In the halls of Seville's Bellas Artes

The trouble with writing is that it can seem so trivial at times. Outrage, from the sublime to the simplest basics. Having taken on the role of CM's special representative and switched the 

lights out on over 30 years of journalism - sometimes exhilarating sometimes, forgive me, chronic, I felt I needed some time off.  A year would have been great, a month seemed reasonable.... A week will do.

When I look back I know there are things I covered well and things which could have been better. My only regret really, in terms of stories, is that I was often so sucked into our collective naval gazing I was unable to carve out time for stories I was telling other journalists from abroad, such as the BBC, were the big stories of a decade's time, over a decade ago.

It haunts me that we are so focused on the niceties of day to day life on our Rock that we don't always remind ourselves of our geographical reality. Africans have been drowning in the Strait in a continuous dark and silent flow for many, many years. Those who do not fade down into the ancient arms of the Mediterranean currents, end up bobbing in the culture of abuse that has sustained Andalusian needs at a time of austerity. Africans toil the beds, soil and mattress, of the region's black economy.

Gibraltar may be small and trivial to the bigger picture of this harsh landscape, but we cannot ignore its growing reality.

So yes. That is a story we ignore to our peril. 

In that, our relationship with Spain remains a challenge. Like a political remake of Jurassic Park we have found ourselves in the bizarre situation of being threatened by Tyrannosaurus Margallo through the frontier gate that he is so keen to close.

As I headed up the Ronda road for my escape into the mountains the thought of those poor people thrust into the deep into their own self- sponsored watery graves, seemed to make trivial Spain's investment in having its boats dodging provocatively through Gibraltar's waters.  

The other failure, but not through lack of trying,  has been that of fostering genuine human relations with our neighbours that transcend the old political sores.

As I strolled through Carmona, much as the author of Don Quijote had once done, it struck me that Sr Margallo's own battles with windmills look increasingly like turning into the beams that will, despite him, lead to supporting the building of good realisation of Gibraltar's great potential.

The dedicated Paco Oda ploughs on in the apparent hope that elections in Spain will pass before any final move is made on the very successful Gibraltar Instituto Cervantes. Sharing culture is an act of peace.

Having myself, through editorials sharing, on a reciprocal basis, column space with one time Europa Sur editor Juan Jose Tellez, always advocated dialogue and cultural links, I had been, in this dull Margallo era, tempted to give up on that. Will Spaniards easily give up their obsession with us... i doubt it.

The pride of place at the Museo de Bellas Artes goes to our own Gibraltarian artist Gustavo Bacarisas. Posters and booklets are printed with his work and there is open acknowledgement of his being born in Gibraltar. How can Spain so consciously reject our cultural contribution to the wealth of this region now when it was clearly accepted almost a century ago.
A new Spain should recognise the value of our small distinct nation and respect that distinction.

Bacarisas painted, well he is a llanito, the beautiful women of Seville.
Culture should be put to the fore and politics left aside.

And still. That dark, secret flow of death arrives at dream shores that we fail, blindly fighting over history, to protect. There are more important things we should all be focused on, not least the human disaster at out shores.

As Margallo travels the globe believing himself a superhero, he fails to to see the greater picture.

When he goes, better people should try. We are them.