WATCHING the sunrise from the top of the Rock, sprawled on my favourite crag and nibbling on an onion, I wonder if there is anywhere more idyllic.
It’s my home, and it’s been my ancestors’ home since Moorish times, way before our Rock became British. And, frankly, I can see no reason to ever move from this sun-drenched stone.
Although for 30 of my more mischievous friends, there was simply no choice. I suppose they took it too far, became too confident, lost sight of what really matters… all I know is the naughtiest ones were taken in the night to a far-away place called ‘Scotland’, a place where it never stops raining. Farewell, my cousins.
Over here the day begins when the big shiny, metallic hulks of metal drift into the harbour below. Some call them cruise ships, but to me they’re simple a mouthwatering delivery service.
A day of glorious gastronomy awaits. I just know there will be chocolate, strawberries, sandwiches, oh and maybe some of those choc chip cookies from Morrisons!
An all-you-can-eat buffet is on its way, hand-delivered by hordes of tourists ascending the Rock via cable car, jeep or on foot.
It makes me laugh to remember my early childhood, when I actually struggled to open zips on rucksacks. These days I’m a pro, the best on the Rock. I sit preening myself on the wall, posing for pictures and lapping up the attention. But then, like a flash, I’m in a handbag rooting out the Rolos (a particular favourite of mine), amid laughter and shrieks.
Sure, the keepers up here are kind enough to provide a daily supply of fresh oranges, apples, onions, and cabbage. But you can’t beat a warm, chewy Rolo, with a bit of silver foil for added crunch.
Anyway, after a hard day of thieving, eating, posing, eating and swinging around, I’m always shattered. I know some of my friends are beginning to head down into the town area, but I have no intention of ever leaving my home atop the Rock. Not with the threat of ‘Scotland’ looming over us.