The End of the Line is a 10-part travelogue journey to some of the highest Remain and Leave areas in the United Kingdom’s 2016 Referendum on EU membership. It was written over two years from 2018 to 2020, before Coronavirus made Brexit seem like a spot of man flu.

Gibraltar voted 95.9% Remain in the EU Referendum

Originally written in October 2019

There’s a place in the UK: it voted to remain in the European Union, it has a historically problematic land border with a European country and strong views on abortion. It’s not Northern Ireland, however. It is, in fact, 1,815 miles away from Britain in the Mediterranean Sea. It is Gibraltar. On 21 October, 2019 – Brexit Day (at least, at that time) minus 10 days – I made my way to the Rock.

At Gatwick airport I trudge through mile after mile of Duty Free shopping aisles, bombarded by perfume smells and assaulted with shiny images of carefree models and celebrities. Eventually I emerge, bewildered, and head to get coffee and charge my phone. I watch as a seated mother heroically ignores her child as he repeatedly tries to balance a paper cup on her head. A man, also charging his phone near me, extravagantly bops away to Sisqo’s Thong Song bellowing out of his leaky headphones. He seems way too young to even be aware of the 1999-released hit song.

At gate 35 for my British Airways flight to Gibraltar, an American couple remark how a six minute walk was ‘long’ from the main terminal. On the plane the inevitable round of luggage Tetris ensues, with various horse-trading agreements forged and foiled over space and positioning. I read the paper. New Conservative leader Boris Johnson, freshly minted after defeating Jeremy Hunt (a middle manager, at best) is in the headlines again. The Financial Times’ front page lead states ‘Johnson Sticks to Brexit deal as faith rises in Westminster victory’. By contrast, a comment piece trailed on the paper’s masthead states, ‘Little England: Johnson’s Brexit deal could break the union.’

I flip to p23 and read the piece from Johnathan Powell, Tony Blair’s chief of staff from 1995 to 2007. He heralds a nightmarish future in which Brexit leads to turbulence in Northern Ireland and Scotland, raising the prospect of a ‘Little England government’ being left with just a ‘little England’ to govern. As the call goes out that boarding of the packed flight is complete, I realise with sheer delight that the seat next to me is free and immediately spread out. It feels like the greatest of joys.

The plane takes off on the two and a half hour journey to Gibraltar. We climb and climb over the Sussex countryside until all around us is just a hazy white, tinged with sky blue. The man in front of me shifts in his seat like a bear scratching on a tree. A member of the cabin crew staff, who appears as though she has got dressed for Instagram, leans over and patiently attends to someone complaining irritably about the lack of leg room. I relish, unashmedly, my two seat luxury.

The world comes back into view when we reach Spain, passing over Madrid and then taking a vertical path down towards Granada, with the peaks of the Sierra Nevada National Park in the far distance. The plane begins to descend slowly and I can make out the coast of southern Spain. Holiday hotspots of Malaga, Estepona and Marbella line the coast. The view from the plane window is then filled with blue. The vast azure of the Mediterranean merges with the powdery sky at the horizon. Giant ships and tankers appear as though they are floating on thin air, leaving rippled tracks in the sky like the hazy air ejected by jet engines.

The plane banks and then rights itself ready for the descent. I’m sat at the back of the craft and the movement feels brutal. A pensioner sitting behind me returns to her seat from a visit to the toilet and remarks to the nervous flyer next to her, “As long as we don’t crash backwards, we should be alright.” Outside, the ailerons wobble precariously in the turbulent air stream. The sun is setting slowly over distant islands dotted about in the sea like tossed rocks. It illuminates the clouds above in a nicotine glow. Then, the Rock emerges into view.

The plane starts to judder in the changing air. Buildings and apartment blocks shuffle into view. I can feel the nervous flyer behind me getting tenser as the plane shakes up and down like a car driving on an old dirt road. Down and down and down, it descends, and then it connects with the runway like a not particularly proficient BMX rider landing a jump. The brakes are sharply slammed on and the craft pitches and shifts as it rapidly sheds its momentum until reaching a crunching stop.
“Has he been here before?” the pensioner remarks to the cabin crew as they admit that this probably won’t go on the pilot’s ‘best landings’ show-reel. An explanation comes – something about cross-winds. The man behind has gone very quiet. He probably won’t be flying to Gibraltar again any time soon.

It is 7pm local time when I exit the airport and walk the short distance to get the number 10 bus to my hotel. The number 5 is sat waiting, but Google has told me to get the number 10 and I wouldn’t want to be subordinate to the digital overlords. The bus driver is smoking while he waits to go and so I ask him how much is a single to town. He tells me, just as I realise he is standing next a big sign saying the price. I make a joke of it. He smiles but clearly thinks I am an idiot.

Eventually, the number 10 heads off down Sir Winston Churchill Avenue, cutting across the runway, and towards town. Gibraltar – also known as The Rock, but referred more commonly to those familiar with the island by the shortened name, Gib – is a peninsula that jabs out like an infected thumb from the bottom of Spain. It is like an appendage that has been apprehended from the body, and as we will explore ahead, the itchy infection remains to this day.

On the bus we pass the Rock of Gibraltar on the left and the Victoria football ground to the right. The sun still shines down and it’s warm. Old school British red phone boxes sit on the pavement. The road signs are the British type. The traffic lights, too. It’s an odd, rather jarring mix. We pass a petrol station selling the rather unfortunately named, Gib Oil. Then Notre Dame School, which has long since disgorged its children for the day. Commuters whizz around on micro scooters on their way home from work.

The first of many thick stone walls of the old defensive reinforcements comes into view, leading here to the Waterport Casements area lightly filled with early evening drinkers. Onwards we go, past the quiet Khan’s Indian restaurant. Further up a group of Jehova’s Witnesses are packing up for the day. They appear jovial after a good shift’s soul saving, although there appear a lot of untaken copies of Watchtower still left on the stand.

Gleaming blocks of flats and offices line the route, eventually giving way to tight streets with houses and the odd restaurant. I am booked in at The Rock Hotel, a rather grand old hostelry perched on the hill so that most rooms are guaranteed a view out to sea. It has welcomed the great and the good over the years. Winston Churchill stayed here, as did Errol Flynn. Dwight Eisenhower was resident here while planning the invasion of North Africa in World War II. Sean Connery was a guest in 1962 after getting married to Diane Cilento in Gibraltar. And, from the celebrity photo gallery near the lifts, other ‘famous’ former customers include Chris Tarrant and someone who I think is a singer and maybe won The X Factor, or something?

The man on reception judges me instantly as obvious riff raff and gives a polite but brusque welcome as I check in. The room is nice enough, but it’s really all about the view. A balcony with chairs gives way to a sweeping panorama from the cliff side to the left, round via the port and over to the main town to the right. The sun is now setting and across the Bay of Gibraltar you can see Algeciras in Spain. Small boats zip in and out of the harbour. A giant superyacht is moored further down, shaped like a missile made of money. It’s all pretty idyllic, like a scene in a movie.

I sit on the balcony and watch as the evening turns to night. Lights start flicking on in the buildings and streets. The Heerema ‘Sleipnir’ semi-submersible crane vessel fixed in the bay suddenly switches on tens of lights dotted down its frame and crane, making it look like an industrial Christmas tree. The atmosphere is quiet and peaceful, with only the occasional noise of a car rumbling down Europa Road. My stomach gurgles. Like a prehistoric man with access to Google Maps, it is time to hunt down some dinner.

The pretty west side of Gibraltar is where the majority of its 32,194 population live. Little winding streets host boutique style shops. A few people are out and about. It feels safe and welcoming. Old boys in suits shuffle into wine bars. A group of tourists explore a souvenir shop selling British themed tatt. Two young Jewish boys walk ahead of me. One of them sings ‘God Save the Queen’ to the other. Familiar brands such as Debenhams, Holland & Barratt and Marks & Spencer line the street. A group of Spanish workers try to get a seriously long lorry around a corner despite it seemingly being impossible. Their motorbike police escort has dismounted and is looking on equally puzzled at the conundrum. I don’t wait to see how they manage it, but they pass me further down the way.

I eventually plump for Jury’s bar, a hybrid of pub and wine bar that has nice tables spilling into the street. They are all full, so instead I sit inside by the window. Jazz plays on the stereo. As soon as I sit down, a man called John strikes up a conversation with me. He’s friendly and animated, with his wispy hair vibrating with excitement as he talks. I barely have time to open the menu before I am locked into a conversation.

John was born in Gibraltar and has lived here his whole life, barring a short stint in England in the 1950s. He returned to Gibraltar just after the border between Gibraltar and La Linea in Spain was closed in 1969 by Francisco Franco, the Spanish dictator. That ushered in 13 years of isolation for The Rock that split families apart across the border, impoverished the area and even led to vital medicines becoming scarce at the hospital.
“I hated that as I wanted to come and go to Spain whenever I wanted. I liked the freedom,” John says, as I order the fish and chips and a glass of wine from the waitress.

As his wife comes to the table after ordering drinks, John tells a story from when he was studying art in Kingston Upon Thames. He explains that he did an Ouji board with an ‘African girl’ and was possessed by a demon from the experience. His wife is now holding her hand over his eyes at a migraine, real or imaginary.
“You got any kids?” I ask, hastily changing the subject. Mercifully, he does. Their ages range from 28 to 42. The oldest is a journalist, who writes for a local paper, The Olive Press. I remark that I am a journalist, too. He asks what I write about and I reply technology, doing a mental countdown in my head until he asks me how to fix his printer.
“So the problem, John, is that your printer’s using too much ink cleaning its heads. Most likely the absorber is full and that’s why it’s going through ink in no time,” I say. He appears captivated. I resist the urge to hold my hand over my eyes.

My food arrives and John takes that as his cue to end our conversation. He wishes me bon appetite. He seems a nice guy and I am relieved to hear that his demon was exorcised by someone in a market some years ago. He fetches me a copy of The Olive Press and points to a piece on page four written by his son. I read it as I eat. Headlined ‘Electoral Breakdown’ and published before the election on 17 October, it details the three main parties that contested it: Fabian Picardo’s incumbent Gibraltar Socialist Labour Party (GLSP), the Gibraltar Social Democrats (GSD) and newcomers, Together Gibraltar. Among its policy agenda, Together Gibraltar has pledged to legalise abortion – a concept that is as controversial in Gibraltar as it is Northern Ireland.

While from midnight on 22 October 2019, Northern Ireland would make abortion legal and start preparations for providing services in the principality, it’s a different story in Gibraltar. Under section 162 of the 2011 Crimes Act, having an abortion at the time of my visit was punishable by life imprisonment. Many women instead cross the border into Spain to have the procedure. Together Gibraltar, which also campaigned to legalise cannabis and give young people more of a say in public life and had a slogan of ‘vote with hope, not with fear’, managed to secure just one of 17 seats available, compared to 10 for the GLSP-Liberal alliance. Although, as The Olive Press reports, that may have been down to them alienating the unions with a supposed pro-business stance on various issues. The Gibraltar Social Democrats, who actively campaigned to keep life prison terms for abortion, secured six seats in the election.

Brexit was also a major issue in the election. Despite Picardo previously supporting Theresa May’s Brexit deal, some had accused him of trying to “halt the Brexit process”. Over the coming four year term, he pledged to lead Gibraltar through whatever comes next. In a speech to mark the victory, he said: “Our main role in these coming four years will be to sail this nation of ours safely through the uncharted waters of our departure from the European Union. We will sail our people securely through every potential variation of that process even its potential cancellation.”
I take a sip of my wine and think about John’s demon.

Be gone thy imperial shackles

“It’s another big day in Brexit,” the BBC news presenter says with a mix of excitement, tiredness and weary acceptance that this would most likely not be the only time that they would say that even this week. It’s 22 October 2019, and later today the government planned to stage a vote on its European Union (Withdrawal Agreement) Bill – referred to by some as the ‘WAB’. Vote for the deal and then the deadbeat Dad that is the UK could then try to wangle a half decent divorce agreement with its ex, MPs were being told (well, sort of).

As I wait for the cheap hotel kettle to boil so I could make a cup of instant coffee, the BBC reporter states that Johnson might have enough votes to get it through. However, it is expected to be much tighter when MP’s vote on the ‘programme motion’, a parliamentary term that essentially in this case means the right to ram the legislation through the Commons in just a matter of days.

Robert Jenrick, the Secretary of State for Housing, Communities and Local Government, was the sacrificial lamb who’d been sent on the BBC to sell the 110-page act and its passage through Parliament. As a fair amount of the deal was reheated leftovers of Theresa May’s deal (with nothing new for Gibraltar) he says that MPs’ have had enough time to consider it. They’ve moved quickly before with legislation, he argues. With barely a week to go to ‘B-Day’ on Halloween, however, it’s already proving a hard sell.

As a way of contrast, MPs had around a month to evaluate the Wild Animals in Circuses Act 2019 earlier in the year before it even went to the House of Lords. It’s easy to see why Parliamentarians were rather sceptical when they were afforded more time to debate whether Dumbo should be allowed in the circus than consider what is essentially legislation to shape the UK’s near, medium and long-term future.

As the morning burns away the last remnants of night outside the window, I switch off the news and head down to breakfast. Already underway is the sleepy yet chaotic gala of buffet-based gluttony. A waiter has a back-and-forth with a family in a tone rather too loud for this time in the morning. They seem to enjoy it, though. A man gets up from his table, goes to the buffet, comes back again, and then repeats the process seemingly 30 times in a row. Is he assembling his breakfast one item at a time? I drink coffee and try to ignore it.

Picking up my phone, I give the news another go. Jacob Rees-Mogg is repeating government doubts over objections about limited time to debate the deal.
“A king emperor left in 24 hours and we are removing an imperial yoke in over a week,” he says. The phone goes off. It’s time to leave. I exit the Rock Hotel into the chill of the morning air, tugging my collar around my neck for warmth. I head down Europa Road towards the southern tip of Gibraltar. The road winds along the cliff side until it reaches a fork that enables passage to either The Shrine of Our Lady of Europe or a 100 tonne gun. Sorry, Our Lady, but that’s no contest.

Tight streets form a network of capillaries feeding into the sea. A grand muse house has its black shutters swung open. Inside, a woman polishes an extensive collection of silver. I swing around past the South District Senior Citizens Club, a white box on Naval Hospital road, and then around the corner children’s voices gurgle out of the Loreto Convent School. Further on I go down to the coast. Housekeepers come and go from large blocks of flats, while gardeners tend to expansive gardens hidden behind high walls. The smell of fresh flowers fills the air. Few people working here actually live here. This is a wealthy part of town, and it exudes money from the streets like sweat from the pores.

At the 5th Rosia battery I stop and look through defensive slots in the thick walls. Fisherman stand on a pier made of rock jutting out into the sea. A canon nearby to me could blow them out of the water if it was still active. Gibraltar has a thing about fortifications. Further up the way is the previously mentioned Armstrong 100-ton Gun. I walk up there to take a look at it. What’s more to say? It’s just a really massive gun.

I return to my peregrination to the south of Gibraltar, Europa Point. Hugging the coastal road south in the still chilly morning air, I head through tunnels crudely hacked out of the rock so cars and people can pass through. I stop again at a recreation park, sitting on a concrete seat and looking out to sea at the giant tankers beyond, seemingly going nowhere in any sort of hurry. Walking onwards through the eerily quiet Keightley Way tunnel, I eventually emerge at Europa Point, just in time for the sun to come out and make me feel uncomfortably hot. I catch a moment to cool down as ‘Instructor Vinny’ swings his Vauxhall Corsa in a 180 degree turn while giving a nervous-looking youngster a driving lesson. The youngster takes over, and they drive off again: this time, very, very slowly.

The beautiful Trinity House lighthouse stands at the southernmost tip of Gibraltar, ever watchful over the Strait of Gibraltar. It casts a myopic gaze over to Cueta, a Spanish city on the north coast or Africa, and neighbouring Morocco. Control over the Strait was historically a highly coveted prize for naval powers. It was contested by the Kingdoms of Castile, Morocco and Granada in the 13th and 14th centuries. In 1704 the ‘grand alliance’ of England, the Dutch Republic and the Archduchy of Austria took the Rock as an Iberian outpost in the ongoing naval battle with France. It has remained under British control ever since.

Taking Gibraltar was a shrewd move, as the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 would increase shipping traffic through the Strait and enrich the Rock. It soon became a gateway to the whole world. Alongside the continued flow of shipping tankers in the Strait, Orcas have also been spotted here revelling in the rich feeding grounds. Black kites and honey buzzards are common visitors to Europa Point, along with the occasional Griffon Vulture and Short-toed Eagle. Yet, I’m more interested in the chattering flock of tourists that have just disgorged from six mini-buses at the point.

The buses are marked with Parody Tours, a somewhat ill-advised brand that was apparently established in 1941. The tourists, mostly from China, amble aimlessly towards the viewing platform to take enough photos that would break the average cloud storage solution. The area in front of Harding’s gun battery becomes a speed dating event for the view. Snacks are consumed, guides are read and endless selfies are taken. Then the tourists all pack up and move off in a vaguely coordinated procession.

Their next destination may be the Gotham Cave Complex, declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in July 2016, becoming the UK’s 30th such location. Or maybe they fancy going to The Shrine of Our Lady of Europe just around the corner. I walk there, passing the seemingly brand new Gibraltar Rugby stadium, ideally hoping that she doesn’t judge me too harshly for blowing her out for a big gun earlier.

The continent of Europe was dedicated to Our Lady of Europe in 1309, when a limestone stature of the Virgin was placed at this shrine. It was removed in 1333 after the Rock was taken by the Moors, but the Christian Shrine was returned in 1462 with a statue of Madonna and her child brought to the location. It would stand happily until 1704, when the British took the island and promptly decapitated both statues. Charming. The site would only return as the Shrine of Our Lady of Europe in 1961.

I head back towards the north of Gibraltar. On my way I pass a white Ford Transit van run by a removals and house clearance operator called Jean-Claude Van Man, a riff on the Belgian action star, Jean-Claude Van Damme. There’s a sillhoette of a man in a karate outfit performing a mid-air kick. It’s a perplexing image: does Jean-Claude karate kick all your stuff into the van? Or does he ring your doorbell, immediately kick you in the head and say, ‘that’ll be £50, mate.’? Either way, I think I’ll pass.

At a dry dock around the bay, the MN Pelican ship is in for maintenance. Not much seems to be going on, but a ‘ship spotter’ near me is eagerly taking photographs from the road. I wander onwards, past the Royal Gibraltar police headquarters. If you’re a fan of ‘bobbies on the beat’, you’ll like Gibraltar. Over a period of just three hours, I spot five police cars, two police bikes, a van and a police boat patrolling this territory of only around 32,000 people. According to the UK government’s own advice, violence and street crime are rare in Gibraltar. More incidents are reported involving people walking between La Linea and Gibraltar at night to cross the border. But despite these incidents, police presence on the border seems rather light.

Official figures in October 2019 indicated that just 33 people out of a population of around 32,000 in Gibraltar were out of work. Yet the reality is that most people who work in Gibraltar can’t actually afford to live here. Opposite the Lions FC football club of Gibraltar, with a bar fittingly called The Den, is Quay 31. This brand new block of flats will join others on Kings Wharf Quay. A one bed flat in Quay 31 would set you back more than £450,000. That would give central London a run for its money. All units in Quay 31 have apparently sold out before the building is even finished. Further up into town, the roads are clean and regularly maintained. Green spaces are watered and delicately manicured. Swish office blocks gleam in the afternoon sun. Designer goods are on sale in the boutiques. A police bike hits the ‘blues and twos’, speeding off to no doubt fetch a cat down from a tree.

At the north end of Line Wall Road, I drop down through the American memorial gate gifted to mark naval battles in World War I, and towards Queensway. Instead of going to one of the pretty cafes and bars around the area, I instead head straight for the Morrison’s megastore. It is 2pm and absolute chaos inside the supermarket. Shoppers appear to be stocking up for the apocalypse, but an Armageddon that will be catered with chocolate and alcohol. The café appears to be part building site, but undeterred I venture in. A harassed mother pushes a trolley, drags a high chair, holds a baby and shepherds a toddler at the same time. I marvel at the feat, and then offer to push the trolley for her. She gratefully accepts.

Around the corner is the port of Gibraltar. The giant Mein Schiff 2 cruise ship, operated by tour operator Tui, is moored up. Hundreds of cabins with glass windows and balconies line the flank of the craft. It’s a floating hotel sailing a culinary crusade over the seven seas, an all-inclusive yet ultimately exclusive orgy of excursions and excess. The century class Mein Schiff 2 weighs 77,000 tonnes, has 12 decks and can hold 1,912 passengers. It will depart at 6pm, but tomorrow the P&O Oceana will take its place. It can hold 2,016 people.

Around the corner from the port, the bottom of the airport runway comes into view. Nervous flyers are advised never to come here as there’s nothing but ocean after the runway ends. I cut up through the flat blocks to go to the airport. At the Albert Russo block a pet songbird can be heard serenading the afternoon sun. A first floor flat has flowers in earthenware pots placed rather precariously on a balcony. I walk past a flat on the ground floor with a ships wheel attached to the wall. I think it says ‘Welcome Abroad’ in a message on the wheel, but doubling back I realise it actually says ‘Welcome Aboard’. I can’t stop thinking about it.

The sleepy marina is ahead, with chain restaurants such as Pizza Express and Wagamama inside permanently moored boats on jetties. Further up the swish Sunborn cruise ship has been floated in and attached to the marina as a fixed, five-star hotel. You wonder if it watches in the near distance as the Oceana’s and Mein Schiffs of this world get to explore the seven seas, while it remains shackled to its permanent home. I exit the North District, past the Gibraltar World Trade Centre and over Winston Churchill Avenue once more, cutting directly across the airport runway. Traffic is held at either side when a plane takes off or lands, but otherwise it is just a steady stream of people, bikes and cars rolling either way.

As I reach the airport side, I see a faded and tatty billboard saying ‘Thank you for visiting Gibraltar’. It’s for Monarch airlines, which was the biggest airline to collapse in UK history when it went into administration in 2017. Around 100,000 passengers and holidaymakers were left stranded when the company fell, but that has since been surpassed by the around 150,000 who were left high and dry when Thomas Cook went out of business in September 2019.

Most people come to Gibraltar to see the sights – the Rock of Gibraltar, St Michael’s Cave, the Barbary macaques at the Ape’s Den. But I’m here to see the border (can you believe that I am single at the time of this visit?!?). Much Brexit focus has been on the border on the island of Ireland, but little has been said about the land border between Gibraltar and Spain. And that’s despite Gibraltarians being firmly against two things: Brexit and being part of Spain. Although the territory wasn’t able to vote in the 1975 UK European Communities membership referendum, legislation passed in 2002 allowed it to take part in European elections (somewhat bizarrely, as part of a constituency in the south west of England) and the 2016 referendum.

To say Gibraltarians didn’t sit on the fence would be an understatement. Remain was backed by 19,322 voters, some 95.91% of those who voted on a turnout of 83.64%. Large queues were reported at polling stations on the day of the vote. The UK area with the second highest remain vote was Lambeth, at a relatively indecisive 78.6%. In recent European elections the anti-Brexit Liberal Democrats won 77% of the vote in Gibraltar.

Gibraltarians are equally unequivocal on switching sovereignty to Spain. On 10 September 1967, Gibraltar had a referendum on whether to stay as a British overseas territory. An overwhelming 12,138 voters said ‘yes’ against just 44 who said ‘no’. The day is now marked as Gibraltar’s national day. In another ballot on 7 November, 2002, 98.97% voted to reject the prospect of Britain sharing sovereignty with Spain.

As a British Overseas Territory, Gibraltar would leave the EU in parallel with the rest of the United Kingdom. The Gibraltar border is outside the Schengen visa area and the European Customs Union, so in theory little should change for the Rock. However, many here fear that such a move would result in Spain attempting to gain control. And in that case, the battle line would be drawn at the border.

The Gibraltar border, close to the airport and looking a bit like a petrol station, would be the demarcation line between a new Brexit Britain and the European Union. When I visit, flags of the United Kingdom and the European Union flutter on the Gibraltar side of the border, with the flag of Spain visible over the other side in La Linea (along with the golden arches of McDonalds). There’s no inspection point for goods, instead they’re scrutinised at the port in Algeciras. A hard Brexit could mean that perishable goods would need to be inspected at the border. Smuggling could be an issue, but the geographic limitation is always present of how those goods would get back to the UK considering it is a long flight away. Rather, the bigger concern rests on whether greater checks would impact the movement of people.

Each day, 28,500 people on average cross the border, including 15,000 workers making the daily journey to Gibraltar for work. More than 9,000 of them are Spanish, according to estimates by Gibraltar’s authorities, but around 2,000 are understood to be British nationals in Spain for the cheaper standard of living. Currently, people are just waved through, but a no-deal Brexit, or even an unfavourable deal, could lead to long delays and a significant impact on both people and local Gibraltar businesses.

The comparisons to Northern Ireland are obvious, but actually Gibraltar is a very different scenario. Around double the number of workers cross the Irish border each day, but that is 500km long with around 200 known crossing points. By contrast, the border between Gibraltar and Spain is just 1.8km with a single narrow crossing point. People currently breeze through on bikes, in cars, on foot, even on microscooters. Most would be passing back the other way at the end of the day so you’d imagine they will be familiar to the guards that work here. There’s a free flow of traffic both ways. It’s about as friction free as you can get.

Some in government were keen to limit free movement over the border post-Brexit. The notorious ‘Operation Yellowhammer’ planning document for a no-deal Brexit outcome indicated that people on Gibraltar could face a four hour delay getting over the border. Gibraltar understandably wanted to avoid this. There have even been tensions between Mr Picardo and UK government ministers in the past, with some accusing him of trying to derail the Brexit process. After the government had a sly dig at Gibraltar’s allegedly poor preparation for a no-deal Brexit, Picardo fired back: “It is a bit rich for those who are getting us into this mess to tell us that we are not ready to face the worst eventualities of what they told us would never materialise.”

At the time of my visit in late 2019, border-crossing workers were already reeling from a sharp fall of the pound against the Euro, which had led to a relative drop in wages. Those old enough could also remember back to when the border was last closed in 1969 and the damage that caused. No one realistically wants more years of isolation. Spain has a veto in place that any future relationship between the UK and EU will only apply to Gibraltar if Spain and the UK agree. But equally, Spain would like to regain sovereignty over Gibraltar after it last held it more than 300 years ago.

The Spanish government has said that a no-deal Brexit would hurt Gibraltar, but it would also no doubt hurt its own La Linea. It was reported that during the closure of the border in the 1960s and 70s, around 40,000 people migrated away from the town. On Sunday 20 October 2019, more than 2,000 expats staged a protest at La Línea de la Concepción – near the border with Gibraltar – over Boris Johnson’s withdrawal deal agreed with the EU. They called for a second referendum to give the public another say. The march was attended by the mayors of La Linea, Los Barrios and San Roque, and more than 2,000 British ex-pats. The still waters of the Bay of Gibraltar run deep.

Brexit for breakfast

“We just need to get this thing through. What are they playing at?” a man fires over the breakfast table at his companion while the other man tries to apply more butter to a butter croissant. “They’ve had three years. Three years!” He holds a hand in the air in incredulity.
They both agree that Boris Johnson is a liar and then head off to the buffet to restock on breakfast items.
Across from me a couple are also talking about Brexit. He is of the ‘let’s just get out now’ school of thought. She’s the ‘think of the children’ variety. The waiter comes over with coffee and, like the good British people that they are, they stop and are all smiles yet total silence as the waiter does his job. As soon as he is out of the ear shot the argument resumes.

It’s Wednesday, 22 October, and I’m back in the dining room of the Rock Hotel. Apparently Churchill dined here…oh wait, I already said that. It’s just after 8am. The blueish bruise of dawn is still throbbing away from the previous night’s action. It’s cold outside and the patio doors are closed to keep out the chill. At around 7pm UK time the previous evening, the government finally won a vote on getting a Brexit deal agreed by Parliament. The commons voted in favour of the deal with a majority of 30, but the win % breakdown was: yes, you guessed it – 52% yes to 48% no. For Number 10, though, a win is a win. However, like a stumbling drunk first locating his house keys and then tripping over the cat and going over head first into a bush, the government then lost the ‘programme motion’ vote within minutes. This effectively meant getting Brexit done by 31 October this year was nigh on impossible.

Talk of the latest development in the process buzzes around the elegant dining room. An old boy enters and is seated. The waiters make a fuss of him, but he barely makes eye contact. They know his usual order, he’s clearly a regular. Gibraltar is a wealthy place, but its prosperity appears to come from assets more than income. Like Guernsey, Jersey and other locations in Britain’s still expansive territorial web, it’s a place where wealth comes to reside and be served.

As with many British ex-patriots, those in Gibraltar at the time had the best of both worlds: they escape the rotten British weather, but retain the rights of the European Union, including free access to Spain. They are European, but also British. They can bask in the sunshine, but also keep using Sterling, shopping in Marks & Spencer and singing God Save the Queen. And that means residents of this spit of land jutting into the Mediterranean have a lot to lose from Brexit, and little now to gain.

Leaving the Rock Hotel with its faintly stuffy old world charm I head out into the morning chill. I put my headphones on and play the latest episode of the BBC’s Brexitcast. I listen as the presenters entertainingly break down the latest developments. I wonder how long it will be before one or all of Laura Kuenssberg, Katya Adler, Adam Fleming and Chris Mason end up on Celebrity Masterchef, Strictly Come Dancing or some other reality TV show. Maybe a version of Homes Under the Hammer in which Laura berates some MPs for buying a small bit of land on the coast of Spain without reading the 110-page legal pack (if you got that joke, you clearly watch as much daytime TV as I do).

I curl my path around Europa Road, past a small cemetery holding the remains of those who died during the Battle of Trafalgar, and onto Main Street. It’s only just past 9am but it’s busy on the street. A woman is sweeping up outside her café as a delivery arrives. She chats to the delivery driver, gesticulating wildly as I approach.
“We had the certainty and now this? Why would they do this?” she says. The man shrugs in resignation, and starts unloading the delivery. Further ahead I pass the Brexit information centre on 323 Main Street opposite John Mackintosh Hall. It’s stamped with a big red sign saying GET READY on the window, like a final warning on an electricity bill. The door of the office is open and the lights are on, but the place is deserted.

On Winston Churchill Avenue the traffic is mostly people heading into Gibraltar. I walk the other way from the flow of cars, motorbikes, bicycles and people on foot pouring steadily into the Rock for work. My flight is at 11.35am and I arrive at around 10am, so I take the time to watch the border. Cyclists barely slow down as they flash their passport or ID card to the checkpoint as they go past. I reflect on the fact that clogging this up with bureaucracy could be devastating. These are people just trying to live their lives, to get to work, to earn a living, to exist. Even the tiniest of friction could negatively impact them and make their lives harder. No one really wants a no-deal Brexit, but it feels impossible at this moment in late 2019 to rule anything out. If such a scenario did transpire, then people in Gibraltar might find themselves stuck between the Rock and a hard place.

Next up, our final stop (coming soon, lockdown depending…)