Addendum to Last Post :=))

I was feeling a bit bad about not snapping on Saturday night, so taken was I with Kenny Neal’s performance, but Pablo sent me loads of super pix  yesterday.  He was much more focused about taking photos, and also remembered to take a zoom lens!  So here is the unforgettable Kenny Neal.  I chose this pic of all the ones which Pablo sent, because the man is just enjoying himself so much.  He has one of the most infectious smiles I’ve ever seen in real life.  His entire performance was so full of good energy as well as incredible talent!

His entire band is family, and he shared the spotlight with his nephew for two marvellous, foot-stomping numbers, which harked right back to pre-electric blues even.  And do you see that smile too?  Must run in the family!

And this was Colleen and I yelling for more!

Santa Blues too good for Santa Cruz?

I remember the first time I walked into a Blues club, and the butterflies which began to rise and flutter in my stomach, as one of those rich, spine-chilling riffs bounced off the walls of the room as I entered. I was 16 or 17, had come to Blues via the beatnik atmosphere of a folk club which used to meet over a local pub in Blackpool. This Blues club was, I think, short-lived, even though I am talking about the mid 60s, when Eric Burdon and the Animals, Eric Clapton in his many incarnations, the Stones, Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames and other bands were beginning to acquaint us, of the North West wasteland, with the music born of the anguish of Africa, of the misery and hope of slavery, and the failed promises of Reconstruction in the US.

It was apt. It was the time of the freedom marches and the eloquence and inspiration of Martin Luther King, and the music spoke of the pain and the injustice, as well as of broken hearts and sexual innuendo. Maybe it’s because, to the majority of the audience at Santa Blues, that’s all just a part of history now, that there lacks the atmosphere and intensity of audience reaction one finds in other places. I noted that it takes the consumption of a certain amount of alcohol on the part of the crowd before it starts to move or dance with the rhythms. It also has to be noted that these concerts are totally free, so a certain amount of people are there for that reason only, and aren’t familiar with the music, let alone its history.

Blues, clearly, has a small but very loyal following in Tenerife. After my arrival in 1987 the only Blues I heard was recorded, until a friend and I stumbled, almost accidentally, on a concert sponsored by the local authority in 2003 in El Fraile, Arona. El Fraile is an immigrant neighorhood, which, I presume, is why that setting was chosen by some weird logic, but the majority of the immigrants, at that time were South American, and the music was as strange to them as to locals. My friend and I sat, spellbound by the music of a local band called Cotton Blues, who were seriously good, and who allowed other musicians to jam with them, which added to the richness of the music, and the atmosphere, despite the lack of enthusiasm on the part of the small crowd. I remember a duelling-banjos-style number in which it took two guitarists to produce a sound which gave more than a nod to the memory of Stevie Ray Vaughan, but produce it they did! After that the venue moved to the next village, only a ten minute walk away, but with a more appreciative audience. To be best of my knowledge it didn’t happen this year, presumably a victim of La Crisis. If it did my bad luck that I missed it.

The setting in the church square of the parish church of Santa Cruz

The Santa Blues festival in the capital is in its 6th year now. It began as a month-long celebration, with concerts on various nights throughout the month, but has changed format for at least the last 3 years, and now occupies 3 nights at the end of June in the plaza de la iglesia de la Concepcción, the parish church of Santa Cruz, which sits at the beginning of the wonderful Calle Noria. The stage used to face down to the street, but now faces outwards to the main road.

On Thursday, Colleen, Mari and I arrived a little early, being unsure about parking, I knew that there were road works close by, but in the end we parked on the harbour front with ease, and had a short stroll around the district, before heading back to the plaza.

Colleen and Maria resting on the bank of the barranco

The audience was sparse as a local group, Rojas Blues Band and Esther Ovejero, opened the night, and the festival, with a curious lack of fanfare or introduction. What they lacked in polish and style this group more than made up for in enthusiasm, and they kept us well entertained until the festival’s first treat, Larry McCray and his band. McCray was a new name to me, although he is clearly very well known in his sphere. His Blues is of the Hendrix legacy, and whilst I do enjoy it, it’s the older stuff which really gets me going. Still, it was a great night, the audience eventually warming up, and the moon arising from the ocean into a clear sky adding to the ambience, as we bopped. Colleen and I had no doubts about wanting to return the next night, Maria, sadly, was off to Barcelona the next day. It’s around an hour’s drive for Colleen, a bit less for me, so it’s a consideration.

Friday night we realized that we could leave a bit later, which gave me time for a necessry siesta before leaving. Since I’d been up early to take Austin to the airport, there hadn’t been an awful lot of sleep, but as driver Thursday night I hadn’t had a drink, so a siesta neatly compensated, and I was raring to go by 8pm. Despite the fact that Spain were playing Chile for a place in the next round of the World Cup we found the roads surprisingly not that quiet, but the plaza almost deserted when we arrived in Santa Cruz, and we parked even closer to the venue. Despite the marketing for this event hugely lacking on many fronts, someone had had the wit to channel the match to the screen which usually displays advertising during the performances, so we were able to watch the final moments.

Ann and Colleen watching the end of the game

Seemed, however, that there few soccer fans around, as this guy was the only one who seemed to be celebrating the win!

Events beginning late is more or less expected here, so add the soccer to that and we began at 9.30 eventually with the Johnny Pérez Band from Cataluña, who were absolutely excellent, and deserved so much more than the scattered applause they received.

I do wonder about audiences here. A Canarian friend once explained to me that there is no history of showing appreciation or enthusiasm, and it isn’t unusual for nothing more than polite applause at the end of a performance. That friend is very well travelled, and we were at a classical concert at the time, and it was some years ago, but it disappoints me that things haven’t changed much. Friday night there were lots of people who simply stood and watched, never moved, never applauded. They might as well have been watching a politician pontificating, or a demonstration of the latest implement to chop carrots.

Happily for Sandra Hall, who headlined Friday, by the time she concluded her stunning performance, drink had raised the enthusiasm bar a bit, and there was a fair amount of whistling, and ululating as well as clapping and shouting, which is not to detract from her rapport with her audience, despite not speaking Spanish. She draws her performance from the rich reservoir of blues and soul, and warmed the crowd up considerably when she dragged a random guy up onto the stage to dance a very suggestive dance with her, in the real tradition of juke joints and music and sex as escapes from a hard life. She did one encore, and I am guessing that because of the late start the hours of a noise abatement type law were already exceeded. Always leave an audience panting for more I guess. I certainly was!

Sandra Hall and random guy

The Empress of the Blues

Saturday we left even later, and yet still had a wait before the music began. This time The Tina Rioro Quartet warmed up the audience, and indeed the welcome was warm. Tina informed us that it was her first professional performance, and she clearly had friends and fans in the crowd, which called her back for an encore, the first time over the weekend this happened for the opening band. She clearly has potential, and struggled valiantly with both a tight dress which kept riding up a bit too far (someone get the girl a stylist!), and a spectacular excess of dry ice, which, actually, hide the group from view at times. Her girlish enthusiasm spilled over with each number, but the band lacked both warmth and energy. As, presumably, amateurs they will, hopefully, learn as they get more gigs, and perhaps relax into their music.

It doesn’t always happen that the best is saved until last, but this year Santa Blues did just that. It’s a measure of my huge enjoyment of Kenny Neal and his band that I don’t have a single photo to show from the event. I was as rooted to the spot as it was possible to be in that sort of crowd. His spellbinding style was matched only by his own clear enjoyment of playing. One look at his wide smile and you couldn’t help but smile yourself …. if you weren’t already of course! His music is modern Blues at its best, with huge respect to the traditional and just a hint of bluegrass. His band, in the best griot tradition, comprises only family members, and his nephew also treated us to a couple of pieces, which were pure Blues of the very best pedigree. Their fast-paced numbers had almost all of us tapping and bobbing, and when they slowed down the tempo you could feel your soul leap. I could have listened all night and then some.

The only spoiler on this last night was the audience, or some of it at least. Although it was, overall, more receptive and appreciative than on earlier nights, there was a large element of Saturday-night-out-on-the-towners there who chatted, argued and generally displayed a total lack of respect both for the music and other people who were trying to listen. During the upbeat, loud sessions they were drowned out, but when the pace slowed they really were an embarrassment, when Kenny Neal announced that the band would be signing autographs after the show I felt like going to apologise. In the event I didn’t, we had a long drive for the third night running, though happily for us, Colleen’s husband, Pablo, was doing the honors this night, and so we wound our weary way home listening to Blues on the car stereo, and wishing we could hear more of it live.

To Silence or Not to Silence?

http://bit.ly/bDcDzC

The above item on CNN today set me thinking.  This barrier island town in South Carolina has actually banned singing in public.  “Outrageous and absurd!” were my first reactions.  “What killjoys and control freaks” were my third and forth.  After that, I read the article, and although it really doesn’t elaborate much on the headline, other than what you might have predicted, I found myself nodding in agreement.  The reason is this.

Not so long ago I lived on this quite pretty waterfront, which is the harbor in a small village here called Los Abrigos, this photo was taken from my little balcony.

Even when we first arrived on the island 20+ years ago this fishing village was transforming its economy in the face of dwindling fish stocks, and almost all of the harbor side properties had been turned into restaurants – very basic, fish restaurants, supplied by the local boats, some family businesses supplied by brothers and cousins who still took out the boats each day.  Over these years it has been smartened up by the local authority, so that the rough, cobbled street alongside the harbor became pedestrianized and sanitized, but in a very pleasant way.  One of the restaurants was sold, and reopened its doors as a very chic and upmarket establishment.  The Promenade was just a sufficiently short stroll before or after dining.  Although behind the waterfront what they call “cement” here went up, these waterfront buildings remained more-or-less the same.  I was delighted when I was able to rent a spacious apartment over one of the restaurants, with this view snapped sitting in the comfort of my sofa.

For some months it was idyllic, every bit as peaceful as I’d imagined.  Then it seemed that a bar next door to the restaurant over which I lived changed hands.  At least, it changed its image, and became a late-night drinking spot.  Several nights a week my dream bedroom, where white gauze curtains fluttered in the gentle evening breeze, and the swish of waves filtering back into the ocean through the tiny, pebbled beach lulled me to sleep became a nightmare room, where I tossed and turned seeking elusive sleep as laughter, loud voices, singing and sometimes fights roused me every time I dropped off.  I can be fairly tolerant, and I tried very hard, for a long time to acknowledge that people have every right to laugh, sing, argue and even fight if they want to, and, yes, I do still believe that…..I just don’t want them doing it under my bedroom window!  So, I moved.  One of the brilliant things about renting, over owning property, is that you can do that.

What I think now is that, yes, we all like to make noise in some form or another, whether it’s cheering on our team (certainly wasn’t quiet around here last night when Argentina were playing!), playing rock ‘n’ roll or letting our kids run around shouting as they splash in the swimming pool (when that gets too much for me I shall move on from here too!), but that there should be places where we can be quiet.

For years in my youth, I debated whether I was a city girl or a country girl (it seemed important back then that I stuck some sort of label on myself), and my final answer, as I grew up, was that I am a bit of each.  I love the buzz and  energy of cities, but I also love the tranquility and peace of the countryside, and I think that we should preserve the latter.  A couple of weeks ago I came across this blog post, which was featured here on WordPress’s Freshly Pressed front page

http://newurbanhabitat.com/2010/06/14/in-search-of-silence/ Do click on the link to that Gordon Hempton article which is fascinating.  Basically, apparently, there isn’t a square inch of Europe which is free from noise pollution, which means, I think, that even on top of Mont Blanc you will hear planes passing overhead.

I suppose that post started off the train of thought which has brought me here today, still musing.  What I really would like is to be able to choose, to be able to turn noise on or off, but that isn’t really practical.  Even if this apartment block was declared a noise-free zone, there would still be noise from down the street, we are so many now in the “civilized” world, and we live cheek by jowl, even on these islands, where perhaps one day we may run out of space!  So the more I think about it, the more the thought of living on Sullivan’s Island appeals to me!  Of course, if I were wealthy enough to live there, then I could always nip up to New York from time to time for my share of hustle and bustle.

Pagan Rituals or Simple Illusion?

Pagan friends don’t need to be told this is an important week in the annual cycle of life.  The longest day, June 21^st,  the summer solstice, which, following the tradition of the early Christian church of tagging their holy days onto existing fiestas in hopes of smothering the heathen ones, is also Noche de San Juan here in Spain, which is tomorrow, so more of that tomorow.  For sure, both the pagan and the whimsical seem to have sway over the Christian when it comes to celebrating this time of year.

So in a state of anticipation, late afternoon yesterday saw Maria and I heading for the pueblo of Güimar, where the Parque Ethnographico, which has been built around six pyramids of unknown date and origin, can be found.  Our information was that at the summer solstice you can see the sun set twice from this possibly “sacred” and  “ancient” site.  We were quite impressed by the lack of traffic on the narrow, winding rounds through the village, surely, the whole town must be up there, waiting for this phenomenon……..then we realized that this year the solstice sunset was also coinciding with the Spain vs Honduras World Cup game.  However, when we alighted from the car and walked towards the Park, there was a satisfying buzz of conversation to be heard beyond its walls.

In my mind’s eye I was expecting druids, or at least hippies, but when we entered I was surprised to find a fairly large group (clearly not soccer fans then) of people of all types, and mainly smartly dressed, no flowing robes and not a rasta hairdo in sight.  Obviously, people more interested in the scientific rather than the spiritual context of what we are about to witness.

Entry was entirely free, and it was nice to see that quite a few parents were hauling their kids to see Nature’s show.  It’s about six years since I visited the Park, and it was also good to note that normally adult entrance is only €10.50……note to self…..go back soon to see if they have any new information there.

We just had time to buy a bottle of water in the bar, which was open, although the gift shop was not (whoa – seemed like a missed opportunity to me. What???   No “I saw the double sunset at the Güimar Pyramids T-shirts??!), when the signal was given that we could follow the guide and enter the Park.  As we neared the pyramids we collected special glasses which we were to don to protect our eyes.  They were such rich joke material, but really necessary, as we found out.

The sun was already beginning to sink behind the mountains in front of us, and just to the left we could make out some of the structures of the astrophysical observatory.   We tried the glasses, and they reduced the sun to a small pinprick.  Didn’t seem very impressive at that stage, but looking directly into the sun was still not an option.  It was, in reality, still fairly high in the sky, and was “setting” here because we were in a valley.  The guide reappeared atop the wall of the middle pyramid, and gave us a talk about the phenomenon and other things, which I could barely hear, so I can’t enlighten you much, but I will try to explain as briefly as I can.

These pyramids have been the subject of controversy over the last fifteen years or so.  Back then they were thought to be simply rather well-made, agricultural terraces.  Terraces are much used in farming here, but few are so fastidiously put together as these.  Somehow, around 1990 Thor Heyerdahl got wind of their existence.  He had long had a pet theory that there was a missing link between the pyramids of ancient Egypt and those in Mexico and South America.  History and anthropology are full of missing links, aren’t they, which is one reason they interest me, but clearly obsessed Heyerdahl.  In a rare display of efficient commercialization (efficient perhaps because funded by Fred Olsen), the current park was created around the buildings, even as digging continued, and it opened in 1998.

Something investigations quickly turned up was that the three, main pyramids had interesting alignment with both the winter and summer solstices.  This we quickly observed to be true.  Standing along the lower wall, of the second pyramid, as instructed, it was quite evident that the sun was about to set directly in front of us, in line with the pyramids in front of and behind us.  We put on our glasses and waited patiently, as the sun sank, and then became just a shimmering highlight against the craggy peak.  Juggling camera and protective glasses was no mean feat, but sure enough within about three or four minutes it partly emerged, before finally disappearing, spreading glorious rays of light heavenwards from behind the mountain tops ahead.  And that, as I think Forrest Gump said, was that.

Despite spending some time looking online today for an explanation, the only information I can find is that the phenomenon can be observed when in correct position at the site.   Presumably it is an optical illusion because clearly the sun does not veer from its path, and play peekabo.  I confess to disappointment, but that was because I had preconceived ideas about how I might feel, and we all know we shouldn’t have those.  It was interesting, but not, by any stretch of the imagination, a spiritual experience.  I’ve been places where I swear I could feel ghosts – the catacombs in Rome, the sunken road in Fredericksburg – or places where I have been awed by things of far greater scale than I can take in, atop those very mountains to see a billion, billion stars or standing before the inconceivable beauty of Michelangelo’s la Pieta – but I felt nothing in Güimar last night except for interest.

The truth is that nothing has been discovered as yet to prove that these pyramids were anything other than agricultural, although some artifacts dating back to pre-conquest times, when the island’s original inhabitants, the Guanches, were cave dwellers have been found in a cave adjacent to the buildings. So, and despite the fact that the Guanches used mummification, so several corpses have been found around the island, no evidence of sacrificing virgins to the sun god or anything remotely like that.   In addition, despite his being a man of  great courage, many of Heyerdahl’s theories have been discredited or dismissed over the years, which leaves the entire project looking like a money spinning effort.  I don’t have a problem with that.  We all have to scrape a crust, and I will go back soon to see if there is any new information there before I say any more.

Pictures of El Teide

El Teide

Originally uploaded by islandmommacanarias

Of all the pictures I’ve taken over the years in El Parque Naciónal, this one is my favorite. Well, it’s my favorite since I had a digital camera. Somewhere in a box I have a similar one to this, but with Teide covered in snow. Still, I liked the light here this day.

Nicholas Kristof’s Father

http://www.oregonlive.com/education/index.ssf/2010/06/kris_kristof_concentration_cam.html

I became a huge fan of Nicholas Kristof’s writing in the NYT some while back, and thanks to Facebook and Twitter and the internet age in general, it is much easier now to just click and read.  It’s not only his writing I admire, it’s his whole ethos, how he wants to draw our attention to things in the world which are wrong, but which we can change if we all pull together.  I admire what he does, how he does it, and why he does it, I suppose you could say.

Last year I read the book he co-wrote with his wife, Sheryl WuDunn “Half the Sky“.  If I could only keep one book forever from my collection, that would be the one.  It is harrowing and inspiring by turns, which is, of course, what they intended.  It tells of awful injustice in the world, but how it is possible to overcome it too.  It just came out in paperbook too.  I know I sound like an ad for this book, but I don’t even do Amazon ads or anything  – yet.  I just really, really think everyone in the “West” should read this book, especially women.

Anyhoo, point of this post is that Nicholas Kristof’s father died this week.  If I were American, maybe I would have heard of him, but I hadn’t till now —-  what an AMAZING man (so now I know where his son gets it from), and I wonder if they actually do make men like this any longer?

Recalling Boozy Summers

There is a very old and worn joke, which visiting British comedians drag out, about Tenerife being 20,000 alcoholics clinging to a rock – they are talking about ex-pats, by the way, not the locals,  and they make the same joke about Ibiza,  Gibraltar and other appropriately geographic places.  So what I am going to say next might come off sounding like a lush, but the other day I was thinking about how certain drinks remind me of certain years.

I was brought up in an almost teetotal household.  That might have had more to do with lack of money than an abhorrence of alcohol, but my grandmother was a regular worshipper at the local Salvation Army Citadel, and I do remember an incident in my late teens when she allowed me a small glass of sherry one Christmas.  I was kind of chuffed that she considered me old enough to handle it, and I waited in anticipation as she poured her annual glass of advocate for herself, so we could clink glasses and toast the Season.  I had the glass halfway to my lips when the doorbell rang, and I found the glass disappearing from my fingers quicker than you could say “Hallelujah” (who knew Nana could move so quickly?!).  By the time I blinked, she was hiding our glasses  behind the Westminster Chimes clock on the sideboard, to be restored to me as soon as she discovered that the visitor was not a Salvation Army friend, but a neighbour come with Christmas greetings.

So you can see, I might have had a confusing view of alcohol, not aided by taking the pledge at the Salvation Army Sunday School at the age of 10, so that feelings of guilt accompanied every sip for years and years.  Eventually, I think it was curiosity that put me on the slippery road, plus reading the entire works of Ernest Hemingway one summer…..no need to tell you about him……

Is it my imagination that things always happened in the Summertime?  Looking back, there were several Summers I remember by what I was drinking.

In the early 70s I discovered cuba libres one warm Summer of houseboats and wending our lazy way  down canals, with nothing more in mind than chilling out and watching the sunlight play between the branches of the willows as we drifted underneath.   That came to an abrupt end in November of the year, when a party of us visited Mallorca, and I got very, very, very drunk one night. In fact, I think it might have been the first time I’d ever been drunk – so drunk I couldn’t bear the smell of Bacardi for more than thirty years afterwards!

Bacardi takes me to another summer though , those thirty years on, when I broke the non-white-rum habit, that was the year Bacardi Breezers were introduced.  By then, of course, I was living here, and I have pleasant memories of watching sunsets, friendly banter and trying to figure out which flavor I liked best…..it turned out to be watermelon.  There used to be a fabulous series of concerts and events in Los Cristianos called Son Latinos, a week of music and music-related events.  It was held the last weekend of August, so it seemed to mark the end of Summer.  Over the years Jose Feliciano, Manu Chao, Chayanne, members of the Buena Vista Social Club, the Vargas Blues Band, headlined, and the Summer I am thinking of – Maná.  A huge stage was erected on Las Vistas beach, and we sat crossed legged to watch the smaller concerts.  Came the big night, we picnicked on the warm sand  as we watched the concert, and tried to conduct our own survey on which flavour was best. Strangely, I’ve never drunk them since that year.  Winter is red wine for me, so as the season changed so did my habits, and the next summer there was something else.

It might have been the margarita summer, the next one.  That summer I was living where I am living again now, in El Médano, and right on the corner two steps from the beach there was a Mexican restaurant which made the best margaritas you can imagine….. and can you imagine just how delicious and refreshing an ice-cold lemon margarita is when you have been messing about on a hot beach all afternoon?  The next year I moved away, and although I have the odd margarita when I go to a Mexican restaurant, the drink/driving thing kind of curtails the enjoyment, and they seem so messy to make at home.  Anyway, I like to keep the memories of lazing on the beach, cooling down with those frosty drinks and then shuffling, slowly, home.

I passed  two summers in total abstinence, 2006 and 2007, when I was working with the Cruz Roja humanitarian aid emergency response team, and call outs would come at all and any hour of the night or day, as the boats arrived from Africa, and we had to be ready to up and go on two minutes’ notice.  That I found it so easy to refuse a drink,  kind of reassures me that, despite this post, I am not an addict!

Addiction is, in my perception, far more common than statistics prove.  Most people don’t consider themselves addicted.  I once saw an interview with Betty Ford, where she gave her own guideline as being that you are addicted if you need just one drink a day i.e. you don’t need to be stumbling around blind drunk all the time, which is how many of us perceive alcoholics to be.  Truth is alcoholics can quietly pack them away and build up a kind of tolerance, or a way of being which hides their problem.  Anyway, few of us would be giving out many signals of addiction on one drink a day.

When you are young it’s hard to resist peer pressure when so much social life revolves around the pub, in England at least, which is where I was when I was young.  I wasted one entire summer trying to fit in with “the group” by drinking Boddingtons Beer on the lawns of Lake District pubs or the streetside tables of our local.  I never, ever developed a liking for it, and the next summer I’d moved on to gin and tonics – when friends complained about my expensive taste I simply cut down, and tried to stick to ordering it only when it was our round.

There was my kind of “Great Gatsby summer” back in those years too, when we discovered the delights, as well as the snob value, of Pimms.  I learned to make them properly, what’s more, none of the readymade stuff, if you don’t mind.  It seemed like a summer when everyone was elegant and the days were hazy and mellow, we went to York Races on Ladies’ Day, and point to points and country race meets, and played at being toffs……at least that’s the way I saw it.  I am sure that no-one else did.  Probably no-one else in that group had read “The Great Gatsby”.

There came the summer here I discovered bourbon and cola.  There was to be a firework display in town and we gathered with some friends on the beach in eager anticipation.  These days, being more safety conscious, they rope off the beach, but then you could go drag a couple of sunbeds together to watch, and someone plied back and forth to the nearest bar on the promenade to keep the supply of drinks going.  It’s not unusual for firework displays to be late in starting, but for some reason that summer it was exceptionally late……which meant that we drank more than our fair share whilst waiting.  It was the year I’d begun to drink this made-in-heaven combination, and that night I discovered that it didn’t seem to make me drunk.  Of course it did, it couldn’t not have done, but it left me feeling happy and not in the least hungover the next day, and so after much searching I found “my” drink.

Maybe alcohol does feature too much in our daily lives these days.  One of my sons doesn’t drink at all, and the other rarely.  They both prefer the rush they get from fitness to the one they get from booze.  It’s probably wrong that I classify my memories by what I was drinking that year, and my generation, we baby boomers, being the first to be exposed to just so much choice, probably were the beginning of today’s youngsters’ binge drinking.  My social life changed, my status changed, and drink driving laws got tougher (quite rightly, of course), so drink is no longer as “normal”  a part of my daily life.  That’s good for me, but I kind of feel sorry for kids today.  While they are getting blotto every weekend, they are losing their memories too, all that remains from being that sloshed is the hangover, so I’m kind of glad I have the cool memories I do.

Summer Now and Then

It might be cloudy and more humid than usual, but there is no doubt that summer is upon us.  The schools have only days of term time left, but already the complex pool here is chocka in the afternoons, childish hoots and hollers echo and parental bodies tan themselves alongside.  It would take an actual rain storm to shift them now that summer’s here.  Despite warm weather since I moved here in February, the pool was hardly used until a few weeks ago.

It might seem odd to anyone who hasn’t lived in, what is described as, ‘a year-round, good climate’, that we do note a difference between summer and winter.  In fact, winter temperatures can soar too, but with shorter days the heat soon disperses, even before the sun sinks into the ocean.  In summer on the night-time coast or early morning, it’s cool outdoors, but buildings retain the heat, and sleep can be elusive.  It will be a few weeks before we get to that stage, but summer is beginning to stake its claim.

The past couple of weekends it’s been difficult to park outside my building, thank goodness for my garage parking, not only for this reason, but to keep the car cool too.  In addition to vacationers with hire cars, there are Canarian- registered cars.  For years now well-off people from the north of the island have been investing in property in the south.  Some are, simply, investments, but others have bought as second homes, so that the comparative quiet of weekdays is now punctuated by weekend noise.  This isn’t brilliant construction, and I have a background of running water, a hum from television and conversation and the throb of the elevator rising and descending at all hours.

It’s not that bad, and it’s what you get for living in a resort like El Médano, even though it isn’t a “tourist” resort in the same sense as its flashier neighbours.  It seems natural to me, having been brought up in an English seaside town, to think in terms of things being seasonal.

In Blackpool we used to avoid the town on a Saturday if we could, because that was “changeover” day and the streets bustled with laden cars struggling to get out of town, whilst newcomers circled, with glazed expressions, looking for parking spaces, and laundry services and other deliveries parked ad lib, wherever they could. The season there was short – from the schools breaking up early July to the reopening of their doors the first week of September, basically, with odd flurries in between, at Easter and Whitsuntide (as was).  Blackpool had the original extended holiday time for the Illuminations, but that’s another story entirely, and was a weekend thing.

There was a local saying, “Blackpool sleeps while Oldham Wakes”, “while” in this context meaning “until”.  For decades, starting in the early 19^th Century, Blackpool was the Torremolinos of its day to the hundreds of workers from the cotton mills of industrial Lancashire, and wool mills of Yorkshire, and later from industrial Scottish cities, like Glasgow.

The Wakes Weeks were probably originally religious holidays, but changed to become workers’ holidays as the country industrialized and life changed.  Each town had its allotted weeks, and Oldham, near Manchester kicked the season off in mid June.  I remember between Easter and Oldham Wakes there would be false starts, if there was good weather.  A quick heatwave in May would have traders and landladies rubbing their hands in glee, but it would fall off again as the weather cooled, which always set off a round of moans and whinges – la plus ça change!

From the time I became aware of the Wakes Weeks in the 1950s I also became aware that that was the time to avoid going into town.  In those days, as they had done for a century or so, people came by train, and humped their luggage from the impressive, main Central Station to the boarding houses nearby.  Local lads would earn their pocket money with homemade carts, pulling the newcomers’ luggage from the station to their destination.

I lived on the very edge of the town, more or less in the country, my granddad had a market garden, around two or three acres from memory, so summers were spent outdoors, with only occasional trips to the seaside.  I suppose I saw far less of the famous golden sands than the average kid from Blackburn or Burnley in fact.  There was long grass to hide in; a tree to climb; dried-up ditches which followed the line of the hedgerows in which to make dens, and smell the sweet elder and hawthorn flowers; there were the most pungent, fresh tomatoes to pick from the vine, and in the Fall gooseberries and blackberries.  Our neighbour grew peas, and sometimes we were allowed to go pick some.  There is nothing like the taste of freshly popped peas, and on the odd occasions in recent years I’ve tasted them I’ve been instantly transported back to happy times.

It seems to me now that it never rained in summer back then.  I don’t know if it did or not.  The one thing I do know is that we had a lot of freedom.  We could disappear “down the field” (our family way of saying somewhere on the land, away from the house) after breakfast and not return until our stomachs began to growl at lunchtime, and nothing was said, and no-one worried.  It seems to me too that we had overactive imaginations by the standards of today’s kids.  We invented games, we were inspired by tv once it arrived in 1953, not enslaved to it, or we would act out scenes from books.  We didn’t have an awful lot in the way of toys, I don’t think, it was post WW2, and the menfolk were all getting back into the swing of normal work, making up for lost time and eking out their wages, but we had boxes and wood, grass and flowers which transformed by our imaginations became swords or dens, stages or cars.  I don’t have a doubt, looking back, that we were the richer for it.

This was the kind of childhood I dreamed of for my kids, and moving to Tenerife gave them this in part.  It was much safer back then, and although we did have a pool, they spent hours and hours across the road on the “desert” hiking, exploring and fighting their wars, and when we went to the beach, we mostly avoided the main ones and sought out little bays with rock pools and scope for the imagination.

I have much more nostalgia for my childhood than I expected I would have, but I know that life evolves and changes, I just hope that when my children look back they will have the same feeling.

Professional Looks at those flower and sand carpets

If you would like to see much better photos than the ones I managed the other day then here are links to three sites/blogs you will enjoy:

This one is the official website of the carpet artists in La Orotava, in Spanish, of course:

http://alfombristasorotava.blogspot.com/2010/06/galerias-de-fotos.html

http://desireemartinphoto.com/blog/ Desi is a talented, professional, local press photographer I had the pleasure of getting to know a few years back.

http://tenerifevirgins.wordpress.com/2010/06/09/corpus-christi-flower-carpets-on-tenerife-2010-the-final-touches/ Excellent blog of a local, English writer and blogger

Just Walk!

Walk! No. 8 in 10 Things to do in Tenerife that don’t cost a fortune

No matter how long you live anywhere, there is no way that you get to know it if you breeze through in a car, even if you do that two and three times a day. That’s like seeing life from your own, little bubble. It’s not going out and connecting with people, or nature or history, all of which you can do if you just ease yourself from the couch or sunbed, and get off your bum for a bit.

Tenerife is small and there are some great drives, it’s true, like driving through the caldera, or testing your nerves on the winding roads in the Anaga Mountains, or Masca, or deliberating getting lost in the maze of winding roads and small villages, which cling to the hillsides. Definitely worth doing if you’re on vacation, or from time to time (usually if you have visitors from afar) when you live here, but the size of the island isn’t conducive to driving all day that often, and shank’s pony will open up new aspects of the island and its people to you.

Cute bar front on a side street in Santa Cruz

If you’re not a country boy/girl there are walks for townies too! A day strolling around Santa Cruz will reveal quaint side streets, art and local bars with a totally different atmosphere to those in the tourist areas, just for starters, and I promise – one day is nowhere near enough to see Santa Cruz, even without diving into the museums, churches or shops.

The university city of La Laguna is a World Heritage Site, and is rich with history and beautifully restored, old buildings. If you take the excellent tranvia from Santa Cruz, and ride to the terminal, then walk straight ahead you are in the old city, so it isn’t hard.

Beautifully restored old buildings to be seen in La Laguna

The original island capital of Garachico is a delightful and tranquil place to stroll around too, as are La Orotava and Puerto de la Cruz, but if, like so many of us, you live in the south of the island there is a lot to be said for walking around your own town, or a familiar town. Last year I spent 8 months living in Los Cristianos, and for some of those months I wasn’t able to drive, so walking became my main transportation.  I was surprised at the changes in the town from the last time I’d, actually,  walked around it. This, even though I’d been working there for three years, driving in and out, using local bars, shops and restaurants five days a week. You can walk from Los Cristianos at least as far as Fañabe, and I have a feeling that you might be able to walk as far as La Caleta now.  Midday might be a bit warm in summer, but in winter especially on a cooler day it’s an interesting way to get to know the area or people watch.  Depending on the time of year the south west coast offers amazing sunsets, on a par with any in the world.  In winter the sunset can be appreciated best from Los Cristianos (take a very short hike up Montaña Chayofita for a spectacular view), or in summer it’s best from further west, Playa San Juan, or even Los Gigantes.  An evening saunter around Adeje, Arona, Las Galletas or Playa San Juan is also a pleasant way to pass the time. These are just ideas, there must be dozens and dozens more. Don’t think you have to go that far to find something new in life, but what you do have to do is reaquaint yourself with your feet.

December sunset in Los Cristianos.  Last ferry of the day leaves for La Gomera.

For serious walkers, there are now several excellent websites in English with information about hiking, and I will list them at the end of this post. My god, how I wish they’d been there when I first came! We already mentioned the town hall (ayuntamiento) websites for information on local events, and some of those events are organized hikes, and they are open to all, so if you’re on vacation that’s fine. OK, they’re in Spanish – get someone to translate for you, or pop into the town hall and ask. Many town halls, especially those in tourist areas have staff who speak English.

On a crisp and sunny January day the islands of La Gomera and El Hierro could be seen quite clearly from Ilfonche

I have friends who have visited Tenerife purely to hike, and have never visited the tourist fleshpots. Their experiences are a million light years from those over-tanned bodies on the southern beaches. The Tenerife they know is a landscape of mountains and trees, gullies and wildlife, where morning mists shadow-dance through the branches and a lunar landscape challenges their stamina.

Maybe what they do is too much for you, but a nice hike and some fresh air from time to time appeals? Consider Barranco del Infierno just outside Adeje. Some years ago now this was closed to general foot traffic in the interests of preserving its natural beauty. The first time I wandered up there with Trixy, to be rebuffed, I was put out. I was used to taking my dogs there, and I wasn’t used to paying. I avoided it for a while after that, on principle. More fool me. When I did, eventually, go the change was overwhelmingly good. No litter, no noise, and a tranquillity I didn’t remember as such. The ravine has been cleared of non-native species which had invaded over the years, and now is a haven for native flora and, as it proved, fauna. We were followed for several minutes by a young partridge, who knew he had nothing to fear from us, nor was begging for food. If you are a bit nervous about doing something like this, this is one walk where you have guides and help within easy reach if needed.

In the valley of Barranco del Infierno the light comes later, so even if you set off a 9ish, which isn’t so early you get spectacular views of the sun rising over the mountains.

Perhaps the prettiest, southern walk is La Ruta de los Almendros in late January/early February, when the almond trees are in full bloom. Santiago del Teide has become, in recent years, quite famous for its organized walks over this route, and the trees are simply stunning. Again, just ideas, check out the sites listed below for more.

Late January and the almonds in full blossom

Despite overdevelopment, this island is still, at heart, a rural community, and getting out of town is easy, you might even discover a new route or a forgotten path to somewhere if you just go and look. If you’re walking in the countryside, especially higher up, remember, despite the sub-tropical climate, it can get chilly very quickly, particularly after sundown, so take something warm, also sunscreen and water, needless to say, and in summer a cap or bandana against the sun. Also remember that you might lose your cellphone signal in certain places. Should you have a problem, emergency services are now very good, the number is 112.

Those websites :

http://www.todotenerife.es/index.php?sectionID=57&s=7&lang=2&ID=3192

http://www.realtenerifeislanddrives.com/Walking%20Tenerife.html

http://walkingtenerife.co.uk/

http://www.tenerifehiking.com/

In addition to these there are plenty of personal blogs and YouTube videos of peoples’ experiences of hiking in Tenerife, so if you are planning to come here on a hiking holiday browsing those would be a good starting point for information.  Even if you live here, but haven’t walked much but would like to, then they are very helpful.  Odds are, if you have lived here long enough, that you will come up with a name you recognise, so there will be someone to ask.

This post was part of a series, here are the others:

Be a beach bum!

Take a drive through the Teide National Park

Barbeque in the “Great Outdoors”

Mooch the Markets

Party like a local!

Follow local sports

Free Summer concerts

Try Shanks’s Pony!