The Rock

It's time for another retrospective post from my Kodak-era photo albums. Gibraltar was one of those slightly quirky bucket list destinations I set out to visit while backpacking in Europe in 1990. My friend Dean and I squeezed in a quick overnight stop on the way to Morocco. We caught an early morning train from Ronda, a spectacular town in southern Spain, to the Mediterranean coast, on Saturday, 6 October. We then transferred to a local bus for La Linea de la Concepcion, a bustling town on the border between Spain and Gibraltar.

The bus terminated at an interchange located less than 500 metres from the border. It took us barely six minutes to walk to border control.  The duty officer gave our passports a cursory flick through before stamping them. We’d arrived on British soil for the first time. It is all too easy to forget that the same crossing had reopened only five years earlier after being sealed by Spain for more than twenty years.

From the border, we walked two rather sweaty kilometres into Gibraltar’s central business district via Winston Churchill Avenue. The main road into town is rather unique. A couple of hundred metres beyond the border, it crosses the main runway at Gibraltar Airport. The runway extends the full width of a narrow isthmus linking The Rock and the Spanish mainland. 

Temporary boom gates block the road whenever a plane is scheduled to land or depart. I recall standing in the middle of the runway, weighed down by our backpacks, with the white painted centre line extending in either direction toward the sea. Ahead of us, the Rock rose in a dramatic silhouette along the airport boundary. It was an extraordinary experience, made all the more surreal after waiting at the boom gate for a plane to take off.

Dean and I booked ourselves into a rather spartan youth hostel in the centre of town and then set about exploring The Rock. Our first destination was the summit, or thereabouts. We walked there by tracing a narrow road zig-zagging its way up the Rock’s rugged and rocky western slope towards the Douglas Lookout. As we neared the top, we followed a walking track up the final slope, weaving our way through building-sized granite boulders. What happened next was one of the most enduring, indelible and visceral travel moments in my life.

As we rounded a final boulder, a breathtaking panorama of the entire Mediterranean coast came into view. Immediately ahead the Rock’s eastern flank dropping steeply into the sea. As we stood stunned by the unexpected view, the wind hit us full force. In an instant, we’d gone from a calm, nondescript trek to one that stimulated every sense. Nothing could have prepared us for the sudden sensory overload. 

Perhaps one of the more intriguing aspects of this view was the rainwater catchment area. The Rock’s eastern flank features a massive sloping sand dune. For centuries, the prevailing winds have deposited layers of airborne sand along its base. Beginning in 1903, the locals progressively cleared the steep and sandy slope, covering it with a timber frame capped by corrugated iron sheets. This massive platform, covering nearly 250,000 sqm, collected rainwater and channelled it through a tunnel to reservoirs on the Rock’s west side 

Despite its dramatic appearance, the catchment was never very effective in supplying the territory with fresh water. In 1991, just months after I visited Gibraltar, the system was abandoned, and desalination plants began supplying all the territory’s fresh water. I count myself lucky to have seen it while still in operation.

The remainder of our time was spent tracing the Rock’s spine along Signal Station Road. It was here that we were entertained by the bold and brash Barbary macaques living on the Rock. These creatures, originally from North Africa, have lived here for centuries. Local legend has it that for as long as Gibraltar Barbary macaques exist on Gibraltar, the territory will remain under British rule.

Later in the afternoon, we toured the Great Siege Tunnels that weave their way through the northern face of the Rock. These are a series of tunnels carved by the military through solid rock high above the surrounding area. The complex included numerous caverns equipped with cast iron cannons pointed towards the Spanish mainland. These days a spectacular view across the airport and along the Mediterranean coast is the main attraction.

The following morning, Dean and I crossed back over the border and made our way to the Spanish port of Algeciras. Our next destination was Morocco, where I took my first steps on the African continent.

I've illustrated this retrospective post with images taken in 1990 and more recent ones from a visit Garry and I made to Gibraltar in October 2008.

Earthrise revisited

The Artemis II mission is heading home after successfully looping around the moon over the Easter weekend. Two days from now, they’ll splash down in the Pacific Ocean, off the coast of San Diego. NASA has been sharing images taken by the four astronauts on board Integrity, the mission’s gumdrop-shaped capsule, as it passed behind the moon. This includes a stunning Earthrise and a dramatic solar eclipse (featuring a cameo appearance by several planets).

These images have rekindled the hope and wonder inspired by Apollo 8, the first crewed mission to visit the moon. At the time, much like this week, another Christian festival was underway. It was Christmas Eve 1968. As the Apollo 8 astronauts orbited, they watched the moon’s grey and desolate, crater-pocked surface passing below. Then, something unexpected happened.

The Earth began rising above the horizon. This delicate, blue marble was beguiling. It sat alone in the vastness of space. A fragile, spherical island of life in the inky darkness. Every aspect of the Apollo mission, including a photography timeline, had been planned well in advance. However, nobody had anticipated this moment. It caught everyone by surprise.

The Earthrise photos taken by Apollo 8 inspired a generation and kick-started the environmental movement that endures today. Once again, Artemis II captured Earthrise, reminding us of our human frailty. Apollo 8 astronaut Jim Lovell talked about a moment in flight when the simple act of raising his thumb in front of him was enough to hide the Earth.

“Everything you’ve ever known is behind your thumb,” he said. “All the world’s problems, everything. It kind of shows you how relative life is and how insignificant we all are here on Earth. Because we are all on a rather small spaceship here.”

 

One American wrote a simple message to the astronauts shortly after their return. “You saved 1968”. It’s all too easy to forget that 53 years ago, America had endured a chaotic and violent year. Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy had both been assassinated. Race riots had caused many American cities to burn. The Vietnam War was in full swing, and the protest movement against it was growing. Lyndon Johnson had dramatically decided not to seek reelection.

Step forward 53 years, and history seems to be repeating itself. America is embroiled in an increasingly unpopular war. The nation is deeply polarised. A looming threat of recession hangs over the global economy. Once again, our world feels harsh and the future uncertain. Then, a tiny spacecraft circling the moon sends back an image of hope. Once again, we’ve left Earth only to look back and rediscover it anew. This is why I love spaceflight. In its finest hour, it gives us hope for the future.

UPDATE:  11 April 2026

The Artemis crew has just splashed down safely in the Pacific about 100km off the coast of San Diego. Humanity's first flight to the moon in more than 53 years has delivered a textbook landing. The live coverage beaming from space as the Orion capsule entered the atmosphere was extraordinary.  

Incredibly, we watched the capsule separate from its service module live, and then saw the first glow of reentry happen in real time. In an age of AI, the vision was surreal. At times, it honestly looked fake. How sad it is to think that AI is tarnishing the magic of life's momentous events.

Feeling a little Moorish

My first time in Andalusia was one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences. I travelled through the region in October 1990 while backpacking in Europe with Dean, a sheep farmer friend from Victoria. At the time, we were making good use of a 15-day Eurail Flexi Youth Pass. Our Andalusian adventures kicked off when we arrived by train in Cordoba on the evening of 2 October.

Our trusty Let's Go Europe travel guide had recommended this provincial capital. It’s home to the Mezquita-Catedral de Córdoba, otherwise known as the Great Mosque of Córdoba. The current structure was completed in 785 on the orders of Abd al-Rahman I, the Moorish leader who founded the Islamic Emirate of Cordoba. Over time, his successor progressively expanded the complex, adding a minaret and a highly ornate mihrab.

The mosque was subsequently converted to a cathedral after Christian forces drove out the Muslim invaders in 1236. In the 16th century, a Renaissance cathedral nave and transept were constructed in the centre of the building. This quirky Christian structure remains in place today, surrounded by a vast hall of striped twin-tiered arches commonly found in mosques the world over.

The Cathedral of Our Lady of Assumption, as it’s known today, was one of the oddest places I’d ever seen up until that time. Its exterior is almost as exotic as its interior. Thanks to its arched interior, the external roof is defined by row upon row of distinctive barrel-like grooves. Its distinctly Islamic minaret has been repurposed as a bell tower, while its traditional central courtyard is filled with citrus trees, a common feature of Christian churches throughout Spain.

One unexpected highlight of our time in Cordoba was a haircut I organised with a local barber. It had been several months since my last cut, and my hair was getting rather shaggy. The entire service was conducted using sign language as neither of us spoke the other’s language. The old man then proceeded to cut my hair, wielding his scissors with the most dramatic and unnerving sword-like flourishes. I’m sure he was putting on a show for the tourists.

Our Eurail ticket gave us access to heavily discounted tickets on local Spanish trains. As a result, we decided to make good use of this by buying tickets to Gibraltar via the medieval town of Ronda. Once again, our trusty travel guide delivered the goods. Ronda was recommended for several reasons. First, it’s home to one of the world’s oldest bullfighting rings, and second, its old and new town districts sit on opposing sides of a deep ravine. They’re linked by a spectacular stone arch bridge.

 

Dean and I absolutely loved Ronda. It was the kind of out-of-the-way place you always hope to discover while travelling somewhere new. We stayed two nights in a hostel a few blocks up from the town’s iconic bullring and spent a full day exploring the town from top to bottom. We toured the bullring, walked the clifftop path that offered breath-taking views of the valley floor hundreds of metres below, and explored the New Bridge from top to bottom. 

This spectacular bridge, as its name suggests, is not the original span linking the old and new town. The original “old bridge” sits about a hundred metres upstream and crosses the Guadiaro River canyon at a lower level, while an even older Roman-era bridge can be found a little further on.  We walked across all three just because we could.

Without a doubt, Puente Nuevo, "New Bridge", is the town’s most iconic attraction. This sturdy arched structure stands 120 metres above the canyon floor. The term "nuevo" is something of a misnomer, as construction began in 1751 and took until 1793 to complete. The old town it linked to was equally captivating, with narrow, winding cobblestone lanes and historic whitewashed buildings. I loved every moment of it. So much so that I insisted Garry and I visit Ronda while touring Andalusia in 2009.

Garry had the same "aha" moment that Dean and I experienced in 1990.  Your encounter with the cliff edge overlooking the river below is unforgettable.  One moment, you're walking surrounded by solid ground.  The next moment, the ground suddenly falls away, dropping more than 100 metres down a near-vertical rock face to the valley below. The dramatic drop always catches you by surprise.

In case you're wondering, two of the images above were scanned from postcards I collected in Ronda. This is always a good indicator that a place has captured my imagination. As a backpacker, money was tight, so I rarely bought anything as indulgent as a postcard without a very good reason.

I still recall how magnificent the town's magnificent bullring was when Dean and I visited it in 1990. It was built in 1784 in the Neoclassical style by the architect José Martin de Aldehuela, who also designed the Puente Nuevo. According to Wikipedia, it’s not the oldest bull-fighting ring in Spain. However, it is one of the first constructed entirely of stone, rather than a combination of stone and brick.

The architecture is also unique in that all seating in the ring is covered. It is considered a relatively small arena with only five thousand seats. However, the bull ring itself is the largest in Spain. When added together, the building’s unique features give it a wonderfully memorable vibe. Decades later, it’s still the only bullring I’ve ever visited.  And before you ask, no, we didn't witness an actual bullfight.

On 6 October, Dean and I loaded our backpacks and caught a morning train to Algeciras, the port city overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar. I distinctly recall the local train winding its way through the scenic Guadiaro River valley at a very leisurely pace, stopping from time to time at the most obscure and remote villages. This is a part of the world where the concept of time has a completely different meaning.

The example above was possibly one of the oddest stops we made during our entire time in Andalusia. This is the station at La Atalaya, a tiny village about 30 km north of Ronda. As you can see, the roof of the station building had long since collapsed in 1990. However, the train between Cordoba and Ronda still stopped here. A quick look at Google Maps shows that not much has changed in the last 35 years. The second image above was published online in 2024.

Follow this link to learn more about our visit to the Rock of Gibraltar and our subsequent adventures in Morocco.

Barcelona in the 90s

Time for another retrospective post. Every so often, life throws you a curveball. I experienced one such moment in September 1990 while backpacking through Europe. My travel buddy Dean and I met a young man on the train. At the time, we were in transit from Switzerland to Barcelona. Weeks earlier, we’d made plans to travel through Spain, cross the Straits of Gibraltar, and explore as much of Morocco as possible.

The guy we met on the train was on his way to Monte Carlo to collect a super yacht and deliver it to Barcelona for his boss. We got to talking with him. He was impressed that Dean had spent several months sailing through the Coral Sea, while I’d spent a year working on a dairy farm, which made me a seasoned handyman. He extended an invitation for us to join his repositioning crew and spend a week, all expenses paid, sailing across the Mediterranean.

Dean and I debated his offer long and hard. It meant we’d have to forgo our plans for Morocco. In the end, we decided a week on a super yacht, while mind-blowing, was unlikely to be as exotic as a week in Morocco. We politely declined his offer and bade him farewell in Monte Carlo. After reading my retrospective posts about our time in North Africa, I think it was the right decision. Sadly, I’ve never been invited onto a super yacht again.

Our train arrived in Barcelona late in the evening. Most venues were closed. We made our way to a backpacker’s hostel located on a side street just off the city’s iconic La Rambla boulevard. The hostel was set into an old building, with flights of winding stairs that led to some rather uninspiring bunk rooms on its upper floors. The hostel's daily room rate also burned a hole in our hip pocket. However, the hour was late, so we decided to suck it up for the night.

The following morning, we found ourselves sitting at a table in a KFC planning our itinerary for the next few days. At the top of our agenda was finding a cheaper place to stay. An elderly African American man overheard our conversation. He asked if we were looking for a place to stay and offered to help us out. As a foreign national who’d lived in Barcelona for years, he was keen to ensure we got to see the best his adopted city could offer.

At first, we were a little dubious. However, he insisted he knew the perfect place to stay. Before we knew it, he’d led us down a rather dreary cobblestone street leading away from the La Ramblas. The buildings were old, everything was heavily shuttered and closed, and the street was all but empty. He took us to a modest pensione with balustrade balconies overlooking the desolate street. A passionate debate, in Spanish, ensued between him and the owner behind the reception desk.

Before we knew it, we’d been escorted to a first-floor room with French doors that opened onto one of the street-side balconies. Our newfound friend later explained that he’d convinced the reticent owner to rent us one of his "honeymoon suites" for two nights at a bargain price (or rather, that's how he translated the room's name). He then gave some helpful advice on what to see and where to go in Barcelona before wishing us well and continuing with his day.

Unbeknownst to us, our room overlooked Carrer de Ferran, one of the liveliest streets in the city's Gothic District. As darkness fell, the shutters came up, and before we knew it, the once lifeless street was soon filled with a crowd enjoying its lively bars, bustling cafés and busy stores. We sat on our minstrel balcony, soaking in the nightlife below and toasting our good fortune with some local Sangria.  

After some extensive Google Map sleuthing, I'm fairly sure we stayed at Hostal Fernado, or its predecessor in the same location. There's a pensione still operating there today, and I'm sure the balcony highlighted in the screenshot above is where we stayed. If you look closely at the photo I took of Dean sitting on the balcony, you'll notice there was a lingerie shop directly below us on the ground floor. It's long since gone!

We spent two full days exploring the best that Barcelona has to offer. This includes climbing a steep, winding footpath up Mont Juic, a parkland plateau overlooking the city and the Mediterranean coast. We decided to climb it to see the stadium that had hosted athletic competitions for the 1992 Summer Olympics. The plateau also offers superb views of Port Vell, a marina for all those glamorous super yachts. It was built as part of an urban renewal program prior to the Olympics. It was surreal to think that this could have briefly been home for us.

However, the area’s most surprising highlight proved to be The Magic Fountain of Montjuïc. This incredible water feature is a dancing fountain containing more than 3000 jets, some of which send water soaring more than 50 metres into the air. After dark, the fountain entertains visitors with a dramatic display of synchronised lights and water jets.

As all good tourists do, we walked the length of La Rambla, people watching locals going about their daily business. The tree-lined pedestrian street is filled with plazas and parks, as well as street artists, stalls and vendors offering all kinds of snacks and trinkets.

Without a doubt, Sagrada Familia was the highlight of our time in Barcelona. It’s the largest unfinished Catholic church in the world and was designed by the Catalan architect Antoni Gaudí. Its construction began in 1882 and continues to this day. According to recent news reports, the building should officially be completed by 2034. Its tallest, and final, tower was completed in February this year. The building’s final height is now an impressive 172.5 metres.

When I first visited it in 1990, most of the building’s main structure was still under construction. At the time, only the Nativity façade, the Passion Façade and their accompanying steeples had been completed. The most recent of these steeples had only been completed three years earlier, in 1987. The central nave was still under construction, and only its outer walls were in place at the time. Installation of the central pillars and vaulted roof was still some years away.

However, the Nativity façade was still an impressive sight. It was built before work was interrupted by the Spanish Civil War in 1935 and bears the most original Gaudí influence. Gaudí was a unique artist. His work is a blend of Art Nouveau and Gothic styles, filled with obtuse angles and unbelievably ornate, somewhat abstract flourishes. I’d never seen anything like it before. Years later, I still love its whimsical florishes, such as a curious donkey's cameo appearance in Christ's nativity scene.

Dean and I also took time out to view some of Gaudí’s other iconic works around the city. This included the oddly angular and fluid façade of Casa Milà, and the Venetian mask-like balconies of Casa Batlló, a multi-story apartment block, and Park Güell, a hillside complex of parks and gardens filled with dramatic architectural elements.

After some Google searching, I discovered that the image above wasn’t taken in Park Güell as I’d originally thought. This sculpture of five leaping Gazelles stands in Ciutadella Park. It’s a tribute to Walt Disney, erected a few years after he died in 1966. The park was the city's first and only green space for decades following its creation in 1872. However, the park’s most famous sculpture is actually a giant stone-carved life-sized Woolly Mammoth. It seems this didn’t rate a mention in my photo album.

On 2 October 1990, Dean and I boarded our next Eurail train and headed south for Cordoba, the former heartland of the invading Moors. Our route took us south along the coast as far as Valencia, before turning inland. You can learn more about our time in Andalusia here.

One final note.  I've illustrated this post with a blend of scanned photos taken in 1990 and more recent photos from 2008, when Garry and I visited Barcelona for his 40th Birthday celebrations.