Gibraltar has steps

I remember, in primary school, adopting a small cardboard Indian child, which I coloured in and placed on the bottom step of a large flight of stairs leading to Heaven. It was all in aid of the missions. We paid one penny a day and at the end of the week, we got to move our cardboard cut-out a step nearer to Heaven. Not a futile exercise. It taught me a lesson. The richer children got their adopted child to Heaven faster, some paying sixpence a time.

Since then, I’ve had mixed experience with steps. As I’ve aged, I’ve grown to loathe the damn things, some more than others. 

I remember trudging up Jacob’s Ladder—the 199 steps from Whitby up to St Mary’s Church at the top of the hill overlooking the town. These steps have been there since the C14^th. For me, it was less a religious experience than a homage to Dracula, but there was a point to the drudgery. At the top was an ancient Abbey, atmospheric graveyard and a view. 

Other than getting my cardboard cut-out to Heaven, the most pointless flight of stairs I’d climbed was in Quebec. We were exploring, trying to find our own way from the harbour to the historic quarter on the heights.

 This looked promising, we thought and dutifully climbed, only to discover they led nowhere, well nowhere significant. They allowed us a view of what looked like a library. 

Approaching Gibraltar * (see below)

Three weeks ago, we were in Gibraltar and again, decided to do our own thing, in this instance walk up to the Moorish castle and Botanical Gardens. It was well signposted but from there, things went downhill—or rather uphill.

 We must have walked up 20 flights of stone steps, perhaps more. Red faced and puffing we trudged upwards, stopping occasionally for the occasional photograph and catching our breath. Nearing what we hoped was the top, we turned a corner and met two people walking the steps we had yet to climb. Just two more flights, they said merrily, then a steep road, and you’re there. As an afterthought they added. ‘It costs £19 to get in.’ And then the killer: ‘Each.’

Sod that for a monkey, I thought. Scouse parsimony kicked in. After a moment's thought we  turned and walked back down again. And thus our day in Gibraltar was spent, me wishing I was a cardboard cut-out on its way to Heaven. 

Farewell Gibraltar 

Britain captured Gibraltar in 1704 during the war of the Spanish Succession, and acquired it permanently 

in 1713 after the treaty of Utrecht. This granted Britain full and permanent possession of the city, castle, 

port, defences and fortresses. Spain had previously held it for 203 years after seizing it from the Moors in 

1501. By my calculation, we have owned Gibraltar for 320 years. Possession, as they say, is nine tenths of the law.

In contrast, Spain relinquished Spanish Morocco in 1956 but retained a part of it: Ceuta, which it still 

holds to the disgust of Morocco. Ultimately might is right, and it is hard to get excited about, unless 

you’re Spain or Morocco, and perhaps Britain in the near future.