The Rock of Gibraltar
After a morning drive through the switchback mountain roads of southern Spain, we arrive at the city of Linea and then pass customs into British territory.
The sidewalk on the way in has a one foot drop off. I'm staring up at the rock and step off, taking a nasty fall on broken chunks of concrete. My camera is damaged and cracked. It has trouble extending its lens. My escape and evasion training finally pays off as I do a perfect tuck and roll onto the rocks. We spent almost a year learning to fall in a parachute landing and how to kill people with sticks, knives and our hands and feet. I dust myself off.
Looking across to Africa I imagine I am a bearded U-boat captain. I turn off my engines, rig for silent running and drift with the current at 400 meters past the flock of British destroyers guarding the Straights.
After a two mile hike, we find the number 3 bus, which takes us to the cable car ride to the top of the rock about 500 meters above.
The walk down is about three miles. We see the siege tunnels, a Moorish castle and lots of monkeys. The number three bus takes us back to the Spanish frontier. We wave our passports and reenter the European Union.
We've walked about six miles in the pretty shoes that Mrs. Phred made me buy to appear more stylish for the trip. Not unexpectedly, my plantar facititis flares up badly and I'm limping now with a very painful left heel. My sneakers make it feel a little better. The last time it took three months for the pain to recede.
On to Ronda and then Granada and the Alhambra this morning. I booked a hotel last night. The rates are about 1/2 what we paid during Easter week.
(Note from Mrs. Phred: I take no responsibility for the "inexpensive version" of the good walking shoes I suggested.)