We flew three hours south just to sit under a Union Jack on the Mediterranean.

It is a very strange feeling to board a plane in the UK and step off into a sun-baked landscape that is—technically—still the UK. Welcome to Gibraltar, a place that feels like a glitch in the geographical matrix. The moment we arrived, we were hit with the question that is on everyone’s lips: just how British is this place?

We spent our days wandering around the Rock, trying to pin down its true identity. Is it just a warm-weather haven for those craving a proper high-street experience and a chat about the forecast, or is there a genuine undercurrent of Spanish chic woven into the streets? The answer, we found, is a beautiful collision of the two. It’s a culture where the orderliness of home meets the vibrant pacing of the Med, and ...