The Strait of Gibraltar joins the Mediterranean Sea to the Atlantic Ocean and is the busiest shipping lane in the world. Half the world’s seaborne trade passes through this narrow straight that is only 14km wide. As we drove over the hills from Tarifa we could see just how narrow it is, with the rock of Gibraltar looming on one side and the mountains of Morocco just a stone’s throw across the water.
Understandably controlling this stretch of water gave a nation great power in years gone by, and having military presence in this area was strategically important and the reason Great Britain held on so tightly to “The Rock”. It still is a British Overseas Territory, but these days by choice.
La Linea, the Spanish town that borders Gibraltar, is a port town and has a reputation for harbouring an unsavoury underworld. It certainly didn’t look like the Spain we were used to. Our campsite was in La Linea across the road from the beach. It was run by a trust that helps support people with mental disabilities in the workforce and the staff stay in a hostel next to the campsite. The pride they took in their work was clear, it was easily the cleanest we’d been to and the grounds were immaculate. There were a lot of cats around, and all very friendly. We were told by a regular camper that these weren’t strays, they were therapy cats for the residents in the adjourning care facility.
Andrew got talking to an English guy who went to Gibraltar often, or Gib as its affectionately known. He was ex-Navy and had been based at Gibraltar so had a sentimental connection to the place and visited every winter when he was in the south of Spain. He offered to show us around the military sights, but we kindly declined. Gibraltar was an important base for the British Navy so is great for those who love military history. Under the rock is a labyrinth of tunnels still used by the military, and inaccessible to the public.
The next morning, we biked to Gibraltar. It was 5kms to the border through La Linea and it was the first time we’d seen the town up close. Rundown and cramped, we were happy to be cycling through and not stopping. Originally, we had planned to leave our bikes in Spain and walk into Gibraltar but had been told it wasn’t very secure and cycling in was a better option. So, we joined the traffic flow and cycled through with the stream of cars. A smartly uniformed Gibraltan border control officer asked for our passports and after a quick glance at the photo page waved us through and we were soon cycling across the runway of the Gibraltan International Airport and into little Britain. The road signs and billboards were in English, the service station advertised petrol in pounds per litre, and policemen were decked out in attire identical to a London Bobby, complete with that iconic hat. It got weirder from there on – it was like we’d biked through a time warp into 1970’s Britain. Sandwich boards advertised overstated pub lunches and Devonshire teas, Britannica memorabilia was in every shop, red telephone boxes stood on street corners, and broad London accents could be heard everywhere. Even the buildings were straight out of the 60’s and 70’s, a reminder of a time when Gibraltar had more relevance.
Gibraltar is tiny, less than 7 square kilometres, and is home to 30,000 people. Considering most the area is taken up by a giant uninhabitable limestone rock, it makes for very high-density living around the base.
Our only real plan for the day was to go to the top of the Rock of Gibraltar and see those famous monkeys. Taxis offer tours to the top, you can walk up, or there’s the cable car. We opted for the latter and were soon on our way up the 426-metre-high rock. The cable car station was rundown, and the obligatory café looked like it had seen better days. We’d wondered what we’d come to as we stepped out onto ruined concrete fortifications covered in graffiti and with lots of litter about. Then we saw those lovely monkeys. Most of the Rock’s upper area is covered by a nature reserve and is home to around 250 Barbary macaques. These are the only wild monkeys found in Europe and are listed as endangered. The majority live in the mountains of Morocco and it’s likely the population in Gibraltar was introduced during the Islamic period, long before the British took control. They are wild, but they are used to people, so you can get very close to them. They were very absorbing to watch, and I found myself shimmying along a rock ledge to get closer to a group of lively babies who were having a great time swinging in a tree overhanging a cliff. It wasn’t all fun though. We witnessed a poor lady lose three newly purchased bags of baby formula. The monkeys just went straight up to her and ripped open the shopping bag, the formula packets fell out, they ripped those open and were soon blissfully licking a pile of milk powder, all the time watched by a bewildered baby who didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Another young woman thought a photo with a monkey on her back would be a good idea, the monkey thought ripping the sleeve off her rather nice jacket was more amusing. We kept a safe distance and I held on tightly to my phone.
There is a well-known prophecy that says that if the monkeys leave Gibraltar then so too will the British. The Gibraltans are proud to be part of Britain and in 2002 voted overwhelmingly against shared sovereignty with Spain. Relations with Spain have been fraught over time as the Spanish have laid claim to this piece of the Iberian Peninsula. Recently things have heated up as Gibraltar worries about its position as Brexit forges ahead and they are currently pushing for representation in Westminster and the right to vote in UK general elections. It’s no wonder those monkeys are so well looked after.
Back at the base of The Rock we wandered through the shopping precinct, stopping to browse in Marks & Spencer’s. I bought some jeans, and at the counter the shop assistant, who was speaking Spanish to a colleague, turned to me and greeted me in a strong East London accent. We asked what the story was. She was Spanish, was brought up in London, lives in La Linea, and comes to Gibraltar daily for work. Most of the retail and hospitality workers live in La Linea as it’s cheaper.
M&S is just one of the familiar British brands that make Gibraltar a home away from home for ex-pats living in southern Spain. Morrison’s is particularly popular for those seeking truly British foodstuffs. Now we had seen Gibraltar we couldn’t quite understand the attraction of the place and why so many British people we’d met talked of going to “Gib” regularly.
The day was ending. We found our bikes and pedalled against the wind across the runway and to the border. Following the sign with the arrow pointing to Spain we were surprised there was no queue. Two Spanish border control officers were leaning against a post chatting and laughing and didn’t even look up as we cycled out of Britain and into Spain.
Gibraltar is an odd place stuck in a different era. The Naval Base has gone, and today their economy is based largely on tourism, online gambling, financial services, and cargo ship refuelling services. Much of it depends on access to the EU single market, which Brexit makes uncertain.
The next morning, we headed off up the Costa del Sol towards San Pedro de Alcántara and our next house-sitting job. This coast was one of the first areas in southern Spain to become a destination for Brits to holiday and as a place to retire. Now hundreds of thousands call it their home. The entire coastline is built up with apartment complexes and resorts merging into each other. The apartment blocks vary in style and age, from the mid-20th century to the new. But there are also the shells of unfinished apartments, lying dormant. These are the reminders of the crash in 2008, evidence of which is all through this part of Spain. We stopped at a supermarket and for the first time heard announcements in English. We were later told that announcements in Russian are now also common. We weren’t due to be at our house sit until the following day so stayed the night at a campground near the beach just out of Estepona and the following morning drove the 10km to meet Trisha and her seven dogs. Trisha has lived in Spain most of her adult life and shares her home with four dachshunds, one French bulldog, a Spanish hunting dog and a lovely big old dog, like an oversized sheep dog. We were greeted like long lost friends, both by Trisha and the very excitable “dogettes”. An hour after arriving Trisha whisked me off for a Christmas lunch with her golfing friends, leaving a bewildered Mr Love at home with the seven dwarves. There are golf courses all along this coast and is part of the attraction for people retiring to this area.
I had a fantastic afternoon lunching with a group of 15 smart and opinionated ladies from varied backgrounds and countries and with some amazing stories to tell. All had made the move to live permanently in Spain, some decades ago and others just months. The common denominator was a love of travel and a life spent travelling prior to the move. Most were career women, some had globe-trotting roles, others were married to men who had been stationed abroad. Retiring in a country that they had barely spent any time in wasn’t an option, so one with better weather, an interesting culture and only a short flight away from the motherland, or fatherland, seemed a much more attractive option. We laughed lots. They were superb company.
After a very long lunch, Trisha and I arrived home around six to find the fire lit and Mr Love covered in dogs watching the news.
The next day Trisha showed us around her town of San Pedro de Alcántara, where the supermarket was and the beach, and took us to the Thursday market, one of the best we’d seen with an abundance of fresh produce, crafts, clothing and antiques. We stocked up at the markets and then headed down the coast to Estepona to drop some things at Trisha’s dog charity shop, after which she kindly shouted us a tapas lunch.
We got home to find one of the dogs, Molly, wasn’t at all well. Trisha and I bundled her up and took a ride to the vet. An x-ray showed a bad case of constipation, a plate of chick peas to blame. An enema and she was right. Thankfully that was the one and only vet trip.
That night Andrew cooked a roast and introduced Trisha to roasted beetroot and the next day we were left to our own devices as Trisha headed back to the UK for a week.
Our routine was to take the seven dogs through the hedge to a large olive grove for their twice-daily walks. The problem was the field was also occupied by a herd of horses and an angry donkey who didn’t like small dogs. We took turns keeping a look out and if we saw the horses in the distance we quickly turned and headed in the opposite direction. We had a couple of close calls; once coming face to face with the donkey and having to round up the troops at speed, and then there was a stampede just as we were going back through the hedge and one of the dachshunds took off after them, luckily it was the older one who was a bit wiser and didn’t get under their feet. All in all, they were a delightful bunch who loved their walks and in the evening piled on top of us for cuddles in front of the fire.
Trisha had given us her old SUV to use so once the morning walk was complete we had time explore the area.
A long walk along the seaside boulevard took us from San Pedro to Puerto Banus, the playground of the mega rich, where high-end fashion stores sell luxury brands, the marina is filled with super yachts and Bentleys line the streets. We heard a lot of Russian and Swedish being spoken, along with Spanish and English. Apparently, the Scandinavians are coming in their droves to the Costa del Sol. Lunch in Puerto Banus was out of the question, so we walked back to San Pedro for tapas by the beach.
Marbella is only 16km from San Pedro, so we made that another day trip. We almost gave up after struggling to find somewhere to park. The Spanish don’t seem to follow any rules with parking and stop anywhere they can, making narrow streets even more difficult to navigate through. Marbella is very touristy, but the historic centre is gorgeous, with white buildings trimmed in blue and sunshine yellow, narrow paved streets, flower pots brimming with colour, and of course orange trees.
We much preferred Estepona, 20km from San Pedro in the opposite direction. Trisha had taken us there, but we hadn’t had a good walk around, so we went back. Like Marbella, its right on the water and, like all Andalusian towns, is filled with those gorgeous white buildings. However, it’s not yet a tourist hot spot and is much more Spanish. Trisha had told us the new mayor had done a lot to clean the town up and had instigated the painting of huge murals on the newer, uglier buildings, and the planting of flower pots in all the streets. The murals are amazing. One of a fisherman catching a fish in the surf covers five buildings, creating a 3D effect coming down the street. The flower pots are a gorgeous touch and in Estepona each street has a different colour theme, for the pots and the flowers.
One evening after the dogs were walked we headed in to San Pedro to see the Christmas lights. Every town in Spain is decked out with elaborate Christmas lights and in San Pedro they are particularly good. That evening there was a flamenco display from the local dance schools, the tiny girls were adorable, earnestly stomping their feet and clicking their fingers a beat behind their instructor.
The week sped by and soon Trisha was home, greeted by a very happy bunch of dogs and with another roast dinner in the oven courtesy of Mr Love.
The next day we said goodbye to our seven furry friends, and to Trisha, and headed away from the coast up into the mountains to the historic town of Ronda.
