Ceuta is quite sweet, with an interesting range of statues, many late twentieth century. Though the Spanish military history is everywhere, it's not quite as thick in the air as across the Strait. This is the town from which Franco launched his coup, a fact not destroyed by the statue of lady with dove entitled 'For Peace and Liberty', dated 1973. Yeah, right.

It ook us a long time to find a cyber cafe or wifi that we could use, so though this was written on Saturday night, it�s not getting posted till Monday morning. We�ll put the actual date of writing on the post in future!.

On Sunday morning I, Sarah, climbed Monte Hacho, the hill at the eastern end of Ceuta. It's only 204m, but even so I didn't get to the top as I couldn't find the way. There is a cobweb of tracks through the prickly garrigue. The little ones peter out, not used any more. Some are gravelled, leading to lookouts littered with water bottles and condoms. A splendidly paved track, wide enough for a wheelchair but very steep in places bears the signage entailed by EU funding. It looks brand new and barely used but doesn't seem to connect up with the summit.

There was no one about at eight o' clock on a Sunday morning. I could hear twittering finches and sparrows, a persistent rooster who did not know the time, the repetitive shrieks of peacocks, and the mew of the seagulls. And the wind, the levanter tugging around my hair when I poked around the headland to look at the overfalls on Punta Santa Catalina. Across the bay stands Jebl Musa, 848m high, the other pillar of Hercules. The picture shows the mountain, together with one of the fast ferries on its way north.

After close encounters with some large beetles and sharp thorns, I decided the view was good enough from two thirds of the way up, and turned down. Then I stumbled on the formal bit, a decaying terracotta and blue bandstand, formal cacti, yucca and palms shouting the water wealth of this corner of the continent, a narrow linear park sloping back down to the sea.

At the bottom I found a strange little area of paving, a children's play ground, a closed caf�. And a sad little menagerie. A few pathetic apes, shy and small after their aggressive cousins across the water. A long-armed black monkey thumping at the dirty glass. And the source of the peacocks' shrieks; seven bird cages, let in to the steep slope so that on one side the dirty, distorted glass is about 60' high, but on the other is only some 20'. High narrow blocks, like townhouses on some 'prestige' estate that has been let to run down. Here is the twittering, the repeating chatter of finches and other small birds. Cawing parrots and what to my ignorant eye look like some kind of wild turkey. Hunched up pheasants. If you listen carefully, the gentle mournful woodwind of the doves gives a bass note steady and fragile as a heartbeat. There are no labels.

Their cousins fly free, mocking them as they swoop past the cages. I wanted to let them all out. The hillside is largely abandoned to scrub, impassable to us, welcoming to birds.

We aim to leave here on Monday for Restinga-Smir, Morocco, where there is a sizeable marina. There should be a nice westerly wind that day, making for a good sail.