing dark and stormy seas and I know only too well from experience how terrifying some voyages can be. As a young sailor on patrol during the Icelandic Cod War (1973) the weather was so bad I was absolutely convinced I was a goner. Recently on Remembrance Sunday I was standing with other ex-forces colleagues at Cardigan Cenotaph when a local man sang the Naval Prayer and even all these years after leaving the RN it still brought the hairs up on the back of my neck. Thoughts are always with those lost at sea.

Looking around Europa Point reinforced my belief that Gibraltar was made up of dozens and dozens of mini communities and after walking out of the tunnel I had the feeling that I’d just arrived at yet another. My memories of Europa are very sketchy; as well as thinking of it as bleak I also had a vague recollection that the road continued right around the Rock past Catalan Bay. How wrong was I? The road didn’t continue on around the Rock and bleak it was not a word I would use to describe it.

Although the lighthouse was very much the focal point and star prize for me the whole area had been much developed since my last visit forty years ago. Clearly some things were still there from years gone by, for example the gun, but there were also some other really nice recent developments including a cafe, children’s playground and Gibraltar University; wow I didn’t expect that. It’s testimony to the fact I didn’t go there that often when I lived in Gibraltar that I had no idea there was such a fabulous mosque there, unless that too had been built since 1978?

I don’t know how long I spent at Europa Point but what I do know is I probably walked every square yard including right down to the University door and several lengths of the lighthouse promenade. I was lost in a moment that I didn’t want to end but knew it had to because I still needed to visit the Alameda Gardens one last time too. And just at the point I was ready to go a bus turned up and I thought ‘Why not?’.

3:69 (2016) A bus ride from Europa to Alameda.

Taking a bus ride in a country you don’t live in is the most organic of experiences because for the duration of the journey you’re sampling a new culture close up while sitting in a seat next to local people. Whenever I’ve done it, in many countries, I’ve loved it for the pure wonder and privilege of being able to share the lives albeit briefly of people from a different world to my own.

I think my fascination with ‘people-watching’ began back in the seventies when I would be returning to my ship after a period of home leave. Inevitably it would be night-time when I was travelling on a train or bus and I remember looking enviously out of the window into people’s front rooms at families as they all sat watching television, eating snacks, chatting, laughing and just being families. I would see curtains being drawn and lights being switched off while I still had hundreds of miles and hours of travel in front with the sole prospect of arriving back at my ship an hour before I was due to start work having had no sleep all night.

The views from the bus window between Europa to Alameda were a wonderful contrast of the familiar with the none familiar. As we winded our way through a variety of mini communities I thrived on looking up a different set of back streets, at ordinary people doing ordinary things. The route took us past what was once the Royal Naval Hospital which is now – I’m reliably told by reader MG – a hospital for patients with Alzheimer’s and dementia. Eventually we arrived at Alameda Gardens where I alighted.

As I come towards the end of my memoirs, part of me is really sad but another part of me is very proud to have been able to recall and capture so many wonderful memories of a place I hold so dear in my heart.

3:70 (2016) Silence and nature are sometimes all I want to hear.

Within seconds of stepping off a bus full of chattering people heading into town, I found myself in the magical silent world that is Alameda Botanical Gardens, such is the wonder of the place that you can do that. 

In addition to the dozens of mini communities that make up the diverse population of this beautiful little Nation, the Rock also boasts countless mini Nirvanas including Commonwealth Park, the Upper Rock Wildlife Park, the Mediterranean Steps and many more all of which are among my favourite places to spend time. But of the fabulous outdoor spaces in Gibraltar there’s no question, my all time favourite place is the Alameda. The sound of silence coupled with the sounds of nature in this gorgeous utopia are probably the first things that become apparent as you enter. There are rarely a lot of people about but those that are there tend to respect the peace and space of others leaving the audio space free for the bees to buzz and the water to trickle.

The design and beauty of the Alameda is without question staggering and these gorgeous 15 acres only seem to have improved since being commissioned in 1816 even after a lull during the 1970s. A restoration in the 1990s, which included the adding of a zoo, brought along new life and charm and a recent new indoor development continued the very well thought out progress of this wonderful resource. The basic concept behind the idea of creating the gardens was initially a recreational space for off duty servicemen and their families and a shady place of leisure and rest for local people away from the hot sun. Naturally times have changed over the past 100 years and it could be argued that the original aims may be less relevant today though still remain excellent motives.

I imagine everyone has a very favourite place in this world and a very good reason for that place being their favourite place. For me I guess Alameda is that place because of its very powerful emotional attachment resulting from spending hours and hours there watching my children play. I walk all over the gardens, check out virtually every flower and shrub, smell every scent and most importantly ‘see’ those days-gone-by in my mind’s eye, sometimes through tears from when my children played in that old painted rowing boat.

Consciously, my visit to the gardens was my last visit possibly for years, I sat down at a favourite bench and listened to the sound of water trickling and bees buzzing. Sometimes that’s all I want to hear.

3:71 (2016) The back streets of British Gibraltar feel like home to me.

It didn’t seem like five minutes since I’d left Alameda and found myself having my evening meal with Carol, Sheila and Joe once again at Jury’s on Main Street, a place which over the course of a week we had all become extremely fond of. The food and customer service were always excellent and of course we never forgot their honesty in looking after our expensive camera after we forgot to pick it up.

During dinner the conversation revolved around how much everyone was enjoying Gibraltar and with tomorrow being our last ‘full’ day how they would like to spend the morning shopping. As a people-watcher who would rather be parked on a bench I’m not someone who particularly likes shopping but I nodded my approval. There may well be some trinkets I’d like to buy for the children’ – after which I could sit on a bench people-watching and wait for everyone else to finish.

Knowing the shopping expedition would end with lunch, probably at the Gibraltar Arms, after which everyone would want to laze around the pool I knew exactly where my final afternoon would be spent, looking up Moors Castle and the North face of the Rock. Seeing me gaze skywards Carol asked “Are you really going up there?” Yet before I had the chance to answer she had already answered her own question. “Mad as a box of frogs”, she smiled, “I’ll wave to you from the poolside”.

Sure enough the following day, after traipsing up and down Main Street carrying everyone else’s shopping bags, we finally lunched-out at the Gibraltar Arms where I viewed my sole purchase of a magnetic monkey which now resides on my fridge door. A little later after everyone was comfortably ensconced on their sun loungers with drinks and books to hand, I picked up my bottle of water then hit the road to the dulcet sound of snoring.

The afternoon was warm. No it wasn’t. The afternoon was hot, baking hot and I knew the further I went up the Rock the more exposed to the heat I would become so I decided to make a plan. After walking down Main Street I turned right somewhere just before Casemates and swiftly found myself where I’m always very much at home; bang in the middle of that wonderful labyrinth called the back streets.

If I tried to explain what it was that I loved about the back streets I’d be here all day. In fact I’d need to write a totally separate book, which now I think about it I might just do. Meantime though, if I were to offer a brief explanation – Gibraltar’s back streets are very reminiscent of the streets in Geordieland where I was raised and so they feel very safe and familiar to me. They are also oozing mysteries which I love. So many times I’ve gone from knowing exactly where I am going to becoming totally lost up a dead-end, which I find fires my imagination. Seeing Union Jack flags in house windows and steps patriotically painted in British colours from years gone by also gives me a real sense of belonging.

Slowly but surely as I navigated the back streets, getting lost up a few alleys, with the help of a group of teenage boys guiding me through a housing estate, I finally managed to find my way up to Moorish Castle which I decided would be my first Pit Stop. As I looked down on a lovely panoramic view of Gibraltar the reality that within twenty-four hours I would finally have left this beautiful place hit me hard.

3:72 (2016) With less than a day left in front I tripped back 300 years.

A glass is never half empty, in my opinion it is always half full. Although quite a sensitive and emotional person, I do have a very optimistic personality. No sooner had I thought that I had less than twenty-four hours left on my beloved Rock I immediately rethought that thought, rephrasing it, “WOW I’ve got twenty-four hours on the ROCK!!!”. On that fabulous note I continued on my walkabout up the North Face on a trek I’d never done before and so I was also loving that I was going off into uncharted waters, somewhere I’d never been before.

As I looked back at Moorish Castle I knew I would have loved to have gone inside for a serious exploration but I also knew that if I did I’d have spent my whole day there. I’ve always loved how they light the castle up to celebrate current events or to pay respects to nations undergoing difficult times. Although the castle has a very well documented history it also remains very contemporarily relevant today.

Accepting that some things must be left for another day I continued on and it wasn’t long before I came across the World War 2 Tunnels where I found the guide standing outside. 
“How long is your tour in the tunnels?” I asked. “At least an hour, more if you ask lots of questions,” he replied. Knowing I would most certainly want to ask lots of questions I politely said that I would visit another time as it wasn’t something I wanted to rush. 

What was beginning to transpire was that there’s a whole swathe of history on this part of the Rock that I had no idea about and although my memoir isn’t about that I was starting to become frustrated realising that the more I learned the less I knew. That thought only became more exacerbated when further on up the Rock I came across yet another tourist information attraction – The City Under Siege Exhibition.

This amazing exhibition is situated in what is thought to be the very first building the British built on the Rock and depicts what life was like for both the military and the local people in the early 1700s during the Great Siege. On display are several 3D models giving a realistic vision of the times and there is also a theatre show though sadly on my visit it was closed. One of the top attractions of this particular exhibition is some actual graffiti carved on the walls 300 years ago which is still readable today; the finest example of this was a drawing of a galleon by Sergeant Major Ince who was also credited with being the architect of the Great Siege Tunnels. Again, although I had little time to stay and study more, I began to realise that many of the names of places in Gibraltar were to honour her famous sons and daughters including the individual apartment blocks of what was once Edinburgh House and clearly Ince’s Hall; past industries were also remembered for example Lime Kiln Road.

3:73 (2016) Finally I was at the end of a week that had lasted 40 years.

After leaving the City of Siege exhibition I found myself looking over Gibraltar from exactly the same spot as Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 2 did in 1954, a year before I’d even been born. After spending over an hour looking out at a panoramic view I wondered if she felt the same awe.

Vaguely recollecting walking back down through the Old Town, I was aware my mind had now switched to emotional mode. My usual evening routine over the past week had become something like: shower, change clothes, dinner out, nightcap, bed and though I have no doubt that’s what I did, I don’t remember a bar of it. I don’t even remember going to sleep. In fact my first awareness since my last walkabout came late Saturday morning when I found myself looking out over Commonwealth Park on an initially overcast morning which by lunchtime had morphed into a typically beautifully warm and gorgeous Gibraltar day. As I looked around me it was almost as though I was looking through a kaleidoscope at every photo of every memory, and every experience I’d ever had in Gibraltar. It was like looking at a 40-year calendar being flicked at speed from 1976 to 2016 and I was totally powerless to stop it.

On one level or another I knew that our hotel keys had now been handed in, bags packed, flight tickets checked, transport to the airport confirmed and we were in effect in transit. The realisation my departure was imminent filled me with dread, horror, grief and a feeling of loss that reminded me of being dragged kicking and screaming as a child out of my hometown Newcastle only to be raised in Nottingham because that’s where the work was for my foster dad. 

Aware that Carol was thoughtfully beginning to think ahead I internalised my feelings. “Alan you’ll need to try and get a nap on the plane because we don’t get into Birmingham till after 10pm and you have a four hour drive from the airport” she advised. I smiled and nodded in agreement.  A car horn sounded. It was a taxi for the airport.

3:74 (2016) Goodbye Gibraltar. And thank you.

On Christmas Day 2016 at 6pm I wrote this final post for my online version of these memoirs as a sort of gift for those who had followed my blog daily for over six months. 

It’s been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life to relive and recall my memories of Gibraltar and sometimes it’s also been the most emotional. Some people may even say at times I’ve been over emotional but I make no apology for that. As I’ve sat down daily to write there have been times when some issues have touched on a nerve and left me almost so buried in emotion it’s come out all over the page, but for what it’s worth it was never contrived. If I’ve written emotionally it’s because I’ve felt it. But what has been even more rewarding than writing has been reading the comments made by readers. 

It was in 1964, as a 9 year-old little boy, that I first heard about the Rock that was Gibraltar; my cousin Paul was a Leading Seaman in the Royal Navy and he’d been there many times. It was his favourite place. I’d sit agog with eyes widening as he told me about how this massive great Rock sat on a lump of land only a few square miles in size and how its small community shared the place with wild apes! He’d go on to tell me about Singapore, Hong Kong and Bangkok but one way and another I’d bring him back to telling me the same stories over and over again about that big Rock with the wild apes on it.

Today, in 2016, as I sat in the taxi taking me to the airport I thought of my cousin Paul as I looked out at the Rock. The mist had descended, taking away its beautiful, sunny, warm image giving it an eerie look as if to cushion the fact that I had to leave. I could almost hear the Rock whisper ‘Why would you want to stay somewhere this miserable Alan?’ to which I thought ‘You should know better than to even think that let alone ask it’. I don’t make a habit of talking to rocks but in Gibraltar’s case I make  an exception. 

My own first visit to Gibraltar was in 1974 as a young sailor and I was totally smitten by it; it was everything Paul had said it would be and even more as well. As was tradition, back then, after leaving Gibraltar I sailed out to the Far East just as Paul had to visit Singapore, Hong Kong, Bangkok, New Zealand and many more places before finally calling back once again at Gibraltar en route back to the UK and I loved it, I just loved it. On my travels around the world I’d been in dangerous situations on more than one occasion but when I stepped ashore on the Rock I didn’t just feel safer and happier than anywhere in the world, I felt at home. 

Looking out of my taxi window the mist seemed to be getting worse by the minute and just for a moment the thought crossed my mind that they might cancel my flight. But then as we crossed the runway that thought evaporated away as I spotted my aircraft sitting there waiting for me like some spider waiting for a fly to land on its net.

It was when I returned to Gibraltar in 1976 to live on the Rock with my family this beautiful little Nation began moving into my DNA. It was a time steeped in happy irreplaceable memories, some of which I’ve managed to recapture in these memoirs. When I look back at that time I realise for our family they were very much halcyon days which I will forever treasure and for which I will be eternally grateful. 

As I stepped out of the taxi at the airport I caught sight of my reflection in a window. Pausing a moment I thought about all of the really nice people I’d met during the past week who had taken the time to talk to me and make me feel welcome, many of whom have become firm friends. I thought about many other people too who I didn’t get the opportunity to meet but who had engaged with me on Twitter during the week and who still remain virtual friends via the Internet. Being received by total strangers in that way gave me a wonderful sense of belonging and I love that.

Boarding my plane I turned at the top step to take a last look at ‘my’ Gibraltar; even covered in mist it was still everything it had always been to me and everything I wanted it to be. Minutes later I was in the air with my body speeding at hundreds of miles an hour towards the UK leaving my heart and soul behind on that beautiful mist-covered Rock. But it’s okay. I’ll be back. And I won’t be leaving it forty years before I am.

***

Reader’s comments.

• What a fitting end to your memoir Alan. It’s been fascinating to read an account from someone else who has become so attached to the Rock I call home.

• Hi Alan, I would like to thank you for sharing your memoirs with us. I have thoroughly enjoyed reading them and I have felt really moved by some of the posts. Especially the one when you were waiting at the airport for your family to arrive.
• It’s a pity that it has come to the end but all good things do. Thank you for loving Gibraltar like we do, you are one of us. I wish you a Happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year filled with love, peace and good health and to your family. Kind regards and hoping to hear from you soon and possibly meeting one day in our lovely Gibraltar.
• Such a beautiful blog of a place that has changed so much for the better.
• I love all your posts and follow them avidly. I’m a Newcastle lass whose first ever job was actually just off the Quayside. I used to watch the Bessie Surtees (some kind of barge) pass by on the River Tyne every morning. The driver used to wave and we would wave back. Having lived in Gibraltar for more than 30 years obviously Queensway is part of our daily lives.
• So sad that it is the last blog post. Thank you so much for sharing it with us.
• Such beautiful photographs. What can I say: no matter how tired I am I always need to find time to read your next chapter, and look forward to the end of the day to be able to relax and read the events of the day. I thank you for this very interesting reading and for the photographs which bring back to me such wonderful memories of places I used to visit when the frontier was closed.
• What beautiful photographs of my childhood haunt, having lived just across the road from the gardens, beside the Fire Station since 1949.
• Lovely blog. It’s sad that it’s coming to an end soon but at the same time I’m so very grateful that we have been privileged to read your memoirs x
• Love reading your posts. They always have something that brings back some memories. That Senior Citizens Club was my late grandad’s favourite place. Look forward to reading the next post xx
• I look forward to reading your blogs every day. I’ll miss them when you finish!
• You have really caught the atmosphere of the back streets & alleyways. I love wandering around them too.
• Brilliant blog. It must be kind of strange for you to walk around seeing so many changes yet remembering so much.
• Such a lovely blog. The caravan site where you used to live is what’s now Kings Wharf which is right opposite Commonwealth Park. The road that you crossed over after the park is now known as Bishop Caruana Road (I live on that road). I don’t know if you’ll remember, but where my building is, used to be a water area. It must have been so hard for you to try and picture everything after so many years. So much has changed but the one thing that hasn’t is the memories.
• Looking forward to reading your daily blogs, I simply love reading them.
• This reading has brought tears to my eyes. I felt so emotional, as I put myself in your shoes. I too have had this experience when visiting my first home (away from home), when I first started my own family when we got married now going on to 50 years next July.
• Longing to read tomorrow’s visit to the Alameda Gardens where I spent so many hours playing there as a child. Happy days.
• What beautiful photos of the gardens where I spent so many hours, days, months and years, having lived opposite the Alameda Gardens, next to the Fire Station. Wonderful memories. Thank you.
• Perfect timing today’s blog I’m reading whilst having my tea break at work. Very enjoyable blog post. Thank you. X
• Such a beautiful blog of the most beautiful place Gibraltar, very well done. The photos are amazing.
• I’ve taken to not reading your latest writings on Gibraltar straightaway! I save them up because I don’t want it to end! I can’t wait to read what Carol thought on her return trip to Gib.
• What a lovely idea to give each one a present of your memoirs. I love the photos of them all grown up, they remind me of mine, especially the youngest who also used to suck her thumb.
• I’m so looking forward to the next chapter. I’ve always wondered what happened to the rest of the family but thought it wasn’t right to ask as eventually you’d tell us. You must post a photo of them when they get the memoirs of Gibraltar as a present. I bet the look on their faces will be priceless. Well done on your blog posts.
•  What a lovely post. I felt I was with you on that plane – so beautifully put.
• I am so enjoying reading your memoirs.
• Looking forward to the next chapter. Keep them coming.
• Absolutely beautiful blog. Keep up the good work 
• I love reading your memoirs and look forward to it every day. I remember going to London with my two girls to celebrate the Queen’s Jubilee.
• Hi. It is great to see these photos of Gib. Reminds me of the amazing 3 years that I lived there from 82 to 85. I would really love to go back to see the old place and re – live some of my teenage years again.
• I just love reading your memoirs. I think my cousin Rose married to Gerry Pool might have been based here with the Royal Navy around 1976 – you might even have met them as they lived at Cormorant and then later on at Edinburgh House.
• Your blog grows more interesting each day. Keep up the good work.
• I think this is so beautifully explained that I can really picture it, knowing what it was like in those days.
• I so love reading your memoirs, thank you for sharing. It is bringing back so many happy memories. We have always been attached to the services, my grandfather being with the NAAFI, later my dad, who worked at the Fleet Canteen and at the Key and Anchor in Main Street, my sister Janet (RIP) worked at the NAAFI in Queensway and later at RAF, North Front, and my sister Chimene worked at the Imperial Court in Queensway. I have so many lovely memories of life in Gibraltar in those days when we would see the service people in uniform walking around Gibraltar, sadly no more. Even my eldest daughter started work at RAF and later at the Kings Chapel and later working for the accommodation of the services families.
• My brother, Peter, was the butcher at Liptons at that time. Still is, but now it’s Morrisons at Europort (all reclaimed land since 1989).
• I loved your blog today, especially the military wife comments. Having been a military wife myself and having lived abroad too I can imagine what she went through. A military wife is not just a wife and a mother she also has to play both parents roles and becomes a very strong and independent individual. The childminders part is interesting too. I trained to be a registered childminder whilst posted in Longstanton, Cambridge. A very rewarding job I so wish they would introduce it in Gibraltar.
• I know the areas you described like the back of my hand. I used to go to school opposite the caravan you lived in all the photos and your experience is fascinating. Keep going.
• Mrs Dumoulin lived in Bakers Passage where she kept a nursery (my children attended). Sadly Mrs Dumoulin passed away a couple of months ago. A lovely woman, a beautiful family.
• I so loved this blog. The photos are lovely. Buccaneers will soon be a sandwich bar and restaurant by the name of Zoca. Look forward to tomorrow’s blog.
• Enjoyed tonight’s blog especially as it was about the beach that I go to. Look forward to tomorrow’s post.
• Loved this one the most, especially the Montagu part. The actual place was called Montagu Bathing Pavilion and the entrance part is still standing. It’s an office now and the water area is Montagu Gardens, a big block of flats.
  The Nuffield pool is now Europa Pool.
• When I was offered my draft to Gib in 1980 it was a choice between there and going to Pembroke as an instructor. No contest. It was very exciting to fly out together in September. We never had any children then but had planned that we would when we were there. Funny how 9 months later our son, Matthew was born. We moved into a caravan first and then into 43 Edinburgh House. After a few months I met an old shipmate who had a flat at the front on the top floor. No. 151. He was leaving soon so we put in for it. It was great with the long balcony on top. Great times.
• Lovely blog reading tonight. It’s so interesting how life in Forces is so different to civvy life.
• By reading your blogs we learn so much about you as a person and your love for the Rock. Keep them coming.
• Alan, this is very interesting and I look forward to reading more. I was in Gib from 1980 to 1982 and my 1st son was born in RNH. Guess what I was also a Stores Accountant and did 23 years. When in Gib I was the POSA in RNH, a fantastic job.
• Very interesting memoirs enjoyed reading it and left wanting more and longing to find out what happened after.
• Hi there! I am a Gibraltarian living in England and I must say that I find all this very interesting. Thank you for sharing.

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• Simply loving your book. Thank you. (John Cortez. Minister for Heritage and Culture. Gibraltar)

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RockHeart was written as a blog in 2016 and complete with photographs can be viewed at memoirsofgibraltar.com

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