Just a couple of weeks ago this beach would have been full of children enjoying the last days of their summer break. This is the little village of Tajao, about ten minutes up the east coast from El Médano, and as different from El Médano as that resort is from Playa de las Americas.
On the weekend it will be busy again. If you ever wonder where local folk go for their family Sundays, this is one of them. The beaches of Arona and Adeje are for the young if you’re a local, and the beaches of these small, coastal villages throng with families enjoying their leisuretime.
Now, weekdays, you could have the beach to yourself, (there wasn’t a soul there the day I went last week), and afterwards you can feast on fresh fish in one of the nearby restaurants,at a price which won’t break the bank. This is the sort of place I think of when I think about lunch. Usually it’s fresh fish and papas arrugadas, or lapas or calamari to start with. I have to admit that the salads often leave something to the imagination, but almost make up for it by their freshness.
A few weeks ago I was lolling on a rock in a little village similar to Tajao, when a small fishing boat gingerly approached the rocks on the other side of the bay. Some local guys went down to hold the boat’s line, and help one of the two crew onto land. The second crew member handed up a very large tuna, which was then carried up to one of the restaurants nearby. You can’t get much fresher than that!
Autumn arrived on the back of a stiff Atlantic breeze the other day. I had a visit from Katrina of TourAbsurd, and after a few days exploring the island we had awarded ourselves a lazy day, breakfast with friends and a snooze on a beach; but it wasn’t to be – at least not for as long as we hoped! After consistent sunshine and a good forecast for the entire week, Thursday dawned cloudy and humid, but that’s not unusual, days often begin badly and end well, or vice versa, and sitting by the sea scoffing croissants and café con leche the lack of sun wasn’t entirely unwelcome.
By the time we were ready to move, the clouds still hovered, so I opted for the Las Vistas beach in Los Cristianos for practical reasons, and we even took sunbeds and organized ourselves in hopes that the sun would peep out from the grey. Katina had a swim, and it was pleasant to be outdoors and sleepy, possibly even more so than if the sun had been fierce.
I was dozing when Autumn sneaked up, and woke me, swirling around the sunbeds on a warm but forceful zephyr, spraying sand in our eyes and sending the sunbed guy scurrying to close the parasols.
And there it was, like some cartoon character riding the elements and into our lives. The season had changed on cue.
It had been only five days before that El Médano celebrated the end of its fiesta. I’d sat on the wall of the boardwalk with friends devouring crêpes from the fair’s newest stall, and watching the amazing fireworks, and the next night nibbled kebabs and ice cream under balmy night skies, yet Thursday I could pinpoint the exact moment that Summer ceded to Fall. No frost, no gales, no dark mornings, the year simply shrugged off the intensity of the sun, and…….. turned. Already the clouds have receded to their mountain hangouts, and the days are sunny again, but now we never know how a day will be. There is the constant possibility of rain between now and, roughly, March; another few weeks and I will be shaking out the duvet and today already I bought veggies to make soup. The differences in the year aren’t bold here, but Autumn has arrived for sure.
Going – going – almost gone……summer that is. Even in a climate like the Canary Islands Summer comes to an end. Not so much those crisp and golden Autumn days which I miss so much, but parts of the island where the summer sun has been fiercest now lie arid and barren, waiting for the winter rains to wash away the dust and help germinate new life. Right now these tajinaste skeletons bear pale witness to what once was.
It’s a sign, a sign that summer is coming to an end, when the fruit of the prickly pear begins to ripen all over the hillsides of the island, and market, and even supermarket, displays contain boxes of them. I spotted these on a walk a couple of weeks back. Looks like there will be a plentiful crop this year!
They will be very familiar to American friends, because they grow all over the Americas, even up into Canada apparently, but not such a common sight for English folk. This week I spotted some in a local supermarket, and it struck me that I would have considered them to be very exotic 20-odd years back, but now they are as common as blackberries are in the late summer countryside of England……and equally, if not more dangerous! They are not called prickly pears in English for nothing! They are quite delicious and refreshing, but very difficult to eat! I was shown how to peel them some years back, but was never successful; so I compromise by sticking a fork into one, cutting it in half, and using the fork to put it into an egg cup and scooping out the fruit inside as if I am eating a boiled egg! Someone recently volunteered to show me again…..but I can’t remember who said it……if you read this, someone, please let me know!
At this time of year it’s very common to see people by the roadside harvesting the wild fruit, exactly as we used to go blackberrying in England, but be very, very careful if you do! Not only do they have the spikes you can see, but they’re covered with very fine, thinner than a hair, spikes which are difficult to spot, but which are extremely irritating and sometimes painful when you get them in hands or legs……thick gloves are to be recommended!!
It isn’t just the fruit which is edible either. In Mexico the young, flat leaves are used in cooking. There is a Mexican restaurant here in Guaraguacho which makes a yummy ensalada de napoles (the Spanish name for the young leaves) with them.
In the Canary Islands the production of cochineal was a major industry in years gone by. The beetles from which cochineal is made live and breed on the cactus, so there are still places where you see them growing on terraces where they were cultivated. In fact, with opinion worldwide turning against artificial flavorings and colorings, the industry is reviving, so if you like to bake check out the wee bottle of cochineal on your kitchen shelf to see if it came from the Canary Islands.
Once upon a time, in the years following the conquest of the Canary Islands in the name of the crown of Castille, in a lush and verdant valley, where mists caressed the surrounding mountain tops, providing moisture for anything growing there, a settlement began to grow. Over the next hundred years or so the settlement thrived, became a village.
They named the village Tegueste, and its citizens flourished, how could they not in this most favored spot of the archipelago known as The Fortunate Islands? They grew rich and contented, working on the fertile land. They grew potatoes, maize, all manner of fruit and vegetables and from their vineyards came some of the fine Canary wines so loved in mainland Europe. They built a church and a schoolhouse, and wanted for nothing. When the official army was withdrawn, they formed a citizens’ militia to protect the area.
Though the archipelago was under the protection of the Crown of Spain, there were many who tried to claim the islands. Rich as the land was in timber and abundant as the crops were which sprang from its volcanic soil, it was viewed with jealousy by other nations, and targeted by pirates, both those sanctioned by envious countries, and opportunists.
The island became a great trading center, poised between three continents, the old Europe, the new worlds across the Atlantic, and the mysterious and unknown continent of Africa. Ships arrived on its shores from all the great trading nations, from Britain and Holland and Portugal, and ships returning from the shores of the new lands in the Caribbean and the newly explored Americas stopped on their way home.
In the hundred years or so spanning roughly the mid 16th to the mid 17th century, Europe was in the grip of a terrible plague, the Black Death. Thousands upon thousands of lives were lost, and it was inevitable that, despite being almost 1,000 miles from mainland Europe, the disease would find its way to the islands via the frequent ships which visited.
All around Tegueste the folk of other townships and communities began to fall victim to the plague. The close-knit community began to dread that it would sooner or later find its way into their corner of paradise, and so they appealed to Our Lady of Remedies (Nuestra Señora de los Remedios or Nuestra Señora del Soccorro) to envelope their community in her protection, so that they would be immune to the spread of the Black Death. And – thus it was, though in surrounding areas people died, the pueblo of Tegueste was spared.
It was the miracle for which they’d prayed, and so every year thereafter, which is now more than 400, the feast day of Our Lady of Remedies is celebrated in the village with passion and gratitude.
That’s the real story, in as much as the myths of religion constitute real stories. I’d been told that boats and pirates featured heavily in this celebration, and I was very curious as to why, given that Tegueste is, apparently, the only “landlocked” municipality in the Canary Islands – that’s as landlocked as anywhere could be on a small island. It has no coastal boundary at all. It’s surrounded by other municipalities, though it was a part of La Laguna back in history. I’d seen the “boats” at the romeria in La Laguna, and I’d heard that they attack the village – hmmm, that was what I couldn’t figure out – how could pirates assail a landlocked town?!
The feast day of Our Lady of Remedies was Friday of last week, and on an island overflowing with celebrations and fiestas, this, I can now report, was the pinnacle – the best I’ve ever seen. It will give you an idea of the quality and scope of the event if I tell you that it occurs only once every three years, or at least the festival known as La Librea only happens every three years.
Cristina was the only friend able to make what we knew would be a late night, followed by the drive back south. It was slated to begin at 9.30, and scheduled to last around two and half hours. We arrived more than two hours ahead of that to make sure we had parking and a decent view. That was good planning. The parking bit was easy, and I’m sure it must have been nigh impossible afterwards. As we ambled down to the square we passed the famous boats, the same ones I’d seen in La Laguna, only now they had sails, which were exquisitely embroidered with prayers, saintly figures, and island scenes, each boat representing a neighbourhood group or community.
We crossed to the pretty church square to get an idea of what was happening. Fold-up chairs occupied most of it, rising to platform seating at the back, the sort they have for Carnival or street events, and the entire façade of the town hall, opposite had been converted into a castle, a feat worthy of Hollywood. We could have bagged seats when we arrived and had splendid views, as it was we were peckish, and went in search of tapas, and by the time we arrived back in the church square the best seats were taken, but the ones we had were fine. Although there were times when it would have been much nicer to be able to see just what was happening on the main stage, there were two big screens on the inside of the square, and two more on side streets for those who couldn’t find seating inside. It was forbidden to stand, and we soon saw why, what with the constant movement of the pageant and the fireworks!
Remarkably, everything began on time. The pretty strings of lights around the church tower and the square were dimmed. Short scenes from the early days of the hamlet were acted out; almost all of the actors performing very professionally, though nerves were evident once or twice! Scenes happened on the sides of the square as well as on center stage, which meant that everyone really got to see at least something really well. As the tableaux played out, the surrounding streets and the area in front of the “castle” began to fill with people in traditional Canarian dress, and in 17th century costumes, the men who were to form the militia in powered wigs and all, so that from where we sat in the center of the plaza, we began to feel as if we had been taken back in a time machine, and were almost a part of what was happening. I let that wonderful suspension of disbelief envelope me, and gave myself up to the performance.
400 local citizens took part in this marvelous spectacle, everyone in superb costume, and looking as if they were enjoying every second. They strolled the streets, they danced, they sang, they wrestled and when the boats, pulled by those stoic oxen, sashayed down from the side street and onto the scene, they were manned by children in those old-fashioned sailor costumes, looking as if they’d just stepped out of “Bednobs and Broomsticks,” and we all oo’ed and ah’d over how cute they were. Intentional, I presume, that they represented a kind of age of innocence, before the attacks which were to come.
The part I regretted not being able to see in full was the Dance of the Flowers, which is an important part of the festival. In certain areas of the islands maypole dancing is as traditional as it was back in my 50s childhood, though the maypoles I’ve seen have been carried, not static, as the one in our school playground was. The maypole in this dance, however, had rigid struts, wrapped in flowers, in place of ribbons. All we could see was the top and vague movement of those colorful struts.
When every citizen and group had been granted permission to enter, and all were gathered together, the religious procession began. Those of you who know me, know very well I’m not an aficionada of things pertaining to conventional religious groups, but on an theatrical level, the emergence of the statue of Mary from the church door was quite impressive, beautifully robed and perfectly lit as she was. As she made her way around the surrounding streets, pausing to admire the whirling catherine wheels which were placed in her path, we were treated to some exceptional musical experiences, most notably a choir which I thought was a professional recording until Cristina dug me in the ribs and nodded her head in their direction. The musical groups are listed in the program, but I have no way of knowing which one it was.
Mary returned to her perch in the church, the fun was about to begin. Lights dimmed even more than before, and the figure of the Captain of the Militia appeared on the battlements. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a boat appeared, now shorn of its pretty sails, and crewed, apparently, by any number of Johnny Depp wanabes. The battle was about to begin, as more boats followed. Me, I was already utterly captivated by everything I’d seen, but this was a scenario straight out of Disney World, and executed just as professionally. Canon blazed, guns roared, orders and epithets were screamed, people hung precariously from masts and it was every bit as exciting as Pirates of the Caribbean. My video, shot with my Blackberry, and from too far away can only give you a wee glimpse.
Finally, the pirates were vanquished, and the boats wearily circled the scene, they were now pulled by men and not by oxen, and departed. At the beginning sparklers had been distributed, and now was time to light them, as a firm tenor voice launched into the magnificent Ave Maria. Now you don’t have to be religious to enjoy that particular piece of music. It was, in short, a moving few moments.
People began to drift away just then, it was, after all, midnight, but no fiesta here is finished until it is marked by a magnificent firework display, and such an auspicious occasion was clearly going to deserve something special, and so it was. A bravura exhibition of Tenerife’s finest, and let me tell you, and I speak here as a total Disney devotee, displays here rival Disney World, and when they are accompanied by the Hallelujah Chorus, the William Tell Overture and (permit me a smile here because some of those pirates were English) Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance No. 1 they simply ROCK! As one, parting gesture, a shower of sparkling rain turned the church tower into a fountain, and it was almost over.
All I can say about those boats is that you look on it all as poetic licence. Tenerife certainly was subject to pirate attacks (whether they were privateers or simply criminals), so you can look on the representation as speaking of the island in general, or you can look on the boats as metaphors for the disease which threatened the community. Either way, it triumphed and flourished thereafter.
I’m lucky that Cristina likes to drive, which means that I didn’t need to, but I don’t think it was too bad, returning, not tired, but stimulated by the night’s performance. It was well worth the trip, I’d have driven as far again. I know next time won’t be quite the same, because this time, though heard about it, I had no idea just how fabulous it would be, how extremely professional the timing, the acting, the costumes, the lighting would be, nor that we would be sitting for 3 hours. I’d imagined standing. Very few things in life measure up to a first great experience, but maybe in three years’ time I’ll think otherwise!
The Auditorium dominates the seafront of Santa Cruz, rising, like a powerful wave, curling over the sea wall next to el Castillo de San Juan, where once fortifications stood to repel the British navy. It is graceful, it sparkles in the sunlight or the atmospheric spotlights at night, and it’s a world away from crumbling cottages on a rural hillside.
I’ve never been satisfied with any photos I’ve taken of it, including these. I suppose that I’m there to enjoy myself, and when a concert is in progress there are all sorts of distractions! I’ve never been around there before with the sole intention of taking photos, and this wasn’t the best time, under a fierce sun, but I had time to spare before an appointment, and nothing better to do, and that old cottage was still very fresh in my mind – I was thinking about the diversity of architecture here. Could there be two buildings more dissimilar: the cottage tired, dusty and in ruins, and the Auditorio gleaming, sparkling and stylish?
It was designed by the amazing Valencian architect Santiago Calatrava (think the 2004 Olympic stadium in Athens or the new World Trade Center Transport Hub in New York just to name a couple). His buildings have flowing lines which, for me, put them in harmony with Nature, rather than at odds with it, unlike so many buildings, which thrust aggressively upwards challenging the Earth. It opened, as a performing arts center in 2003. Until then the island’s culture vultures had struggled with uncomfortable seats and poor acoustics in the Teatro Guimerá, which is a lovely wee theater, whose classic 19th century décor reminds me of the theatres you see in movies set in gold-rush San Francisco, but not really up to modern musical performance.
The Auditorium is home to the Tenerife Symphony Orchestra, the annual Heineken Jazz Festival (or some of the festival’s concerts), and an annual, far-too-brief Fall opera season. During the yearly MUMES World Music Festival in August it hosts outdoor concerts on its spacious Plaza Alisios, with stalls around the perimeter offering foods and drinks from different countries. Los Alisios are the trade winds, which brought, over history, so much prosperity to the islands, so meaningful naming.
Since it opened, I’ve seen acts from Youssou N’Dour to Michel Camilo, from Paco de Lucia to Madeleine Peyroux, and there have been so many others I couldn’t afford, and yet loads more that weren’t for me. The Auditorio is nothing if not versatile and can cater for a huge variety of entertainment. It’s also used for conferences and such like. Even Bill Clinton has spoken from its stage.
Inside it is as striking as outside, with a decent view from every seat, although the stage is an awful long way from the back! What looks like decorative ceiling can be changed according to the type of acoustics necessary to the type of performance.
Although it’s been around for a few years now its striking lines still wow me, when I arrive in Santa Cruz…….wonder what that goat-herd who occupied the cottage in Vilaflor would have made of it?
Maria and I were returning from the romeria in Vilalfor the other weekend, most of the pictures of which I have yet to edit (what DO I do with my time? I wonder that myself!), and as we trundled our way slowly round the bends we spotted an old house, perched alongside a vineyard, overlooking the road, and decided to stop to take a look, since our plans for the day were turning out to be quite fluid.
It had obviously been abandoned many, many years ago. The roof tiles were gone, save for one or two broken ones, and vines which were writhing their way along the exposed roof timbers had thick and sturdy branches. They clearly had time to grow like that.
We guessed this had probably been a goatherd’s shelter. It was no more than two rooms, one of which we couldn’t get at because of the growth around it. The air was sweet with the scent of wild aniseed around the doorway, and a peek inside revealed that although no-one lived there any longer it clearly was the scene of local lovers’ trysts.
These old dwellings were dark places, small windows on the sides with least sun and thick walls protected from the heat in days long before air conditioning, and kept in the warmth from escaping on cool winter nights. Now there were just gaping holes, where windows and door had been, and the light poured in from above.
Most of the roof struts were withering and parched from long exposure to the sun, and just one had clearly been unseasoned wood. Magical, amber drops of resin, and who knows how many years they had taken to slowly drip their way along the timber, glowed in the sunlight.
Shadows of beams and slivers of light through the window space were beautiful, offering those glimpses of beauty you want to capture because you know how short-lived they will be. Of all the photos I took that day, these are my favorites.
Yesterday I visited the annual craft fair in Pinolere in the Orotava Valley (more about that another time including more pix of this), and was really taken with this kiddies’ carousel. It was totally environmentally friendly, powered by the lady in the pink top, who was sitting on a bicycle frame. You can get an idea of the speed she got up, and guess how thrilled the kids were.
Can you guess what the horsey seats were made from?
My friend, Jack, from BuzzTrips.co.uk remarked not so long ago that in Tenerife anything other than salsa was considered to be alternative music. It definitely was that the only music I heard in Tenerife’s south 20+ years ago other than the cover bands/groups/performers of the bars in the tourist areas, but happily the times they are a-changing, and the other day I was thinking about the mixed-bag of music I’ve heard so far this summer, and also what’s to come in the near future. As with so much here, the first word which springs to mind is, again, diversity. I’m partial to many types of music, but know more about some than others. That said, I’m not sure it’s necessary to understand the technicalities of music to feel it in your soul. Some touches my soul. Some doesn’t.
The full moon shimmered over the Auditorio as we left in June – the eclipse was the following day I think. Not an especially good photo, taken with my Blackberry, but maybe gives you an idea of the atmosphere.
The day before the lunar eclipse my soul was most definitely touched. My musical summer began in Tenerife’s stunning Auditorio Adán Martin. I’m privileged to know a young man called Patricio Gutiérrez Pérez, who is also a volunteer with Cruz Roja. He’s professor of violin at the Conservatory of Salamanca, but he was born in Tenerife, and returned to perform in the Auditorio in June for their celebration of Spanish classics….a wonderful, emotional performance which included work by Joaquín Rodrigo. I’m woefully ignorant about classical music, not because I don’t enjoy it, but because the whole genre has always seemed so huge and complicated to me, but I am a little familiar with Rodrigo, and this night was very special.
Just a few days later, a complete contrast - Santa Blues, the capital’s annual bluesfest. Last year I managed to get there all three nights of the festival, but this year only once. It was, as it always is, a thrill to know that artists of this calibre come to Tenerife. End of the day, compared to other stuff, it really isn’t that well attended, other than on the Saturday night, when the drunks turn out for free stuff, so it really is a credit to the Town Hall that they continue. If I were a cynic (who? me?) I would guess it profits the nearby bars and restaurants, and maybe brings people into the area (i.e. blues fans from other parts of the island) who might not otherwise know about it. The Calle Noria district of Santa Cruz is a popular nightlife venue, with great eating and late night entertainment, and it’s a bit magical to stand there, under the branches of a flamboyant tree, swaying to music touching your soul, fanned by a cool breeze from the sea.
The Auditorio swathed in green light in honor of the Festival’s sponsors.
July brought the annual Heineken Jazz Festival to Santa Cruz, and whilst most of the events were out of my price range the one I most wanted to see, in any event, was free – Yay! A memorable and utterly spellbinding night of Afro-Jazz which utterly surpassed all my expectations. In truth I wasn’t sure about such a fusion, probably that’s because I don’t understand the technicalities, again.
I’ll risk wrath here, and say that jazz doesn’t always move me, when it gets too complicated I kind of tune out, but, like the fictitious art aficionada, “I know what I like”, and the energy which Naya Band brought to stage to open the concert was, simply, infectious. They fused more than just jazz and music from their native Senegal, they touched on blues and reggae too, but, then afterall, didn’t it all begin in Africa? At the end of the day, isn’t all – just – music?
Fatoumata Diawara strolled casually onto the open-air stage alongside the Auditorio. Slight but colorfully dressed, her entrance was almost shy. For me she had a lot to live up to because I’d been watching her on YouTube, and it wouldn’t have been the first time a live performance disappointed me, but what she did was totally, totally blow my mind. I go back to “feeling” the music because she sang in languages I couldn’t follow, most movingly in Bambara – specifically a song about female circumcision – not a topic for a song you may think, but then our western music has been dominated for so long by songs about unrequited love that we forget music as a message, as communication, as a release from pain or a celebration of happiness. I couldn’t, of course, understand a word, but the music, and the voice as instrument, were laden with anguish and pleading. They didn’t really need a translation. Not that it was all anguish by any means, you can see the joy of music in the photos below. In West African countries it’s a tradition that dancers from the audience join in, making events into a party. This audience was mostly jazz lovers, sadly, there weren’t as many Africans in the audience as I expected from previous events, but a couple,including a friend, jumped onto the stage to groove with the tradition, and both would have brought down the house – had it not been outdoors!
Problem for me is that so many of these great events are in Santa Cruz. It isn’t that far, just under an hour, but it restricts the possibilities of a night’s enjoyment – only one beer for instance, when watching outdoor concerts, and having to leave early in the case of this concert.
Sunday afternoon jazz in Finca del Arte in Chayofa
However, there have been occasions closer to home. Lavabar has had some great nights, most of which I couldn’t get to, but memorably a night of haunting folk and laid-back jazz numbers by El Mar Origenes. The only description I can think of is Eva Cassidy – and no exaggeration, this girl has the same purity of voice and the same gentle intensity.
Summer is also when the new Carmen Mota show opens in Las Americas. Like last year, the show was much more concentrated on dance than on spectacle. I much prefer it this way. If it isn’t pure flamenco enough for some, then they are missing out on the sheer enjoyment. It’s aimed at the general public, including foreigners, for one thing. It’s beautifully presented and the dancing is breathtaking. Think Spanish/flamenco “Riverdance”, and you’d be close. The in the early years the shows were more of a combination of dance and carnival, but carnival is not something we are short on here!
One warm Sunday afternoon I went to Finca del Arte to listen to the jazz. I have mixed feelings about this venue, but certainly not about the music. It’s just a shame that most people go to chatter and not listen, but I suppose that performers in eateries get used to that? The other problem is that the tables closer to the band are in full sun, and obviously it’s much nicer to sit under the shade of trees. Maybe the place depends on the day. I’ve had some very pleasant afternoons there in the past, but I’m not in a hurry to go again after this day, but not the fault of the music!
Another phone photo, sorry about the quality. More than an air of a young Joan Baez about El Mar Origenes.
Folk music takes many forms, of course, having grown up with English/US folk music I sometimes forget that the incredible music/dance I saw a couple of weeks ago is folk music in its own country. The longer I live in Tenerife, the more I come to love the traditional music here. Many of the old traditions have been revived in recent years. In the groups parading at romerias there is, for instance, almost always someone playing bones, like this guy.
Last, but no way least, one of the most memorable days of this summer for me ended with this impromptu performance by a local parranda (musical group/minstrels) which I’d lost when I first posted about them. We were on the tram, returning to Santa Cruz, after they’d already sung all the way on the outward journey, and then sashayed the streets of La Laguna. An unforgettable bunch of ladies!
Autumn is poking its way into our lives, not so far as weather goes here, but certainly life is changing. Autumn means less outdoor events, more formal ones, the brief opera season in Santa Cruz, and the music of Christmas. Lots to look forward to in Winter too, though for me a big plus in these summer events has been that the majority have been free, the price of a drink or very affordable. These are just my personal experiences this summer, there has been an awful lot more going on for those who could afford it. The island certainly has come a long way in the last 20 years.
August has been hot. August is always hot here. The south is now arid and parched, but that thought crosses my mind every year, and it goes without saying that it’s nothing compared to some regions of the world. It’s only around six months since it rained. It does tend to make you realize how devastating prolonged droughts are.
On the wee hike up Montaña Roja the other day I met a perfectly nice, young, Russian guy, who lives in London. He wouldn’t be convinced that the north of the island is a different world, where there are mountains where mists constantly seep through the trees, colorful cities full of colonial history, or lush valleys where bananas and vines cover the landscape. He preferred his own version of Tenerife, which was the one before him at that moment.
It was a shame I’d deleted these photos from my camera. I could have shown them to him to prove that just 3 days before I’d been in fragrant pine forests, shivering after sundown, and admiring this season’s crop of chestnuts. I’m no expert – except on eating them, that is! – but it looked like rich pickings to me. I adore chestnuts whether freshly roasted from a street vendor, mixed with onions and spices and crammed into a turkey, or the best sweet ever invented marrons glacés! Yet another reason why Fall is my favorite season!
I wasn’t there for fun. I was earning a crust, but since, as you guys know, I always have my camera with me, this is what I came up with.
I was just above Las Raices. I’d driven slowly (because I could and because that’s how my little car likes to drive) through roadsides lined with the sharp scent of eucalyptus, and pine forests smelling evocatively of Christmas. I’d trundled down a dirt track and emerged in the surrounds of a rural hotel.
Though the trees were green and shady you can see that even here the ground is dry and the grasses withered. The day was as hot as any on the coast. The hotel was in a clearing. But when the sun began to dip beyond the tops of the trees the mountain air freshened and a slight chill set in. It’s the beauty of this climate, none of those choking-hot and humid nights you find in other sub-tropical places.
And the chestnuts, as you can see, are ripening nicely. It will a while yet, barring some really bad weather, the heat will decline slowly over the next three months or so, until we awake one morning with cold toes and realize it’s time to put the duvet back on the bed.
