for ever. I'd have to do more walking, I'd forgotten how rewarding it could be.
The ground became rocky outcrops of grey, porous boulders, probably volcanic in origin and the air was heavy with the perfume of rosemary.
It was hot. I took off my T-shirt and tied it round the strap of the knapsack I was carrying. It contained my camera and a small amount of food. And my Swiss army knife, of course; I never go anywhere without my Swiss army knife. I'm determined to use everything on it, one day.
There was no wildlife of any sort to be seen, the probable explanation lying in the liberal scattering of shotgun cartridges I came across.
Plenty of wild flowers were growing, though, including some spectacular lilies. I took photographs of them. One day, when I retired, I'd learn all their names.
The lower summit was reached quicker than I'd expected, but I wasn't complaining. I decided to have elevenses. I unpacked the bag in the middle of a big, flat rock, so that any marauding creepy-craw lies could be warded off. I was high above the coastal towns, with the Mediterranean stretching like a sheet of beaten gold into the distance. A crusty bread roll, with molten butter, was followed by rough pate and black grapes. I slit open the grapes with the small blade of the knife the one I don't use for skinning crocodiles flicked out the pips and stuffed them with pate. Heavenly!
They exploded like sweet-and-sour flavour-bombs against my tastebuds. I wished I'd brought a ton of them. The kindest thing I can say about the lukewarm Seven-Up I washed the lot down with is that it hadn't travelled well.
Soon I was walking in the shadow of the main hill. The ridge was really a broad saddle back and the going was easy. At its steepest I could touch the rocks in front of me, but it wasn't necessary to use my hands to climb with. Then the slope flattened out and I emerged into the brilliance of the summit plateau.
I took in great gulps of the clear air and slowly rotated, my arms held out sideways. There were another three or four days of holiday left and I resolved to spend them out walking, not wasting my time looking for Cakebread. The view, all three hundred and sixty degrees of it, was breathtaking. Inland was a vast, arid plain, with mountains at the other side and specks of white indicating the presence of villages. I'd have to buy a decent local map.
I fitted the telephoto lens to the camera and began to pan around the horizon. The lens worked like a low- powered telescope, giving a view slightly better than the naked eye. I picked out the inland villages, then slowly turned in a clockwise direction. To the north were some mountain peaks with snow on them, glaring in the noonday sun. I lowered the camera, but I could barely see them unaided.
They must be the Sierra Nevada, I thought. I resumed panning, down the coast towards the hotel where I was staying. A few boats were tracking up and down, but most were stationary in the water, the occupants fishing or, more probably, just sunbathing. Down below, people were ordering their midday chips with chips, and embarking on the alcoholic trail that would lead to oblivion in about twelve hours' time. Up here the silence was exalting. I swung the camera down the coast, and Marbella swam into view. I focused beyond it, into the unknown. I couldn't remember what lay at the other side of Marbella.
It soon came back to me, though. There it was, like a full stop at the end of a sentence, or the buffers at the end of a railway track. The blue bulk of the familiar shape of the Rock of Gibraltar reared upwards, marking the southernmost tip of continental Europe. The Sierra Nevada to the north and Gibraltar to the south so much reward for so little effort. I peered at the Rock again, and as I did so, adjusted the focus to see what was beyond. To the left of it, across the water, a range of blue hills was barely discernible against the glare of the sky, one peak slightly higher than the others. I lowered the camera and thought about it. They must be the Atlas Mountains, in North Africa; Morocco in fact. On the other side of those hills stretched five thousand miles of the Dark Continent. I'd never seen it before, but I was far from being immune to its allure.
I was gazing at the Pillars of Hercules, once thought to be the end of the world. I stood there, stupefied. 'PH,' I said to myself. 'The Pillars of bloody Hercules.'
I was down the hill in well under half the time it had taken me to go up. I called into the hotel room to have a quick shower and collect my passport and wallet, and was on the road again in Olympic qualifying time.
Chapter Ten
The best suggestion we had managed during our brainstorming session had been 'public house'. Nigel narrowed the field somewhat with 'Poste House', while Sparky's contribution could be ignored, as it was unlikely that multi-million-pound art deals would be transacted in public toilets. I'd been thinking in terms of a public house of unknown name, but did I now know that name? Four hours after leaving the mountaintop I parked on a huge area of tarmac at the end of the isthmus that links the Rock with the mainland. An R.A.F Nimrod was standing at the other side of the road. As I was locking up, an eight-year-old mafioso sidled up to me and said something that included the words 'money' and 'car'.
I said: 'Go to hell, Miguel,' and climbed back in. I drove towards the customs post with the intention of impressing the incumbent with my warrant card and asking him if I could leave the Jag outside his window, but he waved me straight past. I decided that it would save a walk and pressed on. I soon regretted it: the place was chock-a-block with tourists and looking for a parking place was like trying to find charity in Hull. Then I saw him. He was big, bonny and smiling: a wonderful British bobby, big hat and all. I pulled up alongside and flashed my card. I was deferential, though; he was the boss as far as I was concerned.
'I'm only on holiday,' I told him, 'but I'd be grateful if you could help me with a parking place for a couple of hours.'
'No problem, sir. Leave it in the visitor's spot at the station.
That's what they usually do.'
'Fantastic. Where's the station?'
He started to point, then decided it was complicated and maybe he'd better come with me. The complication was one right turn, but he enjoyed the ride, and he let them know inside who I was. I deliberately didn't ask him if Pillars of Hercules meant anything. I preferred to explore; that way you discovered incidental things that otherwise you wouldn't have come across. There'd be plenty of time for asking if I became stuck.
I round it long before reaching the 'What am I doing here?' point. I wandered up and down a couple of streets the couple of streets and there it was. Tucked between a shop selling Hong Kong tablecloths and one with windows filled with expensive pottery figures was the only pub in the colony that didn't sound as if it belonged in the Cotswolds.
Inside, though, it was pure Heart of England, from the glass riding boots in the inglenook fireplace, to the busts of William Shakespeare on the beer engines. It was moderately busy. The waiter on this side of the bar looked Spanish, but the man behind, presumably the landlord, was all Anglo-Saxon. He was big, with bare, pink arms that resembled pigs' carcasses. Round his neck was a gold chain that you could have used to drown a St. Bernard, and on one wrist he wore a bracelet that had been carved straight out of the ingot with a blunt chisel.
'Good afternoon, sir. What would you like?'
Pleasant enough manner, though his voice was surprisingly light. He had blond hair and eyebrows that were paler than his skin. I ordered a half of lager and passed the minimum of pleasantries with him. The other clientele gave the appearance of being holiday-makers: young couple, three lads, a few older couples. Nobody with a violin case, drinking screwdrivers. I ordered a ham sandwich. York ham, of course.
When he brought it to me I said: 'I was supposed to meet a friend here on Tuesday, but I don't know if he meant last Tuesday or next Tuesday.
You didn't notice a big, fat fellow hanging around, did you?'
He placed my change on the table. There was no visible reaction. 'No, there wasn't anybody in like that.' I asked for another lager, and when he came back with it he said: 'This friend of yours, does he have a name?'
'Yes.' I rocked back in my chair so that I could stare him in the face, and said: 'He's called Cakebread, Aubrey Cakebread.'
He held my gaze and replied: 'Sorry, never heard of him.'
