Playing Tour Guide and Loving Every Minute

One of the nice things about living on a sub-tropical island is the number of times the opportunity comes up to play truant, and spend time with visiting friends or family, and, of course, over Christmastime an ex-pat often finds themself playing at tour guide.  Sometimes it’s lazing on the beach, or taking a boat trip, shopping in Santa Cruz or going to a “hidden” restaurant for a wonderful meal, and sometimes it’s exploring the parts of the island their brochures hadn’t covered.  I enjoy it all, but especially the last, because I love to see people’s reactions to stunning scenery like the lunar landscapes of the Teide National Park, to peaceful,  pretty villages and to a history which they didn’t realize were the other face of Tenerife.

In recent weeks I’ve “toured” two lots of visiting friends, and scratched my head about where to take my father, who almost always comes at Christmas, and so has seen a fair bit of the island.

First of all let me hold up my hand and say that I was the one whose mis-impression was shattered, when I went to pick  up friends at their hotel.  Hotel Be Live La Niña is situated in what is usually described as a “lively” part of Playa de las Americas, Torviscas Bajo, and I feared the worst!  It’s years since I was in this particular area, and my first impression was that it had cleaned up very nicely, a bit like the post I wrote last year about the other end of the town.  Although not actually pedestrianized, the road was now one way and a sort of modern cobblestone, not somewhere vehicles would go screaming through, as traffic used to before.  I pulled into the hotel’s underground parking, to find ample space and signage, and stepping into the hotel was like stepping into another world, leaving behind the street sounds, to find an oasis of calm.  My friends were happy with their room-with-a-view and with the hotel food, and I can’t really tell you more than that, except that I’m quite happy that times they are a changin’.  I fully understand that it’s great to be able to stay at the beach and alternate lazy days with exploring ones,  (Done it myself elsewhere to be sure) so it’s nice to have places one can recommend, in a place where there are still too many places one wouldn’t.

So, my own mind expanded, time to initiate others into the wonder that is Tenerife.  I make no apologies for writing about Santiago del Teide again, maybe it’s because it’s almond blossom time, or because we are having such incredibly wonderful weather, and the sapphire blue sky is such a vivid backdrop for photos, but I find myself  captivated by it at the moment, and for visitors its tranquility provides a perfect contrast to somewhere like Playa de las Americas.  Just getting there, driving through villages like Chio and Guia de Isora and the cacti-studded scenery between them, opens up the mind.  Apparently, my father hasn’t stopped talking about it since he arrived home, even though he has been here almost every year in the past 24.

I always take the high road, and so we can marvel at the ocean, spread out at the foot of  the hillsides which fall away to the left, and at the variety of flora, both native and in gardens.  At this time of year, of course, that includes stunning almond blossoms, as you draw closer to Santiago del Teide.

Arriving last week I saw that notices said that the church closed at 1pm, and it was getting close to that time, so I began the “tour” there.  The belén was gone now, and it was a lazy weekday and not a fiesta, but it was still chock-a-block full of colorful, over-the-top art work, almost looking like an overstocked antique shop than a place of worship, after a coffee on the main street, we simply ambled around the village a bit, up to the cemetery, stopping to take in the fragile almond blossoms, as cocks crowed in drowsy village yards, and lizards scuttled from our path.

I  ate twice at Señorio del Valle, the beautifully restored rural hotel/museum complex, just behind the church. I love the museum there, which is interesting and  displays the history of the  Chinyero volcano to excellent effect, there are also a couple of small art exhibits, a gift shop which sells stuff which is actually made on the islands (just a small shelf of identifiably-made-in-China things), restored wine presses in the courtyard, and artifacts displayed in the restaurant.  All in all a genuine Canarian experience it seems.  Shame then that two things let it down.  If I find somewhere disappoints, my sense of fair play usually kicks in and thinks it might have been an off day, so I don’t condemn without giving it another go (unless it’s truly awful), but having eaten there twice now I’m disappointed to say it was the same both times.  The food was at best mediocre, and the service bordered on rudeness.  The details are boring,  sufficient to say I can’t, honestly,  recommend it, other than as a very pleasant place to have coffee.  My understanding from this article by local journalist and blogger Andy Montgomery, is that actually staying at the hotel is an outstanding experience, and the hotel itself  does look delightful, so I figure that anywhere is worth a third try, and I will in the near future. It’s a tribute to the overall ambience of the village that an indifferent lunch didn’t spoil the visits.

I have a kind of litmus test for people.  If I round the bend and the awesome view of Los Acantilados de Los Gigantes doesn’t draw a sharp intake of breath from my passengers, then I probably don’t have much in common with them.  It’s only happened to me once, and that was a few years back now.  Last week we had enjoyed a perfect day, with clear, achingly blue skies and little haze, so the view was good when I stopped on the way back for the photo op.  I don’t take friends down into the Los Gigantes development any more.  I didn’t like it when times were more affluent, and now it has a definitely shabby feel to add to its lack of charisma, so we meandered on south keeping as close to the coast as close as we could.

Alcalá, Playa San Juan and the tiny Puertito are all en route, and if you’re returning at the end of the day any one of them is a rewarding place to stop a while, sip wine and watch the sun go over the yard-arm.  My favorite is Puertito simply because it has, up to now, stayed so wonderfully quirky and untouched by commercialism.  It scarcely earns the title village, but of anywhere on that coast it is the place which feels most different to the brashness of the man-made resorts.  Playa San Juan may suit some guests more.  It’s been prettied up and sanitized over the last few years, with an eye to custom from the posh hotels which are appearing on the west coast, but at least it isn’t beer and skittles.

Sunset at Playa San Juan

The only problem in whiling away a half  hour or so this way is that the magic of the Canarian wine takes hold and I always want another glass, but since I still have a twenty minute drive after I leave Las Americas, it just isn’t worth the risk.  Driving here is hazardous enough without being tipsy to boot.  Still,  I can always have another glass at home whilst I look back over the pictures of the day I’ve taken. Almost 24 years on, and I still marvel at the variety to be found in something less than 800 square miles!

The Fiesta Where Two Worlds Collide

According to the official website of the bishopric of  Santa Cruz de Tenerife, around 30,000 people took part in or observed Thursday’s celebration of the feast day of San Sebastian in Adeje.  I’m hopeless at judging numbers, but it was clear that there were already several thousand there by the time we had scoffed the empanadas after our short pilgrimage, which I described yesterday.  The picture below shows the beach in only direction, with people perched on every vantage point the rocky shoreline presented.  It was the same in the other direction, along the beach and up steps to the road beyond.

The fiestas of late summer can be compared to harvest time in the northern countries, but I don’t know how to compare this season.  Last week in Santiago del Teide it was San Antonio Abad (Abbott), this week in Adeje it was San Sebastian, and next week sees more celebrations involving San Antonio in Los Silos and Buenavista del Norte.  The connection is animals, and perhaps knowing that San Sebastian is the saint in charge of warding off pests and plagues, and that San Antonio is the patron of domestic animals explains it.  Seems to me if they worked together it might help, but hey, what does an old agnostic know!  The idea is that the animals are blessed and hopefully fruitful (in one way or the other!) in the year ahead.

This horse was my absolute favorite.  He almost took away my breath with his shiny coat and his elegant stride, and what seemed to be pride and enjoyment emanating from him!

I’ve always kind of liked San Sebastian.  He’s always portrayed as being so young and handsome for one thing (check out the painting by El Greco, ladies), not to mention that he was a soldier, and I’m a sucker for a man in uniform (especially back in the 3rd  century when they displayed their well-toned legs too).  For another, years ago I visited the catacombs outside of Rome, where his body supposedly lay for some time, and whatever one believes there is an extraordinary atmosphere there.  What I thought was the manner of his death, portrayed as he always is, pierced by arrows, seemed a bit different to most too, but checking him out online (aren’t they all there now!) before the fiesta, I found out that he didn’t die from those wounds, but was rescued, nursed back to health, returned to taunt Diocletian, who then, of course, furious, had him beaten to death.  What any of that has to do with plagues and pests I don’t know, but it all makes for an excuse to fiesta.

On Wednesday night he’d enjoyed his annual trip to see the fireworks, which I missed, and Thursday his job was to follow the procession of animals from the elegant hermitage in La Caleta de Adeje, where a mass was conducted,  down to the shore to make sure they all had a dip before his blessing.  I’m not sure that I ever touched on religion here before, other than simply talking about the different fiestas, but by now you may have guessed that I am not a fan.  I do wonder, however, what would happen to local traditions if the entire population overnight came to think as I do.  So many of them were based originally in religion.   Would they be rejected, or would they continue just for fun?  Carnaval, after all, has nothing to do with a pre-Lent cleansing any longer.  The fact is that I’m perfectly ok with the idea of people like saints; persons, living or dead, who may have closer links to the universe than the rest of us, but I’m not ok with the misinformation about them, nor the power of organized religions, so if I ruled the world this would, actually, still go on.

We took a peek inside the churches, the pretty new one, built in 1961, and the tiny old one, which had fallen into disrepair, but is now beautifully restored, before heading down to the beach.  Although I’d seen pictures of this fiesta from previous years I was surprised at the number of people so early, waiting for the action.  We checked with a local policeman, who was struggling, charmingly to answer questions in at least four languages that I overheard, and he indicated the route of the procession, and we found a shady spot to wait.  It was then that the contrast between the fairly simple celebrations in Santiago del Teide the previous weekend, and what was happening in La Caleta struck me.  It wasn’t the sincerity of the proceedings or that they were not genuine in any way whatsoever, but that so many tourists were attracted to them.  It seemed like two worlds colliding.

The tourists waited impatiently in their spotless white shorts, clutching their cameras; locals sat patiently on the pavements and clutched their cameras too.  It was a longish wait.  Very little here happens at the appointed hour, and it occurred to me that with the huge crowd the priest might have run out of wafers, but in due time we spotted the procession coming down the street, and the nice policeman indicated that we should move out of its way a bit.

It was a wonderfully mixed group of riders who approached first, some dressed in traditional Canarian vests and hats, others looking like polo players, and yet others looking as if they were just there for fun in jeans and vests, and there was the inevitable guy with a cellphone to his ear,  but all in great good humor, and seeming to be relishing every minute.  There was a cute donkey with a sunhat, looking as if he belonged in an old western, and immaculately groomed steeds with plaited manes.  There were graceful women riders, and those who looked like businessmen on a day off, farmers, punks and some seriously cute children.  The riders were followed by a couple of pony and traps, and then came the shepherds and goatherds with their flocks.  Many of them carried the traditional long staffs which were carried by the Guanches long before the Conquistadors set foot on this island.  You’ll see them in the pictures below.  Not only were they used for keeping steady on the rocky terrain, but also used to launch the goatherd as he jumped from rock to rock.

The rear of the procession was brought up by San Sebastian and the mayor, priest and other local dignitaries, and we followed as they made their way down to the beachfront.  Dexterous use of elbows and not being afraid of the water got us views of the fun as horses, goats and sheep were pulled, coaxed or willingly trotted into the water.  It is, I think,  the most fun festival I’ve witnessed, and having done the “pilgrimage” it felt quite cool to be a little part of it, but by the time all the dunking was over we were starving and headed straight for the hotdog stand.  That the procession was then winding its way up to El Humilladero didn’t mean we escaped the queues, half the world, it seemed, had decided the same.  Roughly the queue and one hotdog later they returned to the roadside in front of the church, where animals, riders and keepers received a sprinkling of holy water to protect them from the plagues and pests of the coming year, and in all seriousness I hope it works.

For Cristina and me there was now the challenge of an hour to hour and half walking back to Adeje.  We were on the beach, and Adeje lies at 280 m above sea level.  My boots were falling apart.  The sun was hot, and I’d been on my feet since 9am.  Even so, the walk was fun (at least until we reached the road, then not-so-much), and it had all been well worth it.

I couldn’t begin to guess just how many of that 30,000 crowd were tourists, and I don’t begrudge the popularization of the fiesta one bit.  We are in crisis, and tourist euros are essential to the economy.  In fact, it’s a good thing that so many people realize that there is at least one whole other aspect to life on this lovely island.  Still, it seemed incongruous, the sheep and goats bleating, the horses prancing and the stalls selling hotdogs and ice cream as well as sardines and turrón, and in the background the swish hotels of Costa Adeje.  This festival is still able to happen because the beach there is still stones, and hasn’t been blasted with golden sand stolen from the seabed, and because there is still waste ground, not yet built on.  I suppose one day grand hotels will rise on that waste ground too, and I wonder what will happen then to this tradition.

Spring – In The Air and In My Step

After the almond blossom the next sign of spring  is the wild lavender.  I remember seeing it for the first time in profusion a few years back.  There was a stretch of what can only be called desert, alongside the beach of Achile, where I used to walk Trixy most mornings.  After choosing alternative routes for a couple of days we returned to Achile to find it covered in the delicate, pale purple  flowers, and ever since I’ve thought of its arrival as the beginning of springtime.

I wasn’t looking for it in the desert landscape on Thursday, and it was a quiet delight of an interesting and surprising day to find it, the taller spikes moving gentley on the breeze.

9am isn’t particularly early to meet for a short hike, but I’d stayed up too late the night before, exploring and travelling vicariously thanks to the internet, so I wasn’t over-bright and breezy, when Cristina and I arrived at Adeje’s parish church of St Ursula, which appears to keep an eye on the town, sitting, as it does,  high at the top of the main thoroughfare.  It didn’t help that I’d only downed one, small cup of coffee, remembering that an hour or so’s hike over a barren landscape doesn’t afford bushes to hide behind when you have a call of nature.

The parish church of St. Ursula

It was the feast day of San Sebastian, patron saint of the municipality, and an hour and half’s walk over what was once the main route connecting the pueblo high on the hill to the shore below, had been arranged by the municipality, with a traditional fiesta at its conclusion.  You could call it a pilgrimage, or a keeping alive of history.  Crops were transported down to the shore by this route using oxen and carts.

We had a sharp and sunny start Thursday morning as we hung around the church steps, waiting for the guides to lead off.  The weather here in the south since Christmas has been so perfect it makes you want to hold your breath.  Clear mornings which have melded into hot middays, which then melted into chilly evenings and even chiller nights, true desert weather.  It was nice to note that I wasn’t the only foreigner, that others were interested in the traditions of their adopted home, or vacation home.

Setting off from the church at the head of the town, we wound our way through the quiet streets.  It has to be said that most of the (possibly) 40,000-ish inhabitants of the municipality were probably taking advantage of the local holiday to sleep in.  There weren’t many people around at least, as we snaked along, escorted efficiently by the local police who stopped what traffic there was to let us pass.  Even when we reached the bridge which struts the autopista we didn’t seem to be causing too many holdups.

From the autopista it’s just five minutes downhill to the first marker on the journey, and we streamed through the gateway, historical marker alongside, which heralded the beginning of the “real” walk. 19th century Adeje was a very important agricultural area, where fields of maze and sugar beet surrounded the village, and where  rich banana harvests were produced for Fyffes.  That company used to loan, on occasion, a bullock cart to transport the statue of Saint Sebastian to the beach of La Enramada below, but this day we were simple pilgrims on foot.

It was less than another five minutes from the gateway to the vantage point from which I took those great sunset pictures in December, and quite a few people stopped there to snack or drink water, or just to admire the vista, our route, tumbling down to the ocean, spread out before us.

It wasn’t a hard walk by any stretch of the imagination, there were several families with pushchairs, and some elderly people.  The ground is volcanic-rock solid, with just a few places where it’s worn away and you’re liable to slip on loose stones.  We crossed a small brook at one point, but skipping over a couple of stones and we were over.  On a walk like this, keeping up, more or less, with the group is half the fun and half the point of it, it’s a communal thing, so there wasn’t a whole lot of time to admire that lavender or other flora as we went.

As we neared our destination we came to El Humilladero, the site where, according to legend, there has been a sighting of the Virgin Mary.  A simple shrine now marks the spot, and several of the older walkers paid their respects.  In reality is marked the end of the walk in one way, as people seemed to drift off on their own from that point.

Feeling ridiculously chipper at the thought of a cold soda we trudged the short distance to the road, and rounded a corner to find the church square already thronging with people. The elegant hermitage of San Sebastian was built in the early Sixties, but if you look to the bottom left of the picture, you can see the red-tiled roof of the tiny, original church.

After gulping down the soda and nibbling a red-hot empanada (a fried pasty or pie) we spent the next, few hours watching the festivities, but that I’m saving for another day.

We set off back in good spirits, which is just as well, because, remember I said it was not a difficult walk down?  Down, note – which means that the return was all uphill.  The day was hotter, a scortching mid-afternoon, the soles of my hiking boots were coming off and flapping as I walked, having met their final indignity in the ocean, and there were many more stops for water or excuses to take photos than on the downward journey, I can tell you!

This was when I remembered that I’d done scarcely any exercise since the neck problems began in June.  I practised my breathing the way I’d done in yoga, and dreamed of a cold beer back in the village at the end.  It was, though, enjoyable.  I love variety in any guise, and the last walk I’d done was along the flat banks of the river Wey in crisp October, with the Autumn leaves crunchy underfoot,  so clambering over volcanic rocks, sighing over pretty clumps of lavender and admiring distant, misty mountains was fine by me.

Everything was hunky dory until we left the open ground and hit the tarmac, where the soles of my boots flapped even harder, and the sun seemed even hotter.

A whistle from a passing truck driver bucked me up no end – hey, at my age that’s something (obviously he was too far away to spot the wrinkles and the multiple chins). In the end we made it though, feet aching and tongue hanging out, and me with no time for that beer I’d been anticipating.  I hurried home to find that my ESL students had to postpone because their car had broken down  en route, and I have to say I thought that maybe the gods (or maybe the saints) were on my side, as I tugged off mystill sodden boots and my salt encrusted jeans. After which I flopped on the sofa, feet on the back to allow the blood to recirculate.  Today I know it was the uphill which was the “killer”, but also a good thing, as my thighs ache something rotten. I didn’t do my power walk this morning, but I think yesterday awarded me a couple of days grace!

Just to give you a clue about the next post, I can tell you that these handsome gentlemen below overtook us on the path, and very charmingly posed for me.

Of Almond Blossom and St Anthony

In the week or so since I visited Santiago del Teide I’ve been itching to get back there because I could see that the almond blossom was going to be early this year, and the weather is almost too good to be true since Christmas.  Last year I went the chilly weekend before the official Ruta de las Almendros, and thanked my lucky stars because in the ensuing week the heavens opened, and wind and rain put an end to the blossoms and celebrating them.

Now, I should explain that my friend, Maria, and I have decided that we should make a point of regularly going out to look for photo ops, instead of just pointing the camera when one comes up.  Faced with a stunning vista or a cute baby goat, it’s too late to practise the art, and we both need to practise, so I was really up for making our first sortie to Santiago del Teide!

Maria drinking in the scenery.  In the background the Chinyero Volcano.

We set off early on a morning so crisp and clear you could feel it on your skin, and had the winding roads almost to ourselves.  We followed the autopista until it ran out, and then meandered the hillsides to the north-west of the island.  The ocean lay vast and blue off to our left , kestrels hovered above, and we began to glimpse the odd almond tree in all its glory as we neared the village.  I stupidly missed the turning which takes you a little higher up the mountain, so that you see Santiago del Teide cradled in the valley as you approach, but we did see lots of blossom by the roadsides, so we were, as my sons would say, stoked by the time we arrived.

We hung out on the outskirts of the village, snapping happily away in the stunning, still early-morning light, stopping for a while to chat to a lovely man who was strolling down from Valle de Arriba, a tiny hamlet close to the village, who spoke with pride of the numbers of people who now come to see the spectacular blossoms.  He reckoned that this year they are a month ahead of where they normally are, so good thing, going on Sunday.

I just lost track of time, playing with exposures and the changing light and such, but the time came when we were over-ready for coffee.  You know how it is when you make the perfect coffee?  Well I’d done that in the early morning, remarkable, considering the hour, poured it into my thermal mug and then totally forgot about it as we chatted our way en route, so there might have been a kind of withdrawal symptom thing going on, since I like my coffee scalding hot.  We headed for  Señorio del Valle, a complex which includes rural hotel, museum, small art gallery and gift shop, in a setting so bucolic you might be forgiven for thinking you’d landed in the middle of a film set.

Old wine press which forms the centerpiece of the courtyard at Señorio del Valle

Stable block at Señorio del Valle

There, we drank milky coffees and nibbled tortilla española in the courtyard until the violent clanging of the bells from the adjacent church of San Fernando Rey disturbed our relaxation, and we remembered that the charming man we’d spoken to earlier had reminded us it was the feast of St Anthony Abbott, so we coppered up and strolled around to see what was going on.

It was one of those delightful, unexpected moments that you sometimes stumble across when travelling (ok I know we’d only travelled about an hour from home – but the journey, not the destination, remember!).  We’d gone to record the blossoms, totally forgetting the feast day.  The sight which greeted us was a troupe of local dancers, dressed in white, trimmed with red, and hats adorned with flowers or feathers and other ornaments, not unlike English Morris Dancers.

Those costumes were immaculate, snowy white and beautifully trimmed in embroideries anglaise, and they danced with a great sense of fun and enthusiasm.  Maria and I sneaked about, snapping happily away, just a bit high on the color and the ambience.  When they stopped, Maria chatted to one of the guys, who told us that those amazing hats are decorated with medallions and charms which are personal to each person, medallions which have been blessed, or charms picked up on travels, and that the origin of the costume lies in the neighboring island of El Hierro.

With mass being relayed to the people who couldn’t squeeze into the tiny church, we wandered off down the road I’d followed with my dad a few days back, and further on, noting paths for future walks and admiring more almond blossom until we reached the picturesque village cemetary.  Something I’d wanted to do for a few years was to take my camera to a local cemetary after All Souls’ Day on November 1st.  Whilst it isn’t celebrated in quite the manner it is in Mexico, where families picnic by the graves of  their loved and departed, and sugar candy in the shape of skulls is devoured, it is a day when  many families still make a point of visiting and decorating family graves, and I’d imagined that there must be some excellent photo ops.  Maybe it was because Christmas wasn’t so far back, but I was moved and happy to see flowers on so many of the graves, just as I imagined it would be after All Souls.  This cemetary was not the dark and forboding place that so many I’ve visited have been, but a riot of color, given that those flowers were symbols of love, it was an emotional sight, and we spoke in whispers as we wandered the tranquil paths and took it all in.

In the distance we heard the church bells tolling again, signalling the end of the mass, and we headed back to the square, to see the procession emerging from the church, preceded by the dancers and drummers, and heading off up a narrow street to bless the community’s animals.

I was a bit confused for a while, when I realized that St Anthony is the patron saint of animals.  I’d always thought it was St Francis of Assisi, but now I get it.  St Anthony Abbott is the patron saint of domestic animals, pets and farm animals, in other words.  Reading up on him, other than that he was tempted by the devil who took the form of wild animals, I can’t quite figure why this is, but it makes for some colorful festivals in Spain at least.  For complicated reasons I hadn’t gone to the Romeria de Arona this year, which is a much grander affair than this one in Santiago del Teide, but which, basically is a blessing of the local animals, there is also a rather scary festival in the mainland village of San Bartolome de los Pinares, but this happy and gentle festival had a lovely, joyful karma.

We followed the procession until it came to the very place where we’d had our morning coffee.  The complex offers horse riding and pony and cart rides, has a resident parrot and no doubt other animal associations, and having once been the manor house of the district was possibly always the procession’s first stop.

Maria admiring one of the hotel’s horses

We took the chance to duck into its little museum, which is beautifully appointed, with lots of well-presented information about the Chinyero Volcano, which was the last place in the island to erupt in 1909, the small art gallery and the gift shop, which, actually, was selling local crafts, wines, honey etc and almost nothing “made in China”.

Maria looking very pleased with our excursion :=)

It was my fault we had to leave at that point.  I had commitments for the late afternoon, and I’d come expecting only the almond blossom, which only goes to show that on a small island, where you have spent 20-odd years of your life, you can still find pleasant surprises.  I felt guilty about having to go, but my reasons were not light.  We could have received a blessing from the local priest, who was occupied in blessing the community’s pets as we drove past (we’d seen  numerous dogs, a horse, a pony and a tank of turtles as we followed the procession), and I would have been totally over-the-moon with the magnificent blossoms alone.  Sometimes life has bonuses.

A Coffee for All Seasons

Is it me, or does coffee get more press and stir more emotion than tea, or hot chocolate?  Would there be baristas if there was no coffee, only tea?  For me, nothing sets a bad tone for the day more than when I mess up my morning coffee in my pre-caffeine stumblings, and nothing begins the day better than when I make the perfect cup.

I became passionate about Brazil’s top export when I was 16, and on an exchange visit to Germany.  My host family drank their coffee long, strong, sweet and black, and an addiction was born in me from my first sip.  I drank it that way for years and years, with the odd defection to cappuccino when visiting Italy, or café au lait in France, (because I liked to say the name).  I insisted that to drink it any other way was sacrilegious, and most definitely not cool.

So, when I immigrated to Tenerife I was delighted to find the coffee strong and sweet, if not long.  Somehow the Americanos just didn’t cut it, the café con leche was insipid, and I took to drinking café solo, which is to say, expresso.

However, new experiences were in store in the form of cortado leche leche.  Now, cortados exist on the mainland.  It’s a small strong, but white coffee, but it’s the leche leche part which sets the Canary Island version apart.  Leche is Spanish for milk, so, basically, it means coffee with double milk.  It comes in a small glass, and a normal strong, white coffee is poured over a first layer of condensed milk.  Despite it being incredibly sweet, as you can imagine, a sachet of sugar is always provided, and often used by locals. The one above was partaken by my dad in Valentino’s in Las Galletas the other week (great ice cream there too btw).

As a variation, a Spanish liqueur called “43” can be added, and the drink then becomes a barraquito.  It used to be that, on being presented with a glass, you couldn’t tell the difference between  cortado leche leche or barraquito, but these days the latter have taken on a following all their own, and now come in many-layered variations, like the one below, which I had not so long ago in Restaurante La Caleta, in the once-fishing-village-now-resort area of La Caleta in Adeje.  I can highly recommend stopping by there to sip one as the sun goes down.

As I sampled the delights of Canarian coffee over the years, back in the “real” world the Starbucks revolution was happening, and coffees of every different type, shade and name were being invented.  Visits to the US or the UK left me depressed about the state of Canarian coffee, and its lack of variety.  Sure, I still liked my own mug of the strong stuff for the early morning kickstart, but after that I yearned to mix it up with a mild latte or a hint of hazelnut in the darkness.  I’d tried asking for cappuccino in bars which seemed a bit more “with it” over the years, but they’d always come up with weak, white coffee with a generous glob of squirty cream on top (gag!) ……undrinkable once you’d scraped it off.

The revolution took a long time in coming, but it’s here at last. Waiters who used to shrug when you mentioned latte now whirl away and return with a frothy mug; ask for cappuccino and you are entering a competition to judge the cutest decoration; mention iced coffee and no-one doubts what you mean. We don’t have the same choice as on mainland Europe, but we do now have coffee to suit most moods – if you know where to look, of course.  I expected the revolution to be confined to the smart bars of Santa Cruz or La Laguna, to the cosmopolitan airport bars or the smart resort areas, but asking for café con leche recently in San Miguel de Abona village I was presented with a mug of creamy coffee which resembled latte in taste and texture if not in name.  The pretty cappuccino below was in La Pirata in Las Galletas a few weeks back.

Now – I wonder when we will see the first chai latte?

Rooftop Ruminations

New Year’s Eve  from my roof terrace, I watched fireworks from around the vicinity.  Over the ugly roof tops, I can see the foothills of the southern part of the island, and El Teide rising in their midst, and every town and village on those hillsides was celebrating in a riot of fire and color, the cracks, whizzes and booms echoing from hill to hill.

New Year’s morning I stepped out on the terrace and into a crisp-ish and sunny morning.  The sunrise was still painting the  horizon rosy - I can see the ocean if I turn the other way and lean over – and a single vapor trail from a passing plane crossed the clear sky, the almost new moon looked as if it was  balancing on it ….I took it as a sign (yep, did watch Sleepless in Seattle over the holiday season) and a good one for the coming year. The new moon was new beginnings, and the vapor trail – well, what could it be but travel?

Officially, I am now one year from retirement, but, in a far more important sense, that’s a word I don’t understand. I despise the entire concept.  Change of direction, yes, retirement no!  New doors are opening and new ventures and adventures beckoning, and I find the world at least as, if not more, exciting than ever. What I need now is a plan (yes, I watched “The A Team” too). I recognize that, as Julia Roberts famously said in “Pretty Woman” “(I’ve been) a fly by the seat of your pants kind of girl.” I’ve never really planned ahead overmuch, but with finances and commitments as they are, I’m going to have to learn the art of planning.

I made my first bucket list when I was about 13.  They weren’t called bucket lists then.  It was just a list of things I intended to do when I grew up.  I remember that there was a long, long list of countries I wanted to visit, and books I wanted to read.  Also, I couldn’t swim back then so that was on the list, that was because it was kind of advisable because learning to sail was on there too.  I don’t remember the rest, although I have no doubt that writing a best seller was on it, and I remember sitting with a notebook by my grandparents open fire and dreaming and writing it…..the list, that is, not the bestseller!  Wish I’d kept it, so I’d know how much I achieved compared to what I wanted to do.  I did learn to swim but not to sail.

Don’t worry, I don’t intend to now list all the items on my current bucket list, but I’m sure they will be mentioned here when they happen.  Note the positive “when they happen”, that’s half of the battle. This year, for me,  will be more about the “how to” rather than the “what”. I totally fail to understand the falling aside of curiosity and ambition which some (the majority?) of people seem to experience when they get to “my age”. This attitude that “I’ve done it all, seen it all, now I’m going to vegetate” appalls me. It becomes an ironclad mind-set so far as I can see. They lose enthusiasm for life, and become very arrogant, as if age alone gives one the right to wisdom. Someone please sock me with a wet sponge if I ever sound like that! Sure, experience can bring wisdom (if you learn from it, of course), but I know plenty of empty-headed mature people, that’s for sure.

I have, now I come to think of it, also known a fair few people who, though not the necessarily the brightest in the class, have been successful in their ways because of a positive attitude, and a belief in themself. That seems to be something else which people allow to melt away with age. “I can’t do that at my age”, “Oh, I’m too old for that” or the dreaded “Having a senior moment” – phrases which send chills down my spine!

Sure, one has to accept a certain lessening of physical capacity as one gets older, but to accept that pot bellies and shortness of breath are inevitable consequences of aging is ridiculous. When I was 59 I took a job at an office which was at the top of a flight of steps. The first few days working there I admit to a bit of heavy breathing when I pushed open the office door. It disgusted me. I’m no way as fit as I should/could be, but it took me a couple of weeks to be able to run up those stairs – I still do it just to make sure I can when I’m in the vicinity these days. In the months I worked there I was even more disgusted by the number of people who would come in saying, specifically, “Those stairs will be the death of me”. WRONG! It’s your lifestyle which will be death of you! The smoking. The overeating. The wrong attitude.  Our skin is going to wrinkle to some extent or other, and our muscles weaken, but there is no earthly reason that it should happen to the extent that it does.  Why do people lose so much self-esteem along with age?

Perhaps even more depressing than the physical is the mental atrophy, the sense that, once “retired”, one’s life is on the sidelines.  As the supreme example of positivity, being able to reinvent oneself according to circumstances and age, and proof that one can ACHIEVE at any age,  I offer you Leni Reifenstahl.  Now, you may well be wary of that name because of her association with Hitler, but there is no denying her talent in the movies she made for him.  Very briefly, she had a career as a movie star before going on to directing;  when it seemed that she was doomed to failure on account of her past she took herself off to Africa to live in remote places and earned herself a reputation as an extraordinary still photographer; in her 70s, when she was no longer capable of clambering around landscapes she learned to dive and took up underwater photography, to yet more accolades – she claimed that being weightless in the water brought back her youth, but she certainly never, ever lost her zest for life and her desire to DO.

If you want proof that there is life after 60 I, also,  offer you the following: Nancy Pelosi, Cher, Bill Clinton, Hillary Clinton, Nelson Mandela (who was already in his 70s when released from prison), Barbara Walters, Jimmy Carter, Betty White, Bruce Tulloh and Margaret Thatcher (who had no problem in reinventing herself at 54 when she became PM and served until she was well over 60).  I’m not suggesting that you, or I, would want to emulate the plastic surgery, the sacrifices or other aspects of the lifestyles of some of these people necessarily, but they are all examples of “senior citizens” who continued, and in most cases are continuing, with their positive thinking on life.

We’re just over a week into 2011, and there has been way too much navel gazing all around I think. All I’ll say is this: there are places to see, things to do, books to read, music to hear, movies and plays to see, new foods and drinks to try, new people to meet, old friends to meet up with and all sorts of new experiences to have…..and I’m ready!!

And from my azotea, even on a night when the sunset isn’t so spectacular, it’s still a pretty sight.

The Prettiest Village in South Tenerife

My dad has been staying with me since Christmas Eve.  He’s 87 and extremely spry and together for his age, but he can’t get around as he used to. When we first emigrated, and he came to visit, he would happily roam all around the southern coast when I was busy, but these days a half hour’s walk is the most he can manage.  Last year I hadn’t quite latched on to that, he’s always been so sprightly, but this year I realized that I had to think of places to go where a short walk, a coffee and maybe another short walk would make a decent “outing”.

I drove through Santiago del Teide on my way to Icod just before Christmas, and I was struck, as always,  by how picturesque and elegant it looks, nestled amongst craggy hills and surrounded by what must be the greenest part of the south, and I added it to my list of places to visit with my dad.  Pretty and small enough that a short stroll would be enjoyable, but also interesting for me too.

That I chose yesterday, which was an achingly crystal clear day, as you can see from the blue skies in the pictures, was sheer luck.  When I drove through on the return from Icod the town had been shrouded in thick mist of the best Hound of the Baskervilles variety.  The way places are named here, Santiago del Teide is the name of the municipality which covers an area of just over 52 sq kilometres, ranging from 1015 meters above sea level, right down to the stunning cliffs of Los Gigantes on the coast, but when you say the name most folk think of the village at the heart of the municipality, which lies at a mere 936 m above the ocean,  and that was our destination.

My car is of the old and faithful variety, so I was quite happy to be stuck behind hire cars and tour buses for almost the entire time after we left the main highway, the TF1.  That makes it sound like a busy route, and it wasn’t at all.  I speak of one hire car and one bus, actually.  The traffic was light, which is the way I’ve always found it once through the bustling, little village of Guia de Isora. It’s a route which quietly unravels and gets greener and greener as you travel.  Let’s be honest, the south and south-east coasts have a lot going for them in many ways, but pretty isn’t a word which springs to mind.  Leave them behind and it’s a whole, new world, and I was delighted to be able to take my time and glance around me now and then at the clusters of cacti, the breathtaking view down to the ocean, or the almond trees which are just coming into blossom.

If you look closely you can see the first, fragile flowers

The sad thing was that the aforesaid bus was heading right for the same place we were, even down to where I’d planned to park, so I decided on sustenance first and exercise afterwards.  We parked close to the charming, 17th century church, and crossed the road to the recreation area, where we could sit and enjoy a coffee under the shade of eucalyptus trees, and wait for the “hoards” to leave.  This area is one of the ones I wrote about last year.  It lies alongside the main road, but truly the road isn’t so busy that it would spoil an afternoon there.  I’ve only done it once, but it was delightful, and a nice wee stoll along a dry stream bed for the dogs made it even nicer.  At the entrance there is a small bar, which I now kick myself for not snapping, because it isn’t often you see somewhere constructed to allow for the surrounding trees, which seem to emerge from its roof.  Maria who runs it cooks a mean hamburger too, as I remembered once we sat down and the aroma drifted out.  I was hooked, I had to have one,  and I actually almost managed to finish it.

By that time the bus had moved on, leaving the village peaceful in the balmy, afternoon sun, so we trotted over to the church.  I’d noted that the bus party had visited the church, but was surprised to find the doors still wide open.  It just doesn’t happen that much anymore, sadly.  It used to be that you could always pop into a church, but I digress.  It was open, and we stepped inside, to be almost overwhelmed by the color and the quantity of statues, icons and pictures which filled the walls.

It’s a small church, but every nook and cranny was filled.  It was more crowded than usual because the whole area around the altar was occupied by the belén (nativity scene), which included a couple of real, live ducks – in a tiny cage, suspended from the ceiling, poor things!   Given that twelth night was 48 hours passed you might have thought they would have had their freedom back!  Clearly things had been moved around to make room for the Christmas display.

Being with my dad meant I couldn’t have the good old nosey around I would normally have had. Walking he can handle, but stopping to admire or investigate is bad for his back, so it was a quick look around and onwards.  I’m not religious in the conventional sense, and if was I’m sure I would lean these days to a simpler style of worship and belief, in other words, I often find the ostentation of church displays uncomfortable, but walking into this little church was something like walking into a rainbow, and I couldn’t help but like it.

After leaving, we wandered the streets close to the church for a little while, where modern houses blended tastefully with the older, well-kept buildings, cocks crowed from what looked like overgrown lots, and bees buzzed lazily in the Spring sunshine.  A couple of old ladies, sitting on benches by the kiddies’ playground seemed to eye us with suspicion, but  responded with smiles to my “Buenos tardes.”  It’s almost always that way here.  The playground was empty, but as you can see, even this was cheerful and colorfully decorated, guaranteed to stimulate young imaginations, don’t you think?

By the time we reached the end of the playground my dad knew he’d had enough, so we turned back, me with mental notes of things I wanted to know (the Tourist Information Office was closed by the time I tried the handle around 3 o’clock…….and I wasn’t the only one, but somehow I didn’t mind there.  It was siesta time.  Middle of Santa Cruz is another story.  It’s a busy, little, capital city, and if it wants the cruise ships it will have to accommodate tourists on their timeframe.), and things I wanted to see in a different light, at a different time of day.  I did a little sortie down a side road, but it was clear that my dad was tuckered out, so I left it all for another day.

I didn’t even investigate the new rural hotel, where I’d had a coffee last year, and about which I’ve heard great reports, just read this one from local journalist Andy Montgomery, but I love to leave something for another time, wherever I go, unless I hate a place it’s great to have a reason to go back, and I really can’t think of another village in the south which is as simply pretty as Santiago del Teide.

Of Quiet Villages and Internet

When I see rocky coastlines like the one below I am reminded that this island is volcanic, and it’s easy to imagine how it was when these steely-grey rocks were molten lava, hissing its way into the Atlantic.

I post pictures on here or on Facebook and people often comment on the beauty of this island on which I am living.  There are other people, even people who have lived here for some time, who are surprised by how unspoiled an area is, or that the island boasts two World Heritage Sites.

The busy resorts have very little appeal for me, but the other side of the coin is that I can’t go for too long without internet, and a really slow speed internet would drive me crazy, so I am lucky that El Médano is a nice compromise.  Internet is good here, in the main area, and although it’s a resort it’s funky and lively in a genuine way, not a manufactured way.

Now, if I had my druthers, I’d live somewhere like this village, which is Tajao, just a few miles up the coast from El Médano, so still on the windy side, but, as yet, pretty much just a fishing village still.

Cages piled up on the harborside are used for catching pulpo.

It’s a tiny place, and quiet, even on a weekend in the holiday season, although there were queues at the restaurants we looked at, and half of them were closed for the fiestas.  The fish served here is fresh, and they still serve more traditional Canarian dishes, like escaldón.  It certainly isn’t a place entirely unknown to tourists or ex-pats, but I think it’s safe to say that those who go there go for the tranquility and the fresh food.

There really isn’t an awful lot more than you see in these photos.  You drive through a couple of streets, turn right or left to park, either by the small, neat beach, or by the harbor.  Were it a place you drove through, you’d blink and miss it, and unless an awful lot has changed in the last year (which to the best of my information it hasn’t) internet access is dodgy.  It’s understandable.  It isn’t exactly a high priority zone.

It’s isn’t really even that pretty.  Architecture in the south of the island was never fancy.  The picturesque, colonial buildings and the distinictive carved balconies were in the prosperous north of Tenerife, whilst in the south dwellings were built for practical use, mostly the dwellings of fishermen and artisans.  Even now the properties which line the shoreline are little more than square boxes, although painting them bright colors and filling balconies and steps with geraniums lend an ambience, which touches on Mediterranean.

Still – I wish they had better internet here.

Taking Down the Christmas Tree

2008

I took down the Christmas tree today.  When the kids were little it stayed up until 12^th night.  It’s still a very special time of year for my little family, but, these days, once the important dates are passed, I feel as if I need grab the momentum and all the promises the new year holds in store, and put the season behind me for another year.

The night of the 5^th, when “the 3 Kings visit the children of Spain with gifts” will be special for me in a different way, because I’ll spend it with friends, one of whom, at a year and half old, will be the star of the night, of course….may the Kings be generous with him!

When my sons were small, it was their job to trim the tree, and that continued right up to Guy going to the States in 2002.  The tinsel is replaced from year to year as the shine is lost and new must be bought, but most of our ornaments have been bringing us happiness for years and years, and many of them have their own stories, so that opening the box, which I carefully pack away each year, as I am doing now, with tissue paper and cinnamon scented candles, is a delight in itself.

First the star has to be taken off, because it trails strands of silver over all the branches.  We bought this in 1997, and the shine is definitely gone, and there are less strands every year. For a while now I’ve thought each year would be the last, but I couldn’t part with it, and for a couple of years there has been an angel, waiting in the wings, to take over top-of-the-tree duty, but this wasn’t her year to debut either, and the star is back in the box –decision delayed for 12 months.

That angel, like some of my other decorations has a bit of magic.  She was a gift from my dear friend, Maggie, along with some other shiny knick knacks, and the cutest porcelain Christmas elephant you ever saw!  Well, you’ve probably never seen a Christmas elephant – I certainly hadn’t until he arrived, all carefully wrapped and in tact a few years ago.  This year a Christmas goose joined the group.

I love the way how, when I open the box each early December, and after I’ve inhaled the cinnamon perfume, all the lovely memories come tumbling out.  Another good friend, Joyce, fills every nook and cranny of her house with Rudolfs.  The famous red nose comes in every shape and size imaginable, much to the delight of her grandchildren.  So the Rudolf candle holder she gave me, oh, must be ten years ago now, reminds me not only of her, but of her family and her lovely house at this time of year.

After the star is put to bed, I make a cushion of the Christmas tablecloth and serviettes which we’ve had since our first year here, so if the box gets bumped about in one of my frequent house moves the fragile, glass ornaments are safe.  On top of those, wrapped in tissue or the wrapping paper from special presents I’ve received (even the wrappings have memories) go the stronger baubles; the cheerful, red and white bell which Austin knitted in infant school, a paunchy snowman from a Christmas spent in England, several glittery red or white apples from that same Winter, and a plastic Mickey Mouse, wrapped in the same Disney World bag which has always been his non-Christmastime home.  Then another cushioning layer – the stockings my sons have had since their first Christmases, they haven’t had them filled every year, because over the past ten one or other of them has been in some other country or other, but this year they were used again!

Next goes a layer of tinsels before the fragile baubles, wrapped in layer upon layer of tissue are carefully put away.  Some of these we seem to have had forever, and others, like the ones Guy bought one Christmas in England hold special memories.  That was the year that I thought, because my kids were grown-upish I could have a “designer” tree.  I’d seen them in all the stores, and my theme would be red and gold, colors I don’t normally use in decorating, but love for Christmas.  Guy was around 14, and I knew he’d be knocked out by the opulent display at the local garden center.  There is nothing like these displays in Tenerife at all.  And there it all was, in all it’s shiny, light-twinkling, carol-playing COLORFUL glory!  Each color had its own section, and we went off in separate directions to take it all in.  Even when I’d left England in 1987 things weren’t quite so abundant.  I scooped red and gold tinsel and baubles for our English tree, and we met up to compare finds.  Guy’s arms seemed to be full of a rainbow, and I felt it necessary to explain my “plan”.  It was already half-hearted, seeing all those colors, and Guy explained his own vision, which was a riot of color and fun.  It didn’t take long to realize how right he was.  I’ve never tried to create a “designer” tree since.

In fact, it put me off “designer” just about anything.  It made me realize how motherhood had changed me, and for the better, I think.  My kids had taught me about having fun, and I knew it was time to let go of that other person I’d been before.

So now the box is filled and sealed (to keep out roaches hopefully!), and all the memories are on hold for another 12 months.  I just need to remember from time to time about the color and the fun :=))

2009