One of the most depressing places I have visited in recent years is Gibraltar. That silly rock, our dainty territory at the foot of Spain with a network of slippery tunnels and a Morrisons supermarket.
In years past, I’ve no doubt it was a more agreeable locale. It must have been: Sean Connery got married there, so too John Lennon and Yoko Ono. I saw a charming(ish) town square and plodded through old streets that once hosted drunken sailors on leave, full of rum and raunchy intent.
Watching planes take off and land between mountains, on to and from a runway that stretches out into the Mediterranean sea, is a reasonable way to spend 15 minutes. And the monkeys, they’re a laugh. I saw one snatch a Magnum out of the hands of an unsuspecting gentleman wearing an ill-fitting trilby hat.
I also saw a woman who was turned away from her march up the hill because she had brought along her yappy little dog: the monkeys might have picked it up and thrown it off a cliff. That would have been a sight to behold, if not for her or the dog.
Gibraltar’s monkeys are drunk on fermented fruit, by the way. It grows in the trees on the Rock and falls on to the stone or concrete below.
The Rock is really the region’s only discernible attraction. Why visit the little Moorish castle when there are better ones to see across Andalucía? Why go to the botanic gardens when they’re next to a car dealership and a restaurant that looks like a doctor’s surgery?
Am I being unkind? Probably. The aforementioned town square might have a handful of bars and restaurants worth visiting; I didn’t stick around to find out.
What I mostly saw were planes rise and fall, though from afar I could witness the grand Rock Hotel in striking white, lofty from a hillside, once so illustrious it was where Winston Churchill’s daughter Sarah chose to wed her third husband. Today it has only four stars. The only five-star in Gibraltar is the floating Sunborn, dubbed the world’s first “superyacht hotel”. I imagine it will sail away eventually so as to up its prices from £200 a night.
But that Morrisons. It is an odd and beguiling thing to see this bastion of affordable mince in a British Overseas Territory resplendent in sunshine; one of utmost importance economically, politically, geographically. I might allow myself a modicum of patriotism and proclaim it proudly: Gibraltar, where you may visit Morrisons in a T-shirt and shorts. Boat shoes, too, if you like.
But let me tell you something strange: this supermarket is surrounded by a rich abundance of Spanish fruit, and yet imports a great deal of it from the UK. Not that we grow much ourselves – it would appear the fruit is harvested in Spain, packed and shipped to central warehouses back in Blighty and then sent back to Gibraltar to be sold.
Don’t believe me? A Morrisons spokesperson said as much when I asked: “Approximately 50% of the fruit and vegetables sold in our Gibraltar store is supplied by local producers and sent straight to the store. The remainder is sent from our UK distribution centres, some of which has come from southern Europe.”
OK, so not all, and wider southern Europe rather than Spain – or Andalucía specifically. But it stands true that at least some of those bright and beautiful Seville oranges must be making a tired and unnecessary journey.
Look at the fine local produce: avocados, custard apples, mangos, pomegranates, lemons, limes and mandarins. Are these being picked and shipped, processed, and then shipped again?
This notion depressed me no end. What a benign and futile world we live in. What a stupid, fruit-ruining scenario.
If our food system is broken, Morrisons Gibraltar is a spindly cog in a dirty machine, whirring belligerently on a jut of dusty land, all at sea.
