On the Rock

March 14, 2012 

TODAY we lunched on leftovers and a cold soup called salmorejo in the shadow of the mosque at Europa Point, the southern tip of Gibraltar, with the Moslem call to prayer booming all around us in the half-empty car park.

It was a recording, rather than a live performance, and not a very good recording at that. It felt rather weird to be sitting there in the van, looking out towards Morocco across the multitude of commercial vessels anchored off this tiny remnant of empire, to the soundtrack of Allahu Akbar.

We didn’t get to the top of the Rock because a taxi driver quoted £60 for the return trip, including dog-sitting while we looked around, and there was nothing else we could have done with Glen. So that’s on the next-time list, along with the battleground bus tour.

We did, however, get to Morrison’s – yes, that good old British supermarket – to stock up on cheap diesel, a new smoke alarm and some samosas and onion bhajis to go with the beef curry David’s making tonight.

We brought sachets of pre-cooked rice with us, along with Ainsley Harriott’s ready-spiced couscous, and with only a tiny worktop, three gas rings and a small Cobb barbecue to prepare food on, they’ve been invaluable. The Myrfield Masterchef has excelled himself throughout the trip, and concocted some memorable meals, although I have to say the washer-up also deserves honourable mention.

Anyway, I loved the holiday atmosphere on Gibraltar, the apparently happy mix of nationalities, the narrow streets of tall old houses with their wrought-iron balconies, the mopeds everywhere, the brief return to Englishness and red pillar boxes, and the proper chips we shared in Casemates Square.

The massive, snaking, queue of traffic to get out was an unwelcome reminder of the other side of British life. It felt like trying to get away from a pop festival.