An Interlude at an Historic Retreat in Gibraltar

The old Kalinka in front of The Rock

Gibraltar was an interesting place when I lived there aboard the old ex-British Navy vessel Kalinka. In those days it was a big smuggling port—cigarettes, hashish and anything else that a devious mind could contrive to sneak past grasping government talons. A not uncommon boatyard sight was some intrepid mariner adjusting the waterline of his vessel upward a notch or two in order to accommodate more weight than the vessel was intended to carry.

Because of the nature of the place and due to a legal misunderstanding, combined with an obstinate old beak at the bench, I was offered a nine month, fully paid stay in Gibraltar’s historic gated community.

There were not many guests at the time of my visit, so I was given a room to myself in accommodations that had at one time been a military barracks—constructed sometime in the late eighteen-hundred’s. In order to ensure adequate security for the present non-military occupants, the doors had been strengthened and glass windows replaced by reassuring steel bars.

The night watchman was an old geezer who in the past had held the position of Police Chief. I know he’d been unfaithful to his oath of office because one evening, before I went to my room, he was regaling me with tales of the old cigarette smuggling days when supercharged PT boats roared out of Gibraltar with their cargoes, headed for Spain and Italy. At one point he became carried away with his story and said, “The cargo boats would bring the cigarettes in and we’d unload…errr, they’d unload the boxes directly onto…”

Although I’m not overly fond of bent cops (if you’re going to be a crook, be an honest one is my view) what I did later had no personal overtones—it was done simply in the pursuit of amusement:

At around eleven in the evening the old boy would make his rounds, shining his flashlight in through the windows to make sure we were all snugly tucked in. I’d learned—from one of the more frequent visitors to the establishment—that he didn’t hold keys to our rooms. Well, this particular night I decided to relieve him of his boredom.

I collected a bunch of stuff together and made a crude effigy of myself. A ball of clothing served as my head; a crumpled piece of black cloth became my hair and I puffed the covers out with various bits and pieces of clothes and bedding. A blind man could have seen that this was not me. When I heard him coming I slipped under the bed.

First day outside the retreat

The beam of the flashlight swept into the room…lingered…then came a loud gasp. The light went out and I heard the sound of running feet. I would never have thought the old boy capable of the swiftness of movement that the rapidly receding footfalls indicated. Thank God his ticker didn’t give up the ghost.

Quickly disassembling the effigy I put all the pieces back where they belonged, then hopped into bed. Fifteen minutes later, when I again heard running footsteps—this time  approaching—I contrived to snore softly.

The door was thrown open and a light beamed in my face. “Wha…whas happening,” I stammered.

There was a moment of silence then a growled, “Nothing,” from one of the two hard-looking gentlemen at my bedside. I could see in the glow of the flashlight, the old boy just outside the door looking distinctly sheepish.

The door was slammed shut and locked and as the footsteps receded, I heard the words, “…need f-----g glasses,” in a rather unkind tone of voice.

I chuckled myself to sleep.

Lovely to hear that Peter was once welcomed into a stately home. Davina