CHAPTER 103 - REFERENDUM - CAPÍTULO 103
In Gibraltar, September began with the sense of standing on the threshold of a great event in the history of its people. The tenth of the month, referendum day, dawned clear, as though the very sky had resolved to place no obstacle in the way of that decisive day. From the earliest hours, the whole of Gibraltar seemed to have poured itself into the streets. Someone, under cover of night, had painted upon the façade of a building near Main Street, alongside a row of British flags already unfurled, a phrase that drew a smile from more than one passer-by, and from more than one a lump in the throat: Gibraltarians, this is our finest hour. The echo of Churchill, daubed in thick brushstrokes by anonymous hands upon the wall of a street that, on that day, seemed entirely a stage set. Home-made placards sprang up on every side, nailed to balconies, pasted to shop windows, held aloft by those with no balcony to hang them from: Vote British. I'm O.K. with U.K. Keep the Rock British. Give...
