Searching for a small haven

Four months in Gibraltar, and, having turned the flat over three times to visiting relatives, I am now looking forward to creating some kind of routine, carving out a small place where I can do all those things I need to do each day, and hiding away in some inconspicuous corner, where the rest of the family can't find me, so that I can get back to writing my book. Today I think I might have found the place - if not for writing up copious research notes, at least for organising my thoughts and perhaps rediscovering some vestiges of my eloquence.

Tucked away on the eastern side of the Rock, with nothing facing it except the blue vastness of the Mediterranean, Catalan Bay is a simple delight. Today the sea is a sparkling sapphire with shimmering pinpricks of sunlight. It moves with only a gentle lapping of the seashore, green waves licking over the gold of the sand, like the breathing of a beast deep in sleep. The Mamela, that rock that thrusts out of the sea, firm and rounded like a young woman's breast for which it takes its name, is more exposed than usual today, the water just caressing its base and the heat of the sun warming its tip.

The Caleta Hotel stands perched on the edge of the cliff as it curves away from the Bay towards the south. It is like a large, white seabird poised as if for flight, just waiting for the right time to take off.

Small, wooden boats lie idle on the sand, or propped up against the walls on the side of the road, a memory of the distant days when the village thrived on the fish caught in the Bay. The Virgin, perched atop the small church still peers down onto the sands to give her blind blessing to all seafarers, although nowadays she stands back, inbetween two apartment blocks.

Some of the apartment blocks are being refurbised and are encased in ugly scaffolding. Nevertheless, the hammer and clank and grind of construction is dull here, as is the noise of passing cars, more of a hum here, unlike the incessant roar of the traffic that afflicts the western side of the Rock.

The sounds of daily life here: the chink of glasses at the bars, the call of the corner-shop seller, the raised voices of English tourists trying to make themselves understood, forgetting that here most people speak English and are not deaf, all are dulled into insignificance by the murmer of the sea and the cry of the gulls clinging to life on the sheer mountainside that towers over this huddle of homes at its feet.

I think that, for a while, a little tired as I am from the bustle and aimless noise of Main Street, the choking of the fumes on Queensway, Westside and Market Square, the arid abandonment of Europa Point and the offensive opulence of Ocean Village, I will make this my retreat, my haven.

Human rights matter

I've not thought of myself as highly political for many years, not since the coal miners' strike of the 1980's and various anti-nuclear demonstrations I went on as a student. But recently I have been incensed to the point of writing letters to newspapers criticising Gibraltar's government for its dismissive attitude towards the workers of Moroccan background who, literally, keep the wheels of Gibraltar's society turning. These people, many of whom have lived here for decades, work hard and long hours, earn the lowest wages, live in the most dreadful housing and have few rights, least of all citizenship rights, which would enable them freedom of travel in and out of Spain, freedom to vote and have a say in who governs them. They have little access to public services, despite paying taxes and social insurances, and many are not allowed to have their wives and families join them. And that is the tip of the iceberg.

That in a small place like Gibraltar there are practical difficulties in integrating everyone who wants to join this community is undeniable. But I firmly believe in the principles of equal opportunities and had to speak out against the obvious discrimination that the Gibraltar government applies towards Moroccan workers. I've written two letters so far. I was surprised the first was published because it was long and outspoken. The second may not see the light of day because it is even more critical than the first. But I am lucky to live where I can speak as I feel, and I have a duty to speak out against injustice.

Readers can follow the links to the Gibraltar Chronicle, Panorama (another local newspaper) and The Guardian, where this issue is covered in more detail.

There is no place in 21st century Gibraltar, or Europe, for discrimination of any sort.

A gifted daughter is itself a wonderful gift.

These are pictures painted by my daughter, Jessica. She's waiting to start art college in September and in the meantime, she paints and draws, and takes fabulous photos.

The flower on a yellow background is called "Be Happy". It is cheerful, as its maker. It's acrylic on canvas and she sent me the image on a dull day when the tendons in my foot - badly inflamed - were giving me particular grief. It worked, and brightened my day.

This one on the left is a play with space and shape and colour. It explores creativity itself, the moulding of something out of nothing - make of it what you will! For me, it is an explosion of energy. As is Jessica. Her art is an emanation of herself.

I loved the one below: Red Woman, and just had to use it as my profile picture. Acrylic on canvas, it's simplicity belies an undercurrent of sensuality. I love the way Jess is exploring her burgeoning womanhood. I firmly believe she will be a really good artist some day.

Jessica is putting some of her art for sale, because she is struggling so much to get a job, and I so much admire her for that - she is far more mature than she realises, and far more so than I was at her age.

Fresh Air

As I keep telling the kids: get out there for some fresh air, it's good for you. And, if it keeps them away from the TV / computer / playstation and Xbox, it's good for my electricity bill. I guess if I extend that argument further, I use less power, which uses less carbon-based fuel and reduced emission. So it makes the air fresher, which is good for the kids. So the logic takes me full circle.

The problem is that "the powers that be" don't seem to share the simplicity of that notion, and, in fact, the air that we're pumping about our lungs are full of diesel fumes from ships, carbon monoxide from vast quantities of largely unnecessary traffic - has anyone tried breathing and walking along Queensway all at the same time? It borders on the distressing - and, the icing on the cake, is topped by unknown, but desperately noxious emissions from the oil refinery across the Bay. It's in the picture, the infamous Cepsa oil refinery, known as one of the dirtiest refineries in Europe.

I'm really enjoying carving out a new life for my family in Gibraltar: my husband, my two under-10s, and any of the older four who chose to stay in England to pursue further education or jobs, and whom I miss terribly. I hope some, or all of them, will join us here soon. But that does not mean that I am blind to some of the more negative aspects of living in Gibraltar, and serious air pollution is one of them. The quality of the air we breathe daily is so poor, that it almost makes a mockery of the valiant attempts of local groups to reduce the devastating effects on the population's helalth from tobacco smoke. I wonder if anyone can say whether a few fags a day is any worse than trying to breathe when a north- westerly blasts in those sulphurous fumes from the refinery. I may be particularly sensitive, but the air seems oily on those days, sticky against my lungs. Thank goodness for the persistant easterlies that we've been having lately!