Getting High on the British Rock

Panting up the steep path leading to the top of the rock of Gibraltar (1,475 feet), I came upon a Barbary ape dining on a discarded sandwich and blocking my way. Standing its ground, it belligerently thrust out its jaw and bared its teeth.

Unwilling to provoke it, I shuffled back a few yards, aware that the colony of about 200 resident apes had on occasion nibbled on tourists as well as their sandwiches. Placated by my retreat, the waist-high creature continued munching for another 15 minutes. Then it summoned me forward with a curt hand signal before swaggering off the path.

Its action, I reasoned, was consistent with the opinion that the apes rule the Rock, never mind which government claims it (at present Britain, having won it from Spain after a naval battle in 1704). The apes--actually tailless monkeys hailing from North Africa--are the last wild monkeys in Europe.

When I reached the restaurant perched on the arching spine of the rock, I headed to the adjoining outdoor lookout offering spectacular views of Gibraltar and its environs. The town and port huddled 1,400 feet below along a narrow strip of land. Beyond, I could see the busy Spanish port of Algeciras, Europe’s portal to Morocco. To the east unfurled Spain’s Costa del Sol and the Mediterranean Sea. Behind me, 18 miles away across the glinting Strait of Gibraltar dividing two continents, the coast of Africa crouched behind a soft scarf of sea mist.

Now I understood why British Prime Minister Winston Churchill claimed that “whoever controls Gibraltar controls the Mediterranean.” Standing above it all, feeling the breeze bred in the deserts of Africa ruffling my hair and the monumental power of the rock rearing around me, that old expression “safe as the Rock of Gibraltar” seemed absolutely apt. I felt I was standing on a piece of eternity.

Gibraltar was a strategic military base in both world wars and remains so, from the look of the installations bristling all over. A fortress since the 8th century, the rock is honeycombed with tunnels, arsenals, communications towers, electricity plants, reservoirs, gun towers, 30 miles of roads and spectacular limestone caves.

Earlier in the day I’d boarded a bus in Algeciras for the 45-minute ride to the terminus at La Linea, the flourishing Spanish border town in the shadow of Gibraltar. From there, I’d walked to the frontier the long way, a mile or so along the sea wall, with the gaunt profile of the rock looming behind a flotilla of fishing boats rocking in sheltered Gibraltar Bay.

At the frontier, a cluster of buses awaited day-trippers returning from shopping in Gibraltar. Each one carried an armful of booze, cigarettes, perfume, cameras and other consumer goods garnered from Gibraltar’s duty-free stores. Last year close to 4 million visitors passed through La Linea into Gibraltar.

Not surprisingly, the Spanish and British border police seemed bored by the stream of shoppers. When I crossed, they did not even want to see my passport.

Gibraltar’s airport nearly bisects the narrow isthmus that connects the rock to land, and cars and pedestrians have to cross the runways. I could only hope that the local air traffic controllers had their flights under control.

Rather than walk any farther in the blistering heat, I hopped a minibus to John Mackintosh Square, the piazza in the heart of town.

After Spain, dropping into Gibraltar for the day is like being whisked away to a British seaside town. Main Street, the key shopping thoroughfare, is crammed with bars, pubs, cafes and shops filled with familiar British brands. The distinctive aroma of fish and chips clears the memory of the olive oil and sizzling tapas across the border in Spain. I saw red post boxes just like in Oxford Street, London. Street signs were in English, and polite uniformed bobbies plodded the footpaths. Stores proudly carried signs such as “Beer From Back Home” and “The Best of British.” And there were real queues, that most British of passions, which are a dismal failure across the border.

Even groups of British tourists wandering Gibraltar were not quite sure where they were. Strolling downtown under a hot, cobalt blue sky with British familiarity all around them, some still wore cardigans and twin sets and carried reliable British brollies tucked firmly under their arms. Obviously, old habits die hard.

Main Street, which feeds a skein of narrow streets running uphill and down to the harbor, is both cosmopolitan and acutely commercial. In a small kiosk near the piazza, I purchased a guidebook from a sari-clad Indian woman holding a three-way conversation in Hindi, English and Spanish.

Just a few doors away, as I glanced into the window of a camera store, a smiling salesman emerged with a torrent of sales-speak, took my arm and steered me inside with sweet-deal promises. He said his family had come to Gibraltar with the apes but now felt as British as the Windsors. Then, in a rather plummy British accent, he said: “I take credit card, traveler’s check, cash and even trade-ins. You want to barter for good price, this is OK with me because I am British and your friend.” In trying to extract myself we almost became adversaries.

Oddly, while Britishness is eulogized, the rock is inhabited by a population that in looks and gestures seems overwhelmingly non-British. As for political allegiances, in a 1967 plebiscite on the possibility of rejoining Spain, the vote was 12,138 to 44 against.

Although Spain has since turned democratic and fairly prosperous, locals say the sentiment hasn’t changed. Whatever their ethnic roots, which are all over the Mediterranean, they are British. As a taxi driver named Patricio (Patrick), who is married to Josefa (Josephine) from across the border, told me: “I prefer to be British even though I’ve never been to Britain. Too cold.”

Later in our conversation, Patricio admitted that he spent a lot of time in Spain “because on the rock you get giddy driving round in circles.” Another Gibraltareno said, “It’s a bit like Alcatraz without bars.”

But this intimacy is comforting for day-trippers with limited time, as all tourist highlights, such as the popular ascent to the top of the rock, are easily accessible.

Although super-fit visitors can walk to the top, I took the cable car from the southern end of Main Street to the higher of the two stations. After gorging on the splendid views from the lookout, I walked back down along the serpentine road that winds past the entrance to much visited St. Michael’s Cave, a large limestone grotto celebrated for its superb stalactites and stalagmites.

When I arrived at St. Michael’s, a large cruise ship contingent was just filing out, leaving the grotto to me. Inside, its illuminated stalactites--some sharp as spikes, others contorted and wide as tropical fronds--create a spectacular, eerie world of soft mineralized color interspersed with pools of darkness. During World War II the cave was fitted out as a hospital but was never used. However, because of its superb acoustics it has been used on a number of occasions as a concert venue.

Blinking into the daylight again, I continued down the road to the Apes Den, a “playground” area on the side of the road dedicated to these animals. Perhaps the heat was too intense that afternoon, for I saw only two apes, both sitting peacefully by the roadside taking a siesta.

I felt like joining them. Instead, I taxied to Europa Point at the far end of the rock, where I toured the small shrine to Our Lady of Europa before walking slowly back to Main Street.

By the time I rested my aching feet in a cafe near the piazza it was late afternoon. I ordered an imported British pork pie and a beer and wondered, once again, whether Gibraltar’s ubiquitous over-the-top Britishness would ever wane and enable an amicable union with Spain.

When my friendly waiter Alberto (“just call me Al”) brought me a second beer in a classic British pint mug, I asked him his views about the destiny of this quaint colony. “There is a saying,” Al began, “that the rock will remain British as long as it is inhabited by the apes.” He grinned. “That’s why we look after them so well.”

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GUIDEBOOK: Up Close on the Rock

Getting there: Gibraltar isn’t much of a destination in itself, but a stop on a Spain itin erary. Travelers by bus and train can take the local bus from Algeciras, about a 45-minute ride to the border at La Linea. Motorists are advised to park in La Linea and take a jitney or walk the mile or so to the rock’s downtown district.

Flights from L.A. to Gibraltar would involve a stop in Newark, N.J., to Gatwick (London) on Continental, then British Air to Gibraltar. Restricted round-trip fare starts at $767.

Where to stay: Hotels on the rock are scarce (hence expensive), but I’ve talked to people who liked staying at the central Cannon Hotel, telephone 011-350-51711; doubles including breakfast start at $192.

I stayed at a modest but clean and friendly hostel in Algeciras, Hostal Nuestra Senora de la Palma, 12 Plaza de la Palma, which is near a lively market. A double with bath is $23-$27; tel. 011-34-956-632-481.

For more information: Gibraltar Tourist Board, Duke of Kent House, Cathedral Square, Gibraltar; tel. 011-350-74950, fax 011-350-74943, e-mailtourism@gibraltar.gi.