Of Big Swells and the End of Summer

It’s strangely quiet outside my window today.  A few kids are splashing about in the pool, but nowhere near the hooting and screaming of the past few weeks.  This morning in the silent supermarket there were still lettuce and tomatoes left on the shelves – granted a bit tired-looking, but for the last four to six weeks the shelves have been bare on a Monday morning after the weekend rush, (well, even on a Monday afternoon – it takes them a while to restock here).  It’s a sign the summer residents are gone or about to go, and life is on the cusp of change.

To an outsider it may seem as if everything is the same year round in El Médano, but if you live here the changes are obvious.  There will be parking again.  Once the annual fiesta is passed in another couple of weeks, the stage which occupies a corner of the main town square, will be dismantled and put into storage for another year.  Although there are always tourists, there will be fewer, and they will be mostly people here for a purpose. The spirit of El Médano, certainly for visitors and foreign residents, is very much sports-oriented. We come at the very least for the good dog-walking, and then, depending on your level of fitness, for windsurfing, kite surfing, running, cycling, swimming or power walking and more. Mix this with the folk from the old fishing community, throw in a few “hippies,” and you have the odd blend of people who rub together easily to give the town its quirky character.

In August, however, it turns into a family resort, as does just about any stretch of beach on the island with a few houses nearby.  When I strolled into the center with a friend to enjoy a glass of wine or two the other night, we were surprised to see the  climbing frames and equipment of the little playground in the square swarming with kids at midnight. Like so many indefatigable ants they were climbing, running and, of course, screaming to their hearts’ content. El Médano isn’t known for nightlife, more often than not, arriving home after dark, I’m surprised by how quiet it is, but not in August!

The other great precursor of the season in the south  that the landscape has turned to desert. Oh, the well-watered public areas of the resorts are lush and colorful as always, but the natural landscape is parched and thirsty, dying for some rain you might say.

From the approach to Montaña Roja it looks as if nothing could survive, vegetation is wilted if not skeletal.  It’s an easy walk up to the top, which is about 170 meters I think (from memory), and the views from up there are extensive along the coast, over the airport, and to the mountains beyond on a clear day.  Saturday, when I went with the photo group, it was clear-ish, and the views revealed a harsh landscape, seared by the summer sun, and apparently devoid of life, except some scrubland between the beach and the road.  Nothing much was growing other than the resilient tabaiba.

Wave beginning to build

From the times I lived near the beach in La Tejita I remember the big waves seeming to mark the end of the season too. From the hilltop on Saturday we watched for around an hour or so as the waves built and came crashing down onto the sands, the crests already being blown back out to sea by the strong winds, sometimes forming brief rainbows along the peaks of the wave.

La Tejita isn’t a surfer’s beach, although there are always waves as ocean meets the shore.  The waves break far too close  for surfing, but yesterday, when I went with Maria to take a closer look at the beach, there were a few bodyboarders out there catching a ride, and even a couple of hopeful surfers.  Not very long rides maybe, but definitely exciting. Waves rose, glittered like jeweled, turquoise glass, dragged sand from the shoreline and tossed it up in their foam, before creaming onto land.  They say that the waves come in sets of seven, every one bigger until they die away and you wait for the next set.

You can see from the color of the rock how the mountain got its name.  Anyone wonder why this, despite the barrenness at the moment, is my favorite beach in the south of Tenerife??

Why Bolivia has Moved up on my Bucket List

Given that I really would, in the best of all possible worlds, like to visit every country in the world, but that it isn’t possible, I suppose you could say that I have my personal league of the 196 countries of the world according to how much I want to go there.

Bolivia has never been in the first division for me, though other countries in South America are.  To be fair to the country, that’s because I didn’t really know much about it, other than what I remembered from school (which, it seems, wasn’t entirely accurate!) that Simon Bolivar founded not Bolivia, but Venezuela – seems that with typical British understatement we didn’t give the man his due. I was musing about that the other day when mooching round Garachico, I realized that there is a statue of him in La Plaza de la Libertad.  Apparently his grandmother hailed from there, and emigrated after the town was almost totally destroyed by the volcanic eruption of 1706.

Ecuador has the Galapagos Islands, Peru has Machu Picchu, Brazil has the Amazon, all of which I am desperate to see. I have friends who rave about Uruguay and Chile. So those countries were much higher up my South American list than Bolivia. The journey I have laid out in the map in my head just didn’t include Bolivia – until Saturday night.

Saturday night I kind of reluctantly ambled down to the annual Folklore Concert in El Médano’s town square.  Reluctant because I’d had a busy day, and going out again just didn’t appeal, but on the last minute I decided that it would be good photography practice, and how on earth would I improve my skills curled on the sofa with pizza watching “Casablanca” again – which was the alternative.  Cold beer seemed attractive too.  I had none in the ‘fridge.

Arriving in the square it was obvious that, although scores of people were patiently waiting, perched uncomfortably on the folding chairs in the center, or more comfortably on the steps which lead down to the square, not to mention loads standing hopefully, nothing was happening.  In fact a Canarian folk group was leaving the stage, not beginning the scheduled performance, so I wandered over to a kiosk for that cold beer.

I’d spotted a space to the side of the stage, the same place from which I’d watched last year, and, as these things go here, it wasn’t likely to be occupied until something actually happened, when surely (as did happen) some kid and his pint-sized mom would push under by elbows. So I enjoyed the beer, and wandered back when I spied a couple of suits going back stage……….this, I believe, was the signal that the big wigs from the town hall had arrived and the performance could begin.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that if you’d said “folklore” to me a few years back, I would have yawned, and much European folklore doesn’t excite me.  I don’t mean to decry it, it’s just not, especially, my cup of tea.  Canarian music and dancing has, however, grown on me over the years.  As I speak more Spanish, and understand the words of the songs better I understand how many of them speak of love of these amazing islands, and I love the pure tenor voices many of the performances feature.  The dancing, though – not so much, but I would most definitely go to see the group who opened on Saturday night.  They were from Bajamar in the north-west of the island and their dancing was full of joy and humor, even saucy at times.  It surprised me – note to self, always keep an open mind. I loved the dance in the video below.  I’ve never seen it before, so I don’t know the history, but it ended when the girl knocked off the guy’s hat.  Another couple did the same dance afterwards, but arm was aching too much to film them, which was a shame, because they were really full of life and laughter, perhaps you can tell from the photos at the end!

Mallorca – sorry but your folk dancing doesn’t push any buttons for me, though, I’ll keep the mind open. Maybe once you’re actually on the island the experience is different.

The Mallorquín performance had been very proud and smiley, but staid, for want of a better word.  So it was like a thunderbolt when a group of guys dressed like so many colorful parrots burst onto the stage with an energy that hit me like an ice-cube down the back on a hot day.  I had, simply, never seen anything like it. Arms flayed, feet stomped, brilliant costumes swirled around.  When the girls arrived they were calmer and less colorful, like female birds, less colorful than the males,  but with smiles which would have lit up any dark night, and twinkles in their eyes, as they teased the guys into ever more dynamic movement.  I was utterly captivated.Their performance was far too short for me, but I assumed that the energy they put into it maybe couldn’t be sustained for as long as the other groups. Although they haven’t been formed all that long, they have, apparently, won several awards already.  Not at all a surprise!

Slovakian folk dance I learned next is witty.  Like a lot of these traditional, European dances the next act’s dances seem to center around the eternal struggle of boys to find suitable girls and vice versa, of course.  Slovakians, it seems, like to send up the mating ritual, and they kept us amused with the addition of a pantomime horse. Nice but, well, hmm.

Wow! Another ice-cube down the back.  The group from Bolivia were back! This time dressed in what I assume was a version of original, native dress, though I’m sure that men didn’t used to wear bright green bodystockings nor women green bikinis, but that really is to nit pick…….. doubtless original dress would have got them arrested! It all amounted to a constantly moving kaleidoscope, leaping, swaying, threatening, strutting and jumping across the dias with breathtaking speed. I could have watched all night long.  I can’t understand why the audience wasn’t on its feet yelling for more, but that’s the way of things here.

Many years ago I saw the Red Navy Dancers and Choir, back in the days when the Soviet Union was still a huge mystery to my generation, who’d grown up knowing only the fact of the Iron Curtain.  They were equally as breathtaking as the Bolivian group, dance-wise, though without the visual impact of those fantastic costumes. So when the final act turned out to be from Ukraine I was expecting great things.  Five minutes in, my legs in any event tiring from standing in one spot for so long, I decided to head for ice cream.  It sounds unkind, these were no doubt nice young people, doing their best, and seeing the traditions of other countries is very important in helping us to understand each other, but I still have such vivid memories of the Red Navy, even 40+ years on, that I was disappointed. Note, that disappointment is personal it’s not a criticism, and anyway I wasn’t sure what time Demeastre closed!

I can’t say I’m chuffed with any of the pictures I took. That’s partly because I’m woefully unskilled and inexperienced in taking these kinds of pictures. The lighting kept changing, so I had to up the ISO and then adjust again when the lighting went up, the angle wasn’t as good as I thought (I must have been more easliy pleased last year!) and of course, the frenetic movement was chaotic and constant. Still, I’m going to put them up – for the memory and just to give you an idea of the color!

I’m glad I dragged myself out of my lethargy and went, the beer and the ice cream were most welcome, but what animated and fascinated me most was the energy and the polish of those dancers from Bolivia.  Going spur of the moment, I can’t tell you the names of any of the groups who participated, but I must find out so that I can look out for future performances!  And…..well…..if they are ambassadors for their country (as we are always told at these kind of events) then I am thirsting to go Bolivia now!

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Musings on a Movie, a Book, Travel and Being Judgmental

I did two things yesterday which are rattling around in my head still today.

One: I finally caught up with the movie “Summer of Sam,” which I definitely would have seen before now had I understood what it was about. As it was, I still wasn’t good enough at speaking Spanish to see it at the cinema when it was released in 1999, but that said,  I thought it was more to do with the mind of Dave Berkowitz than being a moral tale about the dangers of judging others by their appearance. The message was clear, not veiled, although the tale was woven so that we weren’t sure until the end just what connected the characters to that summer of fear and murder in 1977.

It’s a moral so clear and obvious that I can only wonder that it still needs to be told in the 21st century.

Then I logged onto Facebook when I got home, to find a friend of a friend referring to Los Indignados as “hippies” in a tone which was clearly critical and carried the message that hippies were inferior in any event, and this person considered themselves to be above that type of person.

Firstly, Los Indignados are not “hippies.” Sure, there may some amongst their number who have long hair and a fondness for gypsy skirts or baggy pants, but they are, and it is a well-known fact, a very broad cross-section of the Spanish public, many of whom are suffering as a result of the current recession, and who are protesting the lethargy with which their government addressed the situation. Like most people in the “civilized” world they feel betrayed by those in power, the bankers and politicians, who have left them helpless in the pursuit of their own greed. This movement has been notable for the lack of violence or other such problems on their marches and camps throughout Spain since the spring.

Secondly, hippies – judging the book by its cover again? I have friends who might be called “hippy.” I’ve been with some of them when they worked 24 hour shifts to help those in need, and I know someone who is giving away everything he has to live a “hippy” lifestyle and help others instead of sit on a terrace drinking gin all day, which he might well have chosen to do in this climate. I also have friends who are comfortably off. They have worked hard for what they have, and deserve to enjoy it. The fact that they don’t give their all to others doesn’t make them bad people. They give in their own way. They aren’t greedy or flash with their wealth, or judgemental or inconsiderate of others. Neither of these “types” should be judged by their outward appearance.

Let’s face it, if Warren Buffet or Bill Gates hadn’t stored up wealth in their younger days, they wouldn’t be able to do the great work for those in need they now do.

The second thing I did was to finish Jon Krakauer’s “Into the Wild.” Half way through the book my attention had wandered a bit, and I wondered why I was reading it, but by the end the message had come together, just as the film did, and the messages are not unconnected, even the same in some ways.

Christopher McCandless, the subject of the book, was derided after Krakauer’s article about him and his death in the wilds of Alaska appeared in “Outside” magazine in 1992, derided for being a dreamer and for wandering unprepared into the wilderness. I see “Into the Wild” as Krakauer’s way of putting the record straight. He investigated further and in-depth, and had full co-operation from McCandless’s family, which must have been a very painful process for them, and what emerged was a portrait of, yes, a dreamer, but also a kid with a true spirit of adventure, who probably had a far better grip on real life than most of the rest of us. The passage below is taken from a letter McCandless wrote to a friend, which is quoted in full in the book:

“…….I think you really should make a radical change in your lifestyle and begin to boldly do things which you may previously never have thought of doing, or been too hesitant to attempt. So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservatism, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man’s living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to a new and different sun. If you want to get more out of life, ….you must lose your inclination of monotonous security and adopt a helter-skelter style of life that will at first appear to you to be crazy. But once you become accustomed to such a life you will see its full meaning and its incredible beauty. An so,…..get out of ….. and hit the Road. I guarantee you will be very glad you did. ……………………Don’t settle down and sit in one place. Move around, be nomadic, make each day a new horizon. You are still going to live a long time……and it would be a shame if you did not take the opportunity to revolutionize your life and move into an entirely new realm of experience.”

I know that passage will ring lots of bells with those of you who read my blog, but let’s also be clear that it isn’t the only way to live, either. Some people just aren’t cut out for this kind of life. The important thing for them is not to get so bogged down by the limits of their actual world that they cannot understand others. That’s not hard these days with books, tv, movies and the internet to keep us up to date with other lives the world over. I’ve known folk who haven’t travelled that much, but who know more about countries/people/places/traditions/religions/whatever than other folk I’ve known who scuttle around the world, “protected” from new/stimulating/exciting/educational experiences by their own shells, which they hump round with them, retreating like the tortoise if anything threatens the security of that comfort zone.

For me, I agree with almost every quote I’ve ever read about travel broadening the mind, stimulating the soul and teaching us to live in harmony with others, but we should remember that there are more ways than one to achieve those things.

Of Art By the People for the People: Rock Balancing

I don’t make any bones about the fact that I normally try to stay away from the tourist resorts.  They simply aren’t my cup of tea, for one thing, they have no history or sense of community…….or do they?

The other week I was persuaded to go to Playa Beril to snorkel.  I’m not very brave with waves and such, but I adore to have my face in the water (I’d actually prefer to have it under the water, but that’s not in my current budget!), and this beach is really as safe as it gets, with a surprising amount of sea life to see so close to where tourists stir up the bottom.  It’s still all pebbles, sandwiched between the psuedo-sophisticated Playa del Duque and Playa Enramada (probably yet to be “developed”), and just at the end of the beach there is an area which is all pebbles, and where what seems to be spontaneous “street” art has broken out.

The entire area is covered with these rock balances, which, so far as I can make out, is the correct way to describe them.  No-one I’ve spoken to knows how it began, and because it’s an area I don’t know that well, I can’t even tell you how or when or how long it has taken to grow to this stage, but it is now quite remarkable, giving a very mysterious kind of atmosphere to the beach, especially at sunset. I was quite captivated the first time I saw them in broad daylight, but since I was there to snorkel, it was one of the few times I didn’t have a camera with me – not even a phone!  For a couple of weeks now I’ve been itching to get back.  I actually wanted to go at sunrise, but the other day found me in the area just before sunset, so I thought I’d make the most of it.

I was tip toeing between all the works of art.  In some places there are so many it’s actually hard to walk around them.  I do want to go back at sunrise, and I also want to go back and try the infamous HDR, about which I’ve had so many snidey thoughts, but which I know would have taken these photos to a whole different level….

Of course, it also taught me that there is beauty to be found everywhere, and that people, perhaps as a reaction against the swathes of concrete covering the coast, have created their own art.  Even if it was started deliberately by the local authority, it certainly has been claimed by the people now.

When in Tenerife, Always Have Plan B

There is one thing about living somewhere where time is a somewhat redundant concept – it makes you resourceful, you never leave home without plan B, and you learn to be adaptable, if you weren’t already – my headmistress put that on my assessment when I left school, that I was “adaptable”, and I was never quite sure if it was a good thing or not.  However, it sounds better than “stubborn”, so I’ll go with it. I don’t much like routine and predictability, so it’s fine with me

Tenerife truly is mañana land, and never more so than in this hot month of August.  Plans shift without warning, times and dates change mysteriously, and this is why I missed an island tradition I’d been looking forward to catching up with, and ended up playing tourist in Icod de los Vinos the weekend before last. All good because I can adapt readily to Plan B you see!

The event I set out, with a couple of friends, to see was El Día de la Trilla, or Threshing Day,  a recreation of how how threshing of wheat was done historically, using the huge threshing boards I’d often seen used as decor in country bars, pulled by horses and oxen. This, particular event was revived in 1996 in the north of the island, close to the village of El Tanque, and what I’d read about it sounded like a lot of fun as well as an interesting experience.

Getting around Tenerife efficiently isn’t always a pleasant drive (you see, I admit there are things about the island which grieve me!), where motorways have cut through terrain they’ve left it looking barren and yet busy with pipe, cables, pylons and antennae.  The drive from the south to the Icod de los Vinos area is, however, one of the prettiest, and we left early enough for traffic to be no problem at all (but not so early as to spoil a relaxing day!).  Once the TF1 is left behind, mile by mile the landscape grows more beautiful and intriguing, from the stark mal pais around Las Manchas, (now unrelieved by the gorgeous almond blossoms) to the picture-book village of Santiago del Teide, with spectacular Atlantic ocean views falling away to your left; then winding over the hillsides, looking back on neat, green fields of vegetables and savoring the custodial presence of El Teide, as he looms ever larger, until you begin to drop over the other side of the hills and into the greenery around El Tanque, reminiscent of parts of the Scottish Border Country.

A delightful journey in an air conditioned car that day.  We knew that there was a yellow alert, that high temperatures and winds were predicted, but it still came as a bit of a shock to step out into what felt like a a huge hair dryer wafting around me.   It was about 11 am, just the time the trilla was scheduled to begin.

As we wandered down to the area, which will soon be the site of an Ecomuseum, which has been under construction for some three years now, we were entreated to buy raffle tickets for somewhat, well, unusual prizes – a live pig and a rather startling religious painting.  I left the repartee to Pilar and Cristina and put on my “I’m just a dumb foreigner” look.

I was having a kind of déjà vu moment – there was something slightly familiar about the craft stalls lined up, the wheat being distributed over the era (a stone circle where the threshing would take plac), and the presence of horses and oxen; familiar and yet at the same time a bit exotic, then I realized that it reminded me of country fairs and game fairs back in England and Scotland.  Whilst the details were different, there was an overall atmosphere which was just the same.  I’m guessing too that it was something like a mini-mini-mini US State Fair.

We checked out the crafts (end of month, not a good time to shop, guys!) and the display provided by a local conservation group who do excellent work in maintaining the area’s natural resources.  They were giving away plants, which Pilar and Crisitina accepted.  I thought I had enough to carry as it was.  We sampled some delicious variations on sponge cake, and generally hung around chatting and watching a guy toss around the wheat around the era, a huge stone circle bounded by a low wall.  This is where the threshing should have been happening right then.

The local folklore group took to the “stage,” and we felt the excitement mount; some rather oddly dressed riders walked their horses around, their surf shorts, flip flops and fashionable hats looking slightly out of place in the rural setting.

The folklore musicians left and still nothing happened.  We had, however, heard an announcement that an Arrastre (which basically means a drag race – but nothing like the one you’ve just envisaged!) was happening on the other side of the new museum building, so we shuffled around there and found it almost over.  In our eagerness to see the threshing we’d missed it.  We only saw one team of oxen performing, dragging a sled laden with heavy sacks around an arena.  It looked as if they increased the weight until there was a winner.  I developed a kind of fondness for these wonderful beasts after seeing them in La Laguna a few weeks back, and my admiration grew watching how seemingly effortlessly they strode their stage, with just a minimum of guidance from their trainer.

The wind fairly whipped the dust they kicked up around, and I found myself hiding my camera when it wasn’t actually in use.  The sun was also quite merciless, and so we decided to cut our visit short, and head down to Icod de los Vinos for lunch – hence the dragon tree picture in the last post.  It was interesting to note that just seven days later I passed the very spot of La Trilla, and one of those creeping mists we see so often  here was slithering its way up the hillside.  The unpredictability of this island is a marvel.

In Icod de los Vinos (about which more another time) we sat in cool comfort in a picture-book plaza, and ate black sausage topped with roasted peppers, the lightest and creamiest spinach croquettes ever and a simple but absolutely delicious salad outstanding for its freshness….and drank quantities of non-alcoholic stuff to restore our hydration!

The wooden balcony and shutters are typical, traditional Canarian architecture

And afterwards pottered tranquilly around in best-behaved tourist tradition to see the famous tree, its not-so-famous relative and the church square.  Out of the shade of the bar it really wasn’t the sort of weather for much activity, and anyway I was hoping to get back to the Fiesta del Vino in El Médano——-another plan which didn’t work out.

On a day on which almost nothing turned out as planned I still have nice memories even if they weren’t quite the ones I expected to have….and I did have the hat to prove it!

The Dragon Tree of Icod Lives!

So, okay, no-one actually said it was dead, but since this fabled tree, one of the iconic symbols of Tenerife, only flowers usually around every fifteen years, and since it is reputed to be 1,000 years old, one can’t be absolutely sure that it’s still alive until it flowers.

This year, despite climate change and everything the modern world can throw at it, it defied the odds to blossom, even though it is only four years since it last bloomed.  There must be something in the air in Icod de los Vinos methinks.

After lunching there last weekend (and that would be a whole other story too!) Pilar and I wandered down to take a look at the town’s most famous “inhabitant”.  Neither of us had seen it for some years, and we were waiting  for our ride back home, so we didn’t go into the eponymous park, but took a couple of snaps of the tree from the plaza by the church, just like every good tourist must do.

See – no sign of flowers.  Usually I’m too late for stuff, not too early, even though I enlarged this picture several times over I still couldn’t see blossoms, and yet in the newspapers just a week later, there it was it all its glory. It’s very photogenic whatever, in one of the prettiest settings on this island – which is saying something.

The true age of this icon  can’t be determined.  Dragon trees don’t have rings like normal trees, but even if it isn’t a thousand years, there is no doubt that it is hundreds of years old, and has seen history made, it almost certainly witnessed the invasion of the island by the Conquistadors and the indignities heaped on the native Guanche inhabitants thereafter. The Guanches believed that the tree’s red-colored resin had healing properties.

Legend has it that the Canary Islands were the mythical Garden of Hesperides, where a tree grew which was the key to the secret of immortality.  The tree was guarded by a fearsome dragon (is there any other kind I wonder?).  Clearly the red resin, dragon’s blood and healing properties all were shaken and stirred over the years.  I would just like to make it known to Captain Jack Sparrow that if he cares to come in search of it I am willing to help him out!

TheTenerife of Mountains, Mists and Magical Forests

This time yesterday I was on the brink of a new island experience.  Despite the length of time I’ve lived here now, there was one part of the island which was a mystery for me – The Mountains of Anaga.

I’d been there, but only by car, and only to the outskirts of the area.  I knew it is considered to be the most beautiful part of the island.  It was almost as if I was saving it up for a time when I needed the effect I thought it might have on me, and part of me is slightly disgusted that I’ve spent so long here and not walked these velvet hillsides. Maybe it was that, as long as I hadn’t been there, I still had something new to discover.  Will I now think I’ve seen it all?  Will the urge to move on snowball now, I wonder?

I’d actually set off to walk there a couple of weeks ago, but was defeated by the weather, and ended up walking somewhere so utterly different that I still can’t take in that these totally contrasting landscapes are contained within the same 786 sq miles of island.

That day had dawned balmy and brilliant in El Médano, and it wasn’t until La Laguna that it was obvious that the weather was going to make a walk unpleasant.  There had been one of those steady drizzles which, over a time, saturate through your clothes to your skin.  Yesterday dawned equally pleasantly in El Médano, but the local tv station carried reports of a village in the mountains which had been cut off my heavy rains, which had blocked the road into the village with debris, including rocks and trees, so I was hoping that Austin had Plan B again, in case it turned out to be the same.  I arrived in La Laguna to find it bathed in the same sunshine I’d left in the south, and Austin explained that the village was on an exceptionally difficult part of road, which is often cut off, so we set off with great hopes.

I want to say that my soul soared with each kilometre we covered, but it sounds a bit over-poetic….heck, I’ll say it anyway – because that’s just how I felt, as we left behind the charismatic little city of La Laguna and familiar places like Las Mercedes and Tegueste and meandered upwards. We stopped briefly to drink in the beauty and the stretch of the valleys spread out before us – emerald-green agricultural terraces, country houses and bucolic peace. I was so captivated by this new vista that I entirely forgot to whip out my camera.  I simply drank it all in.

Once you leave behind that rich, rustic landscape it’s a typical, mountain road.  It weaves along the hillsides.  It’s narrow, with passing places and sensational views, until you get into the forest, where the views are only to be glimpsed, between the trees, and the mists drift across the road, like emaciated phantoms.

Eventually, we parked in a layby, where a couple of other cars were also parked, so reminiscent of days hiking in the English Lake District. We checked our packs, it verged on chilly and was obviously going to be damp.  Although it wasn’t raining we could see the brume hovering amongst the green.  Here cold Atlantic breezes collide with the high mountains at the tip of the island, and turn to vapour, which drifts constantly amongst the foliage providing an endless source of moisture.  The forests are lush and lichen coats the timber like green frost, hanging in picturesque clumps. Unlike the pine forests of other parts of the island, underfoot is damp and not tinder-dry.

Our path was narrow.  We walked in single file for most of it. Fallen trunks blocked our way, some had to be climbed over, and others we ducked under.  Brambles snatched at our arms and hair.  When we stopped, there was almost complete silence. You could hear a leaf fall or the drip of moisture from the waxy leaves onto the ground.  There was (for me) a surprising lack of birdsong.  It’s the biggest difference I can name between this type of countryside and similar ones in my own country, where in summer the air vibrates with the musical calling of countless winged species.

In parts, where we climbed quite steeply, steps have been cut into the pathway to make it easier, but otherwise it was easy to pretend that no-one had passed this way perhaps even forever. This is one of the oldest parts of the island, which rose gradually from the ocean.  Millions of years ago it wasn’t one island, but three, what are now Anaga, Teno and Adeje, which is why the age of the island is sometimes disputed – over the centuries other eruptions formed the island we now know.  In other parts of our path we were up to the tops of our shoes in rich, gooey mud, and I relished the squelchy sounds of childhood …….no-one to tell me “nay”!

It was fairly dark under the canopy of which is, essentially, rainforest and the camera, which, as you might guess, I was using frequently, needed to be adjusted for almost every shot. Suddenly, from out of the overhang and without warning, an enormous pinnacle rose, a solid tower of rock, soaring to the heavens.

This was Roque Anambro.  At the time of the Spanish Conquest Tenerife was divided into kingdoms or Menceys.  Legend has it that Guanche ruler of this area of Anaga,  Beneharo, escaped to this high point after the conquistadores had finally triumphed and taken the island for Spain.  There he pondered whether to surrender or die.  He decided to die as a free man, and leapt to his death from its peak. True or not, there was without doubt a palpable atmosphere of sehnsucht, that longing for…..something which cannot be.

Austin shuffled on his climbing shoes to explore it a bit, and see if he can get a view from higher up, and I shuffled around it carefully, snapping him and the views which tantalizingly peeped from the fog from time to time. Austin decided his climb would take too long.

We didn’t linger, the weather was kind but unpredictable, and every now and then a strong gust rattled the branches around, making the older ones creak like sound effects from some horror movie. After a short time we emerged at the Mirador Cabezo de Tejo, which is constructed on a natural platform overlooking the north-east coastline. There, the ocean broke against the jagged shoreline and flirted with rocks offshore which mark the tips of underwater mountains.  We were almost as far as one can go on the narrow tip of the island. Forests and mountain peaks lay before us, the mountain sides bare in parts where timber was culled following the Spanish invasion, in the case of this part of the island for construction of the money-spinning sugar plantations, which are now a part of history.  Soil erosion followed, just as it did on the hillsides of the south-east where the pines were burned for their resin.

We didn’t have it entirely to ourselves, but the family already there were quiet and moved off soon after.  We had passed one couple on the way, and on the return would pass two more families.  This is not a tourist hotbed. It’s hypnotic and peaceful, and we were reluctant to move on.  We lingered for a while.

Arriving, we had taken the route less travelled, but returning we took the wider pathway, the one which the forest agencies and environmental department use……which explains how the mirador was created and is maintained. These routes once connected outlying villages and hamlets.  It must have taken hours and hours just to travel to buy supplies or sell produce.   It’s vehicle-worthy now if you have a 4 x 4 or something rugged, so we walked side-by-side and chatted for most of it.

There, where the rock face lines the road, it is covered by moss so bright and intensely green that it looks unreal. In places shelters have been carved out of the rock face, like these, two caves, or this seat.  Apparently, all over Anaga refuges like these have been created where travellers can duck away from the changeable elements.

Giant bracken line the route.  Not for the first time living here I thought of Alice’s “Drink me,” bottle.  These huge plants must be related to their smaller relatives in European forests and gardens, and made me feel as if I’d shrunk. In places the path looked like an Autumn painting, where fallen leaves lay in gold and red patches.

We were lucky with the weather.  It was perfect for walking, neither hot nor cold, and for me a very welcome respite from the dust and winds I’d experienced in the south of late.  We emerged onto a road and then dove back into the forest to climb more steps, eroded by water, slippery with wet leaves and mud, and pretty soon (too soon for me, except that hunger was setting in) we were back at the beginning.

I’m happy to say “too soon” because it means I want to go back, I need to go back to what is like a magic forest from a children’s story, a whole other reality. Austin had warned me that it was one of the most beautiful walks he’d ever done, and he has walked in places I’m still dreaming about, like the Blue Mountains in Australia, the Grand Canyon or the Caribbean.  It was every bit as much of a journey to the new and unknown as if I’d stepped onto a plane and taken off for new shores.  My experience with Tenerife is far from over.  I know now it may never be.

The photos of the coastline weren’t, of course, too good, hampered by the mist. However, there will be more photos on my Flickr page as soon as I get a moment to sort them out. If anyone wants to see more of this relatively unknown side of Tenerife.

In Which I Become Captivated by the Mountains at Dusk

I don’t know how obvious it was, a few posts back, that I was totally thrilled by the visit Maria and I made to the mountains to check out the sunset the other week.  It was, without the slightest doubt, the most stunning and breathtaking sunset I’ve ever seen, and we knew, as we set out to repeat the experience last night that it was unlikely to be exactly as awesome, if only because we might have that “seen it all before” feeling.

We spent part of the afternoon studying and talking about night photography so I guess you could say we were quite psyched up as we set off around 8pm again, taking the same route as the last time.  As we approached the first vantage point we’d used last time we could see that a sunset was brewing that would have taken away our breath had we not seen the one two weeks ago.  The horizon was a shifting haze of pastels, pinks and lavendars.  We’ve had calima for a few days, and it was obvious that it would affect the scene.  We carried on to the spot we’d found the last time, and found ourselves, just as before witnessing a change from pastels to jewel brights, but weighed down by what we assume was the cap of dust hovering over the island, the “polvo en suspensión” carried by the winds from Africa.  It made the sunset a different experience from last time. The scene was like the one you have from an airplane window, the colors leaking around the horizon instead of painting the sky. It changed the light and the colors, and whilst the photos are less spectacular too, it was a really interesting experience and a learning curve.  I realize that I need to understand more about climate and weather, and I also realized for certain that I need to really learn this art.  Honestly, I’ve seen photography up to now as a way to illustrate the things I see and experience, to share them and explain them, and if I got a few good ones I was most happy.  Words will always be my first love, but I am feeling the pull of photography absolutely now.  I am hungry to learn!

I’m more than aware that a lot of these fall into the “could have done better if she knew what she was doing” category, but it’s the beginning, and it still gives you of what my other love, Tenerife, is like.

And this time I remembered my tripod – but, guess what it was broken!!!!  I can’t tell you how fed up I was!  I did, however, have my remote, so by putting the camera on top of the car again, using my binolculars to angle it and using the remote I got a couple of worthwhile shots…..more learning!