Saturday 4 December, La Línea de la Concepción.
The Hostal Andalucia was not the most cheerful of places, run by an elderly couple in Ronda who didn't exactly keep a welcome in the hillside. Still, its proximity to the station meant we could make a leisurely start to catch the 9:54 train from Granada to Algeciras in the large station that boasts all of a dozen trains a day. Described as an express, it trundled down the valley at a leisurely pace, which gave us all the more opportunity to revel in the wonderful scenery through which we passed. Starting off with a couple of sweeping curves to lose height, it plunged into a series of deep ravines, sometimes disappearing into tunnels to emerge with glimpses of the river tumbling in white and azure torrents down the gorge far below while the weathered bare rock of the distant hills rose up wreathed in clouds. We descended from pines to olives, passing small towns with acres of olive trees and vines. The sixty or so miles took an hour and a half, and eventually the countryside flattened out and more livestock was to be seen in the soggy fields. At 10:24 we arrived at the station, somewhat misleadingly named San Roque La Línea We had been assured by the tourist office in Ronda that buses for La Línea met the train, but there was no sign at the bus shelter and, as in Ronda, it was raining. The man in the ticket office made the sign with his fingers of walking for one kilometre. Then what? An indefinite wait without shelter by a dual carriageway being sprayed by passing cars? We chickened out and paid 12 Euros for a taxi to the bus station at La Línea where we were at last able to ascertain the times of the buses for Málaga and find our way to the tourist office where we obtained a map with locations of hostels. We ended up in a cheap but clean hostel La Esteponera. Although the room at first seemed small, dark and uninviting. once settled we discovered that La Línea on a Saturday was a bustling place. The hostel was near the covered market Mercado de la Concepción, jammed with people buying fresh meat and vegetables, while clothes stores spilled into the narrow streets around, still filled with puddles after the recent rains. We made our way down to down the broad Avenida 20 de Abril to the customs post, thankful we were not part of the long queue of cars waiting to enter Gibraltar
View of Gibraltar from La Linea
Passports were a mere formality and soon we were walking across the runway of the airport, which stretches from Algeciras Bay (or the Bay of Gibraltar) in the Atlantic across the isthmus to the Mediterranean. There were little green men, just as if we were crossing a main road. Immediately we were plunged into a British environment, yet not quite. Spanish was still to be heard widely and the traffic drove on the right, although the signs were in English. The massive military installations reminded one of Plymouth yet above us loomed to the remains of the Moorish castle part way up the massive 1500 feet high limestone rock, one of the Pillars of Hercules. The way buildings were packed in reminded one of the towns in the Channel Islands, but the style was different, a mix of Spanish and English, with blocks of apartments on the outskirts to cram in the 30,000 inhabitants of the five by one kilometre stretch of land, most of it occupied by the massive Rock. Tunnels took us through the casements, on which Barbary apes played, in to a modern square lined with eating places, and with a hoarding in lights commemorating the 300th anniversary of Gibraltar falling to the British in 1704, Christmas decorations and a carillon playing carols. Then on up Main Street, largely pedestrianized and lined with shops that any moderate-sized town in England would boast: Marks and Spencer, Early Learning Centre, Toys“R”Us, Barclays Bank, but other buildings less commonly found, a Spanish looking Roman Catholic cathedral, an Anglican Cathedral that looks like a mosque, a mosque that looks like a Nissan hut, a government house, monuments to soldiers, canon guarding a former convent building converted into an official residence.
At the far end of Main Street was Trafalgar Cemetery where under palm trees sailors killed at the battle of Trafalgar were buried, as well as others who had died while serving in Gibraltar in the late 18th and early 19th centuries.
We spent some time reading the inscriptions then struck out along the west coast to Punta de Europa we soon came to a battery open to visitors, strangely named Parson’s Lodge, and noticed a small restaurant with check table cloths run by an English couple. Anxious for a rest and something British after the indifferent Spanish fare, we asked for two coffees and jacket potatoes with a wonderful salad and baked beans. The coffees were large and not too strong, the potatoes came with a salad garnish. The British owners, suntanned and a little “alternative”, have been on the Rock for 20 years. At first they had felt a little bit cut off but now the frontier was open and, as he said, you could walk all the way to Italy. Suitably refreshed, we continued our way leading through a long tunnel one of some 50 miles of tunnels honeycombing Gibraltar, and out onto two small beaches, then winding up to emerge at Europa Point by a modern mosque at a car park, empty in December, in front of the only Trinity House lighthouse outside the UK.
We returned along the higher route, appropriately named Europa Road, at great peril from boy racers who find this one of the only stretches of road in Gibraltar to get up any speed. To our right the looming wall of rock with aloes in bright orange bloom, on our left views towards the mountains behind Algeciras, topped by gold-lined clouds from the setting sun. We explored the Botanic Gardens, laid out on a former exercise ground, a haven of peace on the crowded headland, with dragon trees, palms, aloes, agaves and other, to us, exotic plants. Then to the marina, filled with luxury yachts, fronted by luxury apartments, and back along Main Street, now already closed down at 6:00 p.m. to Casemate Square where we went into a fish and chip restaurant, intent on cod and chips (they didn't serve rock on the Rock) but, hearing Arabic spoken, plumped for their Moroccan style chicken with onions, raisins and rice, a wise choice.
Back in Spain, La Línea was as lively as Gibraltar was dead, humming with people walking the streets families and children out looking at the blaze of Christmas lights while struggling around the typically grotty Spanish supermarkets for water, milk, canned beer and the few items on offer that cannot be purchased in the daily markets where it seems most fresh produce is acquired. They are fascinating places, full of skinned rabbits, sheep's heads, whole scowling fishes and enormous mountains of fresh vegetables. At this time of year the poinsettia flower is king in Spain. The streets are scarlet with them in tubs, hanging baskets, around the bases of pretty orange trees heavy with ripening fruit. It looks so Christmassy and far prettier than our glittering Christmas trees.
We purchased wine and some other emergency rations at a rather down-at-heel supermarket, and the consumption of half a bottle of Pinedès made our room seem much more cosy, and at least it boasts a plug for the sink, unlike most Spanish hostel rooms. At 24 Euros, it is less than the 36 Euros we paid for an admittedly bigger and better room in Ronda. We worked out that we have wandered around 12 to 13 miles around the Rock.
I sat on the bed for a few moments before writing up my diary and fell sound asleep. When I awoke some kindly fairy had written up the events of a very unusual day for me — an excellent summary of a day filled with so many different experiences, the stunning train ride from Ronda, the walk across an airport runway to find ourselves back in “Little Britain” and, as Ian said, it was a very peculiar, magical experience to stand at the tip of the Straits of Gibraltar and see so clearly the coast of a different continent just a few miles away, each town along the coast so clear you could almost distinguish individual buildings.
Sunday 5 December 2004, Hostal La Esteponera, La Línea.
Gibraltar is a rock of white limestone 5 kilometres long, one kilometre wide and half a kilometre high. We know this because we've walked every inch of it over the last two days. We ran the gauntlet of the airport runway again this morning. The town was deserted, with nobody on the streets at 9:30 a.m. on a Sunday. At the cable car entrance we found the gate locked and barred despite the notice we had read last night saying it operated daily. Taxis were hovering and four-wheel drive vehicles were offering to take visitors on a tour of the Rock and its attractions. However as the cost was the same as the cable car and far less fun we declined. We are used to everything closing in our faces but we had come to see the Rock and see it we would.
So we started climbing, and thus the day continued. We found a footpath leading up from the top of the town and slowly made our way up through rocks and scrub with cactuses and rock plants clinging to the side of the rock wall. Way above the marina, we stopped to look down onto the matchstick town. It felt so high but, looking up, we realised how far we still had to go. We didn't pass or see anyone at all the way up to the area of the Barbary apes that have such significance for the British here. So long as the apes are here Gibraltar will stay British, they claim. Given the number we have seen today, hanging from railings over sheer drops to the sea, grooming each other, scowling at visitors, feeding their tiny babies, ripping up car windscreen wipers and eating the rubber blades, or leaping through the tops of the juniper trees at the very top of the Rock, I guess Gibraltar, already part of the Empire since 1704, will remain so for the next 300 years as well.
We found the curtain wall built by Charles V in about 1552. It had decayed steps and a rusty handrail and went straight up the side of the Rock, cutting off much wandering along the winding road to the top, so we took our courage in both hands and set off. We would never dare descending that way, but just watching the step ahead made it feel safe. From time to time a wider enabled us to stop and look back. How could we have seemed so high and we first stopped to look back? This was really high.
The only creatures around on this route were the apes, and they didn't bother with handrails except to run along them. Eventually the wall became a dangerous ruin and we abandoned it as it intersected with the winding road several loops higher up. Determined to reach the highest possible point, we pressed on up to a O’Hara’s Battery. Here our route was barred by iron gates and razor wire but it didn't matter, we'd made it! Total elation!
A rocky scrambling path, all overgrown, continued around the side of the Rock above the gate to the battery. Cautiously we followed it until we came over the crest of the Rock and looked down the almost sheer white side onto the Mediterranean, gulls flying way below and the white towns of the Costa del Sol visible along the edge of the sea, the Sierra Nevada rising up behind. From here we could see both the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, Europe and Africa, well worth every step of the climb. We followed the rugged, narrow track along the spiny ridge of the Rock with views down on both sides. The classic face of the Rock is massive white limestone, and on the Eastern side there are enormous water catchment slopes designed to provide the inhabitants with a constant supply of fresh water. These have now largely been replaced by a desalination plant.
What goes up must eventually come down. It gets dark around 6:00 p.m. so we wanted to be down in good time. We gradually clambered down to the little road and then plodded steadily downwards through endless juniper shrubs, cactuses and flowering narcissi. There was a smell of wild thyme rather like the maquis, maybe the largest rockery in the world.
Gibraltar’s history is fascinating but would take too long to detail here, and we've only scratched the surface. It was besieged by the Spanish from 1779 to 1783 and much of the early defence works originate from that period. There is also an Arab fort dating from the 14th century and earlier, and a Second World War gun emplacement. We struggled to the area of the defence tunnels constructed in 1780 and asked how much it cost to see round. The man said he didn't sell tickets; people bought a £7.00 pass as they came up and it let them into everything on the Upper Rock, how had we got here? When we said we had walked, he gaped at us, nonplussed. Are we really the only people this mad? Anyway, unless we paid £7.00 we could not go in, so we didn’t. Lower down we discovered the back entrance and peeped in, but as there are around 30 miles of tunnels inside the Rock we decided we would give it a miss. I think we were supposed to have paid £7.00 to visit the Upper Rock, but there was no ticket office on the 16th century curtain wall climb that we took.
Our legs were like jelly by the time he reached the town again, and we were really hungry. In the Irish Town area we found a pub open, heaving with all nationalities and serving Boddington's bitter and Sunday roasts, even at 6:00 p.m. So we went into the hot, friendly bar and gave ourselves up to British comfort. Service was slow, the roast was off, the bill was wrong, but the beer and the steak and ale pie with mash, carrots, peas and gravy were sheer heaven. No wonder there were lots of Spanish people eating there; it must make a change from tortillas and paella.
We staggered back to the border, warm inside and heavy with food. At the airport runway our route was blocked. Out of the darkness a roar and bright headlights as the evening flight from Gatwick touched down at the Med’ end of the runway, tore across the road and skidded to a stop just before it reached the Atlantic. At the moment of touchdown forked lightning lit the sky and thunder crashed simultaneously, a very dramatic moment. The plane once out of the way, pedestrians and cars poured across a runway as the rain, absent all day, started to fall again.
Tuesday 7 December 2004, Residencia Universitaria Jacinto Benavente, Avenida Jacinto Benavente 24, Málaga.
We fly home later today, so yesterday we closed the circle of our travels, returning by bus along the coast from La Línea. It is a very strange feeling, each time we set off into the unknown in a country, to eventually rediscover familiar ground. We have done so much in one week, travelling around with local people and buses and trains, finding our way, discovering how friendly and helpful people can be, even when you don't speak each other's language. We have learned so much Spanish too, I'm astonished. What we need though is a course in basic Spanish grammar so that we can string all the words together into meaningful phrases. It is amazing how much you can convey though, even with just words and actions. I am rather surprised at how few people actually have any real knowledge of English, given the enormous popularity of Andalucía with English-speaking visitors. That said though, do the English residents here all speak fluent Spanish? That is more of a necessity, I think.
So, we arrived rather early at the bus station at La Línea yesterday on Monday morning. There is a really nice cafeteria and restaurant there, indeed we have discovered that bus and railway stations are the best and cheapest place, often the only place, to find anything to eat and they seem to be open all hours. We were served really nice coffee, toasted rolls, butter and jam for one 1.50 Euros (just over £1.00). We had had rain and thunder all night but the sun was now bright and warm, and this lasted the whole day.
Before heading east, the coach set out to Algeciras to pick up passengers, some of whom looked as if they had just got off the boat from Tangiers with their veils and long robes. It did seem exciting, going right to the port and seeing signposts along the way saying Ceuta and Tangiers. There are many camping cars going over, so maybe we'll try it one day with Modestine. [And we did, see our blog for 2011]
From Algerciras we headed back along the motorway. Gibraltar looked really impressive from further around the bay where it shows as a really huge angular rock jutting up from the sea.
We are now at Málaga Airport where we've been for nearly one and a half hours, wandering around in queues, waiting for gates to open, showing passports umpteen times, and generally getting fed up, angry and bored, with no opportunity or facility to sit quietly with a coffee and finish writing up this diary. Ian is always mocking me from my bad writing, but he's the one who insists on sitting right by the boarding gate with no table or facility to make writing easier. It is the same in hotel rooms; I rarely have anywhere but my knees to use as a table.
We are now on on board, waiting for take-off. The plane is surprisingly full for a Tuesday in December to a provincial town like Exeter. Not a single Spanish traveller though; they are obviously less adventurous with travelling than British and German people who turn up all over the world. It is interesting to note that Citroën Berlingo vehicles [the chassis for our Romahome Modestine] are the standard at the airport here, there are dozens of them in service. Today the weather here is warm and sunny t-shirt weather. The temperature in Exeter is announced as three degrees. A couple of ladies seated nearby have just asked for extensions to enable them to close their seat belts. They must have found more to eat in Spain than we did.
Wednesday 8 December 2004 9:00 a.m., Exeter
I should be off to work but want to write this up before it all fades in my memory.
On Monday we reached Málaga around 12:30. After a coffee and tortilla sandwich (egg and potato butty) at the station, we struggled across town to catch the bus to the hostel. When we arrived, there was nobody around so we were able to check in. We have decided that it's not a good place at all with poor facilities, very shabby, nobody on duty and, at 32 Euros a night, far more expensive than some of the places we've stayed at that were better equipped. We won't be advising Kate to stay there. Eventually someone in the kitchen heard us banging and we explained our problem in Spanish. He agreed to look after our baggage until we returned in the evening.
In the town Christmas decorations were up. They are very different from ours; poinsettias are everywhere, even Christmas trees made from poinsettia plants. They line the avenidas, hang from lamp-posts, there is a haze of red over the whole town. All the roundabouts at crossroads have life-sized nativity scenes with camels, donkeys, wise men, shepherds and the Holy Family all made out of natural materials such as coconut fronds tree bark and beautiful flowers.
So we returned to the centre of Málaga, to a very pleasant and relaxed warm, sunny afternoon wandering the sea front paddling in the sea, admiring the beautiful flowers blooming in the Alamedir Gardens and below the walls of the Alcazaba.
As darkness fell, the Christmas lights came on and the town took on a magical feel. The pedestrianized area was packed, there were jazz bands playing Spanish Christmas music, the were long rows of illuminated stalls selling books, nativity figures and assorted junk, and kiosks selling popcorn, crisps, sweets and ices. The weather was warm, the sea lapped the beach, and the flower beds under the palm trees were in full bloom with red poinsettias. Every street café was bursting with couples and families enjoying coffee and chocolate with huge platefuls of long, thin, freshly baked hot doughnuts. It certainly was an experience to see how another country anticipates Christmas. I gather it was a national holiday but don't know what for [perhaps Constitution Day]. It does explain the festive atmosphere though.
Eventually we returned to the hostel to find a cold, inhospitable room and took supper with the few students who not gone home for the long weekend. They seem a silent and unsmiling lot, not a nice place for them to be so far from their homes, and we felt rather sorry for them. They each ate silently and rapidly before leaving, not for a night on the town but to return to their very basic rooms. It was very different from the atmosphere at British university halls of residence.
On Tuesday morning [yesterday] breakfast wasn't being served until 10:00 despite us paying for it and not being informed. We had to leave at 8:00 a.m., so we went hungry until the airport where we had a roll and coffee.
It wasn't actually as cold as we'd feared when we landed at Exeter, and the sun was shining. Having crossed the vast, brown, empty interior of Spain with its mountainous terrain and snow-capped mountains, it was agreeable to reach England via the Devon coast to follow the red cliffs along from the from the Exe estuary at Exmouth, past Budleigh Salterton, turning inland over Sidmouth to descend to the airport across the countryside of unbelievably green fields edged by hedgerows, the sun sparkling on the sea, the river and pockets of inland water with sheep and cattle out in the fields – we had seen very few in Spain. One thing about travelling is that it makes you see your own home and its surroundings with fresh eyes.
