Solid As a Rock by Jim Keeble

“Solid as the Rock of Gibraltar!” my Gran liked to exclaim, referring to anything from her back to the state of the British economy. As Gibraltar prepares to celebrate Trafalgar Day on Monday and gears up for a referendum on power-sharing with Spain on the 7th of November, I’m heading to the ancient Rock to see if it’s still as unyielding as my late Grandmother’s Sunday roast.

Gibraltar is a strange concept. It’s a British nail on the Spanish big toe, the equivalent of King Juan Carlos presiding over the Isle of Wight. It’s both tiny – three miles long and a mile across, and massive – the limestone cliffs soar 1,400 feet above the sea.

Forged from conflict (the rock was formed when Africa slammed into Europe, about seven million years ago), it is named after an Arab warrior, Tarik, who landed there in 711 - Gibraltar comes from ‘Jebel Tarik’ or ‘Tarik’s Mountain’.

It’s strategic position at the mouth of the Mediterranean was previously venerated by the Greeks (for whom it was one of the twin pillars of Hercules, along with Mount Abila on the Moroccan shore) and the Romans, who saw it as the end of the world, “non plus ultra”, beyond which lay oblivion (now known as Plymouth). The Spanish arrived in 1502, only to be kicked out by the British in 1704, when the Treaty of Utrecht granted Gibraltar to the British Crown “forever”.

Today, Gibraltarians feel under attack once more, following jack straw’s surprise announcement of a power-sharing settlement with Spain. Yet, straw has had a tough time selling his vision to locals – when he visited the rock in may he was greeted with boos and cries of “new labour, new sell-out!”. Gibraltar’s chief minister Peter Caruana responded by calling the referendum on sovereignty, which has been decried by both the British and Spanish governments as a waste of time.

Admittedly, there’s little doubt as to the likely result– in the last referendum in 1967, 12,138 voted to continue ties to Britain with just 44 against. Those 44, it is rumoured, were politely asked to leave the rock.

While the future status of Gibraltar is in question, its attraction to British and Spanish tourists alike remains undiminished. 7.2 million tourists flock to the rock each year, up from 4.2 million in 1994. Many are day-trippers from the Costa del Sol, but an increasing number are short-break visitors, seeking Gibraltar’s unique mixture of paella and pounds sterling, Mediterranean and Middlesex.

My GB Airways flight is packed. We land with a thump on the short runway and walk out into a terminal the size of my local Woolworth’s. Voices speak Spanish and estuary English. The police look British (no guns), but the cars drive on the right.

Initially I’m underwhelmed. The soaring rock is magnificent, but the area around the airport resembles East London, with shabby blocks of flats and small industrial units. There are union jacks everywhere, alongside the Gibraltar flag – a gold key hanging from a red castle, signifying Queen Isabella’s view in 1502 that her newly conquered dominion was now ‘the key to Spain.”

Yet my preliminary scepticism is tempered by walking into town. From the ugly concrete emerge some beautiful Moorish-style houses, swirling wrought-iron balconies and arcaded shop-fronts. It’s as though some crazed architect has tried to combine 1960s English architecture with Tangiers or Granada. I have lunch at Caffe Solo in the newly renovated Casemates Square, where the old barracks have been transformed into boutiques and restaurants. Next to me sit two English middle-aged women with tattoos.

“Look at all them pigeons,” says one, happily. “It’s just like home.”

In some ways, Gibraltar is more British than Bognor. There’s Body Shop, Mothercare, BHS, M&S, NatWest, Barclays, the Toon on the Rock Pub (painted black and white stripes), and red telephone and post boxes. Shops sell English victuals that were outdated when I was a child – Bovril, Bisto and Exeter Corned Beef. I’m tempted to buy some corned beef for old time’s sake, until I remember what it tastes like.

Gibraltar is still a place of morning coffees and afternoon teas, nowhere more so than my hotel, The Rock, where at 4pm each day, silver-haired ladies (and some younger ones) sip Earl Grey, watching the ships in the harbour.

Everyone’s stayed at The Rock – Sean Connery, Winston Churchill, Prince Charles and Bruce Forsyth. Its heyday was in the 1930s, when it was a hot-bed of spying. In the Barbary Bar, Guy Burgess and Kim Philby plotted to assassinate Franco, until Burgess got too drunk and Philby decided he was scared of guns.

Today, the only armies invading Gibraltar are the day-trippers who throng Main Street in search of cheap booze and cigarettes. Prices are impressively low, thanks to Gibraltar’s VAT-free status – top 40 CDs are £9.99 and a litre of Gordon’s is £4.95 - the cost of a single gin and tonic in many London bars.

I dine at the Clipper Pub in Irishtown (the narrow street where Irish sailors used to congregate), which is showing live English football.

“’Ere you go,” chirps the waitress, handing me my Boddingtons. I comment that this feels like being in London.

“Thank you, doll!” she beams, proudly.

Over the next couple of days, I find myself liking Gibraltar more, as I acquaint myself with its history. I view the 1884 headquarters of the world’s second oldest police force (after the Met in London) with its ornate marble columns, the tourist office housed in Duke of Kent House (the Duke was the Rock’s least favourite governor, thanks to his decision to close fifty wine shops upon arrival in 1802) and the airy Cathedral of the Holy Trinity, whose thick walls were built to withstand the vibrations of heavy guns firing at the neighbouring King’s Bastion.

I watch a wedding party stroll down dainty Secretary’s Lane to the registry office – Gibraltar is becoming a popular nuptial destination, thanks to the ease of obtaining a marriage certificate. Don’t knock it. Sean Connery has been successfully married here (twice), not to mention John Lennon and Yoko Ono.

Like most port-dwellers, the Gibraltarians seem a tolerant lot (as long as you’re not Jack Straw or a Spanish Prime Minister). There are Catholic and Anglican cathedrals, two mosques serving 2,000 Moroccans inhabitants and five synagogues. Many shopkeepers are Indian.

That Gibraltar should be a place of harmonious human interaction is unsurprising. It has had a long time to get it right, being one of the oldest inhabited places in the world.

At the museum, I learn that Neanderthal Man would have been Gibraltar Woman, if it hadn’t been for typical British reticence. In 1848 a skull was found in a local cave, but the Gibraltar Historical society decided it was unimportant and stuck it in a cupboard. Eight years later a similar skull was dug up in the Neander Valley in Germany, giving its name to the earliest humans. Judging from the tone of the museum text, Gibraltar has been a little bitter ever since.

Of course, the greatest draw of The Rock is the big boulder itself. The best way to see it is on a tour, so I head up the steep incline in Pepe Franco’s minibus. Iron rings line the ascent, through which ropes were strung to pull heavy cannon up to fire on the Spanish.

Up close, the rock is surprisingly lush. There are olives, palms, prickly pears and aloe. The limestone traps water, a fact that has saved Gibraltar on many occasions, as besieged residents collected rain from reservoirs dug into the porous stone.

Our first stop is startling - St Michael’s Cave, a vast grotto of eerily beautiful stalagmites. The twisted fluted limestone looks like something from ‘Lord of the Rings’. A thousand skulls seem to stare out of the rock. The cave is so vast, concerts are regularly held there.

“Rock music?” I ask Pepe, straight-faced. He fails to laugh.

The rock’s many natural caves have been added to over the years by a series of remarkable tunnels. These were started during the Great Siege (1779-1783) when the Royal Artificers dug by hand 370 yards into solid rock to place cannon high above the massing Spanish troops. A cabinet displays a week’s rations at the time – the equivalent of a McDonalds Happy Meal today. It was brutal work, but worth it - shortly after the cannon were in place, the Spanish capitulated. Peering a thousand feet down from the gun emplacements, it’s easy to see why.

We end our tour hanging out with everyone’s favourite symbol of Gibraltar, the Barbary Apes. These are in fact Macaque Monkeys, common in Morocco, who probably arrived AS PETS OF British sailors in the 18th century. They have been cherished ever since, at one stage having their own wing in the military hospital, which is hardly surprising since legend decrees that if they abandon the Rock, it will cease to be British.

Today, at least, Gibraltar belongs to Blighty, as most of the apes are happily asleep. Others approach us quizzically, and I am reminded of a story about late Rolling Stone, Brian Jones, who climbed the rock to play the band’s latest composition to the apes. The monkeys didn’t like it, and ran away shrieking, causing the heavily stoned Jones to burst into tears at such harsh “rock” criticism.

Back at sea-level, I am surprised to find a newer, fresher side to Gibraltar. The ‘Westside’, built on reclaimed land, contains prim new apartment blocks, a McDonalds, and a sparkling new hospital. I head down to Queensway Quays for dinner beneath luxury apartments that resemble Marbella or Canary Wharf (a penthouse goes for £750,000). At the Klaus on the Rock restaurant I watch the sun set over the 19th century docks, which took twelve thousand men twelve years to finish. The waiter arrives with the breadbasket.

“Ah,” I venture. “Rock … and roll.” He does not smile.

On my last morning, I meet Gibraltar’s Minister for Tourism, the perfectly-named Joseph Holliday, who is upbeat about the Rock’s tourism future. He wants to expand eco-tourism, such as the bay Dolphin tours, in which boats snuggle up to Gibraltar’s resident schools of common, striped and bottle-nosed dolphins (I booked on one, but it was cancelled due to stormy conditions) and ornithological holidays to view the twice-yearly African bird migrations, as well as developing Gibraltar as a base for exploring North Africa and Andalusia. There are also plans to build a beach resort to the east of the rock, making Gibraltar MORE attractive for families.

On my last morning, I meet Gibraltar’s Minister for Tourism, the perfectly-named Joseph Holliday, who is upbeat about the Rock’s tourism future. He wants to expand eco-tourism, such as the highly successful harbour Dolphin tours, and ornithological holidays to view the twice-yearly African bird migrations, as well as developing Gibraltar as a base for exploring North Africa and Andalusia. There are also plans to build a beach resort to the east of the rock, making Gibraltar even more attractive for families.

“At least we’re in control of tourism,” remarks Mr Holliday. “there’s less of a political agenda involved than in other business sectors.”

Ah yes. Politics. The ‘Gibraltar Question’ is never far away. The only other place I’ve seen so many Union Jacks is East Belfast, and the Gibraltarians share protestant Ulster’s sense of pride and durability, albeit with a gentler Hispanic twist. It’s too facile to dismiss their desire to remain British as anachronistic – they feel they’ve suffered under Spanish hands, especially during the sixteen years when the border was closed.

As my tour guide Pepe Franco says;

“Asking us to become Spanish is like asking a Scotsman to become English.”

He points out the hypocrisy of Spain wanting to keep its Moroccan colonies of Ceuta and Melilla whilst demanding Gibraltar, stating, only half-jokingly;

“If anyone has a claim to Gibraltar it’s the Arabs. They were here first.”

Stephen Davenport, manager of the Rock Hotel, agrees, arguing that Spanish rule would be a disaster for Gibraltar’s growing tourist trade. As he says;

“From a purely touristic viewpoint, Gibraltar has to remain British. All the unique things about it are in some way connected to its British past, which would be obliterated. It would lose everything. There’s nothing unique about Marbella.”

On my last evening I go for a run to the southern-most tip of the rock, where alongside the mosque and lighthouse, white-clad cricketers are playing, just fourteen miles from Africa. It feels like another, somewhat colonial age, when ball on willow was heard across the globe.

In some ways this is Gibraltar’s attraction – as an outpost. In a world hurtling into a space-age, perhaps we need a bit of anachronism, a place that exudes such history. It’s a part of our heritage, whether we like it or not. Or so my Gran would tell you.