A Forgotten Post and a Forgotten Lifestyle

Travel is partly about contrasts, even when it’s to places you know fairly well. The contrast jerks you out of the rut which is inevitable if you stay anywhere for any length of time, and makes you look at things in a different way.  I scribbled most of this when I was flying back from England last month, but with thoughts of marathons, American football and pretty Welsh villages crowding my mind, I must have forgotten about it, and it only turned up yesterday as I was sorting through some papers.

I journeyed from a familiar place to a familiar country, albeit an unfamiliar part of it. This was my second visit to Guildford, the first was only in April. A true northerner, outside of London, I don’t know the south of the country of my birth at all. I had forays to Torquay, Dover, Bournemouth, Plymouth and places en route, but I never spent any significant time south of Birmingham, let alone of Watford.

Discovering Guildford last spring was a delight. The blossom, the willows bending over the river Wey, the neatness and the well-preserved state of the old buildings was balm to eyes accustomed to a desert landscape. Even in October, with leaves red and gold amongst the green, and some trees already bare, there was richness to the scenery. There is a long history there, although its beginnings are uncertain. It seems as if the area wasn’t of any interest to the Romans, but soon after they gave up on Britain, a Saxon settlement was established, and it’s been a thriving community ever since.

The origin of the name is uncertain, but there are two, main theories. It seems to come from the word “gold”, and refer to either golden sand on the river bank, or golden-colored flowers which grew there.

Modern Guildford is most definitely thriving. On the weekend I visited, the High Street thronged with shoppers, and the volume and quality of goods in the shops were quite breathtaking, really hard to believe that there’s a recession there. A disadvantage of living on an island is simply that there are some things which will never be imported. The market will always be insufficient for some traders. Hence my nose pressed up against shop windows in Guildford! A recent visit to the Meridiano shopping mall in Santa Cruz had been disappointing, every shop seemed to stock the same things, but in Guildford there were clothes of every type and hue and size, all the latest books, and, well, I have to admit to sheer confusion when I went to Boots to buy shampoo (pause for melodramatic sigh) there was just too much choice for me!

Wandering the main streets, evidence of Guildford’s history was all around. The guildhall dates back to 1300, although it’s been extended and altered over the centuries in between, and by contrast the town is now quite famous as home to well-known video games designers, producing world-famous products. This apparently follows a pattern in the area’s development. From a Saxon village of 700 souls to a population of almost 67,000 today, there has been a steady blossoming. On my first visit, last April, it crossed my mind that possibly it’s the kind of place which foreigners think of as “typically English”……a quaint, cobbled town centre, beautiful walks along a picturesque river and canals, rolling, green fields beyond and expensive houses to be glimpsed amongst the surrounding trees. It’s affluent and pleasant, most of the people we met whilst walking had smiles, including a lovely lady walking her Jack Russell, who spent a good while chatting with us. In addition, it’s only 35 minutes by train to London for theater, art galleries and history, and great sporting events.

There has to be a snag, right? English people will already have guess what it is ….. the cost of living in Guildford is said to be the highest outside of London. Still, it was a good visit. The high street is lined with great shopping, but also with excellent restaurants, most of them totally booked up on Saturday night, another sign that the recession is maybe be biting less there than elsewhere?

I considered it our luck, though, that we found a table in the delightful “Coal” bistro (so good I excuse them the glaring mistake of grammar on this page, one which always makes me cringe!) which I would recommend without hesitation. It’s a chain, but not a huge, impersonal one. Not only was the food delicious but the service was outstanding, and the atmosphere relaxed and mellow. The next night we tried Wagamama, which is a dining experience I’d been looking forward to since I first read about it. One of a chain again,  friendly but basic (as advertised), and the food was perfect. It really was Asian food with a new twist, which is what they say, and the touch of offering free green tea went down well with me, since I was on a health kick!

My favorite is Giraffe though. Guy took me for breakfast there in April, and going back was high on my to-do list for my October trip. No wonder it’s so busy, but we snuck in just before the Sunday brunch crowds, happily. Smoothies and Eggs Benedict (as good as I Hop’s), in fact, eggs just about any way you’d like them, plus other breakfast/brunch goodies. No wonder that I needed a brisk walk by the river to walk it all off! I didn’t even look at the evening menu – well you have to leave something for next time’s adventure.  I’ve made a note that they have a restaurant at Manchester Airport now, so I’ll remember that when I’m trip planning my next visit “home”.

The thing which strikes me now about all three of these places is that they are all chains.  When I left the UK 23 years ago, dining in a chain restaurant almost always meant lower quality, but all of these had that feeling of a privately-run business, pride in service and product, and a cosy kind of feel.  It brought home to me again that I’ve really become quite out of touch with everyday life in the UK.

Of Red Alerts and Forgotten Pasttimes

There was a lot of joking going on.  No-one remembered an actual red alert, but knew of plenty yellow or even orange ones which had turned out to be storms in teacups, so throughout Sunday, when warnings were mis-interpreted there was a lot of sarcasm going around – and this in a country which really doesn’t do sarcasm.

I kind of got it, but  I moved anything which might take flight from the roof terrace, unplugged most things electrical, made sure I knew how to grope for the torches in the dark, where the matches and candles were, and snuggled down around 10.30 with a good book.  Apart from a dull murmuring as breezes shifted the tightly closed window blinds there was nothing much to confirm the red storm alert the archipelago was under, but when we lost power around 11pm it was a sign.  We always lose power in a bad storm.  I cozied down under the duvet, but forgot to turn off the light, so when the power came back on after 20 minutes or so it roused me from that drift before sleep I was enjoying, and made sure I wouldn’t find my way back for a couple of hours – in all that time, no storm sounds.

This morning, opening the door to the roof terrace, aware that there were no hints of wind or rain, the smell of damp earth rose to greet me.  It’s a smell you dream of at the end of a long, dry summer.  It’s like no other in its connection to this planet.  The terrace was damp, clouds still hovered over all but the nearest hills, but nothing seemed threatening.  TV reported high winds on the peaks, trees and road signs down mainly in the north of the island, but no threat to life, or major structural damage.  I spoke with friends and family.  The mayor of Icod in the north spoke on tv of a complicated, hard and difficult night.  Cristina confirmed that the Fiesta de San Andres in Icod, when the new wines of the  year are presented, and which should have taken place Monday night (and where I should be right now!), was postponed.  TV confirmed that schools throughout the western islands were closed today.  Still, it seems as if it was happening somewhere else.  To a Sandgrown ‘un* this was normal autumn weather, wet and windy, the sort of weather which regularly brings down the Illuminations in Blackpool, and no reason to hide indoors as the island government was suggesting.

I was still on the phone when the windows began to shake under the battering of heavy rain, and the door onto the roof terrace clattered with a ghostly force.  When I looked out across the car park, which my apartment overlooks, I couldn’t even see the apartments on the other side, so dense and grey was the sheet of rain hurtling through.  Driven, as it was, by high wind it didn’t last long, and the morning settled down to a pattern of heavy showers, followed by periods when the sky lightened, and I was tempted to go out to peek at the ocean.  Whenever it crossed my mind to do so, down would come a thick curtain of rain again.

At some point, thunder began to echo from the hillsides, sometimes mixing with the distant roar of planes taking off from the airport, so you couldn’t tell which was which.  The planes had been taking off in “the wrong direction” for a couple of days – the first sign of bad weather.  Occasionally,  lightning flashed, hidden behind the thick clouds so that the whole sky lit with a curious yellowish glow for a few seconds.  As the day wore on, the thunder rumbled closer and the flashes were brighter, Mother Nature, it seemed, had given the order to advance on the coast.  Time to shut off the router again, before it was in danger of “frying”.  Trixy took refuge under the table.  Our sortie in the morning was brief.  She didn’t want to be out there any more than I did!

So the afternoon passed, the tv having gone down earlier there was no way of knowing how bad it was elsewhere.  This isn’t a place or a building I expected to get the worst of it by any means.  I’d lived for around 14 years on a street where heavy rain always brought floods, so since then nothing’s been that bad!  Around 6, as things seemed to be quieter I went up to the roof terrace again.   The rain had almost stopped, and the wind was no worse than usual for this area, and, remarkably, over in the western sky, there was strip of blue beneath the lumbering grey, and the setting sun was beginning to tint the clouds with purple.

Returning to the tv and the computer it seemed as if, whilst there has been bad damage, including a crane falling over, on Tenerife, and worse damage on the smaller and more westerly islands of  La Palma and El Hierro, there has been no loss of life, and electricity has been restored to most of the 23,000 people who have stumbled through the day without it.

By one of those weird co-incidences life throws up from time to time, Sunday was the 5th anniversary of Tropical Storm Delta glancing across the island, downing several electricity pylons, and causing chaos.  Hopefully, this new system of alerts worked this time, and prevented damage, and saved lives, even the skeptical were still listening to the news.

These island are truly blessed in their weather almost all of the time.  You will read statistics which tell you we get around 65 days of rain per year, but those stats are read from weather stations in the north, most of them around 2,000 ft above sea level, here on the southern coast we have far less than that, which, I guess, is why these storms seem extra exciting to me!  I can count on the fingers of one hand the electrical storms I’ve seen here.  I can remember watching from a highrise hotel in Florida as the lightning jumped from cloud to cloud, and I remember seeing a water tower on the Outer Banks light up like something from a science fiction movie.  These summer storms are so normal there, but here they are big news!

For me, a kind of old-fashioned day, when I didn’t want to begin ironing or cooking or writing or anything which involved electricity and which I might have to frustratingly abandon.  I actually sat and read for two, whole hours, a real luxury.  It’s a whole year since I had the time to do that.  It was a guilty pleasure I’d rediscovered when I broke my wrist last year.  I do read every day, and every spare minute I get, but often I’m too tired to revel in it the way I could today.  The other thing I did was to copy out, by hand, as in wielding a pen, a ton of recipes I’d tried and liked and collected, onto the cards from a recipe box Guy had given me, oh, a few years back already.  Just think, reading and writing……..and I remembered how to do both!  Give me a day like this tomorrow and I might even try my hand at a jigsaw!

* sandgrown ‘un is the name given to someone born in Blackpool,  on the north-west coast of England, although I understand people from Morecambe also claim the nickname.

Update:  As I clicked “publish” last night I heard the dull rumble of thunder again, and spent an hour or so at my window, watching lightning  light up the car park brighter than day, as flash rapidly followed flash.  Somewhere between midnight and one it eased off and I took myself to bed, only to be woken a couple of hours later by what sounded like an even fiercer round of pyrotecnics.  This time I hid under the covers and tried to sleep!

 

And We Have Sunsets Too

I’ve notice sometimes with sunrises and sunsets, that whilst we’re focused on the scarlet ball on the horizon, sometimes amazing reflections happen elsewhere, like the grass the other week.  Thursday morning it was the mountains which were basking in the early glow.  I have no doubt I missed the best, and didn’t have a good enough lens to get a nice snap, but just to give you an idea of the environment.  Yep – know the “little boxes” spoil it…..that said, how about living there??? ………..did skip home with Pete Seeger ringing in my ears, though!

And just to prove that this isn’t paradise, these cute little birds (which I think are sanderlings, but I’m hopeless at identifying birds, so would be grateful for a proper id if anyone knows, please?) were breakfasting along the shoreline, and I crept slowly and silently as close as I could, when some great, clod-hopping iggit clumping along scattered them.  No thought for the birds, or for me who was clearly trying to photograph them…….see we have our share of numbskulls here too!

One of the reasons I love El Médano is  that people watching (numbskulls apart) is so much more fun than it is in the resorts.  Here people are, actually, doing something, and not just shuffling along the promenade, or letting it all hang out on a sunbed.  Even early there were quite a few runners and joggers around, as well as the usual variety of dog walkers, and I sat for several minutes watching a skin diver as he backed himself into the waves, and then disappeared, long fins waving in his wake.  Every morning I see a guy I call Tai Chi guy,  gracefully greeting the new day from the rocky outcrop overlooking the beach, and I pass cyclists, and several elderly couples who do their own version of power walking.

Out there, on the ocean, and only specks on the photos there was a tall ship to stir the imagination and dream about, and a small fishing skiff, hauling up cages to check if they’d caught any pulpo overnight, as well as one or two yachts.

Full of good humor (despite the clod-hopper) I scooted down to Los Cristianos to collect my mail before all the parking spaces within reasonable walking distance of the Post Office were taken.  At the back of my mind was a breakfast of croissant and coffee at the French Bakery to prolong my mellow mood, and, indeed, I sat and ordered as I gleefully tore open packages  (a jiffy bag of Kendal Mint Cake from my dad, and a book from a friend :=)).  Then the choking, acrid smell of cigarettes wafted across. Even outdoors it was revolting, so I changed my order to to go, and trotted across to the little park place where I used to eat my lunch when I worked in Los Cristianos.  There I was greeted by the yucky smell of dog poo, so I carried on back to my car.  It’s a tribute to the bakery, that even sulking, not-that-comfortable, and glowering in my car,  the croissant, which melted in my mouth all buttery and light, brightened my mood again.  Paradise lost.  Paradise regained – kind of.

I was out on the roof terrace again around 5 pm when it occurred to me that maybe the sunset might equal the sunrise, and how nice it would be to bookend my day that way, so I took myself down to Los Cristianos again, to where I remembered my great sunsets from last year, and settled down amongst the pebbles to wait.  In coastal areas we were on yellow alert (and on high ground on orange) as a huge weather system was closing in on us.  You can see the storm clouds hugging the horizon and spiralling over the harbor of Los Cristianos as dusk fell in the last picture.

It turned out to be not so bad.  Clearly some rain had fallen here overnight, and the wind rattled my blinds and woke me once, but nothing major, neither did the tv, nor reports from friends on other parts of the island, indicate anything much overnight.  Worse is predicted for Sunday, so we may see a white Christmas on the mountain peaks.  Living near the airport, even if you don’t listen to weather reports, you know when bad weather is on its way.  First, you get the clear views of Gran Canaria, like yesterday morning; then you notice the planes as they glide effortlessly in to land instead of roaring up and away on take off, that means the prevalent winds have changed;  if you have a dog like Trixy you notice her sniffing the air when you go out in the morning, sensing a change in the wind-bourne scents only she can smell.  Few people really mind the storms here in the south, so long as no major damage or fatalities occur, as they bring a respite from heat and dust.  A good downpour and the hillsides which are now desert scrub after a long summer’s heat, spring to green life, as dormant seeds and roots are nourished.  So, we wait to see what the weekend brings.

Stunning November Sunrise

I love words.  I think I loved words before I loved pictures.  However, there are times when I’m lost.  There just aren’t the right ones, at least not in my lexicon, so I will let this morning’s sunrise speak for itself.

The only thing I will add, for those who have never been to these “Fortunate Islands” is that the island you see on the eastern horizon there is Gran Canaria.

Snapshots from the Week

Just a few snaps from last week:

When the tide goes out, you’ll always find someone poking about in the rock pools left behind. Sometimes an octopus hides in between rocks, waiting for the next tide to move back out to sea, and the small fish who didn’t get washed back into the ocean make bait for local fishermen. Nice half hour whiled away eating passion fruit ice cream with mango sorbet and watching this guy in El Médano the other day.

From the south of the island our view of El Teide, highest mountain in Spain, is from a distance, surrounded by foothills, as in this picture from last year after the first snows, which was taken close to where I live now.

But, as you drive north, taking the motorway route, instead of crossing the mountain, you come to a point on the autopista del norte where the mountain rears to your left, almost as if it’s in 3D, so different does it look from the views so familiar from the south.  Of course, tempting though it is, you can’t stop in the middle of the motorway to snap, but the other day, stopping in El Sauzal, I snapped this from the church plaza.  You can see how it dominates the skyline above Puerto de la Cruz, and can imagine how fierce it must have been for the original, aboriginal inhabitants, the Guanches.  There was still significant volcanic activity on the island at the time it was conquered at the end of the 15th century.

And this is the pretty church square of the church of St Peter the Apostle in El Sauzal.  We didn’t go inside, because it was Sunday, and mass was in progress.  The church with its 18th century tower,  and its square are quite typical of the island.

When I first realized that there was a village called El Sauzal on Tenerife, my Steinbeck-loving heart skipped a beat, and I envisaged a little fishing village peopled by outrageous but loveable characters, so I was disappointed when I finally went there (expectations are the parents of all disappointments!).  That was silly of me, of course, similar though the climate is to parts of California, this is an island off the coast of Africa!  El Sauzal, the place where the willows grow, in Tenerife was about agriculture rather than fishing, and these days is more about being a pretty, suburban area with some very elegant properties around.  There is also a very attractive mirador, which has a highly recommended ice cream parlor (no, I am not obsessed with ice cream parlors, since you ask……..well, maybe, just a little!), which was closed on Sunday morning, a fact for which my hips are eternally grateful.  The mirador itself, however, was open for us to enjoy its stunning views.

La Casa del Vino, which has been run by the island government since 1992 is well-maintained and interesting. I’d highly recommend a visit if you still have any doubts about the quality of Canarian wines. The displays in the little museum, however, are a bit faded and refer to pestas – so I think they are in need of an update, especially since wine making is thriving again here.

This is the huge, well-restored wine-press, which takes pride of place in the courtyard, along with barrels and other implements historically used in wine making.

The links between Tenerife and England are strong, despite Nelson’s attempt to snatch the island for the British crown, which has, from time to time, puzzled me.  Why aren’t we resented more?  (and I won’t even go into what today’s Brits have wrought upon the island!)  It hit me, going around this museum – it’s the wine!  I knew that historically England had been a huge importer of Canarian wines (as well as other produce – hence Canary Wharf in London), and I knew that Shakespeare had given the nectar several plugs in his works, but in the museum I learned that Shelley, Keats and Marlowe, amongst other great English names, were also aficionados, and the panel pointing out the connection between the wines and literature was composed only of English figures, so we must have historically been as important to the island economy as our tourism is today!  And maybe we can lay some of the fault for our high alcoholic consumption on the island’s doorstep, in which case the nightly behaviour in the Veronicas has a certain irony.

A Post Mostly About Food – Again!

I don’t know about you, but I am kind of addicted to new beginnings, new ideas, anything new and novel, in fact, hence the penchant for travel, of course, but I also get really excited about discovering a “new” author, a new flavor, a new singer or type of music.  Probably, it’s a sign of immaturity.  I labored for years under the impression it was a bad thing, and that I should work hard, accumulate “stuff”, buy the best I could afford of whatever (cars, houses, clothes etc), kind of take root and grow.  I stifled my natural curiosity and buried it under the novelty of acquisition of material possessions (still novelties, you see).

This is why, following my “discovery” of a local supplier of the most delicious honey I’ve ever tasted during the week, I reached heights of ecstasy yesterday when I sampled chestnut honey, because I adore chestnuts, so this marvel combined two flavors which turn me on.  It was like coming home!

Me, there somewhere, buying my chestnut honey!  But more important – just look at the setting!

I’d gone up to El Sauzal, after pulling information belatedly off the internet about a Feria de la Miel at the Casa de la Miel.  I hadn’t seen the information until Saturday afternoon, and Saturday was the main day, with instruction and displays of beekeeping and honey production.  El Sauzal is a good hour’s drive in weekend traffic, so I’d no chance of getting there until Sunday.  I should explain that when I make a new discovery I kind of get obsessed for a while, finding out all about it, until I reach some saturation point or other.  Now, of course, I’ve been eating honey all my life.  It isn’t something new, but I’ve never given too much thought as to how it is collected or produced until the other day.

Here’s some information which will tickle the girls: the queen bee flies high, really high so that only the strongest and fittest males can follow her to mate, and she mates with LOTS of them, because she has thousands of eggs, more than just one or two could fertilize!  Also, at the end of the season, when the flowers are dying and there is less pollen about, the males are kicked out of the hive to bum around until they die, and the whole cycle begins again the following springtime.  The downside is that ONLY the queen gets to mate, so……not much fun unless you’re royalty :=(

Since before records, back when we were in loin-cloth-clad nomads, wandering from place to place as food supply and weather dictated, we’ve been eating honey.  The harvesting of honey is actually shown in pre-historic rock paintings.  Oh, just had a thought, all that sweet stuff and no toothbrushes, I wonder if eating honey was the beginning of tooth decay too?!  Back then, of course, wild bee colonies were plundered, and consequences to the bees weren’t even thought about.  We simply moved on to new supplies.

Even when we stopped being hunter-gatherers and began to settle down and cultivate land, bee keeping was still a tale of annihilation and slaughter, because extracting the honey combs inevitably meant destroying the hive.  The evolution of movable combs was gradual, it seems, but nowadays in most countries these are what are used, so that the comb can be removed without loss of the hive, and the bees can move on to the next frame.

Ever wonder how the beekeepers, or apiarists, don’t get stung to death when removing the combs?  Well, we know they wear  those funny suits and veils which make them look like spacemen, but also the bees are subdued with smoke first.  This alerts them to danger and sends them into a feeding frenzy in preparation for having to abandon the hive, which, in turn calms them down – all that honey.  Clever, eh?

The other product for which we should thank bees, of course, is beeswax, which used to be a word heard on the telly every day once advertising was introduced, since it seemed to be in just about every type of furniture polish back when.  It was originally used for making candles though, which is why you hear so many references historically to monks being apiarists.  It was the wax rather than the honey they were after.  Earlier in the year, I’d visited a fiesta in Chirche, where the lady below was demonstrating the ancient way of making candles from beeswax.

Here the wax is drizzled down the string used as a wick, time and time again, until the candle is thick enough to use, and looks like the ones hanging in the other picture, a time-consuming (and, let’s be honest, boring) process!

Told you I get obsessed so to complete your list of useless facts to pull out at the next boring dinner party, I’ll just say that a sealed pot of honey was found in Tutankhamun’s tomb…..told you it was food of the gods!

Back to the chestnut variety then – it might not be everyone’s cup of tea.  The friend with whom I went had the exact opposite reaction to me, and hated it.  Of course, you have to like chestnuts first (OMG now I have my annual craving for marrons glacés – at least we can buy them here these days!), and if you do, you’ll find this honey richer, huskier and a tad less sweet than most, and can only be bought from the producer, Miel de Flores de Tenerife in La Victoria….Tel 922580905.

Lovingly preserved old wine press

La Casa de la Miel is somewhere I’d planned to visit when cloudy, winter days came around.  It is a part of La Casa del Vino in El Sauzal, a small wine museum and information center, based in an old and beautifully restored farmhouse, with the added attraction of breathtaking views over the northern coast of the island.  As well as learning about the old ways of making both wine and honey, you can sample the current offerings (so try to find a friend who doesn’t drink wine to drive, so you can taste!!!).

Samples from every island vineyard

A visit was most definitely a pleasant way to while away a cloudy afternoon.  The restaurant, with terrace taking advantage of that stunning view, has an excellent reputation, for serving traditional, high-quality local cuisine, but sadly we didn’t get to sample it yesterday.

By the time I took this, the clouds and haze were moving in, but if you look closely you can see the curve of the quite spectacular coastline

The other exciting discovery of the week was parma violet ice cream from my favorite, and unhappily too-local, ice cream parlor, Demaestri, just around the corner from my apartment in Plaza Roja.  It tastes just like the little parma violet sweets I used to love when I was little, and it’s subtle and light, and not the least bit guilt-inducing.  The only problem, as I’ve mentioned before is chosing between the best chocolate brownie ever, mango sorbet, passion fruit, fig and cinnamon or the more usual flavors, like English trifle, Ferrero Rocher or strawberry.  And, standing there in agonies of decision-making it occurred to be how great the cinnamon would go with pumpkin pie!  My god I can almost smell it!

In other culinary news, it was great to re-acquaint with Beaujolais Noveau the other night.  A French friend had acquired some, and it slid down most pleasantly along with local and English cheeses (I took Stilton and Wensleydale with Cranberries), and lively conversation.

The warmth of the friendship of that night stood me in good stead the following day, when I discovered that my departure must be delayed.  If I leave in the next 12 months I will lose money, which I can’t afford to do, so Plan B is forming in my brain, now that the disappointment is wearing off.  The very worst thing about leaving a place is the friends you leave behind, and the worst thing about a new place is the lack of friendships with depth.  Making new friends can be easy, but people who know how you feel and think have to be folk who’ve know you for a while.  I’m well aware that there are still a whole lot of places and things to discover about this island, not to mention other islands in the archipelago, so the journey continues, just not picking up the pace yet.

Food of the Gods?

Sitting here, tapping away, I’m just hoping that my sticky fingers don’t make this computer any worse than it already is (as if that was possible!).  Why are my fingers sticky?  Because breakfast this morning consists of scrumptious fresh bread from the Farmers’ Market, and honey so delicious it might be ambrosia.  It’s certainly producing what some former work colleagues used to call “a mouth orgasm” (I daren’t google that, but you can imagine).  In fact I’m not quite sure how it is I can type and eat at the same time.

My sweet tooth has been a problem for me all my life, but I reserve my right to enjoy honey simply because it’s something natural, even the most commercial ones in the supermarkets seem to have no additives, other than “good” ones like Royal Jelly or Ginseng, and I embrace them all with enthusiasm!  This week, however, I think I found the ultimate in honeyed pleasure, and it came from an apiary only about fifteen minutes from my front door.

I’d tasted their  honey some months ago at the Fiesta del Vino in El Médano, when, as well as vineyards, local farmers, restaurants and other food producers were displaying their goods, and I took a card with the intention of going the next time my jar ran out.  Like lots of good intentions it’s been delayed – how silly was I? – but this week I finally made it.

The address on their card which I’d kept since the feria, was in Aldea Blanca,  a small village, distinguished by two locally famous businesses, the Luther King private school, and El Castillo de San Miguel – not a real castle, but a medieval (k)nights spectacular, which is, incidentally, well worth a visit if you are visiting the island en grupo and want to let your hair down a bit.  Otherwise, when people aren’t arriving or departing either of these places at the appointed hours, it reverts to its other façade – sleepy little pueblo.  So you’d think it would be really easy to find the apiary, wouldn’t you?  I remembered the lady on the stall had said near the Luther King School, but of course, in a place so small, everything is “near the Luther King School”!  Entering from the main road to San Miguel, there was only one choice, right or left, I chose left, which took me to the school, but it turned out that I should have turned right.  A quick phone call to the owner, an about turn, and a half a minute later there he was outside, waiting for us.

We were led through a lovely garden, which broke my heart remembering my last one.  Now, I’m not exactly ok with bees, wasps and such, so I was a bit wary, but there was only one bee in sight, inspecting a gangly poinsettia (it’s coming up Christmas and they are all in flower now).  At the end of the garden was the “shop” , if that’s the right word, with three, large vats of honey, not unlike wine or beer vats.

Taps were turned,spoons were provided and honey was drizzled from each for us to taste.  Right now they have three flavors, depending on what the bees feed on, but as the seasons change so will the flavors, so each visit is going to be a new delight, clearly.  They fell easily into three degrees of sweetness, i.e. very sweet, sweet and not-so-sweet!  The not-so-sweet I can identify as fennel, and this was one of the two I chose.  It turned out that sales were booming on the sweet one, which was current favorite, but  I also chose a jar of the seriously sweet one, because there are times when a craving just has to be indulged!  This came from the malpica, a type of thistle, which grows only above 1,200 meters, and thrives on the lower slopes of Mount Teide, who would have thought that such a mellow and yummy flavor would start with such a prickly and barren looking plant!  Although we were given the name of the plant from which the third one derived flavor, I’m not 100% sure, despite research, as to what it was.  The names weren’t familiar (I had to double-check on malpica, and even then it took a while to pin it down).  All I can tell you is that, at risk of exaggerating, all of them were just heavenly, and the decision wasn’t easy!

For anyone local who wants to buy  (at prices quite comparable with the supermarket prices of ordinary honey – the half  liter jar was €5, one liter is €9 and the 250ml is €3 – but for extra ordinary quality), if you arrive from the San Miguel – Las Chafiras road, turn right and then left into Calle Valeria, there is an open space next to the house, which is number 26.  If you come from Buzanada turn right, obviously.  The family, which hails originally from Ukraine has been there four years.  Everything was spotless, and they were very friendly, showing us pictures of the plants in books when we didn’t recognize the names.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to marinate fresh tuna in my favorite honey marinade ;=))

Trixy’s Story

I suppose I reference Trixy quite a bit, and whilst old friends who read this blog know her story, new friends don’t, and since someone asked about her recently, here’s the story of how she came into our lives.

At 19 and 17 Austin and Guy had their own, independent apartments within the house we shared in Chayofa in 2001, so they came and went without disturbing me.  The house sat at the end of a cul-de-sac, on a hillside, so that entering the front door at street level, you walked through the living room to the terrace, and you then went down steps to get to the huge garden.  Not wanting to risk losing his key, Austin used to hide it on the terrace when he went out to party, and then hopped over the garden wall, as the gate was always securely locked, and this is what he did on this, particular night.

The only thing was that he hopped over the wall and into a box…….which – moved!

I was already in bed (kids go out these days at the time I used to be catching the last bus home!), when I heard a frantic knocking on the terrace door.  Obviously worried, I threw on a kaftan and hurried to the door.  “Mom, quick,  bring the key to the garden gate,” in urgent tones.   I grabbed the key and scampered down the steps into the garden.  Austin opened the gate, picked up a large cardboard box, and placed it on the garden path.  By this time Guy had cottoned on to the happenings, and the three of us stood and stared in disbelief at one of the cutest sights I’ve ever seen.  Five wee pups, probably around six weeks old, wriggling around, and making those appealing little snuffly, yelpy noises puppies make.  A couple of the more adventurous ones were quickly on their hind legs and trying to get out, back legs flaying about as they tried to balance on something, specifically, their siblings.  One of them succeeded and staggered towards my outstretched hands.

Our family dog, Buster, a feisty, wee Westie, sniffed around dubiously at this invasion of his space.  You could almost read his mind, “As if the kitten they adopted a couple of weeks ago wasn’t enough – now they have this lot too!”

Needless to say, there was no sign in the street of whoever had left us this surprise package.  In some ways it wasn’t a surprise, by that time we’d lived on the same street for around 12 years or so, and during those 12 years, well, we’d taken in our share of waifs and strays; several dogs (one of which killed a pet rabbit), various kittens (the latest just a few weeks previously), a Monk parakeet, a toucan (which was dying and I had to feed with a dropper) and another exotic bird I forget the name of, as well as maintaining animals for which we’d actually paid good money – the Westie, rabbits, turtles, a tortoise (which was at the vet more than any pet I ever remember. Question: how do you know when a tortoise is dead?), budgies and a couple of hamsters. However FIVE pups all in one go was a bit much.

The immediate problem was what to do with them there and then.  Although the garden was large and great for romping, little puppies, we were sure, would easily find some way to squeeze out.  The only solution was to put them in the bathroom overnight, which at least would be easy to clean up, and as the loo was separate didn’t present too much of a problem.  We covered the floor with newspapers and put down dishes of water and cat food, gave them all some loving, and went back to what we were doing before the invasion…..for  me that was going to bed with the nice fuzzy, warm feeling you get from cuddling puppies.

They must have slept well, I’m guessing all cuddled up together, because there wasn’t a peep all night, and in the morning I opened the bathroom door gently to find them quietly playing and rolling around.  I sat across the doorway, and all five came, one by one, and crawled all over me, licking my arms and hands and face.  I have the widest grin just sitting here remembering now.  I think I could call it a Zen moment.

Now it was decision time.  Already we had a small kitten, Buster and three budgies, Austin was 19 and about to leave for Australia on a course, and Guy was planning to go to university the following year.  It was an easy and clear-cut decision, wasn’t it?  I had more than enough pet-keeping duties, and there was no way I needed any more to cope with single-handedly, in the not-too-distant future. Case closed.

So, Guy and I loaded the pups into the car that afternoon and set off for K9 , an organization which does marvellous work in very difficult circumstances.  It has to be said that, here, attitudes to pets and responsibilities thereof does lag behind other places I’ve lived.  We’d had cause to contact them a couple of times previously, when we’d come across strays we couldn’t keep.  We arrived at their compound to find that it was only staffed fulltime in the mornings, and by then it was around 2pm, so we turned around and went home.

Happily, we had a this wonderful garden, so we spent the afternoon constructing a sort of kennel with a long run for them, in between the constant interruptions to pet them, or Buster to assuage his jealousy.  Austin was having a barbecue for friends that night, so my guess is that the pups thought they had landed in some sort of doggie heaven.  For sure they spent less time in the run and more time in the arms of the girls at the party, being petted and admired and loved.

Morning saw us on the road to San Miguel again.  This is where I should point out that, despite having had all these pets over the years, I wasn’t that knowledgeable about how to tell the sex of young ‘uns, and I’d thought them all to be chicos.  One of my arguments in resisting the boys’ hints and suggestions about keeping any or all of them had been that one male dog (i.e. Buster) cocking his leg over everything in the garden was quite sufficient, thank you.

The nice lady at K9 was kind and welcoming, and luckily they had room for them.  She oohed and ahhed over them as if she didn’t work with puppies and kittens every day, bless her.  She picked them up one by one and examined them, “Three boys and two girls”, she declared with a smile, and Guy gave me a triumphant kind of grin………..and that’s when my body was taken over by a mysterious, outside force, and I felt myself snatching back one of the girls, and I heard myself saying, “Well, ok, if this is a girl, we’ll keep her then.”  It was the same small brown and black scrap of fuzz that had been first to crawl out of the box and lick my hand, of course.

We filled in the paperwork for the others, and came away, Guy clutching this little bundle of life, which I knew full well was going to be his pal for only twelve months or so, and my responsibility for the twelve years or so thereafter.  I can only put down my decision to temporary insanity.  I knew Guy wanted a dog, but the practicalities of the situation were that my nest was going to empty in a fairly short space of time, the house with its wonderful garden would have to be sold, and I was supposed to be at last achieving my dream of travelling the world for a while before decrepitude set in.  The other pets were all taken into consideration one way or another, but a new, probably quite largish dog was not in the plan at all.

She still thinks she’s a puppy!

Guy got to name her Trixy, and she was the faithful companion he’d wanted for the next fourteen months.  Buster came to tolerate her, and she and Missy, the cat, were great pals until Missy met her fate on the road one sad day.  She brought much laughter into our household – watching her and Missy chasing each other through the heaps of fallen Bougainvillea leaves (think Autumn leaves); teasing her with the hose pipe when we watered the garden; and perhaps funniest of all when she had to have one of those funnel type collars over her head after her op – more pups were most definitely not on my agenda – when she just refused to move and sulked in a corner for hours and hours.

Trix turned out to love the ocean, which was a good thing. Here she’s playing with Austin La Tejita 2004

Eventually, Guy went off on his university adventure, and Trixy became my pal.  She’s spent a good few weeks in kennels when I’ve had the urge to travel, and she’s cost me money when I’ve returned and rented temporary accommodation because I felt bad about leaving her for longer, and, very likely I wouldn’t still be in Tenerife if it wasn’t for her.  That said, if it wasn’t for her I would have missed out on things which I wouldn’t have missed for a million dollars.  Had I not been here in 2006 I wouldn’t have had the experiences I had then and in the years following.  Those experiences are something I can’t write about easily, but were a highlight of my life, they also led to  deep and treasured friendships I wouldn’t have  otherwise, so I have a lot to thank her for.

Without Trixy I wouldn’t  have witnessed the breathtaking sunrises on La Tejita.  I can’t really imagine how or why I would have been up at that hour out there were it not for Trix.  Even on the laziest day I have to walk her, so she helps me keep fit.  You know how a home is full of little sounds you never give much thought to, creaks and shuffles?  Most in my home are down to Trix, so when I left in her kennels a couple of days extra after returning from England the other week, I missed those sounds so much!  True, I didn’t have to sweep the floor twice a day, I didn’t have to check behind me before pushing back my chair, and I could turn over for an extra ten minutes when the alarm went off instead of jumping up to walk her along the seafront,  but how weird was it to come downstairs and not have that tail thumping against a wall or furniture in greeting, and how empty was the apartment when I came back from shopping?!

She is also the most loving dog I’ve ever had, and the friendliest, people take to her immediately when we’re out walking (except for those idiots who know nothing about dogs and think she’s a threat).  In almost everything she was quick to learn, and without a doubt the easiest to house train.  We’ll never know her lineage nor who left her on our doorstep, and when she makes those funny, mournful, little noises as she dreams I’ll never know if she is dreaming about being abandoned, but despite her playing havoc with my life plans I must say – no regrets!

In the midst of packing for one of our moves, resigned but accustomed, as always to the upheaval.

A new phase of my life beckons and all I can say is, I will find a way to include Trix in a lot, if not all, of it!  Kind of looks like we’re stuck with each other, so i have to figure it out!

Oh, and I do have some cute puppy pix, but my scanner isn’t working and they were pre-digital, so they will have to wait.

Yesterday’s Sunset

There are days which are just a mess of rage and frustration and fear.  Such a day was mine yesterday (more about that another time), but then, again, there are times when it was all worthwhile because fate brought you, however briefly, to just the right place at the right time, as you can see.  This was the sun setting on a hopeless kind of day, and somehow making it all right.

Dusk falls over Los Cristianos.  Taken from outside El Mojon Health Center

I love that reflection of clouds on the ocean.

The sun begins to emerge from the first layer of clouds, before slipping behind the lower layer.

As the sun returns, briefly, the grass at my feet is caught in its final glow.

The island of La Gomera shimmers on the horizon.

And if you look closely, you can see that the setting sun brings the island of El Hierro into focus too.

Of English Food, Trains, Recylcing (or lack of) and Random Strangers

In England (and definitely in Wales, though, remember I was there for a marathon!) I didn’t notice obesity being a big problem. Perhaps it is that I am used to seeing people (both locals and visitors) with less clothing, so I didn’t notice so much, but it seemed much less prevalent than my observations of Brits in Tenerife lead me to believe. That’s good, and yes, I do realize that obesity is only the outward sign, in some cases, not all, of unhealthy eating.  That said, were I living in England right now I would weigh at least 280lbs!

I forgave myself for feeling like a time traveller when I passed through train stations (almost kicked the ticket machine in Euston, but very nice Virgin lady saw my distress and offered help before I even asked…..thumbs up to Virgin!), but I was totally unprepared for the feasts spread out around the peripheries of the concourses. OK I live on a small island, but I have heard of Starbucks. I’ve been to Starbucks. I like Starbucks. What I didn’t realize is how many imitators they have (ok someone’s going to say So-and-So were doing it first, but be fair, it’s the name that’s known internationally), or rivals, and ALL are laden with brownies, donuts, carrot cake, chocolate cake, chocolate caramel shortbread, fruit slices, tiffin and cookies (just the first few which trip off my tongue). At home, finding fresh donuts is hard (but the café known to all as “The French Bakery” in Los Cristianos makes very passable ones), and everything else is loaded with cream, which, you see, is my saving grace, because I don’t especially like cream. Actually, The French Bakery does wonderful chocolate cake, almond and cherry slices and a variety of other cakes amongst their cream-filled offerings……..just for the record. It used to be that railway food was one of those great standbys for comedians, along with mothers-in-law and hangovers, but I guess that’s changed then! Even the little café on Bangor station, which looked as if it might be subject to a preservation order, so familiar was it from memories of my youth, had the most divine green tea with jasmine, which I lingered over – really, it smelled so much of jasmine I could have dabbed it behind my ears, and it tasted the same way, perfumed and light, and absolutely to-die-for.

Whilst we’re on the subject of food – again, yes – the chicken at Wembley was a disappointment, too politically correct I think. If I’m going to indulge in chicken and fries, they might as well be the real thing, like, they can’t be made healthy so why try? The same went for the Lancashire Hot Pot in Booth’s café in Kendal. There was a faint aroma, a hint of the taste my grandmother’s used to have, but no substance to it! One of the best meals was in the hotel in Llanberis after the marathon. We’d eaten in the dining room the previous night, but it was a bit chilly, and although the waiters were nice enough, and the food was fine, the place was so flat and old-fashioned in atmosphere we didn’t want to go the second night, and we ate in the hotel bar, where I was introduced to what I think was lobscows (asked the name twice and too shy to admit I hadn’t heard correctly). It was the perfect meal  after being chilly and rained and hailed on all day, I must say – a beef stew with all the ingredients kind of mashed up together….which is how my grandmother used to cook! It was tasty, hot and perfect to eat in a bar – I was given a spoon and not a fork….and since the name is so similar I presume is related to the good old Liverpool scouse.  I was rather partial to my drink too, which was a Swedish mixed fruit cider by  Kopparberg, so delicious I imagine it’s way too easy to get drunk on because it’s light and fruity.  I tried pear cider last year in Ireland, but this was a new one for me.

Best meal, however, remains the Eggs Benedict brunch at Giraffe in Guildford.

OK, just to prove I have things other than food on my mind (not a lot, but some) – biggest disappointment was NO RECYCLING facilities in  St James’s Park.  I couldn’t believe this.  Isn’t Prince Charles one of Britain’s leading environmental protection enthusiasts?  How can he have failed to do something about this?  I wandered around for ages with my paper bag and glass bottle, hoping to find recycling bins.  I asked at the ice cream stall, where they didn’t know, so I went on looking and finally a very smart, little garbage truck came along, all royal and official looking, and I asked the expert, and “No, just chuck it on the lorry, love”.   Just a half hour previously I’d been admiring the citizen who stopped to pick up someone else’s chip packet and toss it into a rubbish bin……..unheard of here……..so I was really disappointed.  In fact, I didn’t see one opportunity to recycle outside of Gatwick airport, which surprised me.  OK, so not enough people do it here, but some do, and there are containers on every street corner in most towns and villages, so it’s no effort.  I don’t know how it works in Britain, but it needs a rethink I think.

What else?  I liked the purposeful energy many places had, even the wee village of Llanberis.  There is an awful lot to be said for living in a more relaxed atmosphere, not letting stuff stress you, but, simply, you can’t have it all.

Trains – good, especially Virgin, even the loos are cool……..but not the people who use them, apparently.  Was also nice to note so many people reading books.  I expected cellphones and laptops, so that was good too.  Mostly, I was extremely impressed by how polite and considerate train users were too, not arguing over seating, swaying in the entrances when there were no seats (which was a lot, actually).  There were the usual show offs, who addressed the entire compartment and not just their immediate circle:   the middle-aged foursome going on their vacation to the sun, who were boasting about how many tequilas and champagne they had knocked back the previous night (grow up and get a life for god’s sake – wonder if they were coming to Tenerife?!);  the 60-somethings evidently going to a dance festival, who thought their racist anti-asylum seeker comments were funny; not to mention the aging and over-made-up “Avon” lady who was screaming to her confidant about not being asked to go to the President’s dinner……made me think of Glen Garry Glenross!    The great thing is that they have quiet cars too, seemed like a brilliant idea to me!

Nice to see so many people wearing poppies.  I wonder why they don’t make it a Bank Holiday?

So – good trip.  New places discovered.  Good food enjoyed.  A bit of shopping done, and I knew I was home when I saw “book & brolly” man strolling along the beach road in El Médano the first time I walked Trixy.  El Médano, it must be said, is home to a few eccentrics, but this guy amused me more than most.  I first spotted him a way ahead, he stood out because of the umbrella, on a warm, sunny morning, even before I got closer, but as I did, I realized that he was reading a book as he walked along.  Now, that’s a risk, let’s just say I’m not the only dog owner who walks there, but I do appear to be the only one who picks up after their dog!  He clutched a towel to his ample stomach, and, to my surprise was not wearing socks with his sandals.  His progress was stately, as he swayed from side to side, like a character from Gilbert and Sullivan, in fact we overtook him and met him again on the way back, though he didn’t notice absorbed as he was in his reading, ah well, I did mention I like to see people reading real books!