GB in Gibraltar

You spot 'The Rock' from the autovia long before you arrive. Its profile is unmistakable, a world famous lump no less familiar than Cape Town's Table Mountain or Rio's Sugar Loaf.

Gibraltar is an intriguing place, part garrison town, tourist trap, tax haven, historical monument and some kind of semi-deliberate parody of a Dear a Old Blighty theme park. The result feels like a failed experiment in social anthropology designed entirely by a UKIP funded think tank.

Perhaps the fact that we arrived in Gibraltar on a Sunday may have contributed to our alienation. It is often said that the place is more English than England, and certainly it had 'closed down' on a Sunday afternoon to an extent that I had not experienced since the1970s. We wanted to find a nice cafe, but there were only pubs open, determinedly flogging roast beef, fish and chips or soggy pasties to cruise ship escapees.

We walked to the cable car station. It was impossible to buy a ticket to the summit without  paying for entrance to various 'visitor  attractions' at the top. We baulked at the price - €23 . Instead we found a little frequented path through the nature reserve which led to the Devil's Gap Battery, a WW1 gun emplacement.  Although it was only half way to the summit, it did have a superb view across the bay towards Algerciras, and the mountains of Morocco were visible as pale grey wisps through the light mist. The advantage of  taking a walk rather than jumping on a cable car is that we got to see some of the old backstreets up the hill behind Mainstreet.

As an English tourist it is easy to get slightly dismayed by Gibraltar. I think the reason for this is that the oddly familiar is actually more alienating than the utterly strange. Everything about Gibraltar is the same but different. In the old town the domestic architecture is reminiscent of Portsmouth or Bristol -  stuccoed, colour-washed Georgian. However there are somewhat exotic additions, such as blue-painted Mediterranean-style shutters, or external wrought iron balconies reminiscent of French colonial architecture in Quebec or New Orleans.

The cathedral, however, looks distinctly southern, a kind of simplified Baroque, with a Spanish style tower painted in white and pastel yellow. Up the hill is a parish church with a tower of flint which would not look out of place in Brixham or Clevedon.

Everywhere it becomes clear that the history of the place as a garrison and imperial outpost predominates, from the recently de-commissioned batteries and gun emplacements, to the sprawling estates of dilapidated 'married quarters'. From our vantage point we could see acres of empty warehouses and the berths of the old naval dockyard, yet there was not a ship to be seen, not even a symbolic elderly corvette, or rusting gunboat with a frayed white ensign fluttering astern.

The area around the frontier reminds you that the territory is still disputed. The border is policed assiduously by both the Spanish and the British, each laconically checking the papers of every person going in and out. Fluttering above this charade fly the flags of Spain, UK and the EU. There was an attempt in the early years of this century to broker a joint sovereignty agreement. The Gibaltarians would have none of it, voting almost unanimously, in a hastily organised 'unofficial' referendum that they wished to stay British.

The Motorhome aire is on the Spanish side of the border. An excellent and secure stopping place at the Marina. It has a great view of Gibraltar, and is a half hour brisk walk from the city's premier monument and tourist attraction - Marks and Spencer's.

For it was to Marks and Sparks we were headed on our final morning in Gibraltar. Sadly, the object or our desire - a jar of Red Onion Marmalade - was unavailable at their colonial outpost, reminding us of the levels of personal sacrifice and hardship suffered by our illustrious forebears in their service of Queen and Country.  Luckily there is a Morrisons as well, so we got some there, cheaper, yes, but the label, well, so proletarian.... tut tut.

We did go to Morrisons, we did buy bacon, chutney, Wensleydale and waterbiscuiits!

As is well known, the road to Gibraltar crosses the runway. All border traffic ground to a halt at the barrier as Monarch's Manchester bound flight revved up and took off using less than a third of the length of the runway. The airport is used by a few commercial airlines, but controlled by the RAF. The runway was built, not to accommodate budget airlines' twin engined Boeings, but  tank-transporting Hercules and V. bombers able to give global reach to Britain's nuclear capability. Gibraltar, a strange place, where the ghosts of empire cling on, long after they have vanished from Britain itself. In the end I liked its contradictions, imperialistic absurdities and faded grandeur. I am pleased we went, but unsure I would hurry back.

The 11.30 to Manchester holds-up the traffic

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