Internet, vertigo, Christmas and New Year

We rejoined the Internet just over a year ago. I had fought against it for ages as it was no longer part of the way I wanted to live my life. When I returned to the UK and stayed with friends who had mega-fast broadband access, I was impressed. Information at the touch of a key.

So on my return to Spain I signed up with Telefonica. Dear service but efficient. And the first thing Partner promptly did was join every single Land Rover forum under the sun. But we only really post much on one. However on some of the others, people said they were coming to Spain and asked if we would meet up. We said yes, of course. And never heard any more. We didn't lose too much sleep and appreciate that people change their minds, and don't want to spend a day out of their precious holidays with someone they have never met before in their life.

The first forum we joined gets up my nose. People are sexist, racist, classist, bigoted, even more self-opinionated and arrogant than me (I think). But we have also had some great help on there, and in return have tried to help other people.

A couple of months ago, one of the members on the first forum said he was coming to Portugal and Spain and was interested in visiting Gibraltar and meeting up. As usual we said fine, and didn't hear any more. We thought it would be good to meet him and his partner but by the time they had left for Europe, we figured it wasn't going to happen. Also to be fair to them, visiting Gib was a serious detour on their route - and because the flat is so small and grotty we couldn't offer to put them up either.

So there we were on Christmas Eve, having a relaxing drink, and chilling out as you do. And the 'phone rang. "Hello, it's Marc, and we're in Gibraltar in Morrisons' car park." I passed the phone to partner. He agreed to go and meet them. It gave me time to put on the mascara and brush my hair, while I waited to be notified of the venue of choice.

The intercom rang. "Hello," said Cheerful Partner. "Here we are. Let us in."

"No. Go away. The flat is filthy dirty, I do not wish to be so embarrassed." And put the intercom 'phone down. Smartly. You have no keys, go find a pub. Triumphant. Then the door opened. Partner did have keys, just too idle to get them out earlier.

This was BIG TIME embarrassment. Small flat. Damp (it's humid here in winter). A week's worth of ironing piled up on the ironing board. The toilet doesn't work. We flush it with a bucket. There is no seat on it - it fell off a while ago. The flat is floating in dog's hairs, and naturally the sofa belongs to the dog. So that leaves two armchairs for four people. Oh well. At least I had time to put on the mascara.

But this is so just how you do not want to meet people for the first time. If we had really thought they would have turned up, I might have cleaned the flat. Maybe.

Anyway, they were adorable. Super company and lovely people. Easy-going and interesting. I still find it hard to get it into my head that you can meet people via an Internet forum and enjoy their company so much. The men went to get an Indian take-away (all the local decent restaurants were closed or we would have taken them out - given the effort they had made to come to Gib) so we stayed at home all night.

Marc and Brigid posing in our Santana


In the morning we planned to go up the Rock. Because they were on a fairly tight schedule they decided to drive round Gib and asked us if we wanted to go with them. First we went to Europa Point, the southernmost point of Gibraltar, with Africa a few miles away.

The lighthouse at Europa Point looking towards Morocco.
On the left is the wreck of the New Flame


Then we started to climb the Rock. I knew this was not a good idea. I get vertigo. I particularly get vertigo when I climb too quickly, ie in a car. I HAD to get out of the car, and stagger around with wobbly legs and a dizzy head. I should add - this was nothing to do with Marc's driving which was very good.

Meanwhile, when we all got out of the car, Brigid clambered around on the rocks taking photos of the SHEER DROP beneath her. "I don't think you should watch me," she said. I thought she was so right. The monkeys loved Brigid so much that they jumped on top of her. Marc suggested she was wearing Eau de Monkey (Odour monkey?). They left me alone. Wrong perfume.

Barbary Macaque - the only primates living wild in Europe


I like playing with car aerials - especially Marc's


Then we walked up to the top of the Rock, with me shading my eyes from the views either side, and then Partner and I started walking down. After I had stopped wobbling too much, and could handle the car again, we eventually all drove down again together, and then said our goodbyes.

I live with vertigo. By now we have worked out that it happens mainly when I climb too fast. I can describe it best in Spanish - it is so succinct: "No cabe en la cabeza" - it doesn't fit in the head. I just can't handle the rapid climb stuff.

Today I went for a walk. Both on Christmas Day and New Year's Day we like to go for a walk. But Partner was struggling with a 'flu/chest infection so I trotted out on my own. I decided to wander part way up the Rock.

The first time I did today's path (Library Steps, and up towards Devil's Gap) I felt quite dizzy. Today, I had no shaky legs and no dizziness. It was important to me to climb on my own and not get vertigo. And it was a beautiful walk in glorious sunshine. Vertigo is so in the head. But it ends up leaving you physically struggling. If you get vertigo, you will know what I mean. If you don't, please take time to help anyone who does have vertigo. It is not easy to overcome, and it takes a lot of concentration and fortitude to climb when you are struggling against fear.

View from the climb


But today was a good result for me. And we had a lovely and unexpected Christmas. Very many thanks to Marc and Brigid for making the effort to come and see us.

Best wishes to everyone on the Internet - because now I know that Internet people really do exist - for a happy, peaceful, and confident New Year.

Christmas spirit

Partner has seen two examples of Christmas Spirit this week.

Example one

The other day he went into the local shop and there was a Spanish couple loading up with spirits and cigarettes, Gib being the duty-free paradise that it is. They were also over their limit so presumably were happily going to smuggle their purchases over the border.

The mother of one these two was also in the shop. She bent down to pick up a couple of handfuls of some sweets and chewing gum.

"Pasa," said Partner - indicating that she was in front of him in the queue.

"No, it's ok," she said (in Spanish), "I'm with them."

Then she put the sweeties in a plastic carrier bag that she had with her. She rattled it at the shop owner, who hadn't a clue why she was doing that. And then they all left, obviously without paying for the sweets.

You would think people who could afford nearly £50 on booze and fags could afford to pay for sweets too.



Example two

Yesterday people finished work early and went drinking. Actually some of them just went drinking, they didn't bother going to work.

Partner went to meet a workmate at about 3pm, and they had a couple of beers. When he left the bar, it was chucking it down.

There were two smartly-suited guys crossing the road from the marina complex. They had obviously been to a works do at one of the smart restaurants there. Very nice.

They both had two very large umbrellas, clearly emblazoned with the name of their firm.

"Oh I could do with one of those, it is raining so hard," joked Partner and turned into a pedestrian passage on his way home.

Then one of the guys ran in after him, and presented him with his umbrella.

"No, no, no," said Partner with his hands in the air. "It was only a broma (a joke)."

"No," said the guy, "Toma, take it. We're going back to the car, and I will get another one next week from work."

They exchanged greetings - Felices Fiestas, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

Then Partner went off towards home, and the guy turned round to join his mate who was patiently waiting to share his umbrella with him on their short walk to the car.

Apart from the nice gesture, the reason this was such a bonus, is that the best umbrellas in Gib are the works ones. I bought a rubbish umbrella last week, it is big but very flimsy. It will blow inside out as soon as there is a strong wind - which often happens. I couldn't find a good quality umbrella anywhere - yet when you look round, there are lots of people with really great umbrellas, but all with a logo on of some sort.

So now we have one. Thanks, whoever you were, and hope you have a great holiday.

And I hope everyone who reads this does too. Merry Christmas and Feliz Navidad to those of you who celebrate Christmas, and to those of you who don't, Season's Greetings and Felices Fiestas. Happy New Year and Feliz Año Nuevo to you all.

My parents (1) - my father

One of the reasons I started this blog was to write about the big things in life that happen when you reach 40.

I didn't really intend to write about tales from my Spanish village or shootings on the Spain/Gibraltar frontier.

So for once, this post is a personal one.

I left the UK towards the end of the year. I think it was November. It was a big move, not in terms of any fear of what I was doing, but more a sort-of momentous change of life thing. When we left, we did not stop off to see my parents. I didn't want any emotional manipulation and apart from anything else, we were actually late leaving home - and we had a ferry to catch.

On our travels I bought a mobile phone so I could keep in touch with them. Or they could with me, whichever way you want to look at it.

My dad rang a few times early the following year to say he wasn't feeling well. One call always sticks in my mind because I was sitting on the beach at Camping Chullera, south of Estepona, looking at Gibraltar. I talked to my dad about Gib because he was there during the war. He'd forgotten that I had been there too, on holiday some years ago.

He asked if I would get a cheap charter flight to go and see him. I wasn't impressed with that. I hadn't flown for years, and I wasn't planning on flying at all, certainly not cheap charter. I doubted my dad would get a cheap charter flight. In fact I suggested he did, and then we could see each other. He could even fly to Gib. Stalemate. He didn't want to fly cheap charter either.

My dad was the sort of guy, who, when I first got married and arranged a day out with my mother - in Harrogate, bit of shopping and very nice lunch - suddenly takes ill on the morning of said trip. Mother naturally feels obliged to cancel trip and look after him. Helpful Partner assures her there is no problem and he would look after my dad. Haha.

As soon as we had gone out of the door, and the ruse had failed, father was reinvigorated and suggested they cleared off to the pub. In fact, he'd never been particularly sick in his life apart from a bad back, so I wasn't very impressed with being summonsed back from a camp site in Spain to the UK because he was feeling sorry for himself.

Some months later my mother rang me. We had bought the house in Spain by then. "Send your father a card, he's not feeling well." I did. Never heard any more about it.

Then he was off to hospital for some tests. They were inconclusive. I felt very manipulated. I couldn't get any sense over the 'phone and it was clear they wanted me to make the obligatory Dutiful Daughter visit. I didn't.

Christmas came. Or rather the few days before, and my mother rang. My father had been taken into hospital. She was so stressed and frantic she couldn't really tell me anything. Partner Who Is Always Right told me to get my arse into gear and go back. It was 18 months since I had seen my parents.

I told my mother I would go back. I think she expected me back on Christmas Day. Given that a) I had to get my head round everything and book tickets, and b) I was going by train and ship, this was impossible. But I did get back on Dec 27.

The neighbours took us to the district hospital the next day. I spotted my dad in the ward before my mum did. He was grey and old, but he looked the same. Sort-of. I guess she was looking for the 25-year-old guy she married and not the old man in his late seventies.

He said thank you for coming. He was never big on words. We chatted and he was a pain in the arse to my mum. He told her he wanted to come out of hospital. Immediately. I talked him into waiting a few days - I couldn't handle him at home and neither could my mum.

I spoke to the unhelpful staff on the ward desk. They eventually and grudgingly told me he had been admitted with a chest infection. They said he was lucid and alert, as was my mum, and they would do some tests on him.

"What for?" I asked.

"Can't say."

I thought this was particularly stupid - having worked in the health service - and told them so. I got abused for trying to pull rank.

Then I went off to the toilet and cried because I realised he was dying and this was the last time I would see him. I dried my eyes and came back out.

I went to the desk and got some more information and insisted that the geriatrician ring me at home. Instead of relying on the unhelpful tosspots on the desk.

I went back to my mum and dad and we chatted a bit more and then we left. Total visit, maybe an hour.

After that visit, I went a few more times on my own. I got the bus, the visit took up most of the day, or at least the travel did. I took him some new pyjamas as a belated Christmas present. He had always been large, so I bought a large size. But they were too big, he had lost so much weight, and he asked me who they belonged to.

One day I asked him if he wanted a drink. There was a bottle of water and a glass. "Yes, please. I'll have a large gin with a drop of water."

"Sorry, dad, there isn't any gin here. Do you want the water?"

"No."

Over the next few days I told him about his patient's rights. Well, no-one else seemed to. He could refuse tests. He could refuse operations. He had the right to ask for information about anything and everything that was suggested/recommended/ordered. I don't know whether I said all that wearing my patient's advocate hat, or just as his daughter who didn't want to see him deprived of making his own choices. He'd missed out sometimes in his life so I thought he should at least get the chance to make some choices of his own at the end.

I wasn't perfect. I didn't want him home and I knew my mum couldn't cope with him. She couldn't move him around. And I was frightened of him. Even though he was ill, and old, and frail, I still didn't want to sleep under the same roof as him. I told him he could discharge himself if he wanted. He would have to call a taxi, dress himself, and pay for everything. I wasn't going to do it for him, and I knew he couldn't do it either.

How do you balance it? I wanted him to die peacefully, the way he wanted. I wanted to look after myself and my mum. No easy answers.

One day he said to me:

"I'm going to die aren't I?"

I couldn't think of a sensible answer. "Yes" seemed just a bit too blunt even for two people from Yorkshire.

I said something like: "Well, we all have to die sometime, dad," and felt so inadequate.

He didn't reply. He probably wanted me to say no, but I couldn't.

We were his only visitors, but he did say he didn't want to see anyone else, but I couldn't visit at weekends because there was no bus from the village. He rang my mum on the days I didn't get to go. He must have felt so lonely - or alone - or both.

On New Year's Eve the hospital rang me late at night. My mum was asleep. He had had a fit. They asked if he had ever had one before (no), and told me they weren't sure if he would last the night. Could we go in? No we couldn't. No car. And, I didn't want to stress my mum in the middle of the night for a false alarm.

I slept on the sofa and asked them to ring if there was any more news. In the morning, he seemed to be stable. There was no public transport and I didn't want to ask the neighbours again. I went to see him the day after. He must have been medicated up to the eye-balls because he talked to me about people I had never heard of, and seemed to think I was going home to see his mum (my grandmother). The next couple of visits he was ok.

The district hospital was obviously sick of him though. He was taking up a bed and he had refused any further tests (I think I can take the credit/blame) for that - so they decided to ship him off to a local cottage hospital. Easier for me it had to be said.

So I spent the next couple of weeks trudging backwards and forwards on the bus into the local town and then walking 20 or 30 mins to the inconvenient hospital. Needless to state it snowed, and the pavements were covered with sheet ice while I was struggling backwards and forwards with his laundry.

My mother couldn't manage the public transport. We did it once and she was so cold waiting for the bus. She had to get a taxi after that at £20 round trip. Not something to do every day on a pension.

Dad looked very tired. The nursing staff got him out of bed every day and dressed him, so instead of falling asleep in bed, he got to fall asleep in a chair. I'm not sure of the added value - less bed sores?

He fell asleep when I went to visit him. He was reading a John Buchan book, but he didn't seem to get very far with it. He stopped asking about coming home. He had a nasty bruise on his forehead from when he had fallen at the district hospital.

I left many a time in tears because I didn't want to cry in front of him. I didn't even know what to say any more.

One day I got home and told my mum I couldn't go any more. I was so tired and felt very drained. She told me to go back to Spain, my dad was stable and they were talking about bringing him home soon with a care package.

So I left. I stopped over in London to see some university friends and it was such a break. I rang my mum from Dover and there was no different news, so I boarded the ferry for France and then got the overnight sleeper from Paris to Madrid, and then back down to Málaga.

It was good to be back in Spain. The morning after I arrived my mum rang. Partner answered the 'phone. My dad had died in his sleep that morning.

Apparently after I left he had deteriorated. They moved him into a private room and told my mum she could visit any time.

I arranged the funeral, 'phoned the relatives and went back. The undertaker, who was superb, took me to the funeral parlour to see my dad. In that sort of practical manner that they have, he commented as we looked at him in the coffin: "He was a big guy wasn't he?" and then, "I'll leave you for a few minutes. Just come out when you're ready."

My father was the first dead person I had seen. My mum didn't visit the funeral parlour, she didn't want to see him. But Partner had suggested I might find it helpful. I did. He still had the bruise on his head too, which I incongruously thought was such a shame. He looked big and frail at the same time in his box. Then Tom drove me home.

The funeral went ok. The organ music was nice, and my father wasn't particularly religious but he always liked "Eternal Father" from his days in the navy. I only got half way through it although I did try so hard to sing.

Afterwards, my mum's relatives and my dad's niece came back to the house. I had put my foot down at the idea of naff pub sandwiches for all and sundry to have a freeby, so I had decided it would be family only at the house.

I made lots of food. But no-one seemed interested, so I never bothered getting it out of the fridge. It kept mum and I going for days afterwards.

I stayed with her for a few weeks, I thought after the funeral would be the hardest time for her and I had all the paperwork to sort too, but eventually we both had to get on with our different lives so I left for Spain again.

It felt so strange after my father died. It was like part of my life was gone. And he wasn't very old either, 77. I remembered the good times, and the bad times, and then there was a huge sense of loss which I had never felt before.

And I remembered his comment from many years ago, in my late teens or early 20s, when we were in the pub together, having a pint after work. "When I'm gone, it will be up to you to look after your mother....."

Trafalgar Cemetery

Walking past the cemetery the other day, I noticed two of the tombstones had poppy wreaths.

Although the name of the cemetery commemorates the Battle of Trafalgar, only two of those who are buried here actually died of wounds suffered during the battle (Lieut. William Forster of the Royal Marine corps of H.M.S. Mars and Lieut. Thomas Norman of H.M.S Colossus - grave numbers 121 and 101). Most of those who died at Trafalgar were buried at sea, and Lord Nelson's body was transported to London for a state funeral. Wounded seamen were brought to Gibraltar, and those who died later of their wounds were buried just to the north of Charles V Wall, on the opposite side of Trafalgar Cemetery; a small plaque was recently placed there to commemorate the site.

Many of the tombstones in the cemetery commemorate the dead of three terrible yellow fever epidemics in 1804, 1813 and 1814. Also buried here are victims of other sea battles of the Napoleonic Wars - the battle of Algeciras (1801) and actions off Cadiz (1810) and Malaga (1812).

As I wrote about both Trafalgar Day and Armistice Day in Gibraltar, I thought I should add this brief postscript.

The cemetery is a very tranquil green spot, quiet and peaceful, and just outside the city walls.

I thought it was strangely touching that the two graves of men who died at the Battle of Trafalgar still receive a tribute more than 200 years later.

Captain Thomas Norman


Lieut William Forster


Source for quote: Gibraltar Heritage Trust although please note the inscription on the grave refers to Captain Thomas Norman and not Lieut Norman.

The Alameda Gardens

I'm always surprised when people say there is nothing to do or see in Gibraltar - apart from going to the top of the Rock and seeing the apes.

I've lived in some nice places (Sydney being the most spectacular I guess) but nowhere have I had so much diversity within literally five minutes walk.

The shops are five minutes away - I can buy a Dualit toaster, an AppleMac, a Dyson vacuum cleaner, designer clothes, whatever I really want. Admittedly the supermarket is probably 15 minutes away.

On the way to Main Street and the shops, I walk past the Governor's House and King's Chapel. If I go round the back streets I can visit the museum. Theatrical productions, concerts and exhibitions are held at the hall across the main road from my street.

The marina is five minutes walk away, out of the city walls and down the street.

And if I want to go a little further, perhaps ten minutes away, I can start the climb out of town to the Upper Rock and the Nature Reserve.

But nearer to home, and within the five minute category are Gibraltar's botanical gardens - The Alameda Gardens.

Tiled plan of the gardens at the entrance


Once a month (except for August) there is a free tour of the gardens, so I finally got organised enough to go along to it. It was excellent. We were taken round by the curator, Brian Lamb. He usually does the paid-for tours, but the guy who usually does the Saturday freebie was busy sorting out a hedge-trimmer.

Brian was absolutely fascinating, his amount of knowledge was unbelievable, and his breadth of experience travelling abroad on botanical research was very impressive. I don't know how many times he takes people round and churns out the same stories, but he didn't sound boring or bored. There is quite an art to churning out the same information and managing to sound interesting.

The gardens were founded by the Lieutenant Governor of Gibraltar, General George Don (later Sir George Don) in 1816 so that "the Inhabitants might enjoy the air protected from the extreme heat of the sun..." He funded them - amongst other sources - from spare money collected from the rates for a sewers project, and a number of lotteries.

The George Don gates at the entrance to the gardens


During the period when the border was closed under General Franco, the gardens fell into a state of disrepair, and the current team has been gradually restoring since them since the early 1990s.

There is a good website which sums up the aims of the gardens and lists all the plants grown there. We're basically in a subtropical/semitropical region, so naturally a lot of the plants that perish in the UK survive happily outside here.

While there are plants local to Gibraltar - it has the only surviving Silene tomentosa (Gibraltar Campion) in the wild - the gardens contain plants from similar Mediterranean climates throughout the world, eg Australia and South Africa.

Gibraltar is a limestone mountain so its soil is alkaline, unlike the nearby Spanish mountains which are sandstone, and therefore the soil on other side of the frontier is more acidic. The geology here is similar to that found in North Africa, so there are also plants from there, particularly Morocco.

There is an impressive range of succulents, well suited to the climate, as they don't require expensive watering in the dry hot summers. Olive trees, native to the Mediterranean climate are also dotted around the gardens.

One of the huge succulents near the entrance


Succulent garden


Dragon trees abound, the oldest one in the gardens is around 300 years although there is an older one in the gardens of the Governor's House.

The oldest dragon tree in the gardens


And amidst all the plants and lush sub-tropical greenery there are statues and cannons, commemorating Gibraltar's role in historical battles.

The Eliott Memorial at the entrance

General Eliott defended Gibraltar during the Great Siege of 1779-1782


The Duke of Wellington's Monument

Unveiled three years after the opening of the gardens - the bust stands on a pillar from Lepcis Magna (Libya),
given to Sir George Don as a gift


One of the best things about the tour is that we got to go in the places that are not open to the public. The Open Air Theatre holds events regularly throughout summer and can seat 450 people. The Italian Gardens in the The Dell were designed by a Genoese gardener in the nineteenth century. The Dell can be hired for weddings and when we went round there was a huge sunshade, table and chairs in place - but no wedding. We finished the tour by visiting a propogation area.

The Dell, the steps and Italian Gardens


The Dell, pool to the west side of the bridge


The pond in the Open Air Theatre


Strelizia reginae in the Open Air Theatre


It was a good group, say around fifteen people, and we took around two hours. Normally it's a half an hour to an hour's wander round for one person - but obviously not visiting the areas that are closed to the public - or getting the benefit of Brian's expertise and experience.

A shady spot in the gardens


The next (and final) tour this year is on Saturday 15 December at 3pm.

Armistice Day

Gibraltar commemorates both Armistice Day and Remembrance Sunday. This year as 11 November fell on a Sunday, there were two commemoration ceremonies on the same day.

Armistice Day is normally commemorated at 11am in the lobby of Parliament House. Exceptionally this year, the ceremony was moved back to 1.15 pm to allow people to attend the earlier Service of Remembrance at the Cross of Sacrifice at midday.

Partner managed to get some photographs of the Armistice Day Commemoration Ceremony, although not lots, he reported there was tight security and he was not allowed to leap around like a proper-photojournalist (I'll never get him trained).

While I was reading around the topic to see what currently happened everywhere I was interested to read about the two-minute silence.

I thought it had fallen by the wayside but according to the internet, it is still going strong. As I was in Spain at the time, I have no idea what happened here in Gib.

I seem to remember we used to do it in school but it was a traditional private girls' school so it was obviously the done thing.

My parents lived through the Second World War (they were in their early teens when it started), my father and his brother joined the navy, and my mother's two older brothers joined the air force and the army. (Her younger brother later went on to join the air force and stayed in for his full term). The older brother in the air force was killed when his plane was shot down, not too long before the end of the war.

Consequently every year my mother would sit in front of the television watching every programme about the war, and all the commemoration services and ceremonies. She cried her eyes out. It didn't help that he had been her favourite brother - or maybe in her mind he had become the favourite because he was no longer around. At least he had stood up for her when the middle brother hit her and made her nose bleed. And tried to fight for her to stay at grammar school when her mother wanted her to leave early and help with the household chores.

She couldn't tear herself away from the annual commemoration programmes, they were obviously something she felt she shouldn't miss. Maybe she thought if she didn't watch them she would be showing disrespect for her older brother who had died so young - leaving a widow and a baby. Yet every year she became so very upset. So I loathed Remembrance Sunday/Armistice Day with a passion (my mum often called it Armistice Day I guess because that's what she had grown up with). I would ignore the television and, with the callousness of someone young who had no idea what my mum was going through, I would tell her to stop watching it if it made her so upset.

I think I'll be keeping away from any ceremonies. My mum died a few years ago and I can imagine watching a ceremony, thinking about her, and promptly ending up in tears. Doing exactly what I told her not to do.

Anyway here are a few photos, showing the guard of honour, the arrival of the Cardinal and the arrival of the Governor's car at Parliament House.






And here is a poem by Wilfred Owen, the war poet and First World War soldier. We studied him at school and his poetry left a lasting impression on me. He died a week before the end of the war and as the bells were ringing out for Armistice Day at 11am, his parents received the telegram telling them of their son's death. He was posthumously awarded the Military Cross for his courage and leadership.

Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
- Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Sources: gibfocus, partner for photos, and my memories. Here is a site with more Owen poetry.

Fifty thousand words

Bit of a blog rest at the moment. I decided to sign up for the write a 50,000 word novel in a month challenge. So my creativity - or at least my fast typing - is currently being directed elsewhere. I managed to rattle off 1000 words of rubbish yesterday, but I've got a bit of catching up to do, as most people started at the beginning of November. They might have started earlier for all I know.

Anyway, so it's fingers to the keyboard to type at least 2000 words a day, and to make up the extra few thousand on the odd rare inspired day.

Catch ya later.

Trafalgar Day 21 October 2007

In all the excitement of The Shooting I didn't get round to posting these pictures of Trafalgar Day celebrated every year in Gibraltar's Trafalgar Cemetery.

Photos courtesy of Partner.

The shooting

Part 1
I should have realised it was going to be a journey with a difference when police stopped our bus on the way to Málaga.

It turned out there was going to be a procession, so all traffic was being diverted. Well that wasn't much use to all the passengers who wanted to get off at the next few stops so the driver asked if it would be a long wait.

(Processions are a way of life in Spain. They are also a very good reason for always getting an earlier bus than you actually need. It is better to wait for 40 minutes or an hour in the bus station than miss your connection by five or ten minutes and have to wait another three hours. Bus stations are full of people who have arrived early, it's probably also one of the reasons why the bus station bars have a healthy trade.)

Apparently it was going to be a long wait for the procession so the driver then asked where the diversion went. Onto the motorway. About a dozen passengers were junked off and we set off exploring the back streets (no diversion signs) to find our way to the motorway.

It wasn't too difficult, and as we approached Málaga, one of the passengers asked the driver if he was going to stop at the port. The port bus stop is actually nearer to the town centre, whereas the bus station is further out, although next to the railway station.

No, we were off straight to the bus station. At this point, a strange woman - who looked remarkably like Linda Hunt in The Year of Living Dangerously - started asking what was going on.

The young lad in front of her explained patiently that the bus had been diverted because there was a procession and we were going straight to the bus station and not the port. For whatever reason she could not understand this, and kept repeating the same questions. Naturally the lad repeated the same answers.

After about the fifth repetition of this, the rest of the bus was in hysterics, while the young lad was patiently repeating the story yet again, although by this time with a smile on his face.

When we arrived at the bus station, the driver announced he would then go to the port for those passengers who wanted to get off there. Well this woman didn't understand that either, so she picked up her stuff to get off. "No, no," we all shouted at her. "He's going to the port next."

But she didn't understand any of us and continued walking towards the door. Then somebody repeated it again and the penny dropped, and she sat down, looking very bemused.

Part 2
I got off and made my way to the bar for the obligatory drink while I waited 40 minutes for the connection to La Linea. This turned out to be a pretty tranquil journey - well, for the first half - until we got to San Pedro (outside Marbella).

A woman got on (didn't look quite so much like Linda Hunt, although there was a vague similarity), and a couple of minutes later a ticket office clerk followed her on and started shouting at her. It seemed she'd asked for a ticket but then left it, leaving the clerk with a (computerised) ticket and no funds to match against it.

The driver nicely told his colleague that he really needed to be going which he obviously couldn't do while she was ranting at one of the passengers. So she stormed off the bus and back to the ticket office clutching the duplicate ticket and deciding how to explain it to boss.

At the next stop (there are only five), the driver obviously wasn't happy with the number of passengers on the bus. "Get your tickets out," he yelled as he stamped down the bus to start inspecting them.

I thought this was quite interesting as I've often thought it would be dead easy to get a ticket to the first stop and sit on to the end. I've never seen an inspector on the buses. I'm the sort of person who can never remember where I have put my ticket so I was busy emptying my pockets and trying to sort out old tickets from paper tissues. I hadn't even unfolded what might have been the right one when the driver snatched it out of my hand. Sigh of relief. It was the right one.

Then we arrived in La Linea. More police, some sort of road block. Two women behind groaned and said we would be there for ages - apparently they had loads of suitcases and if the police were going to go through all their clothes.....

The police waved us on. As we went past the cars they had stopped, I noticed two young men putting their socks and shoes back on. I thought no more about it, jumped off the bus, and started my dash for the frontier so that I could get the 8pm bus. If we arrived by 7.50pm, I know I can catch the bus if there are no border delays.

Part 3
One of the police motorbikes came up to where the road turns into the frontier and blocked it with his bike. Another one came up the pavement.

"Se puede pasar?" I asked. He waved me on. I headed for the frontier. First you go through a Guardia Civil post, then a Policia Nacional post, and then you get to the Gibraltar checkpoints.

There are three lots of police in Spain with varied responsibilities although the Guardia Civil seem to get involved in just about everything. If you want a police career in Spain it is the one to go for, especially as they have some great specialist units - mountain rescue, diving, environmental protection, coastal surveillance and security, and others. Next in the hierarchy are the Policia Nacional, and then you get Policia Local who are responsible to the local council. All three forces carry guns.

As I got about half way to the Guardia Civil post, I heard a ratatatatata noise like bangers or jumping crackers which the Spanish are always chucking around, even without a fiesta for an excuse. Then I remembered the road block and realised it was shooting. I walked even faster to the comparative safety of Gibraltar.

I passed an older couple and a woman. "Que pasa?" I said. (What's happening?). "Tiroteos," replied one of the women. (Shooting).

I love the Spanish and Gibraltarians. They have an amazing capacity for stating the more than blindingly obvious, and then normally repeating it a few times. Not for them idle speculation. So I replied the same way.

"Claro." (Of course).

Another few steps towards the Guardia Civil. The shooting was well behind me, I glanced back and couldn't see anything.

Suddenly the Guardia Civil joined in the shooting. In my direction. It was getting far too close now. There was a gap in the wall next to me. Admittedly it was one of those silly walls made out of bricks with holes in, but it was better than nothing. I hit the deck behind the wall.

Then I looked out. The three Spanish/Gibraltarians were still standing there watching the show. They obviously had more confidence than me in the shooting ability of the various police forces.

I got up. A Policia Local guy motorbike roared up on his motorbike to the Guardia Civil. "Hijos de puta! Cabrones! Que haceis?!" And loads more obscenities in Spanish.

A Policia Nacional car cruised out from their office, followed by countless officers on foot all interested in the spectacle. No, not the shoot-out. The Policia Local guy giving the Guardia Civil grief. Ouch. Police officer responsible to local council giving shit to Spain's elite police force. Not something to do lightly.

Meanwhile I sped through all the controls and jumped on the bus. Still shaking. And told the driver (in Spanish, twice naturally) about the events.

I arrived home and where was Partner? Out dog-walking, actually taking the dog to the pub. The dog likes the pub, people give him lots of strokes and talk nicely to him.

Fast forward. According to Gibfocus on the Internet, the police had stopped a (Gibraltar-registered) vehicle in which they allegedly found some hash. But during the search the driver revved the engine and escaped, crashing through the road blocks and then speeding through the frontier.

I never saw the car. Maybe it was when I was hiding on the ground.

Gibfocus also reports that two police officers were injured, one of them was transferred to hospital in Cadiz with serious injuries.

Whatever the rights or wrongs of the incident, I hope the two officers have a speedy recovery to good health.

Apparently the Royal Gibraltar Police have arrested two Gibraltar residents, a juvenile aged 16 and a 22-year-old, in connection with the incident.



Sources: Gibfocus, me.
The above photos were not taken at the time. They show the frontier/airfield area. I was too busy looking after my arse to take photos.

Ten good things about living in Spain

Or in Andalucía to be more precise.

1 The weather. I've never been a sun-worshipper, but it is nice to know that in summer it will be warm and sunny. It is good to go camping and not worry about getting soaked (especially when the groundsheet leaks). And because Spain has a continental climate there is every other type of weather as well.

2 The food. Not so much the eating out as the local fresh produce you can buy - or if you are lucky, you get some given to you by your neighbours who have bits of ground and grow crops to sell on to the local wholesale market. Although can't say I am too keen on the way they spray pesticides around with gay abandon.

3 It is cheap to live. It is nowhere near as cheap as it was when we first arrived (or when we first started coming on holiday some 12 or so years ago) but the basics are still much cheaper than northern Europe. And where we live you do not spend a lot of money (if any) heating your home.

4 Public transport. It is a pretty big country but it is relatively easy to get round using long-distance buses, or trains, or a combination. Every time I get the bus from Málaga to La Linea or Algeciras, I am amazed it costs just over ten euros for a 2/3 hours trip of around 140kms. Or you can travel from the south to the north by bus for around 50€. If you take the overnight train from Málaga to Burgos sharing a couchette compartment, and then get the bus to Santander, it will cost less than 70€ for nearly 1000km trip.

The new Málaga railway station


5 Coffee. I loathe instant coffee with a passion. Although you can now get decent coffee in the UK, whereas at one time nearly everything was instant, you are virtually guaranteed to get a decent coffee anywhere in Spain. And it is very strong. I so love a strong espresso (no sugar either).

6 Beer, or rather lager. I don't drink a lot of it, but I do like Spanish beer, especially the strong ones ie Mahou Five Star and Estrella Damm. And of course it is (comparatively) cheap.

7 Music. I've always liked Latin American music, and a lot of the popular music has a real Latin American feel to it. Apart from Juanes and Shakira (both Colombian), Spanish bands I like are Amparanoia, Chambao and Ojos de Brujo. I also like Rosario.

8 Spaniards break the rules with such aplomb. Rules are seen as something that get in the way of daily life, and basically are for other people. They are to be got round as cleverly as possible.

9 Following on from this last one - no "dob 'em in culture". I guess this must be a hangover from the Franco régime, but there is a healthy dislike and mistrust of chivas (spies). You can see why. If someone informed on you in the past, there was a good chance that you and/or your family would be carted off to the carcel (prison) and later killed. In smaller communities people accept that they have to live with their neighbours and it's better for everyone to try and get along.

10 The language. It is easy to learn, it is phonetic and quite logical. It also sounds very nice spoken by Spaniards although I dread to think how it sounds with a Yorkshire accent (mine) or a Welsh one (Partner's). Especially as we have slipped into speaking the Andalucían Spanish of our pueblo and not the perfect Castilian Spanish that is normally taught to foreigners.

That will do to start with off the top of my head. There are others. I also want to write a little more about a couple of these - but that will be for another post.

Romería in my village


Almost forgot the Gibraltar Social Democrats did win the election although it seems to have been pretty tight with less than 4% between the GSDs (49.33%) and the GSLP/GLP (45.49%) coalition. Turnout was 81.4%. At least I haven't lost my political acumen. :)

Time to choose - but not for me

Well it is election day in Gibraltar today so I thought I would write something appropriate.

To start with, some weeks after we first bought the flat we received a reminder from the Electoral Office that we hadn't sent in the form.

Obviously not as we had only just arrived in Gib. The reminder was presumably referring to the previous owner.

Anyway eventually I staggered down to the electoral office which turned out to be hidden behind a glut of cafes, instead of prominently displaying its identity on Main Street as I had expected.

The door had an entryphone. I explained my mission and the door swung open. The carpet up the stairs was very thick and plush. The guy looked a bit surprised to get a visitor.

I explained that I had only recently bought the flat and wanted to know what I should do.

"Nothing," he said. "The register has already been compiled."

"Do you need my details then? Is there another one for next year?"

"No," he said nicely. "There won't be another register until the next election is due."

"Well, I don't want to have to pay a fine for non-completion like we do in the UK."

"Really?" he said, looking even more surprised than he had done at receiving a rare visitor.

I've just done a quick search and according to a House of Commons Select Committee Report (July 2007), the maximum current fine is £1000, although rarely enforced.

So I can't vote today. But to be honest I'm rather pleased as I don't feel informed enough to make a fair decision. Hopefully I might have a more intelligent view for the next election.

I have, however, been interested in the very glossy political magazines that have been delivered.

The Gibraltar Social Democrats (GSD), the current ruling party, produced some 60 pages to plough through. A large part of this is highlighting their achievements while in power. The rest outlines their proposals for the future.



The poor old Gibraltar Socialist Labour Party (GSLP)/Liberal manifesto can only manage a mere 20 pages, no doubt because they have no achievements to boast about.



So here are some totally arbitrary comments having read the manifestos.

I'll start with taxation. Since GSD came to power, they have abolished road tax, tax on savings income, death duties, TV licence fee, and the need to buy a pension annuity. There is no income tax if you earn less than £7,000. They have abolished other taxes too, but these will do as examples.

The GSLP/Liberals obviously have a tough job competing with this, so they have pledged to maintain all the existing allowances (for homeowners, mortgage interest, life insurance etc) and bring down personal tax.

Well I have to say, the Gibraltar economy is good, wages are not brill, but you can get a job. With decent tax breaks. Why would people vote to change the status quo?

Each party also talks about health, older people, sovereignty, the environment, and employment as well as a few other topics.

GSD says there is a new commitment from the UK not to enter into any negotiations about sovereignty without Gibraltar's consent. Quite right. I fully agree with the principles of self-determination. It is not up to the UK or Spain to arrogantly decide on the future of Gibraltar.

There are discussions from both parties about the airport and the proposed new tunnel and diversion of traffic and pedestrians away from the airfield. I have to say I like the quirkiness of walking across the runway, it must be pretty unique. And it would take even longer if we all had to bus round and underneath. Hmm.

The GSLP/Liberals commit to government work and services being carried out by direct labour. No privatisation or contracting out. I agree with that.

I find the manifesto proposals interesting as Gibraltar is such a small place and they do affect everyone. But I doubt any of it will make any difference. So my prediction, for what it's worth is that the GSD will be returned. We'll see. And I will post if I am wrong. Or right.

Almost forgot. Here are the candidates. Ten for each. One woman for each party out of ten people. I don't really think that is a fair representation of the female population in Gibraltar. And people think women have achieved equality?

A result

Well a few results actually.

Appreciative partner thought the new purchases from La Senza were so good he packed me off the next day in search of knickers. He seems to think the raggy holey ones I currently wear are a little tired.

Anyway I couldn't find any that I liked so I bought some casual nightwear instead. I think I'm a bit past the age of being a sex bombshell in a silk/satin lace concoction and apart from anything else I don't think they are conducive to sleep, ie they are not comfortable.

Now this cute little outfit I bought is very comfortable. It's all cotton so you don't end up slithering on the sheets. Of course sleeping on the floor (still) I don't have to worry about falling out of bed.

Anyway buoyed with the success of my lingerie purchases I set off back to Spain. And when I arrived the first thing I decided to do was have another go at the wretched gas bottle.

IT WORKED!! Was I pleased. I hate not being able to cook, and I'm no longer a fan of eating out. I was obviously stressed the other weekend because I'd totally forgotten I had an electric kettle stashed away that I could have used for the manzanilla tea.

Not so good in the chicken shed mind. I still forgot to turn the top of the drinker round before I picked it up so water spewed all over again. But at least I had the welllies on. There were no eggs either. I think the chickens are sulking.

On Sunday morning I chatted to Adelina next door. José had gone for a paseo with his mates. Apparently it lowers his blood sugar level. I think he just likes to escape out of the house. I wrote about them here before - I think they are so cool at their age doing a daily walk of two or three miles.

Adelina asked me if I preferred Spain to Gibraltar. The truth is I don't prefer one or the other. I like them both. I thought that was too complicated though, so told her I liked the money that Partner earned in Gibraltar. I knew she would understand that because most of the Spaniards we have met are pretty (money) hungry.

I wrote about the weather a few posts ago saying September marked a change in the weather when the rains start. Whereupon it has been roasting ever since. Warm in Gib and hot (30+degrees) in Spain.

So here are some warm Gibpix. Although it has rained and stormed in the past couple of days. And the sun has shone too.

Bills and bras

I went to pay the (Spanish) bills yesterday. At the moment I pick up any bills when I go back to Spain at weekends and then pay them during the week across the border in La Linea.

Naturally I can't pay them when I arrive home as it is Saturday and the banks are closed.

So I decided to walk to La Linea yesterday - it's about 35/40 minutes down Main Street, across the airfield, through the border and into the town centre of La Linea.

I've found out the same bank as the one in my village has different hours for bill paying. In the village you can only pay bills on Tuesday and Thursday between 8.30 and 10.30am. But there in La Linea you can only pay them between the 10th and the 20th of the month. I have no idea what happens if the bill comes on the 21st. You go to another bank I suppose. Or the post office. I would have thought all branches of the same company would have the same hours but clearly not.

First I walked into the wrong bank, forgetting this silly difference in payment days. Then I made it to the other bank which lets you pay bills on Tuesday and Thursday - up to 10 o'clock. So of course we all stand there waiting for people who are not paying bills messing around and asking a million questions about their account. Once it gets to ten to ten everyone starts looking at their watch. And tutting, and fidgeting.

Anyway I made it by five to, and paid the 'phone bill. I asked the bank clerk if he knew whether there was a Unicaja bank in La Linea, as that is the only bank where you can pay the water bill.

"I don't know," he said unhelpfully but with a nice smile.

"No, I haven't seen one," I said equally mindlessly.

I decided to go on a Unicaja hunt. Fortunately things like banks are usually located in the same street, so I just kept walking down the street, and passed a load - but no Unicaja.

Then, nearly at the end of the street, there it was. Unicaja. And it wasn't ten o'clock yet either. Perhaps they operated the bills-only-payable-the day-following-a-full-moon system. There were no signs. This was promising. The queue was short.

I asked the friendly woman if I could pay.

"No," she smiled back, unhelpfully.

"Well, it says I can at the top of the bill. Look."

"Do you have an account with us?"

"No."

"Oh, dear. If you had you could have used the automatic machine. But you don't so you can't." Another smile. "You need to go to the post office."

I went to the post office. There was a queue of about 10 or 12 people. Then I realised they all had delivery slips in their hands and were waiting to collect something.

So I went to another counter, with only two people queuing. Things were looking up.

"Can I pay this bill?" I said with a nice smile to the grumpy man.

He took one look at it, and the stupid foreigner, and snarled "NO."

But helpfully added "Ki-ee-ki-on-air-a."

I repeated it. He looked at me as though I was stupid and waved me off imperiously with a vague gesture in the direction of Calle Calloneras.

I decided it was unlikely to be Calle Banco (don't know it's real name) so opted for the next one along. Spot on. It turned out to be Calle Carboneras.

First en route I found the town museum. It has a lot of exhibits by Spanish painter José Cruz Herrera who was born in La Linea. I thought I would have a look at that on the way back if I couldn't find whatever it was I was looking for. Presumably a water office. Perhaps they had inter-company arrangements for payments.

I got to a crossroads - literally. This was a particularly naff-looking street. I had visions of the grumpy man in post office rolling around laughing having sent the silly foreign woman off down a back street looking for a non-existent water office.

Sometimes the street names change at crossroads but I crossed over and gave it a go anyway. And there it was. A few yards further down. The water office - and it was exactly the same company as mine. My luck was in. Wow. It had been worth all the effort.

There were only two people in front of me.

"Hola," I said. "Can I pay this?"

"No." Nice smile.

"No?" repeated the parrot. I was getting good at repeating people yesterday morning. "Why not? It's the same company."

"Yes," another nice smile. "But we are not linked," gesturing at the computer. "This is just for La Linea."

"So, what do I do? I only go back there on weekends and the water office is closed then." In fact the water office - and the telephone hours for the public - are only open from 9am - 1pm.

"You have to go back there," she said. Nicely of course, and looked very apologetic.

I went to the museum. It was closed. "For ever?" I asked. The guy shrugged his shoulders.

I am by no means a shopaholic. I do not fill my abundant spare time with wandering aimlessly round boring shops looking at things I neither want nor need.

But I did need two bras. I tried BHS. They were very large (I am not). I didn't like them, even if they had been smaller.

I found one of those awful high street lingerie shops. I decided to go in. It wasn't quite as bad as I expected. I was mildly entertained listening to a woman talking to the shop assistant about buying a sexy basque. I bought two bras. Very nice. I recommend La Senza.

Another weekend of incompetence

Having failed miserably to achieve any degree of success with getting the gas water heater to ignite after the chicken shit incident, I now have a couple of other disasters to add to the list.

Coffee. The weekend before last I decided I wanted a nice strong black espresso. I swilled out the water container which was full of dust and rubbish from the strong winds. The coffee machine is in the patio, which is partly covered and - obviously - partly exposed. It's nice to sit outside with a coffee. And the kitchen table is full of other junk.

So then I filled the water container and went to unscrew the coffee container. It wouldn't move. I had another go. I hit the handle a few times. I ran some water through the machine in case that loosened up the dry coffee. Useless.

I put it on the floor, next to the wall, and kicked the handle. Hard. I had to put it on the floor because every time I hit the handle, the machine moved instead of the handle. But no, this did not work either. I went inside and got a nice solid black cast-iron frying pan. And hit the handle again. I spent at least half an hour doing this.

And gave up.

This weekend, knowing I couldn't have coffee, I psyched myself up to have manzanilla at breakfast time - camomile tea - not sherry. I put the kettle on. The gas went out. We have bottled gas (no mains gas - it's only just arrived in the cities, no chance in the villages). I lugged the empty gas cylinder into the patio - everything ends up in the patio. As luck would have it we had a spare full one ready and waiting.

I brought the new one in. I had forgotten how heavy they are. And I put the regulator on top. Then I clicked it down. It came off. I did it again, and again, and again......... and spent nearly an hour trying to get the regulator on. There is a knack to this which I once learned. It is not a force issue, but you have to get the regulator in just the right position. I have totally lost the knack.

I got a grapefruit out of the fridge and decided to leave it until next weekend. (The regulator not the grapefruit).

So where am I? No hot water for a shower/bath. No coffee. No cooking. Good one Kate.

I went into the chicken shed to change the water. The drinkers are basically like a jar - which you fill up - and then invert over a tray, and turn it round so it locks. The water drips through a small hole from the top bit. They are plastic. They get full of dust and recently it has taken me some time to undo them. In fact, it has been pretty much like the coffee machine saga - I have ended up trying to hold the tray and kick off the top. But it's worked.

So the other week I thought I would be clever and not bother locking the one that goes on the floor. It is self-supporting. I filled it up. And turned it over so I could carry it into the run. The water fell out. All over me.

I filled it up again. This time I was clever. Well, slightly more than the last time. I just turned it a tiny little bit so it locked. Turned it over and then unlocked it, so the next time, I wouldn't have any problems trying to undo it. Was I pleased with myself.

So pleased that this weekend I didn't remember I had done that. Picked it up and promptly chucked all the remaining water over me and the run, as the top and the tray parted company.

I so used to be a good feminist. If only Partner went back to Spain at weekends he would be able to sort all these niggling problems. But he is too busy falling asleep in the chair in GibFlat after working on the building site all week. The coffee machine is his fault anyway as he never empties it after he has made a coffee.

All is not gloom though. At least I have a decent corkscrew in the house in Spain. Using a Swiss Army Knife (usual method) is still a bit difficult with the weak wrist. The one at the top is a cheap bottle of Spanish white, cost - something less than 2€. Well deserved after all my trivial trials and tribulations. Opened with a Le Creuset corkscrew.

I originally bought a boxed set of wine goodies for my mum and dad for Christmas (thermometer, champagne stopper, corkscrew and champagne opener). After my dad died, my mum proudly said what a super box of goodies it was, and that my dad had bought it one year. A different sort of daughter would probably have said, "Oh yes mum that's great." But I bought the bloody set, it was expensive at the time, and there was a fair bit of thought went into it. So I pointed out that I had bought it. I don't know whether she believed me though.

This wine below cost more than £4 from Morrisons in Gib. I felt like a change so went for a Sauvignon Blanc which I am ambivalent about, from Chile (some good wines come from Chile), and it happens to be organic, which I didn't notice straight away. Would I buy it again? Yes. Especially after a an incompetent weeked.