The taking of Stilton Island
After the fuss over Gibraltar and last week's Parsley Island debacle, it's time the Spanish were taught a lesson. So, dressed as Sir Walter Raleigh, and armed with a union flag and supplies from Harrods, Stephen Moss set off by pedalo from an Ibizan beach to claim the island in the bay
Stephen Moss
Guardian
Monday July 22, 2002
The invasion was planned for first light, but the Spaniards may have got wind of it. Our luggage - I am travelling with a courageous photographer - had mysteriously disappeared en route to Ibiza and was thought to be in Barcelona. It contained my inspirational Walter Raleigh outfit, a large union flag, a stout pair of boots and two boules. All we had left for the attack was the Walter Raleigh plumed hat, a megaphone, a tin of Harrods treacle biscuits, a stilton cheese, a diecast model of a Grenadier guard and a pot of thick-cut marmalade. This was a sticky situation.
Our démarche had been hatched in response to Spanish hypocrisy: how can it go on harassing Gibraltar when it refuses even to discuss the status of Ceuta and Melilla, its enclaves in Morocco? Its storming of Parsley Island, a few hundred metres off the Moroccan coast, was the last straw. It was time to give the Spanish a taste of their own medicine.
Half a day's meticulous planning had gone into the attack. The Guardian's fashion editor remembered seeing an uninhabited island about 400m off Playa d'en Bossa, a beach on the eastern coast of Ibiza. This was to be our target: Spanish for eight centuries, soon to be British. Raleigh, Drake, Moss - the names resonate, one golden Elizabethan age speaking unto another. My breast, even without the Walter Raleigh outfit, was swelling with pride.
We reach Ibiza airport (minus vital luggage) at midnight, and the woman on the information desk tells us about the island. Isla de las Ratas in Spanish, Illa de ses Rates in Catalan, Island of the Mice. She suspects nothing, despite the Walter Raleigh hat and the megaphone. The Island of the Mice will soon be ours.
But not that soon. At daybreak, there is still no sign of the luggage, which is now expected in the evening. The symbolic importance of the Raleigh outfit is such that we must delay. We recce the beach instead, which by 11 is already full of topless women turning lobster red.
The Island of the Mice is at the northern end of the beach. My heart leaps when I see it. But how do we reach it? There are children playing in the sea on inflatable alligators. Would they carry the weight of the boules, cameras and boots? It seems unlikely. There are several upturned rowing boats on the beach, but stealing one would be risky. We settle on a pedalo, available for 15 euros an hour.
The problem is that we want one for the duration of the mission. This is an occupation, not a visit. The man who looks after the pedaloes speaks no English, but a Frenchman called Renard translates for us. After half an hour of haggling, we have secured unlimited use of the pedalo for 250 euros plus my passport (recoverable, I hope). We tell them we want to stay on the island overnight to photograph the sunrise - Martin (hereafter called M) is compiling a book called Sunrises of the World - they believe us.
M goes back to see whether the Raleigh outfit has arrived from Barcelona. I face an arduous afternoon of swimming, sunbathing, pizza-eating and beer-drinking in 90-degree heat. I buy shorts and flip-flops, have my hair cut short and get a scorpion tattooed on my shoulder to blend in with all the other British men on the beach. I also buy a butterfly net, so we can use the bamboo stick as a flagpole.
M arrives with the luggage at 9pm. This has allowed too much time for San Miguel drinking for the security of the expedition. The security of the pedalo also gives cause for concern, since it is carrying two boules, a camera bag, a holdall, a shoulder bag, a megaphone, a case of San Miguel, a stilton cheese, a bottle of water, several pounds of tomatoes, a large packet of salami, a tin of treacle biscuits, a union flag (with flagpole) and a diecast model of a Grenadier guard. We set off at 9.35 in fast-fading light and pedal furiously, ignoring the fact that the pedalo is listing badly to port (my side). This may be the first ever invasion undertaken by pedalo, though there is evidence that the Romans used a primitive version against Carthage in the second Punic war.
We have to follow a route mapped out by buoys; the distance to the island is about 1,000m. What begins as a gentle swell increases as we get further out, and the pedalo rocks back and forth alarmingly. But it is too late to turn back. The die is cast, and not just for the Grenadier guard.
We reach the island at 9.58 (I log the moment for future historians). It is dark by now and we have to steer round to the south of the island, avoiding rocks and dense seaweed, to find a place to land. We find a cove and guide the pedalo gently in, then pull it up on the beach and tie it to a rock. We stumble up a cliff, taking the baggage with us. I'm scared of heights, and so only carry the megaphone; M carries everything else. I tell him he will get at least a CBE; I have my eye on a knighthood.
There is no one about, not even a mouse, and we hoist the flag and celebrate with beer, salami, tomatoes, cheese and treacle biscuits. The United Kingdom has a new chunk of territory; Spain has a bloody nose; and I have a headache caused by the beer and the furious rocking of the pedalo. It is time to sleep, secure on this fresh patch of British soil.
It is a clear night, though colder than we expected. There is a three-quarter moon, a richly starry sky and a lovely stillness, broken only by the charter flights coming in low over our heads every 10 minutes and the pounding techno music from the Bora Bora club across the bay. By 4am all is quiet, but there is now a dampness in the air and every so often we have to walk around to prevent hypothermia.
We sleep fitfully until dawn breaks soon after 6, waking to find large numbers of ants in the remnants of the salami. The lizards, which rise with the sun, prefer the treacle biscuits. Daylight gives us our first chance to explore the island in detail. It is bigger than we had thought - about 150m long and 90m wide. This is no mere crag in the sea, but a strategically significant land mass. Suddenly a peerage seems possible.
The island has one sheer cliff face, jutting out to sea, but the rest is gently sloping and covered in scree. There is some scrubby gorse and a few wild flowers. We had been wondering what to call the newly annexed island: Elizabeth (too many of those already); Blair (absolutely not); Rusbridger (it would be an honour, sir); Rosemary, Tarragon, Turmeric, Thyme (a nicely topical touch)? But then it hits us - actually, the smell hits us first. Stilton - the mice would be replaced by a quintessential British cheese.
I call the Foreign Office in London to tell them the joyous news - that Britain has a new dependency. It is 7.30 on a Saturday morning and the sleepy duty officer, far from being elated, sounds rather bemused. "You couldn't call back on Monday, could you?" she says. Is this the stuff of which empires are made?
She puts me through to a press officer, who refuses to give me any guidance. "I don't think there's a Foreign Office line on this," he says, stifling what sounds suspiciously like a laugh. "Look, it's a bit early - could you try after 10am?" This is all very depressing. Would Raleigh have captured Virginia, or Drake seen off the Armada and been British crown green bowls champion, if they had insisted on having a lie-in at weekends?
A couple of hours later I try again. This time the Foreign Office has its line worked out. "I'm afraid you're about a hundred years too late," says a jovial spokeswoman. "We are more into sharing rocks these days than owning them. You're out of fashion." (I'm not sure she would have said that if she could have seen me in my green pantaloons, doublet and plumed hat.)
"So if the Spanish were willing to share the island, would you be interested?" I ask. "Quite possibly," she says. "It would be a matter for discussion between the foreign ministers." "What's the island called?" she asks. "Stilton," I reply proudly. "As in cheese."
"Any chance of assistance in defending the island?" I ask her. "Nothing to do with us," she says. "That's the MoD." "But you could have a word in their ear," I suggest. "What about that destroyer that was stuck on rocks? That must be free by now and the captain would welcome the chance to redeem himself." "Sorry, you'll have to speak to the MoD yourself," she says. And she is gone, probably to a fawning ambassadorship.
I get through to a gruff-sounding official at the MoD, who has none of the charm of his FO counterparts. "If you want to declare the island British sovereign territory, that's up to you," he says. "But we need your help to defend it," I bleat. "We've only got two boules, a half-eaten stilton cheese, a jar of marmalade and a diecast model of a Grenadier guard. A couple of Tornados would make all the difference." "We can't do anything without Foreign Office say-so," he explains. "Sorry, it's a political decision."
Annexation is a lonely business. It also crosses my mind that Raleigh was eventually executed. This may, though, have been a merciful release: sitting in the midday sun in a sweaty doublet and thick pantaloons is a nightmare. But I must press on: perhaps Spain will accept an accommodation, the diplomatic track suggested by the Foreign Office.
I call the office of diplomatic information, but no one there speaks English (how convenient!). I phone the civil guard in Ibiza to open talks, but no one there speaks English either. I can't even make it clear to them that Britain has established a strategically important base 400m off the coast of Ibiza, almost opposite the Cockney Rebel pub. The interior ministry, defence ministry and central police department all appear to have knocked off for the weekend. Spain is ripe for the taking: an Anglo-Moroccan expeditionary force could be in Madrid by tomorrow if the Foreign Office and MoD would buck their ideas up.
I am just pondering my next move when I hear a shriek. M, who has been collecting plant samples, has tripped and gashed his hand on a rock. An all too common casualty of war, I tell him. But I suppose the wound must be treated. We gather the equipment, ditch the stilton (which by now can be smelt over most of the eponymous island), and prepare to refloat the landing craft. But not before we leave behind our secret weapon: Gordon the Grenadier.
We encase Gordon in a small fortress built of stones, so that only the top of his bearskin is showing, and beside him, hidden beneath a rock, leave the following note: "Here stands Gordon the Grenadier, protecting Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth's sovereign territory of Stilton Island, taken from the Spanish by force of arms on July 20 2002. God bless Queen Elizabeth."
Gordon is unlikely ever to be disinterred and, as far as we are concerned, while he remains on Stilton Island it is rightfully British. We have a new territory in the Mediterranean, to set alongside Gib, and Spain has a new diplomatic headache. Your move, amigos. No doubt Peter Hain will be on the blower later today to discuss possible quid (or even euro) pro quos on joint sovereignty.
