Rock of Gibraltar behind me, Algeciras, Spain. December 2019
The slow train to Green Island
The plane landed late enough in Madrid that before I even I made it to my hotel in front of Atocha Station, the ticket windows had closed. The next day was the Saturday before Christmas, and I was genuinely worried about getting a ticket even if it was the on slow train south. I slept fitfully because of the next day's early departure and general travel jitters. Madrid was COLD and rainy, much colder than Duhok. In short, it was miserable start to things.
The next morning I woke, showered and checked out in time to be there when the station ticket kiosk opened. I DID get a ticket and had plenty of (too much) time to kill. As a tribute to past trips in and around Madrid, I got a cafe con leche and pastry to go and sat under the greenery of Atocha's little rainforest in the pre-dawn gloom. Not too fun, but at least I had a ticket and, luckily, Atocha is one of my favorite train stations in Europe. Things could have been MUCH worse (like sitting outside in the cold rain on a platform). Spanish National Railway RENFE's online ticketing site is notoriously difficult to use outside of the EU, so there had been no option but to buy the ticket on arrival. Normally, that is never an issue, but with the holidays looming, I had a real concern about getting stuck in Madrid. There was no time for a misstep with an "adventure" looming.
The train left on time and clattered along south during the predawn hours. Most of the time, these local trains have few passengers, but this train was about 75% capacity. Sunlight finally revealed that it was still rainy and gloomy. It took three hours to get to Antequera where, at the old junction of Bobadilla, the train entered a building where it was lifted car by car to change the bogies (wheels) to a different gauge for the last bit of the journey down to Algeciras. This alone indicated to me that I was off to some forgotten corner of Spain whose rail gauge had not yet even been updated to European standard. The changeover took about 20 minutes and soon we were on our way again, past lovely little Ronda, and then down a winding river valley through many tunnels to the coast and Algeciras, the end of Spain.
Before arriving at the end of the line, the train line hugs the water and passes a lot of port and industrial activity. The port inside the huge Bay of Gibraltar is one of the largest in Europe and it shows. From the train window, through the mist and rain, I saw across the water, a mountain - the Rock of Gibraltar. I had no idea it was so big. Now all those idioms in English that use "As xxx as the Rock of Gibraltar" suddenly made so much more sense. A visit there was in my mind, but first I had to get to Algeciras.
Ask any Spaniard about Algeciras and they will say "horrible place", "overrun by immigrants", or "dangerous". For the first time on my travels in Spain, I felt a little worried about my destination; so much so, that I booked a room at the "Mir Octavio Hotel", an old place right in front of the train station and conveniently next to the bus station for my onward trip to Tarifa. Cozier and cheaper hotels no doubt existed in Algeciras, but with such negative press, I didn't want to be a wandering tourist in a bad area. I imagined myself a stray tourist roaming downtown Newark, New Jersey looking clueless. I did NOT want that.
Al Jezirah al Khadra (Green Island), during the Muslim conquest of Spain, this city was rechristened by the Moors. A place previously built by the Romans and rebuilt by the Byzantines, the Moorish name was the one that stuck to become "Algeciras". From the small and uninspiring train station, I dashed across the parking area through the rain and checked into the hotel. I had a quick bite nearby and inside my faded luxury hotel hoped the weather would clear for a little exploration.
Before sunset a break came in the rain and I had a walkabout in this derided corner of Spain. Algeciras IS a working city filled with real people doing real jobs. The city's central Mercado de Abastos (fresh food market) is a working market for the people who live there, so unlike the gentrified Mercado San Miguel in central Madrid now filled only with high-end tapas bars (but I do love that place). Glimpses of opulence pop up around the city from the days when the port was a jumping off point for ocean liners. The big, old Hotel Reina Cristina appears like the "Hotel California" album cover come to life. Clearly, Algeciras had a glamorous past that gave way to an important industrial and un-glamorous present. One thing was for certain though - the danger factor seemed to be about zero. I felt sad for the Algecireños whose hometown is saddled with the image of the armpit of Spain. People were nice, food was good (and cheap), and it was easy to walk around - so undeserving of such negative press.
Down by the passenger docks (near the original Green Island, now gone, absorbed into the port complex) a few clear views of the bay with Gibraltar looming behind begged for a selfie. I was very impressed. It made sense to me now why the Brits wanted to keep that piece of real estate at all costs. Whoever controls Gibraltar really does control who enters and exits the Mediterranean. These days Gibraltar is a British military base that can be visited somewhat inconveniently from Spain (who barely recognizes British sovereignty). I really did want to have a look.
[from FB Post: December 20, 2019]
Gale force winds and rain. I am happy I walked around yesterday. The Port is closed today and tomorrow. “Maybe” the ferries will run again on Sunday (sure hope so). I may have to drown my sorrows in tapas and red wine all day....
I never made it. Fate and ridiculousness intervened on my behalf. Normally, I love places like Gibraltar - bits of history stuck in the present (like Hong Kong used to be). The next day, however, basically pissed down rain all day. Add to that, the bus schedule was confusing due to several companies plying the route AND the buses only dropped passengers at the "border" which had to be walked across. Gibraltar Air Base's large runway parallels the border, so that is a big open space to transit before getting to Gibraltar "town". AND THEN, Gibraltar uses "Gibraltar Pounds" (I am not making this up), which are exchanged for Euros at a bad rate AND are later unusable in the UK (wtf?), so they must be changed back. I realize that Gibraltar is a large and important military installation, but it also seemed like a tourist rip off - spending a lot of money just to say "I have visited the Rock of Gibraltar". Had the weather been sunny, I might have done it, but in bad weather, with a bad exchange rate, and a longish walk in the rain (or a very expensive taxi for a short ride), I gave it a miss.
[from FB post: December 20, 2019]
In my research for my rained out trip to Gibraltar I found:
1) they have their own pounds, only good for Gibraltar;
2) they only accept pounds from ENGLAND (not Scottish, Welsh, or N. Irish)
3) they rip you off if you use Euros (but happily accept them)
Yeah, kinda happy Mother Nature made me miss it.
The above photo is the closest I ever got to the Rock, but it was fine because Algeciras turned out to be an OK place anyway. The trip was just beginning...