Ready to Rock and Roll

There is an epitaph in Vicarsford Cemetery in Fife, Scotland that reads: He didn’t do rush. My mother often remarks that the same could be said of me, a loving dig every time I put something off or find myself running late. But while I appreciate where she and the inscription writer are likely coming from, they’re not entirely accurate in what they say. After all, one downside to being slow is that you’re forever finding yourself in a hurry. It’s not that I don’t do rush, it’s simply that I prefer to travel at my own pace.

It was with real reluctance, then, that I booked a coach tour of Gibraltar. I’d looked at making the journey under my own steam, but the local bus between Seville and La Linea de la Concepcion—the closest stop on the Spanish side of the border—ran only four times a day and took four hours each way. In effect, taking the first available bus would mean reaching Gibraltar at around 13:30, while the last bus back again was scheduled to depart at 16:00. Factoring in the border crossing, this would likely mean two hours in town.

This meant parting ways with £104—the same price, ironically, as my original flights from Edinburgh to Gibraltar that had been cancelled by easyJet, thus necessitating this convoluted detour via Faro. Visiting the Rock was, however, the primary purpose of this trip, so I consoled myself with the fact that the journey would be considerably more comfortable by coach. It would also guarantee visits to Europa Point, St Michael’s Cave and Apes Den, which likely wouldn’t have been the case if I’d had to sprint from La Linea. Save for staying over and sacrificing a day in Spain, I couldn’t see another way.

I met the bus at 8pm outside Hotel Bécquer as my hostel wasn’t listed as one of the four prescribed pick-up points, stopping en route for coffee and a croissant. Food and drink wasn’t permitted on board, a sign at the door alerted me, but I managed to slip by the driver unnoticed while he was deep in converation with our guide for the day, Roberto. We then proceeded to spend an hour criss-crossing Seville in rush hour traffic aboard a bus without WiFi, without charging points and without a toilet, before only then beginning our 2.5 hour journey to Gibraltar. So much for comfort and convenience.

It seemed I wasn’t the only person on board that day who didn’t do rush. Sitting across from me was an older Spanish woman, the last to board, who held us up at every available opportunity—at the final pick-up in Seville, at the random toilet stop en route and again at the coach park where we were to begin our tour within a tour. It was thrilling to cross the border, past the airbase and over the commercial runway—all the while watching the Rock of Gibraltar grew taller and more spectacular with every step. But it was also slow progress: we paused first for a headcount, then to arrange a rendezvous point, and finally to transfer onto a pair of minibuses. I made sure that the Spanish woman was on the other one.

Thankfully, our new driver was as keen to make up time as I was. He took us on a kamikazee tour of the Rock, racing through his spiel with wit and enthusiasm as sped around tight corners and darted through even tighter tunnels. Our first stop was Europa Point, the southernmost tip of Gibraltar with views of the Mediteranian Sea, the Atlantic Ocean and, across the strait that separated them, Africa. It was an incredible sight, as was the reverse view of the Rock itself, but with only ten minutes to explore—we’d spent more time at the coach park— there was no time to visit any of the surrounding buildings, including Ibrahim-al-Ibrahim Mosque, Europa Point Lighthouse and, equally enticing if much less exciting, Europa Point Cafeteria.

From there we were rocketed further uphill to St. Michael's Cave, one of 150 caves riddling the Rock. This time we were allotted twenty minutes, assigned wrist bands and ushered through turnstiles into the grotto for a light show that rendered the stalactites and stalagmites in purple and gold. The tourist trail takes you past the so-called Angel of Gibraltar rock formation and out through the auditorium, once visited by Queen Elizabeth II, twice by Jimmy Carr and yearly by hopeful Miss Gibraltars competing in the beauty pageant. At this point I was getting really quite hungry, and those who had skipped breakfast or observed the signage ever more so, but the gift shop stocked only ice cream and we were warned against buying even those in case the monkeys cottoned on.

For our next stop was Apes Den and a handful of Gibraltar’s 300 Barbary macaques had been spotted there earlier that morning. In order to make the most of the measly fifteen minutes we’d been given I made sure I was first off the bus, jostling unapologetically to the door and taking two steps at a time down to Prince Ferdinand's Battery, where two macaques had already drawn a small crowd. I’d spent longer the previous day photographing a rat and a parakeet squaring off in a tree, but tried to put the ticking clock out of my mind as I watched the pair—and those that joined them—in contented disbelief. There is nothing quite like making eye contact with an animal, and it is even more special in the case of monkeys. I watched for as long as I could, stealing an extra five minutes safe in the knowledge that the second minubus would be even later.

That left one hour to see the rest of the city before I had to be back at Casemates Square, but by this point I was so hungry that I sacrificed half of it to eat fish and chips on Main Street. I ate as quickly as I could, before taking the first staircase I could find back up the Rock. I only made it as far as the Moorish Castle before my alarm went off, telling me my time was up. But it was enough just to spend a few minutes in my own company and walk a few metres at my own pace. I looked down over the Ocean Village and back towards Spain. I wasn’t ready to leave yet but I had at least seen what I’d come to see. Gibraltar was a beauty—more dishevelled and chaotic than I’d anticipated but still something of a revelation.

Gibraltar’s city status might have been reaffirmed by the UK Government last year but, really, it doesn’t feel like theirs to bestow. Gibraltar feels more like Monaco than Lichfield—two cities with comparable populations. There are certainly more mosques and synagogues than your average British city. More macaques as well. Sure, you can find fish and chips, Costa Coffee and a red phone box, but you can also eat Spanish-made tapas, attend Notre Dame school or take a boat to Morocco. I loved it.

So that just left the journey home—only without the toilet stop this time. Rather than wait until Hotel Bécquer, the first pick-up but the final drop-off, I alighted early at Hotel Derby and set off in search of Setas de Sevilla, aka The Mushrooms, the largest wooden structure in the world. And I found it, too, eventually. In my own time.