ONE: THE PILLARS OF HERCULES

The Rock of Gibraltar is part of Plato’s most tantalising clue: that Atlantis was an island that once sat “in front of the mouth” of the Pillars of Hercules. Ancient accounts place these columns at Gibraltar and Jebel Musa, a peak across the straits in Morocco, or Monte Hacho, a smaller mountain slightly farther east.

To get to Gibraltar, I took the high-speed train from Madrid to Seville, then drove a leisurely three hours south through the kaleidoscope of Andalusia: forests of gigantic white windmills like upturned boat propellers; rocky bluffs dotted with arthritic-looking cork trees; empty medieval towns dominated by hulking churches, with plazas papered in flyers for flamenco lessons.

At a 9am roadside coffee stop, the cafe was filled with middle-aged men drinking large brandies on ice, while the proprietor’s wife sold freshly picked asparagus in bunches as thick as my thigh.

When I arrived in La Linea de la Concepción, just before the border of Gibraltar, I circled the

majestic bullring, parked on the street, dropped a few euros in a meter, wished the traffic matron a buen día and walked through border control into British territory.

Gibraltar, ceded by Spain to Britain 300 years ago under the Treaty of Utrecht, is essentially a 1950s London theme park — red phone boxes, helmeted bobbies, fish ’n’ chips specials — all set amid palm trees and overshadowed by the photogenic 426.7metre slab of limestone familiar to Prudential customers. According to Greek myth, the Rock (as everyone in Gibraltar calls it) had been hurled there by Hercules (Heracles in the original Greek) as part of the strongman’s 12 labours.

In the spirit of Herculean tasks, I decided to skip the cable car ride and ascend on foot.

The residential area of Gibraltar squeezes most of its 30,000 residents into a claustrophobic 6.4 square kilometres. Walking along the road to the top, however, I could peek over walls to see homes with tidy tropical gardens, one of which had yet to clean up from a party in the Queen’s honour. A few signs tempted tourists to peek at the 51.4km of defence tunnels carved inside the Rock over the centuries. (In one secret passage, rediscovered only in 1997, the British planned to sequester spies if Gibraltar fell to the Nazis.)

Farther along I was greeted by the wild Barbary apes that inhabit the Rock, the only free-roaming primates in Europe. After frisking me for snacks and finding none, they deserted me for a promising vanload of sunburned Britons.

Upon reaching the viewing terrace, I tried to ignore the cheesy two-columned Pillars of Hercules monument evidently modelled on a Soviet bowling trophy and focus my attention on the infinite green Atlantic, scanning the horizon in vain for signs of Atlantis. Even if the island had sunk, it would be tough to miss; Plato described it as “larger than Libya and Asia put together” — which in his time probably meant North Africa and Asia Minor — “and was the way to other islands”, which could mean anything from the Canaries to Iceland.

Taking my cue from the hungry apes, I descended to a late lunch of steak and ale pie with a pint of bitter and walked back to Spain before my meter ran out.