After taking care of some personal business in Spain, I had a couple of weeks at my disposal before returning to the UK.
I spent some time touring around my old haunts before realising I had but one day left.
It was 8.34am and I was in the sleepy town of Tarifa, on the very southernmost tip of not only Spain but the entire European continent, and I was pondering what to do with my last day.
Anyway, first things first because directly in front of me, a classic Spanish breakfast: cafe con leche and churros. Awesome stuff churros, it’s basically a long thin sausage-looking piece of dough made from choux pastry then deep fried in oil, dusted with sugar and drizzled with melted chocolate.
Delectable or heart disease on a plate? Probably both I’d say.
It was at this point, when the combination of caffeine and sugar jolted me into life, that my brain had its first adventurous idea of the day. I smiled, pondered, but rejected the idea, thought again, licked the sugar off my fingers, worked out the logistics, smiled again, checked my watch, drained the last of my coffee and finally slapped down five euro on the table.
What the heck, my mind was made up and I was determined to take this idea through to fruition.
Crazy? Possibly. But possible? Most definitely!
Breakfast had been consumed in Europe, it was now time for lunch – in Africa.
Travelling light with only my trusted daysack, I was at the port within minutes, bought my ticket surprisingly hassle-free, changed 20 quid into Dirhams, filled in a customs form, grabbed a map and jumped on the 10am fast ferry.
Wanting to experience the cool sea breeze on my face, I stood on the deck but not before slapping a lot of sun cream on the old head – it’s hot down here.
As I saw the coast of North Africa come into view, my heart beated a little faster and a remarkable 35 minutes later I was in Tangiers, African soil.
With no time to spare I headed straight for the old town and was very quickly lost in a maze of crooked streets with stalls selling everything.
Being a foodie, for me the pulse of any city is best found in its food markets and I was instantly intoxicated by the smell of fresh herbs and spices.
I wandered into the meat market; hmm, let’s just say it wasn’t for the faint hearted.
Friendly enough locals but not overly keen on me taking photos of the chopped-up cows legs that lay on the bloodied floor outside a butcher’s.
I marvelled at the fish market though, and was fascinated by the sight of a guy with a machete slicing up a giant tuna that was the size of a shark.
Lunch in a street cafe was a gorgeous plate of couscous with feta cheese, washed down with sublime mint tea which had at least four sugars in it. Surprisingly refreshing in the African heat.
As I sat there reading my book in the shade surrounded by old men wearing their fez hats, I felt rather Hemingway-esque.
Suddenly I checked my watch – time to go. I paid in Dirhams, waved goodbye to my old guys and headed back to the port.
It had just gone 4pm and after rather strict customs control (I’m so glad I wasn’t tempted to take back any of the hashish that they were trying to flog me in the market!) I was back in Europe and soon behind the wheel of my hire car.
Window down, I hurtled along the Spanish roads.
But I wasn’t stopping here. With breakfast consumed in Europe, then lunch in Africa, it was now time for my evening meal – on British soil.
It didn’t take long before I saw it jutting up into the sky. The Rock. Gibraltar. British territory.
I parked my car on the Spanish side and walked towards the land border. Granted it’s not a war-zone border like I’m used to, but it’s still contested.
British territory since 1713, the Spanish still claim rights to it. Good luck there Madrid! And especially after Brexit; this little corner of the world is truly fascinating – time will tell how it all pans out.
I have to admit that in the morning it had felt strange going from Europe to Africa in such a short boat trip, however walking out of Spain and into British territory is a totally bizarre feeling indeed.
Leaving behind the poor, run-down Spanish border town of La Linea, I showed my passport, entered Gibraltar, walked along Winston Churchill Avenue, past a BP garage, a red phone box, a post box, an M&S and a Barclays Bank.
I’ve been in Gibraltar many times yet still enjoyed just walking around soaking it all up.
By 7pm, I was sitting out at the Lord Nelson pub where I enjoyed a heavenly cold pint of John Smith’s beer.
I took in the scene around me, I was in British territory, but with a warm Spanish sun still overhead. My evening meal? What else could I choose?
My fish and chips duly arrived and I devoured the lot.
Later, I paid the bill in Sterling of course, but interesting to note, I paid with a Scottish 20. Gibraltar being one of the few places overseas you can do that.
I slowly walked back and crossed the border into Spain. It was only just after 9pm, but I was exhausted. As I lay on my bed in my hotel room in the town of La Linea, I thought back over my day.
Breakfast in Europe, lunch in Africa and dinner on British soil, all in one day and without taking a flight anywhere.
I chuckled to myself. What a wonderfully diverse day it had been.
As I fell asleep, I have to admit though, I couldn’t quite remember which country I was in.
Next week – Sweet dreams are made of these
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