Even crossing the border, everything feels duller.
Overnight, the temperature dropped from 25 to 18 degrees – and the mood dropped with it.
I sip a coffee and chat with two people behind the counter. They only come here to work, and without me saying a word, they confirm my feeling:
Gibraltar, once a place of wonder, now feels like a flashy facade for duty-free shops and cruise ship crowds.
Here, the consequences of Brexit are hard to ignore.
Many Spaniards who work in Gibraltar have to cross the border every single day – a tedious routine, made worse by the fortress-like atmosphere. The peninsula feels like a militarised cage, fenced in and heavily guarded.
I wander the streets, consider climbing the Rock – or paying nearly 50 pounds for the cable car ride.
In the end, I choose neither. I’ve seen enough primates for one day.
At the marina, retired Brits sip gin on houseboats, basking in the Spanish sun.
The pubs are packed with British tourists – loud, tipsy, and thrilled to shout over each other. A strange kind of expat utopia – or maybe just escapism with a Union Jack.
And to top it off, I feel a cold coming on.
No busking today.
I’ll head to Ronda and prescribe myself a few days of rest.
Too many impressions, too many conversations – time to let it all settle.
