Photos de la Ruta de los Castillos

So no-one mentioned the deliberate mistake, then.  Well, not so much a mistake as a repetition.  When I wrote the post about La Ruta de los Castillos I panicked at the end because I thought I’d lost all my photos.  Wouldn’t have been surprising because I had to clear a load of pix off the computer to make room for new ones.  They were all supposed to transfer to the external harddrive, but I couldn’t find them there, so I decided I’d deleted them by mistake, and I used ones from a previous post.  Anyhoo – long story, short, I found them just now, so I thought I’d put them up so you can fill in any gaps my unimaginative writing might have left in your view of the place and the events.

Above is the interior courtyard of the Castillo de San Juan (Castillo Negro), with the tip of the Auditorio in the background.  As you can see, it was quite small, a lookout tower really.

Above 3 – views of the Añaga Mountains which cradle the city, and the Magnificent Calatrava Auditorium from Castillo Negro.

It was somewhere around the coastline in the above, two shots, that Nelson lost his arm.  Since he was taken directly back to his ship I don’t think anyone can say with certainty exactly where it happened, but history was certainly made along this shoreline in 1797.

Nothing to do with the castles, just I thought it was a nice shot of the Auditorio, taken from outside La Casa de la Pólvora.

Another view of El Tigre, the canon which, supposedly, made the devastating shot.  Our super guide, Omyra in the green uniform top there.

El Castillo de San Andres, another watchtower, marking the end of the fortification.  Although the fasionable beach of Las Terresitas lies just beyond this structure, it’s a man-made beach, and back in the 18th century would have been too rocky and dangerous for boats to land.

Autumn Rains

Apt that this first day of the Fall brings us rain and thunder.  We were put on yellow alert last night, which doesn’t usually mean too much.  Being such a mountainous island amounts of rain and wind directions can vary a lot, even in a very short distance.  We really have our own micro-climate. Where we lived when the boys were growing up, on a hillside, in Chayofa, we could see out across the ocean in two directions.  Storms, when they come, come from the Atlantic, and we could see the dark clouds gathering, usually sweeping across the nearest island, La Gomera, and out across the sleeve of ocean between Tenerife and Gran Canaria, often missing the South of this island completely.

I snapped this from the azotea, or roof terrace, about an hour or so ago.  You can see how dense clouds build up over the mountains, and settle in the valleys. What was a couple of hours, varying from drizzle to hard rain here on the coast, will be lingering in those valleys well into tomorrow at least.

I was looking forward to the rain to wash down the azotea.  I swilled it last week,  but being conscious of not using too much water, only enough to dampen down the sand and dus,t which has built up over the Spring and Summer months.  The hillsides and valleys of the South having been crying out for rain for some weeks now.  There isn’t a dramatic difference in temperatures throughout the year here, we average around 20ºC in Winter daytime, and rarely top 35ºC in Summer (though that’s beginning to change a bit), but anyone who’d been in a coma for six months and woke last week would have known exactly what time of year it was.  Grasses and plants shrivelled, and the mountain sides bereft of almost everything besides the hardy pines (which don’t really grown until higher up anyway) and cacti.  In a way this is the bleak time, the end of Summer, not Winter as it is further North.  Now we’ve had some rain, some of those barren hillsides will begin to sprout greenery within days.  The earlier the rains come the quicker the greenery returns, because the atmosphere borders on tropical with the heat and the rain, only the nights,  stand in the way of rapid, tropical growth!  Even in Summer we have cool breezes, once the sun has set.  Right now indoors it’s still muggy, but if I walk to the open window (no wind so I can happily leave it open the rain is vertical) the coolness is refreshing and very welcome.

It’s odd not to be able to make plans for tomorrow with any certainty.  One of the benefits of such a consistent climate is knowing that when you plan to BBQ, go to the beach, hike or watch fireworks or anything outdoors, the chances of it being spoiled by the weather are slim!

The rains always bring problems to some part of the island.  With so little rainfall, and with so much falling in such a short time when it does, drains get overloaded, roads cracked by months of Summer sunshine crumble, and rockfalls make mountain roads dangerous.  In some ways, to those of us who lived years in wetter climes, it seems like “just a bit of rain”, but the affects can be more serious than in places accustomed to the “wet”.  When I lived in houses in my early years here, both flooded on the ground floors when the rains got serious.  After a couple of years it became normal to wake up in the middle of the night and pull on a swimsuit to go clear out a drain or move something in the garden so that the water could flow through.  It was usually quite warm, and the rain was the soak-you-to-the-skin variety, so there was no point in wearing protective clothing!

I’ve also lived in a couple of apartments where damp was a problem after the rain.  One was quite serious, with damp spores sprouting all over the place, which the landlord neglected to inspect for months – happily windows were usually open, because I hadn’t realized how dangerous to health that can be!

Here, last time it rained heavily in February we were all water-tight, although I did have fears about the water gathering on the azotea and creating a waterfall down the stairs, which kept me awake most of the night!  From the look of the satellite pictures and the lack of wind at the moment, looks like this will be hanging around for a while – much to the delight of certain people I know!

Thanks For the Faithful Service

I knew the day would come.  I’ve been expecting it since the Spring.  The first time I realized I was in London, riding the Tube back in April.  I looked, and I could see plainly the first signs of exhaustion, the first tell-tale reminders that the end was coming.  It was a bit of a shock.  You know how there are some things you think will never change?  This was one of those things for me.

Over the summer months I closed my eyes and mind to the fact.  I tried to tell myself that this wasn’t happening, whilst still preparing myself for the worst.   I was going to pretend that this wasn’t happening so long as I could. I was going to cling to the last vestiges of life until the last possible moment. Today that moment arrived.

It wasn’t a surprise, heavy rain was forecast yesterday, and I was pretty certain that that would be the signal.  I needed to get real.  We go months and months, sometimes even a couple of years without rain on this side of the island, and so when it comes, it comes down heavy and loud.  It ain’t yer average drizzle.

And so, after our morning walk, and before the rain came this afternoon, I silently and regretfully tossed my faithful, cushy North Face sneakers into the rubbish, and hurried out to the dumpster before I changed my mind and kept another useless article sentimentally clogging up my energies. 

My god but I will miss them, though, not since I was a kid have I had such comfortable shoes.  Back then they weren’t nearly so technological, they were just “pumps”, and we wore them for everything, but I do remember turning up at my mom’s work wearing a pair in a similar state to the ones below, and my mom being very embarrassed, especially as she’d spent her hard-earned wage on a new pair for me the week before .

These I’d had for around four years, and they’ve been all over England and North Carolina with me, not to mention all parts of this island, and seen some all-nighters too.  They kept me painfree at standing-room only Blues concerts, and safe clambering over wet rocks.  They have washed like a dream, and kept my tootsies warm on winter mountain walks.  I bought the new ones back at the end of the spring, they are ready and waiting, all spick and span, but I’ve been putting it off.  I hate breaking in new shoes (odd for someone who generally thrives on change), and I’ve been ignoring those frayed bits where you can see the socks peeping through, that first signal that I’d observed back in April on the Tube  - they looked even more raggedy with my fluorescent pink ones! – but wet feet?   I don’t mind wet feet, but when the shoes start to rub as well, which they were beginning to do, and you add the wettness, not such a good idea.   So RIP comfy friends, let the weather gods bring it on.

Of Fiestas and Fireworks

In 23 years I’ve been to quite a few fiestas I guess.  I remember the first one distinctly.  It was in Los Abrigos, back when, to get there, you still had to bump and twist along a  road so narrow it reduced to one lane in places , and when the pathway by the harbor was potholed, and you could pull up and park right outside the restaurant at which you’d chosen to eat.  The locals had been savvy enough to create restaurants from the buildings along that harbor front by then.  I don’t know when the transition from quiet fishing village to “the” place for tourists to eat  fish began, but it was when the now-nearby golf monstrosities were only twinkles in the eyes of greedy developers.  In 1988 no lesser person than Kevin Keegan told me that  his first thought when he arrived in Tenerife was a platter of fresh fish and papas arrugadas in Los Abrigos.

We had arrived in July, and the fiesta there is in September, so we must have very much still been feeling our way around everywhere, when, as we dined right on the roadside, a little procession wound its way past, the men shouldering a religious statue.  It was a scene I’d seen in the South of France and in movies, so I understood what it was, though we were absolutely knocked out by the firework display which followed the mass and the blessing of the seas.  That was something quite remarkable to our northern European eyes.

Looking back, I’m surprised how low key the celebrations must have been for us to be taken by surprise by the procession.  Today’s Los Abrigos fiestas are much grander affairs, with a firework display which packs the Promenade, sardine-fashion,  with hundred of locals, residents and tourists, who have easy access from the smooth road constructed some years back, and which, effectively, put Los Abrigos “on the map” I guess.    The Sunday procession is still a fairly quiet affair,  but visitors to the nightly verbenas, or open-air dances, in the church square party till the wee small hours throughout the week to the latest pop music or salsa……as I found out when I lived there!  The village is far too small for anyone not to be affected by the noise!

Procession in Los Abrigos four years ago

For a while that was my impression of local fiestas – a few, die-hard religious people shouldering the statues and shouting “Viva whoever” as they paraded along the street, great firework displays (arriving in Disney World for the first time the only disappointment was the firework displays – not that they were inferior to Tenerife, just about the same), and lots of boozing and dancing.  Romerias, as distinct from fiestas, seemed much more traditional, interesting and photogenic.  Over the years I learned about different fiestas and romerías (and am not 100% sure what the difference is),  some of which I’ve now seen, some of which I’ve seen on tv and some of which I’ve only heard stories.  I know that each different celebration of each town or village has its own style, its own personality, and I know that, as the years pass, they evolve, they have changed in my time here.  I guess Los Abrigos, having been such a tiny place, well, didn’t really have much in the way of tradition.

Traditional Romería Arona 3 years ago

Fiestas in other places have become commercialized, most notably, of course, in Los Cristianos, where it was years before I understood the real traditions behind the wonderful firework display there. Ex-pats and tourists think is put on just for them, and  like to mumble and grumble about things “not starting on time” here.  Maybe that’s inevitable, Los Cristianos sold its soul years ago.

You have to pity El Médano in a way.  In some villages now decorations for fiesta are much more extravagant than here, but the almost constant wind can make “short work” of almost anything they put up!

At any rate, I was undecided about going to the El Médano fiesta this weekend, but a trot down to the market on Saturday morning, seeing the preparations in the town square, the portabars, festoons and lively atmosphere, which was already in the air,  prompted me, and later that evening I arrived just in time to see the statue of Our Lady (don’t ask me which one) being shouldered along the street by the square, being taken to her ringside seat for the fireworks.  The truth is that, although there were hundreds of folk there, most of them were there for the firework display. Whilst the procession was winding its way along the streets, most of them were at the fair, buying cotton candy and hotdogs, or throwing back a quick beer, although the rides on the street side did dim their lights and tone down their music as the parade passed.

What really prompted me to go was to take some snaps of the fireworks. For the hours I put into the course at the beginning of the year, and for the time I’ve had, I’ve really just totally neglected photography as a hobby.  It’s just been a way to record where I’ve been, and I could have done that just as well with my beloved, little Nikon Coolpix.  This was my first opportunity to photograph fireworks, and I was surprised to find a decent place on the beach, despite the crowds…..most people don’t want to get sand in their nightime shoes it seems.  I perched by a shower, and had a good position to be able to steady the camera, although I had to bum-shuffle across the wet sand a bit when some people came and stood right in front of us (hence they appear in at least one of the following photos!).

A buzz of expectation in the air

Looking at the moon, as the lights dimmed, you really have to wonder if we “need” fireworks

The procession passed behind me, with its morbid drumbeat and a few scattered “Vivas” (absolutely no wonder that William Booth decided that the devil shouldn’t be the only one to have some jolly music!).  The streetlights went out.  A kind of little gasp went through the crowd.  Then silence, followed seconds later by the first glorious, colorful, exuberant burst lighting up the sky.  The show was on.

No-one reading this needs to have a firework display described.  Most of us in the “Western” world are suckers for them, no matter how many we see, and the ones in Tenerife are superb, rivalling Disney, the Olympics and most any others you can think of.  Making the fireworks is one of the few non-tourist and non-agricultural industries here.

Remember these were a first attempt when you look at the pictures, please!

If you squint  you can see is two surfer dudes who’d paddled out for a real ringside seat.  You can see them in some other shots too, but best in this one.

What I hadn’t realized was how the colors of the starbursts and sparkles would bathe the ocean, turning it from red to purple to green according to the color of the display, and how they would reflect off the wet sand as the tide trickled back from the beach.  There is a constant internal struggle if you like to snap away.  It’s making the decision between immortalizing what you see, and simply turning off the camera and enjoying the spectacle.  I tried to do a bit of both.

As the last sparkle faded and the air hung heavy with smoke, which made the nostrils twitch, and which even lay  on the tongue, the streetlights flickered back on, and Mary was reshouldered to be locked away for another year.   It would be logical to think that little will be left when the current generation of old women has died off, but the traditions of the island are so tied to religion that I wonder about that.  The young seem more eager than ever to keep traditions alive, which seems like a good thing.

You certainly can’t beat the sense of fellowship and shared enjoyment which these events bestow on their respective communities, whether that could happen without the religious element I don’t know, but I really would like to think so.  What I do know is you can get the best hotdogs eveh (sorry NY!), the tastiest pinchos and the coldest beers to round off your night.

The band hadn’t even struck up when I left, but I was supposed to be up early the next morning…..not so early that I didn’t make time to swing by my favorite ice cream parlor for a quick fix to make the night really complete though!

Where Admiral Nelson Lost His Arm

Horatio Nelson is one of the great heroes of English history, and one of the few who has remained so, despite the uncomfortable truths which have come out about other historical figures, who were equally famous in my school day, but whose reputations seem a bit murky these days.  Even his scandalous love life seems to have been forgiven in view of his overall gallantry. That he combined all the characteristics we crave in a hero speaks volumes about how the battle of Santa Cruz was conducted and its aftermath.

Few people here today, of any nationality, realize how heavily fortified the city was back then, so little of the ramparts which extended from more-or-less where the Parque Maritimo now is right along the coast to the edge of what is now Las Terresitas Beach, remain, but the Museums of Tenerife resolved to fill the gaps in our knowledge, and do so very ably, and it is a tribute to Lord Nelson that the guide, on a recent Saturday when I went with some friends, on “La Ruta de los Castillos”,  spoke of him with what amounted almost to affection……….if only today’s leaders and generals were such gentlemen, were so intelligent or so well-mannered!

La Ruta de los Castillos is a fairly recent addition (2,000) to the network of activities and museums administered by the excellent Museum service of the island.  The advantage of taking “the tour” was going to be that we would have access to places which were not open to the general public, and I should add right here, before going any further, that on telling a Canarian friend of a friend about the excursion the following day, she laughed at the name, and indeed, it is misleading.  These buildings were not, actually, castles in the medieval sense of the building, where people lived, but a fortification to protect the port of Santa Cruz from invasion from the sea.  So, that point clarified, one recent Saturday we met our guide outside the Auditorium, having booked the tour most efficiently over the phone.

Our tour began at the Castillo de San Juan, or the Black Castle, as it is nicknamed, where my second myth was shot down.  I’d been told the nickname came from the fact that slaves had been kept there en route to the Americas, but Omaira, our lovely guide, explained that that was just a rumor, and the name came from the color of the stone used in its construction.  These days it sits quietly between Calatrava’s magnificent Auditorium and the Parque Maritimo, where the city dwellers while away their summer weekends.

It is, arguably, the only feature which really still resembles anything like a castle, with turrets on the landside where shooters could take cover to fire below should a boat make landfall, and easily identifiable positions where cannon were placed.  There are also, now here’s a historical note I’ve never considered in touring an ancient building before, latrines (i.e. holes in the wall)  up on the ramparts, because, as the guide said, there isn’t exactly time to go to the bathroom in the middle of a battle!  It was much smaller than it looked from the outside, and was used mainly for storage of arms, although the gunpowder, for obvious reasons was kept in the close by Casa de Pólvora, which we weren’t able to inspect because the locks had been changed and Omaira didn’t have a key.

From there we were bussed in air conditioned splendor to El Castillo de San Cristóbal. Again, it was, simply, a part of the massive ramparts, but perhaps the most interesting because it was the nearest to the city of San Cristóbal de la Laguna, which was then capital of the island, and was the largest part of the structure. The outline of the original walls has, very cleverly, been preserved in mosaic form by the architects of the ornamental pool which is now at the heart of La Plaza de España.

 

If you look at the edge of the pool here, you can see a black line, which meets with another one at right angles in the water, these lines denote where the original walls of the fort were.

What we saw were the foundations, now buried beneath the Plaza. We descended a short staircase to the small museum, which opened to the public this summer. Here we could see parts of the original walls, a video and lots of pictures and information, which I resolved to go back another time to see in-depth. Taking a tour like this is useful, but your time in contemplating anything, let alone taking snaps, is limited. Had we been alone and non-Spanish speaking then, as English speakers, it would still have been interesting as translations were good, and the staff charming.

It was in attempting to land and take this part of the fortification that the British fate was sealed, and the big draw here, is El Tigre, reputedly the very same canon which separated Lord Nelson from his arm. Whether true or not, the canon is in a grand state of repair, and makes a fine exhibit as the centerpiece of this little museum.

From San Cristóbal the next stop is just outside the modern city limits – Castillo de Paso Alto, from its top, an impressive view of the Atlantic, which must have been even more impressive back when, before all the industrial units of the modern port were there. This was the point at which the British forces were first supposed to land, under cover of darkness, signalling the beginning of the Battle of Santa Cruz. However, Spanish vigilance prevented their first attempt, and the second attempt the following day, though, successful, was a disaster in terms of how much the British were able to transport from ships to shore.

Thence to the final stop – el Castillo de San Andrés, just before the celebrated Las Terresitas beach. Cordoned off and tumble-down it’s just a shadow of its former splendor, as, were all of these buildings. Nevertheless, back in July of 1797 they were so well-organized and defended that they handed Nelson the only defeat of his illustrious career.

Such was the gentlemanly state of play in those days, that after the truce was signed by triumphant Spanish General Antonio Gutiérrez and his foes he made a present to them of a cask of my favorite tipple – Malmsey. The British, it is said, responded with a keg of fine ale, and Gutiérrez asked Nelson if he would kindly stop off in Cadíz on his way home to report the state of play. Wouldn’t it be nice if the world was still like that?!

Re-enactors recreate the Battle of Santa Cruz

The tour wasn’t all about Nelson, the “father” of the British Royal Navy, Admiral Blake had had a more successful visit in 1656, when he destroyed 16 Spanish ships, and Admiral  Jennings in 1706 had been rebuffed by Spanish defences, though that battle is far less known than Nelson’s attempt. For this reason the shield of Santa Cruz shows three lion heads, symbolizing the three triumphs over the English enemy……ok, they don’t look like lions to me either, but I Googled griffins to be sure, and they’re not griffins.

More about that shield and more about Santa Cruz in general another day, this one was about the tour, which concentrated mainly on that period of the island’s history. Marks out of 10? Hmm, that’s a hard one, let me describe it this way:

Guide 11 out of 10
Driver and bus 10 out of 10
Information supplied 10 ut of 10 (there could have been more but it would have been too much and the tour was just the right length).
Delivery of information 11 out of 10. The guide was interactive, encouraging us to answer questions and using modern, teaching techniques to explain the information.
Castillo de San Juan 7 out of 10. It’s well preserved and should, really be the best exhibit, but is clearly used as a rubbish dump by the local population, and the ayuntamiento can’t be bothered to clean it up, regardless of the impression it gives to tourists. It was full of plastic bottles, broken glass, the usual.
La Casa de la Pólvora Can’t say, because  the locks had been changed (by the ayuntamiento and they had failed to liaise with the museum service to make sure they had the new keys).
Castillo de San Cristóbal 10 out 10. Nicely restored, pleasant staff, translations, good info why on earth couldn’t the rest be this standard confounds the imagination!
Castillo de Paso Alto 6 out of 10 Even more rubbish than in Castillo San Juan. Absolutely disgusting.
Castillo San Andrés 7 out of 10. I can understand more easily why this might be perceived to be a suitable repository for rubbish (not that ANYWHERE outside of the correct containers is correct), because it’s very tumble-down, nevertheless the sheer AMOUNT of rubbish was amazing and sad.

Our guide was obviously distressed and embarrassed by this use of historical sites as dumping grounds for rubbish (most of which should be in the recycling bins anyway), and I felt for her. The museums seem to be making the most of what they have here. It’s an interesting story, especially if you are either Spanish or English, and the service is to be highly, highly commended on what they do, and how it is organized. From first ringing to book, when they kept me in touch with an unexpected change in date, to the guide’s refusal of a tip everything apart from the rubbish was first class. How the Ayuntamiento can either allow this to happen in the first place or not get the places cleaned up amazes me.

I’m a bit of a history buff, so I still felt it was worthwhile, but one of my companions was really put off (the other two I haven’t really had chance to chat with since then) and I had the impression that the Spanish people who comprised the rest of the group were pretty disgusted too. There was talk of complaints. Shame to end on that note. The Ayuntamiento of Santa Cruz is a weird thing. It can organize something as magnificent as the annual Carnaval, but can’t clear up its streets.  It can commission something as outstanding as the Auditorio, but can’t get its shops to open up on a Sunday for cruise visitors (whose business, supposedly it is trying to encourage).

I don’t want to jump on that whinging bandwagon.  I try to look at this as if I was a tourist, and I would have a pretty bad impression of the population of Tenerife from this tour, but an excellent impression of the museum service.

Tidbits from an Ordinary Week

It’s Saturday night, well, it’s actually Sunday morning, a long afternoon siesta has left me wide-awake this madrugada, even though my apartment is just sufficiently far enough away from the hum of fiesta, which is in full swing in the town square, and all is tranquil.   So I was wondering on what about my very pleasant week I want to muse.

Should I write about the lovely morning I whiled away in interesting conversation, overlooking little harbour, whilst the tenders to the fishing boats, which were out working, waited and bobbed on the swell that was rushing in from the Atlantic and breaking dramatically on the rocks further down the coast?

Should I write about the casual stroll around Los Cristianos I enjoyed with a good friend one balmy evening, sampling some great chocolate cake, and joking with a couple of the Senegalese street sellers, and that one of them gave me a pretty bracelet?

Should I write about the way the brilliant white waves creamed in from the gunmetal grey seas, while the sun shot pale, imitation rays into the murky sky from its hiding place behind the blackest cloud of all one morning walk?

Should I write about the afternoon I spent with a good friend chatting, teaching her a bit of English whilst she taught me Spanish, over mellow lattes in the pretty and tranquil courtyard of a small rural hotel, about ten minutes up into the hills?

Should I write about how one, chained-to-desk day emails, and Facebook notes, and Tweets and other peoples’ blogs kept me laughing away?  How great is this thing called internet, that even in my solitude it brings me jokes and smiles and funnies from friends and strangers alike?

Should I write about how good Trix was when I took her to the vet for her annual check up and vaccinations?  How she’s put on 5 kilos since her last weigh-in — ouch, and needs some expensive dentistry, but otherwise seems to be still the puppy in body that she is in spirit!   What a nice, new vet we have too.  I generally find that vets are nice people, actually, come to think of it, but that’s not always true of doctors – hmmm.  Food for thought there!

Should I write about Friday evening, about following la Ruta de Tapas in Los Cristianos?   Another balmy evening mixing good food and wine, mellow weather and great company. Yes, maybe I’ll write about that.

Should I write about the fiesta in my home town?  The fireworks?  The street performers?  The food? Yeah, maybe that’s worth a word or two as well, but you know what?   This has been a perfectly ordinary week……..and the sad thing is, I’ve been feeling a bit jaded, so I needed to remind myself just how good it’s been in its own quiet way……..and  **yawn** I think this glass of smooth, rich El Lomo might be just what the sandman ordered.

Happy Birthday Aunty Dot

This post isn’t about the island or travel or politics or the environment, or anything that might be of general interest, so feel free to move on if you want.  I’ve been sitting back and contemplating my navel a bit this week, but I did want to post this two days ago, but seemed like WordPress was having some sort of picture-uploading issue, and I wanted you to see how pretty Aunty Dot is.

This post is about my Aunty Dot. It’s her birthday today. She is 87 years young (ok I know that’s a corny phrase, but it happens to be true for her).

When I was little, times weren’t exactly easy. I didn’t know that at the time, but, of course, I do now. Aunty Dot, Uncle Jim and my cousin, Glenn lived next door to us. The rambling, old house in which we lived had been a farmhouse at one time, but by the late 40s, when my memories begin, boasted only 3 acres, and I suppose about a third of that was covered by glasshouses.

My parents and I lived in the big house with my nana and grandad, and Dot, Jim and Glenn in what must have been a worker’s cottage attached to the main house, next to that was a big, old barn, and then what had been stables, but which grandad used for storage, mostly sacks of coal and bales of peat. It was not long after the end of the devastating World War ll, my dad and my uncle had returned to find that my grandad had sold the profitable B & B which his family had owned for years, and bought his dream, this market garden. My mom, by the time my first memories begin, had already gone back to work. It wasn’t usual in those days, but for a time she was the only real breadwinner in the family, as everyone else,including Aunty Dot, struggled to make the market garden turn a profit.

Glenn was born about two and half years after me, so Aunty Dot was still at home, and hence my early memories include many of her which, maybe, would have been memories of my mom, had life been different. I remember that she always had time for me when my mom wasn’t there and everyone else was so busy with what seemed really important stuff. She did wonderful drawings for me, and always admired mine, always wove stories about the princesses and fairies I drew, and the extravagant castles in which they lived, and more than that, encouraged me to make my own stories, to think and invent. It was Aunty Dot who gave me an “official” birthday, as well as a real one. That was because I was born three days after Christmas, and she realized what a long wait it was – a whole year, without presents! Glenn’s birthday was in June, so she let me share it :=), and produced presents for me.

Life changed, came the time for my parents and aunt and uncle to move on with their own lives, because grandad’s ways were making life impossible for everyone. We moved across town, Aunty Dot, Uncle Jim and Glenn moved to the Lake District.

The next batch of memories are of Summer holidays, wonderful baking, late nights (a real treat!), an idyllic Swallows and Amazons time, swimming in Windermere, climbing rocks and crags. Then, as I grew into a sulky teenager, the laughter and the sense of worth which Aunty Dot could give me. She read the silly stories I wrote, and encouraged me to try to write. She was the only person, ever, who did that. She let me stay up to watch “That Was the Week That Was”, she gave me pamphlets about aparteid and South Africa, she stirred in me the first feelings and beliefs in equality for all. We used to stay up late talking about the world and how it could or should be or about “Jane Eyre” or poetry. She was the first person to treat me like an intelligent human being and not a worrisome child, and she made me think, use my brain.

Life changed again. I got my first job, my first long-term relationship, and, to my shame, saw less of Jim and Dot and Glenn. Glenn moved on too, to university, to work, to marriage, and then – he died. He was 25. My grandad had died by then, but then, he was my grandad. This was the first time in my own life that I’d realized that good, healthy, young, clean-living people die too, and it was quite a blow, which I had to come to terms with on my own. Now that I am a parent, though, I can’t imagine how the parents of an only child can ever come to terms with the loss of that child. My aunt and uncle, being the remarkable people they were, found ways to deal with it and carry on, so much so, that when my mom died a year later they were able to support my dad in his grief. Aunty Dot was still working and she also threw herself into volunteer work, as well as accompanying Jim on his fishing excursions, and, as time went on ballroom dancing.

This ballroom dancing, sequence dancing, had been a dormant passion from youth, and now it flowered and grew, so much so that Uncle Jim, calling to collect her one day, was drawn into the atmosphere, and at long last took it up himself!

Came the time my first was born at 4.20 am, the first person I wanted to ring was Aunty Dot. I knew she was an early riser, and I lay in bed counting the minutes until I could decently make the call. In the years which followed, busy with babies and work and a demanding homelife I know now that I didn’t see enough of them, but when we did call we had the warmest welcome in the world, and the same stimulating exchange of news and information, and lively discussion which I remembered from my teen years.

We lost Uncle Jim at the end of 1995. Far away as I was by then, I didn’t fully understand the difficulties of the months before his death, of how desperately ill he had been, or how heroically Aunty Dot coped with it all. Together they planned his funeral, knowing it was coming sooner rather than later. That his funeral was a seminal event in my life and not, necessarily, on the day, a sad one, speak volumes for both of them.

Aunty Dot, as always, learned to deal with it. She moved to a new area, she made new friends, she continues to attract suitors, all of whom she, of course, turns down. 3 or 4 times a week she goes sequence dancing, she designs and makes the invitations and promotional materials for the dances. She learned to use a computer. She emails. She writes poetry and designs and makes all her own cards, for birthdays, anniversaries and so on. She reads. She does yoga every morning. She makes herself yummy but healthy meals every day, no frozen gunk for her, the chicken has mushroom sauce, made from scratch.

In short, she lives a rewarding, interesting and very active life. When we speak on the phone it’s just like speaking to anyone in my own age group, or younger, she follows world events, she knows about the latest movies – she rented “Avatar” for my last visit in April, she has opinions about just about everything. She is very aware of the things she should and shouldn’t do for her health, but allows herself the odd treat.

And this is just the stuff of which I know – she was married to my mom’s brother, so she has a whole other family out there I barely know, she’s dealt with the loss of her mom and her brothers over the years, just off the top of my head – me, I’m 2,000 miles away, but my god is she my hero!

In a way, it’s a shame I single her out for being so remarkable, because I feel that most of us have the capacity to be much younger, and enjoy life and health much more than that the majority do. I think we, in the “West” allow ourselves to age well before our time. It seem ironic to me that the more we learn, the more research is done into health or mental activity, the more we seem to be taking the opposite course. Aunty Dot hasn’t been an athlete nor a member of mensa, but simply a person who has always made the most of what she’s had at the time, and always, always maintained a positive outlook on life, and I think it’s within the reach of almost everyone.

The Abundance of the Islands

I don’t get “homesick”. It hasn’t happened once in 23 years.  I suppose I must believe in home being where the heart is because many times I’ve wished I was where my kids were at times, when they’ve been living elsewhere, but that’s not quite the same thing.  So I can only describe the way I often feel at this time of year as nostalgic. It was kind of sad, in the early years, to think that I would never make piles of dried, golden leaves and hide in them, or do a Ministry of Funny Walks with my kids as we strolled through a park and jumped on all the dried ones…….one year we did it all in a glorious half term trip to London,  but I’m not sure just how much the boys were impressed by then, having lived so long with constant sunshine!

The other nostalgic thing about my childhood was harvest festival.  I was a sporadic church-goer, but I loved harvest time.  I suppose that came from living in the country, and maybe having a keener sense of the importance of the seasons than some kids did. In recent years I have had two, wonderful Autumns to remember.  One was  three years ago when I went to visit Guy in North Carolina.  I’d always dreamed of having a real, American Thanksgiving so I was quite stoked enough about that, but to find the trees in such vibrant glory was a bonus!  It hadn’t occured to me that in that milder climate Fall came later, so it was a lovely surprise to find my favorite season still in full swing, and the markets still full of pumpkins as well as Christmas trees!

The other time was 13 years ago now, an extended stay in England, when both Autumn and Winter welcomed us back by putting on  heartbreaking displays of perfection.  No one has ever said it better than Keats “….the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”……and that’s just how it was – the morning drive to school across fields bounded by hedgerows groaning with hawthorne berries,  where magical and mysterious mists swirled, and the hazy morning sunlight filtered through the golden copse behind my friend’s house.  That Fall segued into a brisk and frosty Winter, as Winters should be too.

Here, on “the island of eternal spring,” some will tell you there is little difference in the seasons.  These are the people who live on the southern coast, of course, where that’s pretty much true.  You can tan year round, the only days you can’t eat outdoors are the few when it rains and midday temperatures from September through June are pretty even. If you go inland, especially if you go north, you will hear a very different story.  It’s struck me forcibly this year, because of going up to the fiestas and fairs in recent weeks.  Basically, these are the Canarian versions of harvest festival, and it never struck me more than when watching THE romeria from Teror in Gran Canaria on tv the other day.  The link is the best one I could find to give you an idea of the sense of abundance, and the strength of the link to the Earth that exists on the islands away from the tourist glitz.  In the first two photos you can see carts laden with fruit and vegetables which each village sends to the church to honor La Virgen del Pino (the Virgin of the Pine).  Actually, the carts in the photos quite pale in comparison to the ones I was watching on tv.  I suppose, like Carnaval costumes, they are getting more elaborate with the passing of the years.  Some were dedicated to different themes, and all were piled high with produce so overwhelmingly plentiful, that they seemed unreal………..I did keep wondering what happened to it all afterwards.  I really want to think it was all given to people in need.   OK, so I’m not into all that religious side of things, but am all in favor of something which brings people together as a community, and these fiestas certainly do that. Especially here, as the islands turn increasingly to tourism, you’d think that maybe there was a danger of these traditions dying out, but what impresses me time and again, as I go to different ones, is the number of young people (and I don’t mean children who are made to attend by their parents) who participate, wear sometimes silly costumes, play “old fashioned” instruments,  and glow with pride and enthusiasm.  In fact, it seems as if the more influences from other cultures that arrive, the more Canarians become proud of their own heritage.

This time of year brings home to us just how agrarian the culture still is, and how intrinsic the land is to this culture.  In Tejina we saw hearts laden with pineapples, grapes, lemons, apples and pomegranates; on tv from Gran Canaria I saw people shouldering marrows and hands of bananas so huge they were carried like sacks of flour; throughout the island this summer there have been fairs and fiestas and demonstations celebrating the abundance of the islands, however this island is seen by outsiders, this is how it is seen by its own people.  And, yes, thanks are given, blessings for the coming season are requested and Autumn is as full of promise as I always remembered………still miss those golden leaves though!

Of Early Morning Rides, Craft Fairs and Local Foods

The forecast for Sunday was possibility of rain – which usually means for the north of the island – and that was exactly where we were headed.  There was no way it would be really cold, but I pushed my “winter”  (beret – fairly showerproof) hat and my “summer” (straw) hat into my daypack to be on the safe side, and one of those things you don’t know whether to call a scarf or a shawl or a pashmina – just in case, but not neglecting to smear some Factor 15 on my nose either.  What I forgot to do was take or take with me the anti-inflamatory medication for this annoying neck problem…….and that was a huge mistake.  I’ve procrastinated about writing because I know that the neck pain, which intensified to ‘orrible levels during the day, meant that I missed so much.  For one thing, I couldn’t turn my head left nor right to look all around me as I would have liked to, and I didn’t even get out my camera until lunch time, and that only because we had the cutest one-year-old in the world with us!  But it was a day worth recording – as best I can!

The day began well, with a clarity and freshness, which we hadn’t seen in the south for a while.  It seems as if we’ve had this summer clagg around forever.  We were five, plus the baby, so we took two cars.  One took the high road (over the mountains) and one took the low road (the autopista, which snakes along the coast until it climbs as you make a sharpish left turn to head north).  We’d debated which way was quickest, and they turned out to be exactly equal – but the mountain route is by far prettier and more interesting!

It was quieter too.  We barely passed another car until we were dropping down the northern slopes towards the Orotava valley, even in the Parque Naciónal, there was a distinct lack of tourists about, maybe it was the weekend before the mass return to school or maybe it was a bit early in the day at 9.30ish.  Whatever, it was very pleasant to have the roads to ourselves.

Well – the roads, yes, the landscape no.  The Park was swarming with hunters.  I’ve never seen so many vehicles parked up.  The transport of choice for hunters here is a Toyota pickup, almost always with a small cage in back where they carry four or five dogs, and there were plenty of those, plus suvs and vans and other practical vehicles.  I’m not your average anti-hunting type person.  So long as food is being hunted (mostly rabbits here) and it is consumed  and not tortured (e.g. fox hunting in UK) I don’t object.  What I loathe, however, is the way they treat their dogs.  I know they have this in common with hunters in both France (Peter Mayle mentions this in “A Year in Provence”), and the UK – I’ve heard plenty of tales about dogs being shot or abandoned.  Any of the dog rescue centers here will tell you tales about the number of abandoned dogs which are found every year during the season (August to December, Sundays and Thursdays), and it disgusts me.  The other thing I found perturbing was that there should be such an abundance of guns around in the National Park, which is not only a national treasure, but a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  Apart from any damage they might do to the landscape, what happens if an innocent hiker gets in their way?

We hadn’t planned to make a stop, but that would have detered me anyway!  So we  cruised across the caldera and exchanged the rugged panorama for the gentler vistas of field and forest on the lusher northern face of the island.

We were headed for a small village named Pinolere, whose name is, these days, synonymous with the annual craft fair which it hosts.  This was more like the traditional village I had expected Tejina to be the previous week, clinging to the hillside, winding streets not really fit for modern transportation and a population of only around 700.  We were arriving only about a half hour after the  fair opened for the day, but already there was a parking problem and a queue for entry.  Now, the parking problem is, simply, inevitable.  The place wasn’t made for modern traffic of any description, let alone the hundreds and hundreds of extra cars which the festival brings……that’s something they may need to address in the future.  The queuing was efficient and good natured – the only sour note?  An enterprising young lady was handing out flyers for a local business, and people, instead of pocketing them or waiting until they found a trash can, were sticking them into the dry stone wall of the exhibition site……. what an insult to a beautiful village, which is trying to highlight the good and the traditional things about the community!

OK – that’s my gripes for the day done with, the litterbugs and the hunters, from here on I have only praise :=)

I wanted to get the real sense of how this tiny shrine was squeezed into the space it occupies between buildings, but there were too many ugly cables in the way.  *Sigh* – I know they are a necessary part of modern life, but such a shame!

Once inside I was amazed by the size of the fair, even from the photographs of previous years I’d seen I hadn’t imagined anything so big, and here’s where I let the neck pain get the better of me.  I didn’t even attempt to estimate how many exhibitors there were, but the range of goods on display was enormous, from wicker baskets to bread, from beautifully crafted knives to wine, and from carved furniture to jewellery,  it was amazing and now I heartily kick myself for not taking any real photos.

Exquisite, traditional wicker items on the stall above (IKEA eat your heart out!)……….if I was nesting instead of shedding I could have spent a small fortune here.  This fair began back in 1985 as a way of maintaining and showcasing crafts local to the village itself.  As their super website points out, back in time the community, at around 800 meters above sea level,  was quite isolated, and they relied on each other and shared tasks in order to survive.  Remember, living in an agricultural community wasn’t only about planting and tending crops or feeding and raising animals, there was much work to be done first in order for those tasks to be done.  There was wood to be collected for firewood, charcoal to be prepared for cooking, and  carving and weaving skills were needed to make furniture, tools and containers, just to name a few.  The site is a permanent ethnographical museum, so I am a bit hazy on what is there permanently and what was just for the day.  There were photographic exhibits showing past life and demonstations of wood carving  and other skills, including thatching, which I’m hoping to go back and linger over before too long.

Since those early days in 1985 the fair has grown and grown.  First it transformed from being just a celebration of the village’s crafts to displaying crafts from all over the island.  Next, it became a showcase for the region, that is the Canary Islands – one of my favorite stalls showed knives which are made exclusively in Gran Canaria, whose handles are stunningly layered with different colored metals.  Favorite because those items really are unique to Gran Canaria, they have never been copied for mass tourism, so far as I know, and because craft fairs like this one will keep the tradition alive.

By 1995 the organizers had realized that the event had transcended being a simple village fair and that the size and scope of future events was going to require very precise and efficient organization, and the Cultural Association of El Día de las Tradiciones Canarias was formed.  It’s their webpage I mentioned above, and to demonstrate their efficiency, today they were on tv, not only to review this weekend’s event, but to promote next year’s.  The theme is decided and the poster designed already.  This I mention because it’s not exactly normal in the Canary Islands to be so forward-looking.  Indeed for those of you who read Spanish, you will see that they state on the site that they are not adverse to promoting newer things, new ways of looking at things, so long as they conform to the ethos of the word “craft.”  Very impressive attitude from some dudes from a little village in the hills.

Because the village is so high up, apparently, they aren’t always blessed with such warm weather for this three-day event, and indeed around mid-afternoon mists began to cap the surroundings hills, but never wandered as far down as Pinolere.  It’s the first weekend in September for anyone who is thinking of coming to the island next year and wants to come look.  There were very few foreign tourists there, although clearly people come from all over Tenerife.

I leave the best to the last ;=)………well, I leave one of my favorite topics to last, anyway, and that’s food.  The stalls showcasing local cheeses, honey, jam, sauces, breads, cakes and wine were almost too much to bear!  We are, in the south, so focused on tourism that we often forget about the riches the islands offer in other ways.  Canarian cheeses win international awards, and in the 2008 World Cheese Awards won no less than five gold medals, amongst a total of fifteen awards, the most prestigious of which was the “Best World Cheese”.  The only problem for this cheese-lover (happily my cholesterol test was two days previously!) was choosing.  The island cheeses come usually in small rounds, and I was worried about their shelf-life, but in the end I couldn’t resist the three for the price of two offer!  Two of them pictured below – one covered with black  pepper and the other with a picante or spicy flavoring something like paprika……eer, the third one is gone already!  It was a new one for me with a taste and texture something like a mature, white cheddar.

You can also see from the photo that I also tracked down another bottle of Tajinaste, much to my delight!!!  Although, I received a message from Colleen today to say that they now have it in a Canarian supermarket chain, together with Lomo and Testamento.  Yay!  I really deplore this, particular chain for lots of reasons, but happy to see that local wineries are, at last, being supported!

I should, at this point, confess that my haul would have been larger, had I not been to a food and wine promotion (yes, again!) in the town square in El Médano the previous evening.   I absolutely forgive you if you now despair of me, and label me a glutton!  From that I came away with fig jam and local honey (and the directions to the finca where it is produced!) plus a flyer from a new, local restaurant.  As usual, the square was heaving with the rich variety of souls who make up this interesting little town.  In addition to the produce stalls, restaurants and bodegas displaying there was local music to aid the digestion :=)

But, back to Sunday, and another foodie note, and one to make you jealous – at lunchtime, because of the baby, we opted not to eat at the huge stall/bar on site, but we got a pass out and went to a local bar where we feasted (to bursting in my case!) on chickpea stew, meat, salad and tripe (yes, tripe, but in a rich, wonderful sauce!), accompanied by fresh bread (all the better to sop up that wonderful sauce) and washed down with red wine and water………..and……..wait for it………all for the vast price of…………€5 a head!

Yeah I think you could call it a gastronomically satisfying weekend, not of the sophisticated variety, but of the fresh, wholesome food variety.  Despite my neck screaming at every bump and turn of the road home (and there are plenty of both!) I think it was well worth it!

Punta Hidalgo

Words and time seem to be failing me this week, so some photos of the stunning north east tip of the island, where Atlantic swells and rugged coastlines keep the tourists away.