Never Rule Out the Tourist Stuff

The crunching sound you hear is me – eating my hat, as in “I’ll eat my hat if I ever step foot inside ******* (insert appropriate name) because it’s only for tourists.

This week I did that twice – in the same day, and, guess what – fun and giggles all day! One of the negative things about having a blog is that everything is viewed as fodder. “Hmmm what can I write about this?” “Will so-and-so mind if I use this embarrassing but charming picture of her/him?” “Do I need to take an extra lens?” and, most importantly, “Is there wi-fi here?”  Whilst I love doing it (NO reason to do so if I don’t!) it becomes, at some point, a kind of responsibility rather than pure enjoyment.

Is there Wi-Fi here?

I don’t write about tourist stuff, at least not the promoted stuff. That’s because a) I tend to stay away from busy and over-hyped places and b) Scads have already been written about these places, and I never intended this blog to be a “Guide to the Islands” more a personal memoir of places, people and events. There are several excellent blogs and pages about Tenerife, for instance, which I listed on my links page.

Soooooo…….  for a day out with the girls last Friday, to two very touristic places,  I was there to enjoy, and didn’t have any intentions of writing anything. In fact, I took hardly any photos. Most of the ones on this post were taken by my friend, Colleen.

Exploring a mini jungle?

That said, I feel moved to say “Never rule out the tourist stuff!”

Our day began not too early, 9.30 to be exact. Driving south to the much busier north we missed the Santa Cruz/La Laguna rush hour (although on TF5 – the autopista which links Santa Cruz with places north folk weren’t so lucky) .

Tip number one:  Be early or be late to miss the gridlock around the cities.

We arrived at our brunch destination, El Monasterio in the Orotava Valley with perfect timing around 10.30. It opens at 10, so, you know. not so early they’re not properly organized, but not so late that it’s full.

El Monasterio is a bit of a curiosity. The original building was, as you probably guessed, a monastery, which was acquired and renovated by the present owners in the early 1990s. Additions have been made, but very much in keeping with the look and ambience of the historical part of the complex. Their website doesn’t do them any favors and there isn’t enough information around the place describing its history for me (ack ….. I have to be so picky!), but its atmosphere is delightful, even on a busy day (and the previous  time I was there was a Sunday and busy!). Friday, having been chosen very deliberately, was quiet.

Tip number two: Friday is a good day for personal excursions. It’s changeover day for both Russians and Brits (probably other nationalities too, but those form the bulk of excusion-istas) which means less buses on the roads, less crowds at the eateries and places where the excursion buses and jeep safaris stop.

El Monasterio serves brunch in one of its four restaurants, El Mirador. Mirador means a vantage point or viewing platform (doesn’t sound nearly as nice in English, does it?) What that means is that, as we ate, a huge swathe of the Orotava Valley, down to the blue Atlantic, lay before us. It’s a much-vaunted fact that Alexander von Humboldt heaped high praise on a this landscape during his stop on the island en route to the Americas in the late 18th century, and back then they didn’t come any more traveled than he! I would give a fair amount to be able to travel back in time to see the view as it was then, minus the hundreds of buildings which now inhabit its hillsides. Even with them, it’s spectacular. Add to this white cane furniture and crisp, check cloths and you have a feeling of the elegance of the 30s.

Colleen, Linda and Val and that amazing view

The brunch menu is limited but good, and has an unusual star – the bread basket! In the best tradition of monasteries as self-sufficient complexes the restaurant serves its own bread, which you can also buy in their shop (if this is beginning to sound a bit like a theme park, well, you’re not far wrong). There is variety, something for everyone I think, so long as you can tolerate gluten! The rest of the food, including a glass of cava (and how better to start a day out?) is nice, not to rave over, but, you know, nice.

This has to be entitled, “Will that be one egg or two, ma’am” or “How fresh can lunch be?”

Afterwards you amble off your indulgence around the sloping grounds which are a mixture of farmyard and gardens, and where peacocks and chickens stalk your progress. Actually, even before our stroll on Friday, a bold fowl strutted into the restaurant and went around the tables begging. I had seen this before, when I lunched in the restaurant in the central patio (luscious sausages and meats btw), but never in El Mirador. Quite what the EU inspectors would make of it I don’t know, but it’s fun, and I presume that they use countless eggs for those brunches so they aren’t there just for entertainment.

Not what you expect to find roosting in your trees!

Can you stand the cuteness???

There is a section of the grounds closed off by a small, wooden gate, where ducks (Muscovy, Mallard and Pekin to the best of my knowledge – which is not very vast), ponies and other animals run around….something like a petting zoo, except you can’t get near enough to pet the ponies, and right now the ducks and chickens all have young, so they are not exactly….er…..friendly!

See what I mean?!

Full of brunchy goodness, trunk stashed with a mile-long loaf (which they kindly divided into 3 for us, honestly it was that big, and I still wasn’t thinking of taking snaps really!) and wine, we departed for Pueblo Chico, about five minutes away. The place we found efficiently, the parking was another matter.

Tip Number Three: Always question the signs – they are put up by folk who already know where they are and how they got there, who don’t stop to realize that others don’t!

Next month will mark 26 years of living on this island for me, and all this time I have resisted visiting Pueblo Chico. I think my kids may have had a school trip once, so I saw myself as being spared the traipse around a miniature village – I mean, didn’t they disappear some time in the Swinging 60s? With all the bounty of this island I wondered why I would want to visit a manmade kiddies’ attraction?

Well, as you can see from the snaps below……many thanks, Colleen!…….wrong!  Hence the hat eating. It’s a tribute to Tenerife and other Canary Islands in miniature. It’s been there a long time now, and is showing its age a bit. It could do with a lick of paint or just a good clean up, but it was loads of fun! It made me feel like a kid again, in the same way Disney does (and I am a HUGE Disney World fan!) I wasn’t so much taken with the miniatures themselves (but that’s just me) as with the odd fun things, like those mirrors which make you look stretched out or like a Telly Tubby – hmmm……ok, so that wasn’t the mirror, that was just me , or the giant chair so that when you sit in it you look shrunken.

 

 

 

I’d already gotten that Alice in Wonderland feeling from the enormous plants around the place. It’s a feeling I first had when I visited the Botanical Gardens in Puerto de la Cruz years ago. Remember how Alice drank the bottle which shrank her? That’s how it sometimes feels when you walk through a garden here, composed of plants you used to keep on the window sill back in UK! And then how about all the lizards who whipped in and out of “houses” and rocks…..if they were to scale they would definitely have been Gozilla!

So, of course, now I am feeling that I deprived my kids of this silly/happy experience when they were little!

To top off the day, Val knew a  restaurant which is almost opposite to Pueblo Chico, named Tito’s Bodegita, one of those marvelous old properties with courtyards which have been turned into clever nooks for eating. Not so much with the tourists here, it was early for dinner, late for lunch, and the other tables seemed to be occupied by locals. It was the sort of place you want to wander around and ask questions about, but they were busy preparing for a wedding reception, and, wow, but what a gorgeous place to do that! After the large brunch we weren’t exactly starving but we managed to force down a plate of their special chicken (secret recipe, darn it!).

You guys know I often say that Tenerife never ceases to amaze me, and I might say that even more of this wee excursion. It was almost pure tourism and a very lazy day, but really was a barrel of laughs……for which, of course, my gratitude goes to the lovely company I had….thanks, girls!

The Floral and Sand Carpets of La Orotava, Tenerife

La Orotava smells different. This isn’t the wild fennel and rosemary of Arona, it’s heather and roses, coffee and cakes. It’s 9am and though my stomach is rumbling and I am coffee-less, I want to head straight for the town hall. On this one day the building becomes a roosting place for amateur photographers. It’s open to the public so that we can snap the breathtaking carpet of volcanic sand, which covers the square in front of its elegant façade. In any event, a quick detour confirms that the café where we’re going to breakfast  isn’t open until 10, so no eating yet anyway. The aromas are tantalizing, however, clearly there is much activity going on inside.

Front of Orotava’s distinguished town hall

The streets are no less active, local groups and families, who come together once a year for this celebration of religious art, and lesson in life (see my previous post), are hard at it already. Boxes of petals, sand, wood chippings and flowers are piled all around. Some of the floral carpets already have form, but most are still plain canvases, covered with wood and metal moulds, which are used to lay out the intricate designs. Religious, but pleasant, music wafts up from the church. The breeze flaps at tapestries and banners draped from windows and rooftops, and rainbow ribbons stream over the streets.

Crates of petals wait to be used

As we mount the town hall steps we can see that there are already quite a few people on the balconies above, cameras extended or at the eye. I love this building. In fact, though I don’t know it that well, I have a crush on this town. It somehow takes me back to how I felt as a child watching westerns on T.V. Why is obvious. Its elegant center was built around the same time. It has a bandstand, and cobbled streets and it’s easy to slip into a daydream of pioneer times.

Snaps come out a bit lopsided, elbow room being at a premium.

That feeling is enhanced by the Scarlett O’Hara staircase which floats me to the second floor. There are already groups of people around the smallish windows, and signs request politely we don’t hog our space for more than five minutes once we’ve staked a claim. Of course five minutes isn’t enough to absorb the magnificence of this, particular work of art, nor does it allow for waiting for a cloud to clear, or the person who’s jogging your elbow to move on, but we have to make do. It’s an impressive sight, quite unlike any other on the island, even without the famous sand carpet, with the vivid reds and yellows of the cupola and bell towers of the church on the horizon, and the ochre-colored roof tiles in the middle contrasting with the blues of sea and sky beyond. I used to see photographs of this and think they’d been touched up, but, no, even on a not totally clear early morning, those colors are real.

In the foreground, of course, this massive masterpiece, created from sand and rock culled from the volcanic crater above.** The palette, as it therefore must be, is earth tones, from deepest brown to palest beige, to olive, and even grey. I’d like to stay and contemplate, but it wouldn’t be fair. We linger a tad longer than our allotted five, but this is why I wanted to come early, later it becomes almost impossible to do more than snap and glance. Appropriate to my sentiments, church bells peal, as they will do on every quarter, a happy, musical peeling, not a sombre clanging.

Emerging through the back door of the town hall we see the local TV station already broadcasting from a rear patio, and trucks from other stations at the end of the passageway. This is a big event island-wise.

 

Breakfast calls, however, and we meander, against the tide of arrivals heading for the town hall as the day warms up, towards Casa Egón, a place which merits its own post one day, and which reinforces this feeling inside of me of having stepped back in time. Typical of old houses, it’s deceptive. The entrance is straight from the narrow street, and on this festive day a clutch of folk are ordering cakes to take away, filling the small space. We wait, order, are given our chosen cakes and proceed to the interior. The place unfolds like a time-lapse of a flower blooming, from functional but pulsing-with-history dining room to interior patios, and glimpses of the kitchen as you pass through a storage passage. The cakes are bites of heaven, and the coffee excellent. I sit and fantasize. I see a young girl in an empire-line dress, graceful hand on the bannister as she descends the dark-wood staircase. I shake myself.

We squeeze through the tiny shop and onto the sunlit street, almost shocked at how the crowds have grown since we arrived. We stroll, now with the tide of humanity, the streets around the church and town hall. Some of the carpets are completed, some only just beginning, and most still under construction. The scent of heather is strong now as a man sifts it through his hands.

 

 

It is heartening to see people of all ages lending a hand. I almost wince in empathy as a guy who looks to be my dad’s age stretches to fill a gap with petals. Not sure that even my knees would be up to that. Kids are always happy to do this stuff, of course, the looks of concentration on their faces would light up the face of any schoolteacher! It’s really good to see teenagers and twenty-somethings tackling the task with such enthusiasm though. Nice to know that Tradition’s future is in safe hands.

 

There is time to chat quickly with a guy who tells me that the one he’s working on is a family effort. The wife is the designer, and she submits her artwork to her husband who then makes the appropriate moulds to transfer her ideas onto the ground. These moulds all have a wooden frame, and the curving lines are laid out with aluminium, not an easy task I think.

That heather scent is stronger now, and it mixes with floral tones, mostly roses. The music from the church is getting lost amid the chatter of the crowds. Looking up a steep street I see a crush of folk, either side the carpets, hands on the crush barriers. It reminds me, for all the world, of looking up as you travel the escalator of a the London Tube station. It’s the same slow progress, but  in this case no-one wants to hurry, and almost everyone waits patiently to get the best view they can. The workers toil on seemingly oblivious.

 

One guy tends the patch of finished design with a long stick with a couple of nails on the end, stabbing and pushing at any stray foliage. Another calmly tries, time after time, to spear a single wandering petal with the hose from the watering apparatus he carries on his back. When he succeeds onlookers break into spontaneous applause, and he blushes. Further along, on a corner which allows the breeze to flow a boy faces an uphill task, watering the completed patches of his group’s work with one of those hand sprays  used for houseplants…..not sufficient as the unwatered petals flutter tauntingly across the street…..pretty but not the effect desired.

 

The bunting and decor get more elaborate as we near La Casa de los Balcones, which, sadly, is where we have to peel away – I have work down south this afternoon, and the time has flown. Having absorbed a little of the ethos of this festival the other day in Arona, I’m reluctant to leave.

 

Perhaps you don’t need religion to feel our connectedness, and perhaps we do. Perhaps we need a nudge, a reminder, an inspiration. Afterall, motivational speakers are in big demand, aren’t they? Perhaps this is what works for some people. Religious leaders are always telling us that we can’t cherry pick with religion. It’s all or nothing. But why can’t we? Can’t it be possible that there is a universal truth hidden behind all the dogma and ritual?

**  (The Teide National Park is a World Heritage Site, and no-one else is permitted take anything away from the area.)

What this Agnostic learned from Corpus Christi in South Tenerife

My senses are completely overpowered by the mix of perfumes as I step outside the church in Arona. Incense is familiar. In the cooling evening air of Tenerife’s foothills it mixes with woody rosemary and the sharp, musky scent of wild fennel. It’s a potent combination and it attacks my eyes and nose. The altar boy was a tad over-enthusiastic in swinging the thurible.

The advantage of coming to Arona, the pretty village at the heart of the island’s third largest municipality, this Sunday evening to witness the Corpus Christi procession, as opposed to going to the more famous towns, like Orotava or La Laguna, is that it’s small and local and it feels more friendly and less spectacular….. personal opinion – big religious occasions are too much theater ….. speaking as both a lapsed Catholic and a lapsed Protestant. It’s the type of Catholic festival which makes me twitchy in its reverence of ritual and dogma, as opposed to anything which Jesus Christ actually instructed his followers to do. Perhaps that’s a reflection of my childhood. I used to think about things like that a lot once. I don’t any longer. So it’s as easy to stand back and observe a Christian celebration as a cultural event now, as it is to observe something much more foreign to my personal experience.

 

Corpus Christi’s origins are dubious to say the least. First off, you have to believe in transubstantiation. I found that a stretch even when I was receiving instruction to become a Catholic in my late teens, but I thought the belief might come with time, so I went along with it. It didn’t. Second, even if you do believe in it, would Christ have been ok with the construction of all these elaborate and costly “homes” made for “him” (and that is not an opening for Catholic vs Protestant debate!)? Lastly, even if  you can get over the first two points you have to admit that the whole notion of visions and mystics is questionable, no? A 12th century nun, Juliana of Liège claimed to have had visions for twenty years……without telling anybody!…..visions of Jesus telling her that he needed another feast day- to celebrate his body. Or could it have been that the Church needed another gimmick to bind an ignorant congregation closer?

Ah, so you see, I come to this festival skeptical – but admiring of the art work involved. The custom of creating beautiful carpets from flowers, sand, salt and plants seems to have thrived in the Canary Islands like nowhere else. There are various claims that it actually began here in Tenerife, but often those claims also say “in the Middle Ages,” and since the island wasn’t conquered until 1496 (and the other islands not that long before) that can’t be true. The festival was first celebrated in 1246 – in Belgium – so perhaps that’s where the confusion arises. There are famous versions in Sitges on the mainland, throughout South and Central America (although not always for Corpus Christi, but other religious dates) and even, I just found out, in Arundel in England, but the Canarian ones are often refered to as the originals.

Whatever the global truth, the tradition in Tenerife did begin in La Orotava, but many municipalities also decorate the streets around their parish church, notably La Laguna, the island’s original capital city, and, in the South,  Arona and Adeje . They use flowers and petals bought from commercial growers, flowers and plants culled from the local countryside, and colored salts and sand. Conservation laws protect rock and sand in most places, but more of that tomorrow.

So, Sunday night, I wander Arona’s  hilly streets admiring the creativity and passion which has gone into making these works of art, and there is no doubt that’s what they are. I arrive around 6pm when the work is all finished and the air scented only with the wild fennel which had been used as background in many of the displays, and so I am able to stroll peacefully.  My favorite, below, is remarkable  in the way it catches the light and shadow on the faces of Mary and Jesus, just as any artist using oils or watercolors would have done.

After taking dozens of snaps on the quiet streets, I meet up with my friend, Pilar, and as luck would have it, she kn0ws the artists who have made this gorgeous display, and so we are able to congratulate them in person. Stupidly I don’t write down their names, but this is the team of four it took to produce this, and, yes, those cotton-candy clouds in the background are reflecting a stunning sunset this night.

We talk about the planning of it, and they show me photos of the creation at different stages. I’m surprised that it had been only a few weeks in the planning and not months, but the thing which intrigues me most is how they feel about the ephemerality of their work. After all, it’s back-breaking, bending over a pavement for an entire day, sculpting salt and sand, and by sunset it’s destroyed, as the procession of Corpus Christi passes over it. It is, it occurred to me,  the same thing Buddhists do in creating mandalas. All four of them have broad smiles when they tell me that, well, that’s the tradition, and they accept it. The enjoyment is in the creation and its longevity isn’t important.

It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? I understood that about mandalas, but never really thought about these carpets in the same way. The other difference would be that a mandala is deliberate and educational, whereas this, so far as I know, isn’t intentionally instructional. The lesson is the same though – life is transient, nothing lasts forever. We have to learn to let go, to move on, to understand impermanence. It’s a hard one, especially because most artists (whether of brush, camera, pen or whatever) are hoping to create something lasting.

We stroll back around to the church after chatting, and meet up briefly with my friend Val, who is singing in a choir which will acknowledge the return of the body to the church after the procession. Arona’s church square is a charming place even on a workday. The town hall sits at right angles to the church, and this night both are decorated befitting the celebration. Small children run around, narrowly missing spoiling the main carpets, as their parents chat in groups, waiting for the beginning of the procession.  Little girls in first communion dresses  emerge shyly from the church, and the town band shuffles into place, and we move over to the door to watch, and then follow its slow amble along the streets. You’ll find it odd, after all I just said, that I hesitate to take photos. No-one else is doing at that point, and whilst I don’t share the beliefs of the villagers, I do respect their right to follow whatever they believe, and extend that respect to not intruding.

And so we watch as the priest stops to pray at particular spots, as the altar boy chokes us all in his enthusiasm, as neighbors shower petals from upstairs windows, and as dozens of feet shuffle over the stunning blue and white carpet I’d admired so much.

OK I get the symbolism of this, its brief life has reached its climax and is over,  but why do the brats of the village have to follow on, kicking at designs, scratching up branches and flowers and larking about? Why is no-one stopping them? I glance at the group who’d made my favorite design. They are laughing at the boys’ antics. Me, I want to cry. Their efforts seem worth so much more. Then as the sweet notes of the choir filter down from the church square I think I understand.

All  that creativity, and passion, and talent isn’t ephemeral at all. All of that can be encompassed in one word – love. In making their masterpiece they launched all of that out into the universe, they didn’t hoard it selfishly, and now a little of that lives in me too, and in everyone who saw and admired their work, and perhaps even in folk who weren’t even there. We can’t see or touch these things, but we can express them in our lives and work. This is why we should do whatever we do with passion, and do the best we can do in everything,  and be the best we can be.

World Environment Day in Tenerife

Island living means you’re never far away from the ocean, especially on an island of something less than 800 sq miles. From the peak of Spain’s highest mountain you see the Atlantic and some of the other islands of the Canarian archipelago. It’s a constant presence. I’ve lived in a couple of places where the sound of the waves lulled me to sleep, and for me there is nothing like it.

This is why when I think about World Environment day I think first about the ocean, which is not to under-rate the devastation we are causing on land or air, it’s just my personal passion.

Where I’m living,  El Médano, is very lucky to have a crew of lifeguards who take their responsibilities much further than scanning the beach for human problems. I’m biased because my son, Austin, was once one of them, and many of the guys still there are his friends, but it isn’t hard to see that they make caring for the environment a part of their work……even to the point where they think nothing of gathering up rubbish from the beach, and making pleas to the public to be more aware of and responsible for our communal environment.

Austin has worked on boats in the waters around Tenerife, too, and in both jobs quite frequently found or saw found injured turtles. Turtles are the wanderers of the oceans, traveling miles and miles, but always returning to the shore on which they hatched when it’s time to lay their own eggs. The turtles found in Canarian seas come mainly from the shores of Central or North America, or from the Cape Verde islands, south of the Canarian Archipelago. Because they travel so far it’s hard to say for sure where they become entangled in the nets from the big commercial fishing fleets, ingest plastic bags or become entrapped in those plastic rings which hold your six-pack together.

If they are lucky they are found by our lifeguards or by local fishing boats or pleasure boats, and most are taken to La Tahonilla in La Laguna to recuperate. Many do. Some don’t. When it comes to mammals plying these same waters, dolphins or whales, most that are injured don’t make it.

One of the guys from La Tahonilla rescue center takes a turtle down to the beach

La Tahonilla had an open day this week to celebrate World Environment Day, so we could go and see for ourselves the great work they do. Funded largely by the EU (who says the EU is a waste of space?!) the center cares not only for turtles, of course, but also for any wild animals which have been injured, which is to say, not domestic or farm animals, and not exotic animals, which one would normally find in a zoo. The main occupants on Monday were turtles and birds.

The birds are, mostly, either victims of their own over-eagerness to swoop down on prey (i.e. mostly hawks and owls who, quite literally crash-land), or more to the point of this post, victims of the poisons and pesticides used around the countryside. The good news is that the number of cases of poisoned or injured birds is falling, as less poisons and pesticides are now used……which is also good news for those of us to like to buy from our local farmers’ markets.

We were able to look around the tanks where turtles paddled around, and the ample cages where the birds were housed, and see the kitchen and other (don’t be squeamish think hunting birds who have to relearn to fend for themselves) food is prepared and reared. The animals are nursed back to health and then released back into the wild as near to the place where they were found as possible. There are some who can never be released, like the turtle who had lost a flipper.

Having been so shocked over the last few weeks by the extent of the damage from last year’s wildfires I asked how much more of a burden the tragedy had placed on the Center. The good news was that the majority of animals seemed to know their escape routes, and had found ways around the blaze, but the bad news was that the Center hadn’t had many patients as a result because the ones who didn’t escape were burned to death. Basically, there were few injuries. The ones who didn’t get away had no chance.

A few days before I’d been lucky enough to witness a much happier event when two turtles which had been found by our local lifeguards were released back into the sea from the beach here in El Médano. Even the mayor turned out to watch and celebrate the event. It’s not the first time I’ve witnessed one of these events, but it was every bit as emotional as it was the first time. As they are carried to the shore, the turtles clearly sense the proximity of the ocean, their heads perk up and they wiggle their flippers in seeming eagerness to get back into their true environment.

The mayor, the councillor for environment and the two lifeguards who rescued the turtles

Before they were brought out there was a brief, informative talk, which I was a bit too far away to hear, well, I was knee-deep in the ocean, waiting! The net in which one of the victims had been found trapped was on display. Apparently it came from some huge “factory” fishing vessel. Local fishermen are strictly controlled and use very different nets. The nets have to be checked and displayed when they return, as proof that they haven’t been jettisoned at sea, and the size of the netting is strictly controlled too. Sadly, it’s much harder to police the huge fleets which swoop around these shores which come from far afield (and we all know how much the fishermen of certain countries treat our planet). They manage to stay just inside international waters, which makes it almost impossible to trace wrong-doing. You can see a picture of the turtle when it was found on the Lifeguards Facebook Page.

Gino, one of the rescuers glances at the net in which the turtle was trapped, as he returns it to the ocean.

These ocean wanderers may be far away now, en route to the Caribbean or West African waters. They were lucky to be found by our lifeguards, who deserve a huge round of applause, as do (to give it its full title) Centro de Receuperación de Fauna Silvestre La Tahonilla. Tenerife is lucky to have both these caring teams of guys around.

Every Day Should be Environment Day

Today is World Environment Day. To my mind every day should be, respecting our environment and leaving it in tact for future generations isn’t something to do today, forget about tomorrow, and do a bit more next week. It’s a way of life. That said, of course, I’m being both picky and prickly there. We need a day to raise awareness, because so many folk, still, don’t get it. So here’s my rant.

I live by the ocean. I’ve lived by the ocean most of my life, both in England and on this island of Tenerife, so perhaps that’s why the state of our seas preoccupy me more than other things. We all have our “pet” interests and causes.

I write a lot about this island and about the town in which I’m living, because I love both of them to death. Things that I don’t often write about:

Dog crap and discarded booze litter the sidewalksof El Médano. Much of this you won’t see in an amble around the town because we have a great bunch of guys who clean up after those citizens and visitors who seem incapable of doing it for themselves, and by the time most folk are out of bed, it’s been cleared up, but they can’t do it all, despite they’re at it, basically, all day. I see it because I’m out dog walking early. Whilst I would LOVE to be able to walk Trix on the beach and throw her toys for her, as we once did, I totally understand the current ban of dogs on the beaches. If it’s the only way to ensure they’re kept clean and safe, then so be it.

Note: putting the dog poo in a bag and leaving it on a wall, or “hiding” it under a stone is NOT disposing of it in a responsible way! To the folk who left the ballons and cloth in the picnic area, well perhaps this was genuine ignorance and you didn’t realize how much harm plastic can do when it’s ingested by wildlife?

Oh and to the stupid person who did this:

Er – this was an attempt by the local authority to explain to folk WHY they need to keep their dogs on a lead (not to endanger nesting and migratory birds) and you defacing it so that no-one read it? NOT HELPING! Oh and if you’re going to write for the public to read LEARN TO SPELL!

And  ignorance isn’t confined to the general public. The plastic container washed up on the beach came from rubbish dumped in the ocean by passing boats. Almost impossible to say where, when or how, because the quantity of garbage this day on the beach was heart-breaking. The plastic sheeting which is caught on the prickly shrub almost certainly came from the local plantations, which use an incredible amount of plastic in farming  here. Both these sectors need to be controlled, but to be honest I haven’t a clue how it could be done. The problem is so vast. That plastic sheeting is particularly awful. It blows out to sea, and is mistaken as food by fish, turtles and birds, but once eaten remains in their stomach so that they feel full and eventually die from starvation because they don’t feel hungry……unlike greedy humans they only eat when they need food. The net is from a large, commercial trawler, lost or dumped at sea. A turtle was found, entangled in it, and would probably have died had it not been rescued – more of that very soon.

   

You can see what’s going on in these last photos, can’t you. Discarded ice cream tubs and plastic cups being investigated by gulls on the early morning beach in Las Galletas a few weeks back. Not just dangerous to wildlife, but, er, pretty unsightly for the folk who come down to the beach the next morning.

 

The thing about ALL of this is that it’s so easy to remedy. When you go to the beach take a bag and keep all your rubbish to dispose of at the end of the day.

Clean up after your dog and put it in a bin…..if you’re so “delicate” you can’t do that, and walk a few yards to a container, then YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE A DOG!

The drinking in the street problem, I know, has ramifications beyond the dumping of rubbish (including the contents of several stomaches often) on our streets. Perhaps stricter laws are needed to control this. Certainly it’s a problem largely confined to the younger elements of the population (we oldies prefer to get drunk in comfort and not in the street!), so it seems that education is also needed.

I don’t mean to single out El Médano or Tenerife in particular. I know that this is a worldwide problem. This happens to be the abuse of the natural world which I see on a day to day basis, so it seems appropriate to write it today. It seems to me it isn’t just the environment we harm but that it’s also an insult to our fellow citizens, who have every right to expect to live in a decently clean society. We all too often criticize less fortunate countries for not understanding these things, but fail to do the simple things ourselves.

In truth, El Médano does very well in this regard. We have recycling facilities on almost every street corner, right by the rubbish dumpsters, so there is no excuse not to recycle. Our street cleaners do an amazing job. Our lifeguards look out not only for humans with problems, but also for the environment we share – they are especially a shining example to the rest of the community….we really need to take notice and emulate them. More soon on that too.

In the meantime – yes, EVERY day should be ENVIRONMENT DAY!

Does Tourism Help to Keep Traditions Alive?

Does tourism help to keep traditions alive? It certainly seems that way, or it might just be my perception. For sure, years ago, when I first lived in the Canary Islands, there wasn’t as much information about festivals, foods, historical events or traditional culture as there is now. It seems these days that every Canarian has a traditional costume in their wardrobe to bring out for romerias and fiestas – in many places you see as many bystanders in ethnic dress as in modern garb.

In the tourist hubs of Playa de las Americas and Los Cristianos there are weekly displays of folk music and dancing, something which never used to happen, so intent were they at one time on creating the perfect, plastic and cement, “global” holiday experience. Tourists gawk and think they’ve seen something of the “real” Tenerife – and they have,  but only a tiny part – but if this funds and inspires an interest in things historical and traditional then all well and good. It’s a trend I’ve noticed in other parts of the world too, not only here. Visiting my former neck of the woods in England, I’ve noticed places we once took for granted being promoted as “tourist attractions.”

Places seem to be keen to show off their uniqueness, which is wonderful. It makes it easier for us when we travel, but we do need to look beyond the stuff laid on especially for tourists, that’s for sure. At Tenerife’s romerias and fiestas locals still outnumber tourists by a long chalk, and the further away you get from the main resorts the truer that is, and, yes, at risk of sounding corny, the more genuine it is…..because you can be sure that it’s all laid on for the local population and no nods in the direction of pleasing the sunburned hoards below. Even so, traditions like the mini pilgrimage from Adeje to its coast to mark the festival of San Sebastian have been revived fairly recently.

Folk Group Los Alisios

Tomorrow is the day the islands celebrate the unique aspects of their culture – as opposed to that of mainland Spain – and all week activities have been going on to mark the day.  Here, in my “home” town of El Médano, Sunday was dubbed “El Día de las Tradiciones,” and I was happily surprised by the variety of the stuff organized, and the professional way it was produced and presented.

It all happened right across the road from me in Plaza Roja, so I only had to charge my camera battery and step out of the door. I found a small bank of stalls selling artisan fare, bread, honey and cheeses, and local wines. I indulged – of course!

Tomato and olive bread, mountain honey and coastal honey and one of my favorite, local wines (missing is the cheese and bacon bread, which I scoffed before thinking to take a photo!)

Wine stand and cheese stall in Plaza Roja

For a couple of hours afterwards, whilst kiteboarders and windsurfers spun past in the background, representing modern island sports, we watched displays of Lucha Canaria – the Canaries’ version of wrestling, which I wrote about here; stick fighting – the star of which demo was an amazing guy of 90 years old; a different kind of stick fighting with the stout walking sticks goatherds used to use to navigate the hilly landscape, called garrotes (both of which I will write about in the future); and various young bucks demonstrating feats of strength by lifting and balancing rocks, old ploughs and yokes used to harness oxen, all accompanied by enthusiastic explanations of the history of the implements and a demonstration of how agricultural terraces were watered in the days before more sophisticated irrigation was installed.

Garrote

Lucha Canaria

Feat of strength and balance – this guy is balancing a double yoke on his chin!

Think rich, volcanic soil, but hard and compact, and then look at this old plough, and wonder at what life was like for the island farmers of old.

No junket of this kind would be complete without a folk group. There isn’t always dance, but this time there was, a lovely group which goes by the name of Los Alisios, and I’ve never seen a group which enjoyed performing so much. Often music seems to be taken very seriously here, fair enough. I don’t know if it was the informality of the setting, perhaps the stiff breeze which was blowing up or that perhaps this group is simply made this way, whilst others are not, but it was a joy to watch. Confession: my soul is much more in tune with the tribal rhythms of Africa than most of the folk music descended from Europe, but this group filled me with the same kind of joy which African music does.

 

 

The male musicians were resplendent in the elaborate sashes and intricately embroidered waistcoats we normally think of as “typically Canarian,” but the dancers were dressed in garb more appropriate to the peasant population from which the dances sprang, and from which the dances take their name – Baile de Magos (Dance of the Peasants)…..and before anyone jumps in here to tell me that mago isn’t the generally used word in Spanish for peasant – it’s used this way, to my knowledge only in the Canaries. Usually mago means magician in Spanish. I’m always knocked out to note how many young folk are members of these groups, seems like this tradition is in safe hands for future generations. Also well worthy of a mention is the grace and agility of the older members of the group…..dance to keep fit and young!

They saved the best for last on Sunday, though. Since I saw my first ox at a romeria years ago, I have been utterly in love with these wonderful creatures. I don’t know why we’re attracted to some animals more than others, but my heart also beats a tad faster when I see elephants or gorillas, so I guess I’m a sucker for big animals. I can only conclude that it’s that incongruous combination of strength and gentleness which stirs my soul (Isn’t that what makes some men so attractive, girls?!).

Definitely something going on between these two, don’t you think?

A few years back now I went to El Día de la Trilla in El Tanque, which featured drag racing – that is a pair of yoked oxen dragging a sled of sacks representing whatever it was they dragged of old, (corn? potatoes?) around a dusty track, winner being the one who drags the heaviest weight. I think that was when I knew this love of mine was the real thing. On Sunday we had as much of a demonstration as conditions would allow on the street almost outside my window. Of course tarmac and a limited turning circle aren’t ideal conditions, but, hey, I actually got to pet one, and they were every, single bit as awesome as expected.

I’m in love….with the ox not the kid!

After being on our feet in the sun and breeze for a couple of hours, my friends and I elected to lunch in Veinte 04, as I say, ad nauseam on FaceBook, my new favorite eating place. In fact both the place and the meal I had deserve their own posts, so I’ll leave you in suspense – though if you follow me on FaceBook you may have a clue! We returned to Plaza Roja afterwards for the best gelato in Tenerife in Gelateria Demaestre (my opinion ), but the event was packing up.

Crowded afternoon beach in El Médano last Sunday

There will be more to follow during this week of insular pride. The Sunday audience was composed more of “outsiders” than locals I think. No-one other than participants in traditional dress, a fair sprinkling of other languages heard, plus accents from the mainland and South America. El Médano is very much a mix of traditional and modern, and its population quite cosmopolitan when you scratch the surface. When we wandered off to lunch, it was clear that not everyone was interested in tradition, the tide was high and the beach was overflowing, but whether events are staged for locals or for tourists, it’s good to see re-enactments of history and the stoking of the fires of tradition.

Island Morning Rituals

We all have them, don’t we. Those rituals which ease us into each new day, the daily habits which confirm the structure of our life without which, facing the world, we are a bit more vulnerable. There were times in a colder climate when a part of mine was to huddle down under the bed covers for an extra ten minutes before getting up. Living on the coast of a sub-tropical island is a different kettle of fish. My feet find the cool, tiled floor eagerly, hungry for the new day.

My dog knows my morning ritual well. Shuffle to bathroom. Brush teeth and splash cold water on my face. Do the exercises I have to do to keep my cervical arthrosis at bay. Throw on old clothes. When I get to the old shoes, she knows it’s ok to disturb me, and we stagger out the door so she can to that which she has also to do.

Trixy enjoying the first rays whilst I take snaps

The sun rises at the end of our street. We’re lucky in that. It’s still dark. Dawn is seeping along the horizon. The sun will follow soon. Part of my morning ritual is to take a snap. Often it’s the sunrise. It’s always different: golden and serene, purple and threatening, rosy and hopeful, fiery red or shimmery blue.

Other dog owners hover around waiting for their pets to poop, we greet the nice ones and pull faces behind the backs of the grumpy ones. It’s hard to figure why some folk have pets, when they clearly don’t like the morning ritual. Dogs aren’t allowed on the beaches here any more, and I don’t disagree with the new by-law because far too many people don’t clear up after their dogs, the walkways are a disgrace, despite a hardworking cleaning crew around here. We get a cheery “Buenos días” from the lady who sweeps our section. I miss being able to let Trix off to run a while, though. Not that she’s up for much running now that she’s an old lady.

The view which greets me at the end of my street

Once she’s done the necessary we walk on, observing the rituals of other early risers, as the light changes.There is a small headland just before Montaña Pelada at one end of town, and a hotel and spa blots the view, their first floor lights are on, and the reflections shimmer across the wet beach. The tide is retreating. I imagine the workers in the hotel about their morning rituals, setting tables for breakfast, polishing the floors, cleaning the pool. I’m lucky my day begins in this more gentle way.

Blot on the landscape hotel

My favorite thing about El Médano is its energy. Its setting is quite dramatic with volcanic cones at either end of a series of bays, dunes, rocky beaches and a long stretch of sandy beach, boats pulled up on the tiny Playa Chica, but the town itself is not so pretty. Too much unrestricted development in fact, has left it ugly, and yet, the ugliness is the last thing you notice. People in El Médano do stuff.

Boats pulled up Playa Chica at first light

Despite the quiet, there is a  subtle ripple of energy. We pass several runners, from young girls in lycra to older guys who trudge a bit, but, hey, they’re doing it!

Atop the abandoned bunker on the shore, the person I think of a “Zen man” sits. In truth I don’t know if it’s a man or a woman. The figure sits cross-legged and statue-like, facing the direction from which the sun will soon peek. He or she wears a hoodie with the hood up, so gender is moot. In all my morning walks by this beach I’ve never seen him move. As the sun rises he is silhouetted against the brightness. We stand, as always, in awe, until the brightness fades the fabulous colors, and there is only blue and incandescence.

“Zen Man” contemplating an especially gorgeous sunrise

At this point it is our habit to turn. As we do so “homeless man” emerges from the scrabble of plant life in the dunes. I guess he sleeps around here somewhere. For all I know he may be a famous scientist studying insect life in the scrub or something, but with his dreadlocks and deeply tanned face, I’ll go with the homeless assessment. He has long conversations with himself or with an imaginary friend. A few years back when I first saw him, I thought he was talking on a cellphone, but no. He sets off along the road into town, lanky, almost jaunty. I might envy the air of contentment he emits, or is it merely that nothing in life can shock him any longer?

On the street corner an elderly couple greet each other, and turn to stroll with their dogs towards us. She always wears a hat which  looks like an upturned flowerpot, perched upright, probably so as not to crush the perm beneath it. They always nod tentatively, not quite friendly, but not unfriendly either. I used to bump into them around the point where we made our turn, further along the path, and I thought they were a married couple, but recently I’ve observed this morning greeting as they meet, and now I think of them as  a winter romance chanced upon through their morning dog walking.

We turn the corner, as “brave morning bather” draws up and parks his car. His morning ritual is a swim, whatever the state of the ocean. Dressed in a towelling robe and flip-flops, which he will leave on the rocks, his greeting is always cheery, but I can never, quite, catch his accent. My bet is he’s German, though. He picks his way across the rocks, because at this point the beach is sharp. Perhaps from respect or from past experience he ignores “yoga man” who is stretching in the sun’s first warmth.

I  groan inwardly, but outwardly smile as I spot “the mad woman” ahead. In flapping house coat and slippers she talks constantly to her two, mangy dogs – unless she can pinhole another passing dog walker, and looks like it might be our turn today. She’s harmless, and not entirely stupid, but is impossible to get away from once she’s in full flow. Our luck is in. She scoops up one dog and trots across the road, waving with her free hand. I wave back.

As we turn to cross the road I notice a bright tent amongst the juniper by the picnic area. In summertime there is a great tradition of sleeping on the beaches of Tenerife, not so much a morning ritual as a summer one, even though it’s not quite here yet.

Home. Food for Trixy. Coffee for me. Exercise of some sort. After the ritual the awakening. I consider going out again with the camera.

Heron at daybreak

I know that along the main beach, which is in the other direction from that in which we walked, stout old ladies in flowery swimsuits will be plodding into the waves, or floating and chatting for all the world as if they were in the coffee shop. Along its much smoother length folk will be running, power walking or just strolling. Wee plovers and maybe a heron will be darting amongst the rocky parts in search of breakfast, and at the end of the harbor wall the good old boys, and some young ones too in these days of unemployment, will be casting their fishing lines into the sea. The tractor which furrows and tidies up the sand will have finished and will be moving to the other end of town, and the boy who puts out the sunbeds will soon be putting them into orderly rows. The bars near the oceanfront will be putting out their tables and chairs and perking the first coffee of the day.

Early-ish morning El Médano main beach

It’s tempting. I like to photograph these moments, how folk approach the day, prepare themselves, greet it. We all have our ways of grooming mind and body for the  chaos of the day ahead.

In Search of the Elusive Guachinche: Island Eating Adventures Part 2

I had my first, genuine guachinche experience without even knowing it. Perhaps my ignorance made it more enjoyable. I wasn’t so much tickled by the fact that I had finally tracked down a guachinche, as that I’d just eaten a feast, accompanied by a very decent red wine for the princely sum of €5. Yes, €5 ….. and no, it wasn’t 20 years ago, but just a few years back. The only dish I definitely now remember (and you will understand why) was tripe cooked in some sort of spicy sauce. Now, tripe might be the only form of food I don’t like, but I’ll always give anything a second try, and it looked so different from the slobbery, white stuff I remember my grandad woofing down, I was up for it, and thankful I did because it was delicious, as was every other dish of what seemed like an endless stream which kept coming that afternoon.

Pinolere. Vineyard in spring. New growth on old vines.

Unlike the mysterious muflon, guachinche sightings are not rare, but….distinguishing the genuine from the imposter, and finding one at the right moment – ah, there’s the mystery.

And what is a guachinche you ask? I suppose you could say that a guachinche is a category of restaurant. They evolved because local fincas needed an outlet for their excess wine production. Many island vineyards are, what the English would call market gardens, as opposed large business concerns. Today, the grapes are sold to coperatives who actually produce the wines. Whilst wine production flourished (which is an understatement) in the 17th century, and has undergone a huge revival in the last ten years or so, years in between were less prosperous for various reasons, yet these farmers made too much for their own consumption.

Thus the guanchinche was born from necessity, and I suspect from a general liking of neighborhood get-togethers. They sprang up wherever was convenient for the small-holder, in garages, sheds, back yards, or even in private houses.

The suprisingly good local plonk.

Naturally enough, “real” restaurants became jealous of the success and popularity of these make-shift establishments, with whom they couldn’t compete, and so legislation became necessary to control them. These days in theory they are allowed to open only three months of the year, serve only their own wine and/or water (no beer or soft drinks, note), no more than three dishes, and no deserts other than fruit….in other words they are not in direct competition with restaurants or bars.  Food is merely an accompaniment, or something to absorb some of the alcohol. Children are not to be encouraged, since the first business of the establishment is drinking and not eating….according to some folk.

Although wine is produced all over the island, almost all are in the north…..so you can see that there is a problem if you live in the south, namely drinking and driving. There are, these days, a good number of bars/restaurants which borrow the word guachinche, but which don’t conform to the above guidelines, and that is half the problem in tracking them down. I even went so far as to buy a book, which is certainly leading me to some interesting places, but many of which clearly aren’t true guachinches.

The Canary Islands, like the rest of Spain, has a long tradition of cheap eateries, bars, tascas, tipicos, whatever name you choose, everywhere, village or city, has them, the tables and seating used to be rough wood, some still are, and others now are plastic, right down to the cloth which covers the table…if there is one.  There is nowhere like them in my home country, England, for whilst pubs almost all now serve food, they didn’t do so in my young day, and eating out if you weren’t exactly flush just wasn’t possible. So whilst some establishments might look pretty much like guachinches they aren’t. If they serve beer, if they serve a variety of food, if they open more or less normal hours, then they are, as one owner of such a place said to me, “A tribute to the traditonal guachinche.” All of which is not to knock the wanabes, because they are usually excellent value for money, and have hearty food and jovial ambience…..and at least they have regular opening hours.

Vineyard outside a guachinche in Pinolere

Last winter, driving down into La Laguna after a chilly drive across the caldera from the south of Tenerife, my friend took me to what looked like a private house on the outskirts of the city, which was a guachinche she knew. Puzzled by the lack of cooking smells and general movement she leaned over the wall to speak with a woman who was leaving by the back door. It turned out that she was the owner, but had decided not to open that day because she had to go to the dentist – and therein lies the problem. A guachinche can open whenever the owner desires, since it isn’t his main occupation nor is it exactly a part of the “service” industry in the way a bar is.

Take the other week for instance: some friends and I went to the annual Cheese Fair in Pinolere in the Orotava Valley, a zone rampant with guachinches, as evidenced by all the rough, handmade signs we saw, some just scraps of cardboard (a sure sign it was the real deal), pinned to gateposts and stuck on walls. The closer to Pinolere, the more there were, and we looked forward to a cheap and tasty culinary experience after a mooch around the Fair. After our fill of cheese tasting, we left eager for our local dining adventure.

First try was the very same guachinche I mentioned in the first paragraph, where we’d lunched so well the week of the annual Craft Fair a couple of years before. We ambled down the road to find it closed, not entirely unexpected, as you may, by this far in my wee tale, have gathered. We questioned locals, some of whom didn’t even know it existed, and finally found out that it opened only once a year, at the time of the Craft Fair, clearly business that week is such they rid themselves of their excess wine. This day it was indistinguishable from any other house on the quiet road in the tranquil village.

We were directed to another. Healthy vines flourished on terraces below a large house with a wooden pergola, the rustic gate was closed, even at around 2pm – all good signs. We pushed the gate a little and could see signs of much activity….ah, not so good, they were getting ready for a wedding reception and weren’t open, but helpfully gave us directions to a highly recommended establishment lower down the valley.

By now the afternoon was dragging on, and our appetites sharpening, so we decided to drive down and to stop at the first cardboard sign we spotted. This was a good plan despite it involving a U-turn on a winding country road, it took us down a vertical, narrow street and out onto a country lane. We thought we’d lost our way, but gleefully spied it hidden behind foliage. Shivering, being used to southern warmth, we plonked our behinds down at one of the basic tables, wondering why, despite the late hour it was so very quiet. We soon found out. They had been robbed during the night and were struggling to provide any sustenance that day. We might have a long wait. Downward and onward, then.

We stopped by a tasca known for its good food to one of us, only to be shocked by the prices and the queue, and hightailed it right out. By now we’d given up hope, and were willing to settle for some tapas at a gas station (some of which do amazingly good and cheap ones by the way). The road had brought us back almost to the autopista when we spotted a hand-painted sign stuck on a wall, and made a sharp right turn in its direction. A few yards and we were outside what was clearly a finca, with enough parking for a couple of dozen cars. Suspiciously, we strolled up to the door and peaked inside.

View from Guachinche Ramal

We were greeted by a cheerful chaos, as dozens of family groups enjoyed their Sunday lunch, “Eh, guachinche, GUACHINCHE,” remarked my local friend, Cristina. Only one other family was ahead of us, and since they were a big group we got seated almost right away as a small table came free. I left the ordering to Cristina and leaned back to take in the surroundings. The place was a big terrace, filled with plastic tables with paper cloths, although the walls boasted some traditional knick knacks. Every table was filled with families or groups of friends, really wound down and enjoying wine, food and laughter without ceremony. When a young guy at the head of one, long table perched on the wall and began to strum his guitar and then sing, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

Best shot I could get of the singer

Those spicy sausages. Er we were so hungry I forgot to snap the enormous mound of meat!

Quickly plates of juicy sausages, french fries and grilled meat were placed before us, and, of course, a small carafe of  their surprisingly good wine…..sadly only a half carafe because of, you know, drinking and driving. The service was jolly and very quick. The food plain but perfect and plentiful.

View from outside the Guachinche

As guachinches go Guachinche El Ramal was enormous, strong plastic sheeting provided walls, and overhead was corrugated metal. The views from the portion of its terrace which was uncovered were quite spectacular, if you ignored the usual ramshackle-ness of the foreground.

It was unpretentious and totally relaxed. People were there to enjoy the food and the drink and each other’s company. Now, I’m not at all adverse to fine linen, nouvelle cuisine or cystal glasses. I just like food, and everywhere and every type of dining has its place, but our guachinche hunt this day was worth the wait and the effort, and I’m looking forward to the next one!

Mueca: The Funny Faces Festival in Puerto de la Cruz: Reliving My Past for the Third Time!

When I stop, occasionally, to wonder at what fuels travel addiction the answer I usually come up with is something like “variety” or “stimulation,” the antithesis of “same old, same old.” Despite my fascination with Tenerife, I sometimes drift into a rut, and then, knowing that the cure, travel, is momentarily unavailable, I mutter and curse to myself and Trixy (who is very tolerant of my mutterings).

I was at such an impasse earlier this week. Of course it was my own fault.  I doubt that there is anywhere in the world with Tenerife’s diversification of scenery and culture packed into less than 800 square miles. Yet, yes, it is possible to tire of breathtaking sunsets, fiestas and blue skies. And, yes, I know I’m a spoiled b*tch, but I was overdue for something novel and new, and everything on offer seemed too expensive!

You know how it is when you feel that way, I was looking forward to seeing the Mueca Festival in Puerto de la Cruz, but not expecting too much. I had the blahs.

El Teide, island guardian, seen from the pretty church square in Puerto de la Cruz

There is no English word for Mueca. It means “pulling faces” or “funny faces.” It’s a street arts/performance festival, which, of course, includes clowns, but I suspect a nuance to the word which I haven’t caught, because it turned out to be so much more than clowns and face paint.

Maria and I set off early, but not at the crack of dawn. The drive was pleasant, the conversation excellent, and there was, as ever, that little inward sigh when we switched autopistas, and the roadsides were green. The drive between, say, Los Cristianos and Santa Cruz is without doubt the un-prettiest scenery on the island, and we were heading north, away from it.

A Living statue

We were a trifle early, artists and performers were still setting up. This is not an island for early risers. We consoled ourselves with coffee and cake in a café which felt more like Vienna than Tenerife, (What is it about the South which reduces interiors to plastic or over-the-top?) and then we wandered back, and the atmosphere began to filter through the clutter in my head. People were strolling not aimlessly, but not purposefully either, bent on seeing and enjoying.

The streets and plazas of the town center had been designated specific areas, so that there was “the dance street,” “the music street,” “the magic street” and so on. We let ourselves drift with the tide of people. It was busy, but not crowded, so that moving around, changing direction, skirting small children wasn’t difficult. We snapped silly pictures of each other with a “work of art,” and met up with Maria’s son and family.

It was all so much nicer than I’d expected, but also more or less what I’d expected…..that was until we discovered the clowns. By that time we’d pretty much stopped trying to figure out exactly where each event was, and we stumbled across them by accident. Hard to imagine that, when they were in what was probably the largest stage area, down by the harbor. We managed to sneak into second row seats and decided that if it got too warm we would just sneak out again.

I need to explain something here. When I was a kid I went to the circus at least once every year. My hometown, Blackpool, on England’s north-west coast has a permanent circus ring, which nestles under the four, arched legs of its famous Tower, a structure inspired by the Eiffel Tower, which opened in 1894. Unlike the Eiffel Tower, Blackpool Tower’s legs are encased in a building, which also housed, at that time, an aquarium, a small zoo and a rather magnificent ballroom. But the circus ring was at its core, and my annual visit was the high point of my summer. One day I’ll write something about it, today that’s just  background.

Clowns Sandalio and Margarito doing their opening sketch

When my older son was two, the ex and I took him to the circus for the first time.  As we settled into our seats, I was drawn back to childhood, as my spirit absorbed the familiar, forgotten smells and sounds. I was captivated again, a kid again, singing with and shouting to the clowns, just the way we’d always done. I was so immersed that I wasn’t even aware of it, until my partner remarked afterwards that I’d behaved like a child myself. So that was my second bite of the cherry.

Saturday was my third. The clowns emerged from an improvised backdrop, which the wind constantly tried to rip free, and within a couple of minutes I was time traveling again. Sandalio and Margarito gave a classic clown performance, so that, even though it was updated, I knew seconds before each movement or glance what was going to happen next.The red-nosed loveable clown who always gets it wrong; the apparent demise of a clown who has to be revived by his partner; the dragging members of the audience onto the stage to aid and abet their silliness – it was all there.  I remembered how each clown has his own face, his own name and way of dressing came back, and I remembered that I’d even once dreamed of running away to join a traveling circus …… was that what inspired my wanderlust, I wonder?

By the end of a very happy hour every muscle in my body felt relaxed and happy, except perhaps for my cheeks, which ached from laughing so much. Beers, tapas, more cake, iced coffees and we plunged back onto the lively streets. This time to catch a ska fusion band called Big Band Boom Fire, joyously singing, playing and strutting atop an articulated truck, to an adoring audience, surrounding the truck, and swaying to the beat. Then on to catch a balancing act, with an Angus Young lookalike performer – more laughter, more engagement with the willing audience.

Folk perched wherever they could to catch an act

At that point I had to leave, Maria was staying with her family for the night, and I had a faithful mouth to feed waiting patiently at home. I wish I’d stayed. I wish I’d stayed in Puerto de la Cruz for the entire weekend in fact. Sitting here now looking at the program I realize I saw only a small part of what was there.

I don’t remember a better atmosphere in a crowd, a time when nothing about the crowd irritated me (I’m an only child, I don’t do crowds that well!). With none of the religious overtones of a fiesta or the excesses or competition of Carnival this was only about enjoyment and laughter and spreading happiness. The only other place I can think of is Disney World and for the same reasons. Plus they both necessitate that childlike suspension of disbelief, which we scorn as adults. A journey back in time is just as good as a journey across the miles.  I adored it, returned home feeling as I’d been on vacation, so stimulating had it been.

Right now the wanderlust is back under control, for how long I have no idea, but I’m quite happy to be on this ever-surprising island.

Walking with Volcanoes – El Teide’s Siete Cañadas Trail

It’s been pointed out to me that I haven’t blogged much in recent days, and it came a surprise  to realize  how long it’s been. That’s because my days, when not teaching or indulging in a “lite” social life, have been consumed by blogging, which made me forget that I hadn’t, you know, actually done any. This, in turn,  is because changes are afoot for this blog, and I’ve been preoccupied prioritizing and working out just how it needs to evolve. I’ve dropped hints before, I know, and also on Facebook, and there are times when I forget that not everyone follows all social media. I’m still keeping it all up my sleeve until it really is on the cusp of changeover,  - soon!

In the meantime, one of the other things which kept me busy for a few days was a visit from my son, Guy – much in need of sunshine living in England’s drab climate over the last three years. Some great conversations were enjoyed, and good food was consumed – most of which was displayed ad nauseam on Facebook

We’d intended the highlight of the brief 3 days to be a hike over the greater part of the Siete Cañadas Trail , without putting any pressure on ourselves to catch up with the bus to get back to the car, so then – to walk as far as possible leaving ourselves time to get back before it was dark. This is what we did, but not quite as far a we’d intended.

El Teide at the begining of our walk, framed by a mass of flixweed, which was prolific and added color to a landscape so often lacking in hues other than browns and blues.When we arrived at the Parador we discovered that the trail was closed until 2pm because they were hunting muflon. Muflon? Sounds like something from Narnia, doesn’t it! Muflon are, in fact, wild sheep. This fact I learned only as a result of this experience. I thought that – if they existed – they were wild goats. Although, according to the Cabildo ‘s web site,  there may be as many as 125 of the critters roaming Tenerife’s mountains I know no-one (and that includes folk who walk most weekends) who has actually seen one. Austin and I did once spot some pretty large droppings on the hillsides above Siete Cañadas, so they might have been there, just ahead of us. Alternatively, there might be giant rabbits living up there, which sounds much more appealing.

Another misapprehension was that they were wild because they had been abandoned by the aboriginal Guanche when Spain conquered the island. But, no, they were introduced to provide “big game hunting” back in the 70s – again, according to the Cabildo (the Provincial Government). At any rate, last Sunday was the day for shooting at them. Supposedly, they are ruining the flora and I suppose robbing indigenous fauna of food. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men! If you want to know about them, here is a link in English to the Cabildo’s information about them.

So, we repaired to the view-point overlooking the crater’s flatlands, not the one all the tourists were staggering up close to the surreal and twisted Roque Cinchado, but the one on the opposite side, where our only companions in the hour or so spent there were a shy German couple.

This was our lunch spot. Not a bad view, eh? There in the background is Alto de Guajara, my “favorite” mountain

Muflon we may have missed (no shots were heard during lunch) but we did encounter  reptilian thievery in the form of gallotia galloti galloti, this cheeky male lizard, quick as lightning filched a mini empanada from our container. He couldn’t manage to drag it too far, but came back for more! Just as we were going to remove it  (yep – you really, really shouldn’t feed them, and we wouldn’t have done it intentionally!) when an even bigger guy heaved into sight from below, like some minature dinosaur, and snarfed it before I could raise a camera, and all I could do was gasp!

And so we set off at 2 o’clock from the trail which begins by the Parador to do a shortened walk. We made it as far as the junction with the trail which meanders up the flank of Alto de Guajara, with frequent stops to take snaps, or, honestly just to admire and exclaim. Guy and I did a shorter version of this same walk almost exactly a year ago, but the flora weren’t a tenth as abundant or colorful as this year. Another remarkable floral excursion leaves me wondering at the surprises this island has in store.

This is my favorite part of the trail. We were inventing stories about the weird rock shapes. I think of these as petrified spaceships, frozen in another time, but Guy thinks it is the hand of a god pointing to the skies.

It was a lovely day on a personal level, but also a day of simply stunning beauty. The volcanic landscape of the National Park is so arid for much of the year (and no less majestic for the barrenness), that these few weeks of Spring are something like a wonderland, like the winter snows which never settle in the crater for very long, they are a moment in time, to be seized and enjoyed before it fades. It’s a constantly changing scene, nothing remotely like the more delicate scenery of England. Even though we were only at around 2,000 m there is very much a sense of “being on top of the world,” of somehow reaching out to the heavens.

A water break. The weather was perfect. Sunny but not hot.

Huge clumps of purple wallflowers grew by the trail.

It’s a kind of ritual, living here, that if you don’t go to the National Park at any other time, then you go twice a year; once to see the first snow of the winter and once to see the tajinaste in flower. I knew that probably there would be some show, although it was a tad early, because of the gorgeous display I’d seen in Vilflor. Vilaflor is a fair bit lower, but three weeks or so had passed. We saw the first by the roadside as we drove up, and there are already several in almost full bloom in the crater now. These plants grow in the wild nowhere else on the planet. They are vibrant, usually swarming with bees – the honey made from their pollen is delicious, and the real harbinger of summer. By the time they are passed, those proud heads dropping and then withering, the island will be enveloped in summer heat.

I snapped this plant on the outward walk, but returning as the sun was dipping its colors seemed more pronounced.

As we wound our way down in the early evening, mists shrouded part of our route. Down below, we discovered, those mists had blocked out the sun. We’d risen above them and into the sunshine of the crater,and a different world. And there you have it – again. The astounding variety which has kept me here so long.