Island Morning Rituals

We all have them, don’t we. Those rituals which ease us into each new day, the daily habits which confirm the structure of our life without which, facing the world, we are a bit more vulnerable. There were times in a colder climate when a part of mine was to huddle down under the bed covers for an extra ten minutes before getting up. Living on the coast of a sub-tropical island is a different kettle of fish. My feet find the cool, tiled floor eagerly, hungry for the new day.

My dog knows my morning ritual well. Shuffle to bathroom. Brush teeth and splash cold water on my face. Do the exercises I have to do to keep my cervical arthrosis at bay. Throw on old clothes. When I get to the old shoes, she knows it’s ok to disturb me, and we stagger out the door so she can to that which she has also to do.

Trixy enjoying the first rays whilst I take snaps

The sun rises at the end of our street. We’re lucky in that. It’s still dark. Dawn is seeping along the horizon. The sun will follow soon. Part of my morning ritual is to take a snap. Often it’s the sunrise. It’s always different: golden and serene, purple and threatening, rosy and hopeful, fiery red or shimmery blue.

Other dog owners hover around waiting for their pets to poop, we greet the nice ones and pull faces behind the backs of the grumpy ones. It’s hard to figure why some folk have pets, when they clearly don’t like the morning ritual. Dogs aren’t allowed on the beaches here any more, and I don’t disagree with the new by-law because far too many people don’t clear up after their dogs, the walkways are a disgrace, despite a hardworking cleaning crew around here. We get a cheery “Buenos días” from the lady who sweeps our section. I miss being able to let Trix off to run a while, though. Not that she’s up for much running now that she’s an old lady.

The view which greets me at the end of my street

Once she’s done the necessary we walk on, observing the rituals of other early risers, as the light changes.There is a small headland just before Montaña Pelada at one end of town, and a hotel and spa blots the view, their first floor lights are on, and the reflections shimmer across the wet beach. The tide is retreating. I imagine the workers in the hotel about their morning rituals, setting tables for breakfast, polishing the floors, cleaning the pool. I’m lucky my day begins in this more gentle way.

Blot on the landscape hotel

My favorite thing about El Médano is its energy. Its setting is quite dramatic with volcanic cones at either end of a series of bays, dunes, rocky beaches and a long stretch of sandy beach, boats pulled up on the tiny Playa Chica, but the town itself is not so pretty. Too much unrestricted development in fact, has left it ugly, and yet, the ugliness is the last thing you notice. People in El Médano do stuff.

Boats pulled up Playa Chica at first light

Despite the quiet, there is a  subtle ripple of energy. We pass several runners, from young girls in lycra to older guys who trudge a bit, but, hey, they’re doing it!

Atop the abandoned bunker on the shore, the person I think of a “Zen man” sits. In truth I don’t know if it’s a man or a woman. The figure sits cross-legged and statue-like, facing the direction from which the sun will soon peek. He or she wears a hoodie with the hood up, so gender is moot. In all my morning walks by this beach I’ve never seen him move. As the sun rises he is silhouetted against the brightness. We stand, as always, in awe, until the brightness fades the fabulous colors, and there is only blue and incandescence.

“Zen Man” contemplating an especially gorgeous sunrise

At this point it is our habit to turn. As we do so “homeless man” emerges from the scrabble of plant life in the dunes. I guess he sleeps around here somewhere. For all I know he may be a famous scientist studying insect life in the scrub or something, but with his dreadlocks and deeply tanned face, I’ll go with the homeless assessment. He has long conversations with himself or with an imaginary friend. A few years back when I first saw him, I thought he was talking on a cellphone, but no. He sets off along the road into town, lanky, almost jaunty. I might envy the air of contentment he emits, or is it merely that nothing in life can shock him any longer?

On the street corner an elderly couple greet each other, and turn to stroll with their dogs towards us. She always wears a hat which  looks like an upturned flowerpot, perched upright, probably so as not to crush the perm beneath it. They always nod tentatively, not quite friendly, but not unfriendly either. I used to bump into them around the point where we made our turn, further along the path, and I thought they were a married couple, but recently I’ve observed this morning greeting as they meet, and now I think of them as  a winter romance chanced upon through their morning dog walking.

We turn the corner, as “brave morning bather” draws up and parks his car. His morning ritual is a swim, whatever the state of the ocean. Dressed in a towelling robe and flip-flops, which he will leave on the rocks, his greeting is always cheery, but I can never, quite, catch his accent. My bet is he’s German, though. He picks his way across the rocks, because at this point the beach is sharp. Perhaps from respect or from past experience he ignores “yoga man” who is stretching in the sun’s first warmth.

I  groan inwardly, but outwardly smile as I spot “the mad woman” ahead. In flapping house coat and slippers she talks constantly to her two, mangy dogs – unless she can pinhole another passing dog walker, and looks like it might be our turn today. She’s harmless, and not entirely stupid, but is impossible to get away from once she’s in full flow. Our luck is in. She scoops up one dog and trots across the road, waving with her free hand. I wave back.

As we turn to cross the road I notice a bright tent amongst the juniper by the picnic area. In summertime there is a great tradition of sleeping on the beaches of Tenerife, not so much a morning ritual as a summer one, even though it’s not quite here yet.

Home. Food for Trixy. Coffee for me. Exercise of some sort. After the ritual the awakening. I consider going out again with the camera.

Heron at daybreak

I know that along the main beach, which is in the other direction from that in which we walked, stout old ladies in flowery swimsuits will be plodding into the waves, or floating and chatting for all the world as if they were in the coffee shop. Along its much smoother length folk will be running, power walking or just strolling. Wee plovers and maybe a heron will be darting amongst the rocky parts in search of breakfast, and at the end of the harbor wall the good old boys, and some young ones too in these days of unemployment, will be casting their fishing lines into the sea. The tractor which furrows and tidies up the sand will have finished and will be moving to the other end of town, and the boy who puts out the sunbeds will soon be putting them into orderly rows. The bars near the oceanfront will be putting out their tables and chairs and perking the first coffee of the day.

Early-ish morning El Médano main beach

It’s tempting. I like to photograph these moments, how folk approach the day, prepare themselves, greet it. We all have our ways of grooming mind and body for the  chaos of the day ahead.

In Search of the Elusive Guachinche: Island Eating Adventures Part 2

I had my first, genuine guachinche experience without even knowing it. Perhaps my ignorance made it more enjoyable. I wasn’t so much tickled by the fact that I had finally tracked down a guachinche, as that I’d just eaten a feast, accompanied by a very decent red wine for the princely sum of €5. Yes, €5 ….. and no, it wasn’t 20 years ago, but just a few years back. The only dish I definitely now remember (and you will understand why) was tripe cooked in some sort of spicy sauce. Now, tripe might be the only form of food I don’t like, but I’ll always give anything a second try, and it looked so different from the slobbery, white stuff I remember my grandad woofing down, I was up for it, and thankful I did because it was delicious, as was every other dish of what seemed like an endless stream which kept coming that afternoon.

Pinolere. Vineyard in spring. New growth on old vines.

Unlike the mysterious muflon, guachinche sightings are not rare, but….distinguishing the genuine from the imposter, and finding one at the right moment – ah, there’s the mystery.

And what is a guachinche you ask? I suppose you could say that a guachinche is a category of restaurant. They evolved because local fincas needed an outlet for their excess wine production. Many island vineyards are, what the English would call market gardens, as opposed large business concerns. Today, the grapes are sold to coperatives who actually produce the wines. Whilst wine production flourished (which is an understatement) in the 17th century, and has undergone a huge revival in the last ten years or so, years in between were less prosperous for various reasons, yet these farmers made too much for their own consumption.

Thus the guanchinche was born from necessity, and I suspect from a general liking of neighborhood get-togethers. They sprang up wherever was convenient for the small-holder, in garages, sheds, back yards, or even in private houses.

The suprisingly good local plonk.

Naturally enough, “real” restaurants became jealous of the success and popularity of these make-shift establishments, with whom they couldn’t compete, and so legislation became necessary to control them. These days in theory they are allowed to open only three months of the year, serve only their own wine and/or water (no beer or soft drinks, note), no more than three dishes, and no deserts other than fruit….in other words they are not in direct competition with restaurants or bars.  Food is merely an accompaniment, or something to absorb some of the alcohol. Children are not to be encouraged, since the first business of the establishment is drinking and not eating….according to some folk.

Although wine is produced all over the island, almost all are in the north…..so you can see that there is a problem if you live in the south, namely drinking and driving. There are, these days, a good number of bars/restaurants which borrow the word guachinche, but which don’t conform to the above guidelines, and that is half the problem in tracking them down. I even went so far as to buy a book, which is certainly leading me to some interesting places, but many of which clearly aren’t true guachinches.

The Canary Islands, like the rest of Spain, has a long tradition of cheap eateries, bars, tascas, tipicos, whatever name you choose, everywhere, village or city, has them, the tables and seating used to be rough wood, some still are, and others now are plastic, right down to the cloth which covers the table…if there is one.  There is nowhere like them in my home country, England, for whilst pubs almost all now serve food, they didn’t do so in my young day, and eating out if you weren’t exactly flush just wasn’t possible. So whilst some establishments might look pretty much like guachinches they aren’t. If they serve beer, if they serve a variety of food, if they open more or less normal hours, then they are, as one owner of such a place said to me, “A tribute to the traditonal guachinche.” All of which is not to knock the wanabes, because they are usually excellent value for money, and have hearty food and jovial ambience…..and at least they have regular opening hours.

Vineyard outside a guachinche in Pinolere

Last winter, driving down into La Laguna after a chilly drive across the caldera from the south of Tenerife, my friend took me to what looked like a private house on the outskirts of the city, which was a guachinche she knew. Puzzled by the lack of cooking smells and general movement she leaned over the wall to speak with a woman who was leaving by the back door. It turned out that she was the owner, but had decided not to open that day because she had to go to the dentist – and therein lies the problem. A guachinche can open whenever the owner desires, since it isn’t his main occupation nor is it exactly a part of the “service” industry in the way a bar is.

Take the other week for instance: some friends and I went to the annual Cheese Fair in Pinolere in the Orotava Valley, a zone rampant with guachinches, as evidenced by all the rough, handmade signs we saw, some just scraps of cardboard (a sure sign it was the real deal), pinned to gateposts and stuck on walls. The closer to Pinolere, the more there were, and we looked forward to a cheap and tasty culinary experience after a mooch around the Fair. After our fill of cheese tasting, we left eager for our local dining adventure.

First try was the very same guachinche I mentioned in the first paragraph, where we’d lunched so well the week of the annual Craft Fair a couple of years before. We ambled down the road to find it closed, not entirely unexpected, as you may, by this far in my wee tale, have gathered. We questioned locals, some of whom didn’t even know it existed, and finally found out that it opened only once a year, at the time of the Craft Fair, clearly business that week is such they rid themselves of their excess wine. This day it was indistinguishable from any other house on the quiet road in the tranquil village.

We were directed to another. Healthy vines flourished on terraces below a large house with a wooden pergola, the rustic gate was closed, even at around 2pm – all good signs. We pushed the gate a little and could see signs of much activity….ah, not so good, they were getting ready for a wedding reception and weren’t open, but helpfully gave us directions to a highly recommended establishment lower down the valley.

By now the afternoon was dragging on, and our appetites sharpening, so we decided to drive down and to stop at the first cardboard sign we spotted. This was a good plan despite it involving a U-turn on a winding country road, it took us down a vertical, narrow street and out onto a country lane. We thought we’d lost our way, but gleefully spied it hidden behind foliage. Shivering, being used to southern warmth, we plonked our behinds down at one of the basic tables, wondering why, despite the late hour it was so very quiet. We soon found out. They had been robbed during the night and were struggling to provide any sustenance that day. We might have a long wait. Downward and onward, then.

We stopped by a tasca known for its good food to one of us, only to be shocked by the prices and the queue, and hightailed it right out. By now we’d given up hope, and were willing to settle for some tapas at a gas station (some of which do amazingly good and cheap ones by the way). The road had brought us back almost to the autopista when we spotted a hand-painted sign stuck on a wall, and made a sharp right turn in its direction. A few yards and we were outside what was clearly a finca, with enough parking for a couple of dozen cars. Suspiciously, we strolled up to the door and peaked inside.

View from Guachinche Ramal

We were greeted by a cheerful chaos, as dozens of family groups enjoyed their Sunday lunch, “Eh, guachinche, GUACHINCHE,” remarked my local friend, Cristina. Only one other family was ahead of us, and since they were a big group we got seated almost right away as a small table came free. I left the ordering to Cristina and leaned back to take in the surroundings. The place was a big terrace, filled with plastic tables with paper cloths, although the walls boasted some traditional knick knacks. Every table was filled with families or groups of friends, really wound down and enjoying wine, food and laughter without ceremony. When a young guy at the head of one, long table perched on the wall and began to strum his guitar and then sing, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

Best shot I could get of the singer

Those spicy sausages. Er we were so hungry I forgot to snap the enormous mound of meat!

Quickly plates of juicy sausages, french fries and grilled meat were placed before us, and, of course, a small carafe of  their surprisingly good wine…..sadly only a half carafe because of, you know, drinking and driving. The service was jolly and very quick. The food plain but perfect and plentiful.

View from outside the Guachinche

As guachinches go Guachinche El Ramal was enormous, strong plastic sheeting provided walls, and overhead was corrugated metal. The views from the portion of its terrace which was uncovered were quite spectacular, if you ignored the usual ramshackle-ness of the foreground.

It was unpretentious and totally relaxed. People were there to enjoy the food and the drink and each other’s company. Now, I’m not at all adverse to fine linen, nouvelle cuisine or cystal glasses. I just like food, and everywhere and every type of dining has its place, but our guachinche hunt this day was worth the wait and the effort, and I’m looking forward to the next one!

Mueca: The Funny Faces Festival in Puerto de la Cruz: Reliving My Past for the Third Time!

When I stop, occasionally, to wonder at what fuels travel addiction the answer I usually come up with is something like “variety” or “stimulation,” the antithesis of “same old, same old.” Despite my fascination with Tenerife, I sometimes drift into a rut, and then, knowing that the cure, travel, is momentarily unavailable, I mutter and curse to myself and Trixy (who is very tolerant of my mutterings).

I was at such an impasse earlier this week. Of course it was my own fault.  I doubt that there is anywhere in the world with Tenerife’s diversification of scenery and culture packed into less than 800 square miles. Yet, yes, it is possible to tire of breathtaking sunsets, fiestas and blue skies. And, yes, I know I’m a spoiled b*tch, but I was overdue for something novel and new, and everything on offer seemed too expensive!

You know how it is when you feel that way, I was looking forward to seeing the Mueca Festival in Puerto de la Cruz, but not expecting too much. I had the blahs.

El Teide, island guardian, seen from the pretty church square in Puerto de la Cruz

There is no English word for Mueca. It means “pulling faces” or “funny faces.” It’s a street arts/performance festival, which, of course, includes clowns, but I suspect a nuance to the word which I haven’t caught, because it turned out to be so much more than clowns and face paint.

Maria and I set off early, but not at the crack of dawn. The drive was pleasant, the conversation excellent, and there was, as ever, that little inward sigh when we switched autopistas, and the roadsides were green. The drive between, say, Los Cristianos and Santa Cruz is without doubt the un-prettiest scenery on the island, and we were heading north, away from it.

A Living statue

We were a trifle early, artists and performers were still setting up. This is not an island for early risers. We consoled ourselves with coffee and cake in a café which felt more like Vienna than Tenerife, (What is it about the South which reduces interiors to plastic or over-the-top?) and then we wandered back, and the atmosphere began to filter through the clutter in my head. People were strolling not aimlessly, but not purposefully either, bent on seeing and enjoying.

The streets and plazas of the town center had been designated specific areas, so that there was “the dance street,” “the music street,” “the magic street” and so on. We let ourselves drift with the tide of people. It was busy, but not crowded, so that moving around, changing direction, skirting small children wasn’t difficult. We snapped silly pictures of each other with a “work of art,” and met up with Maria’s son and family.

It was all so much nicer than I’d expected, but also more or less what I’d expected…..that was until we discovered the clowns. By that time we’d pretty much stopped trying to figure out exactly where each event was, and we stumbled across them by accident. Hard to imagine that, when they were in what was probably the largest stage area, down by the harbor. We managed to sneak into second row seats and decided that if it got too warm we would just sneak out again.

I need to explain something here. When I was a kid I went to the circus at least once every year. My hometown, Blackpool, on England’s north-west coast has a permanent circus ring, which nestles under the four, arched legs of its famous Tower, a structure inspired by the Eiffel Tower, which opened in 1894. Unlike the Eiffel Tower, Blackpool Tower’s legs are encased in a building, which also housed, at that time, an aquarium, a small zoo and a rather magnificent ballroom. But the circus ring was at its core, and my annual visit was the high point of my summer. One day I’ll write something about it, today that’s just  background.

Clowns Sandalio and Margarito doing their opening sketch

When my older son was two, the ex and I took him to the circus for the first time.  As we settled into our seats, I was drawn back to childhood, as my spirit absorbed the familiar, forgotten smells and sounds. I was captivated again, a kid again, singing with and shouting to the clowns, just the way we’d always done. I was so immersed that I wasn’t even aware of it, until my partner remarked afterwards that I’d behaved like a child myself. So that was my second bite of the cherry.

Saturday was my third. The clowns emerged from an improvised backdrop, which the wind constantly tried to rip free, and within a couple of minutes I was time traveling again. Sandalio and Margarito gave a classic clown performance, so that, even though it was updated, I knew seconds before each movement or glance what was going to happen next.The red-nosed loveable clown who always gets it wrong; the apparent demise of a clown who has to be revived by his partner; the dragging members of the audience onto the stage to aid and abet their silliness – it was all there.  I remembered how each clown has his own face, his own name and way of dressing came back, and I remembered that I’d even once dreamed of running away to join a traveling circus …… was that what inspired my wanderlust, I wonder?

By the end of a very happy hour every muscle in my body felt relaxed and happy, except perhaps for my cheeks, which ached from laughing so much. Beers, tapas, more cake, iced coffees and we plunged back onto the lively streets. This time to catch a ska fusion band called Big Band Boom Fire, joyously singing, playing and strutting atop an articulated truck, to an adoring audience, surrounding the truck, and swaying to the beat. Then on to catch a balancing act, with an Angus Young lookalike performer – more laughter, more engagement with the willing audience.

Folk perched wherever they could to catch an act

At that point I had to leave, Maria was staying with her family for the night, and I had a faithful mouth to feed waiting patiently at home. I wish I’d stayed. I wish I’d stayed in Puerto de la Cruz for the entire weekend in fact. Sitting here now looking at the program I realize I saw only a small part of what was there.

I don’t remember a better atmosphere in a crowd, a time when nothing about the crowd irritated me (I’m an only child, I don’t do crowds that well!). With none of the religious overtones of a fiesta or the excesses or competition of Carnival this was only about enjoyment and laughter and spreading happiness. The only other place I can think of is Disney World and for the same reasons. Plus they both necessitate that childlike suspension of disbelief, which we scorn as adults. A journey back in time is just as good as a journey across the miles.  I adored it, returned home feeling as I’d been on vacation, so stimulating had it been.

Right now the wanderlust is back under control, for how long I have no idea, but I’m quite happy to be on this ever-surprising island.

Walking with Volcanoes – El Teide’s Siete Cañadas Trail

It’s been pointed out to me that I haven’t blogged much in recent days, and it came a surprise  to realize  how long it’s been. That’s because my days, when not teaching or indulging in a “lite” social life, have been consumed by blogging, which made me forget that I hadn’t, you know, actually done any. This, in turn,  is because changes are afoot for this blog, and I’ve been preoccupied prioritizing and working out just how it needs to evolve. I’ve dropped hints before, I know, and also on Facebook, and there are times when I forget that not everyone follows all social media. I’m still keeping it all up my sleeve until it really is on the cusp of changeover,  - soon!

In the meantime, one of the other things which kept me busy for a few days was a visit from my son, Guy – much in need of sunshine living in England’s drab climate over the last three years. Some great conversations were enjoyed, and good food was consumed – most of which was displayed ad nauseam on Facebook

We’d intended the highlight of the brief 3 days to be a hike over the greater part of the Siete Cañadas Trail , without putting any pressure on ourselves to catch up with the bus to get back to the car, so then – to walk as far as possible leaving ourselves time to get back before it was dark. This is what we did, but not quite as far a we’d intended.

El Teide at the begining of our walk, framed by a mass of flixweed, which was prolific and added color to a landscape so often lacking in hues other than browns and blues.When we arrived at the Parador we discovered that the trail was closed until 2pm because they were hunting muflon. Muflon? Sounds like something from Narnia, doesn’t it! Muflon are, in fact, wild sheep. This fact I learned only as a result of this experience. I thought that – if they existed – they were wild goats. Although, according to the Cabildo ‘s web site,  there may be as many as 125 of the critters roaming Tenerife’s mountains I know no-one (and that includes folk who walk most weekends) who has actually seen one. Austin and I did once spot some pretty large droppings on the hillsides above Siete Cañadas, so they might have been there, just ahead of us. Alternatively, there might be giant rabbits living up there, which sounds much more appealing.

Another misapprehension was that they were wild because they had been abandoned by the aboriginal Guanche when Spain conquered the island. But, no, they were introduced to provide “big game hunting” back in the 70s – again, according to the Cabildo (the Provincial Government). At any rate, last Sunday was the day for shooting at them. Supposedly, they are ruining the flora and I suppose robbing indigenous fauna of food. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men! If you want to know about them, here is a link in English to the Cabildo’s information about them.

So, we repaired to the view-point overlooking the crater’s flatlands, not the one all the tourists were staggering up close to the surreal and twisted Roque Cinchado, but the one on the opposite side, where our only companions in the hour or so spent there were a shy German couple.

This was our lunch spot. Not a bad view, eh? There in the background is Alto de Guajara, my “favorite” mountain

Muflon we may have missed (no shots were heard during lunch) but we did encounter  reptilian thievery in the form of gallotia galloti galloti, this cheeky male lizard, quick as lightning filched a mini empanada from our container. He couldn’t manage to drag it too far, but came back for more! Just as we were going to remove it  (yep – you really, really shouldn’t feed them, and we wouldn’t have done it intentionally!) when an even bigger guy heaved into sight from below, like some minature dinosaur, and snarfed it before I could raise a camera, and all I could do was gasp!

And so we set off at 2 o’clock from the trail which begins by the Parador to do a shortened walk. We made it as far as the junction with the trail which meanders up the flank of Alto de Guajara, with frequent stops to take snaps, or, honestly just to admire and exclaim. Guy and I did a shorter version of this same walk almost exactly a year ago, but the flora weren’t a tenth as abundant or colorful as this year. Another remarkable floral excursion leaves me wondering at the surprises this island has in store.

This is my favorite part of the trail. We were inventing stories about the weird rock shapes. I think of these as petrified spaceships, frozen in another time, but Guy thinks it is the hand of a god pointing to the skies.

It was a lovely day on a personal level, but also a day of simply stunning beauty. The volcanic landscape of the National Park is so arid for much of the year (and no less majestic for the barrenness), that these few weeks of Spring are something like a wonderland, like the winter snows which never settle in the crater for very long, they are a moment in time, to be seized and enjoyed before it fades. It’s a constantly changing scene, nothing remotely like the more delicate scenery of England. Even though we were only at around 2,000 m there is very much a sense of “being on top of the world,” of somehow reaching out to the heavens.

A water break. The weather was perfect. Sunny but not hot.

Huge clumps of purple wallflowers grew by the trail.

It’s a kind of ritual, living here, that if you don’t go to the National Park at any other time, then you go twice a year; once to see the first snow of the winter and once to see the tajinaste in flower. I knew that probably there would be some show, although it was a tad early, because of the gorgeous display I’d seen in Vilflor. Vilaflor is a fair bit lower, but three weeks or so had passed. We saw the first by the roadside as we drove up, and there are already several in almost full bloom in the crater now. These plants grow in the wild nowhere else on the planet. They are vibrant, usually swarming with bees – the honey made from their pollen is delicious, and the real harbinger of summer. By the time they are passed, those proud heads dropping and then withering, the island will be enveloped in summer heat.

I snapped this plant on the outward walk, but returning as the sun was dipping its colors seemed more pronounced.

As we wound our way down in the early evening, mists shrouded part of our route. Down below, we discovered, those mists had blocked out the sun. We’d risen above them and into the sunshine of the crater,and a different world. And there you have it – again. The astounding variety which has kept me here so long.

The legend at the Heart of a Canarian Village: Vi la Flor de Chasna

Vilaflor is a village usually overlooked by tourists as their  buses hurtle past in search of the dramatic landscapes of the Teide National Park, and whilst I have no desire to rob the 2,000 or so inhabitants of the village of potential revenue, I breathe a sigh of relief as I type that. If the pueblo does cross the consciousness of the average visitor to Tenerife, it’s because it boasts the title of “Spain’s highest village.” That is disputed, and, hard to get into my skull, having stood on the slopes of the snow-clad Sierra Nevada. Even in chill mid-Winter the snow doesn’t come down this far.

Today I am in search of spring, yet again. You must excuse my excessive enthusiasm. You see I’ve never been too much of a fan of the season, and certainly have never seen it throw such an extravagant display on this island as it has done this year.

Driving up to Vilaflor I take the snaps you saw in the previous post; appropriately canary-yellow wild fennel, delicate, mauve poppies, and sunny California poppies.

Flor is Spanish for flower, and it’s understandable that you would think the village  is named for the glorious displays we’re seeing. Not so, and the story of its rebirth, if not its founding, is sad, and romantic, and to put it in modern terms, it’s a story of culture clash.

Tenerife was the last of the Canary Islands to fall to the Spanish conquistadors in 1496. The indigenous Guanche, described later by their conquerors as noble and brave, had fought fiercely, but in the end succumbed to the superior weaponry and equipment of their foes.

Although the dimensions of Tenerife couldn’t be more different from those of the Americas, the stories of what happened to the Guanche often have a ring of what happened to the natives of those continents. A people who lived in harmony with the earth, whose gods represented the universal order of things – the earth, sun, moon – were beaten, humiliated, enslaved, exhibited in the Spanish court and probably died of diseases brought by their captors. Some were converted to “Christianity” (ever the excuse for conquest and colonization), and absorbed into “civilized” society, leaving their inheritance to whither. Only in fairly recent times have historians begun to really try to piece together what information remains to form a more complete picture.

This then, is the background to our story, and into this scenario rides one Pedro Bracamonte, a captain in the conquering forces of Alonso Fernández de Lugo. Pedro is dispatched by his commander to explore the verdant hillsides around Chasna, a Guanche settlement. With the arrogance typical of tyrants, seeing a beautiful, young Guanche maiden, he holds her against her will for several days, before she is able to make her escape into the surrounding forest.

His arrogance, however, is his undoing. In those brief days he falls deeply in love with the girl. He pursues her desperately through territory which is her friend and his foe, with its deep valleys, caves and thickly wooded slopes, but he can find no trace. Within three months our conquering “hero” dies from a broken heart. With his last breath he indicates that at least he dies having seen the flower of Chasna – Vi la flor de Chasna.

As with many so-called “love stories” my first reaction is a long sigh, and then “serves him right” cuts in. As Guanche culture clashed with Castellano, so my modern perception of history clashes with this charming tale. Still, it’s a story, and stories make the world go around.

Today’s Vilaflor de Chasna truly is a contrast to “el cemento” on the tourist coast of Tenerife. It is sleepy (except for fiesta days!). It fairly twinkles with well-kept pride, its streets clean but not sterile. And despite the legend, its name seems apt, as flowers fill every nook, cranny and corner.  A lovely, 90-year-old lady I meet in the village square tells me that  the delightful juxtaposition of modern water feature with beds of wildflowers, the renovations of the carved-wood, Canarian balconies, and the general loveliness of the tiny town is all down to the mayor, who always has her vote “even though he’s a socialist”……..a true democrat! Perhaps it’s that sense of truly shared civic pride which is reflected in the atmosphere, and makes this place special. I certainly don’t know anywhere else quite like it on this island.

Today seems quite busy for a weekday. The little tourist information kiosk in the pretty and peaceful square has something of a queue – three groups of people, including me, and another dozen or so sip coffee outside the bar nearby. All dressed in walking gear, they are mainly German and Scandinavian, save for one middle-aged lady in a pretty red and white dress and a sun hat. I can’t help hoping that her husband is going to take a photo of her in one of the glorious fields of California poppies we passed, the colors would be so good.

 

When Flor de Chasna fled her captors there were no California poppies in the Canary Islands. They arrived, intentionally or not, on the trade ships which crossed the Atlantic with treasures from North America, but, these flowers which seem to capture the very sunshine – I like to think she would have liked them.

Springtime in Tenerife: Beyond Words

Someone (forget who) said to me recently, “Don’t you hate it when someone says, ‘There just aren’t words to describe something,’ and then proceeds to ramble on for page after page to try to do that which they just claimed to be impossible?”

With that foremost in my mind I will be brief, and let the photographs do the talking for me.  Truth is that I don’t have the time to conjure the words to tell you how utterly delightful this spring has been here, and I am still of the old-fashioned view that I want my blog to be a timeline, more or less in cronological order….so photos it is.

I’ve lived in the Canary Islands for almost 26 years, but I have never, ever seen a profusion of spring flowers like this year. Without any professional confirmation (I’m sure someone will put me right!) the feeling is that after two years with precious little rain, seeds have lain in the ground, waiting for the winter rains which finally came this year, and the spring sunshine. Hence three years’ worth of flowers in one go, tumbling down mountain sides, scrambling along roadsides, peeking from rocks and walls, or swaying in the breeze,  some in abundant tangles of color, others gracefully alone……it’s been a spring to remember, and one to share.

Enjoy:

 

 

 

and another take on the previous one

And a third take on that poppy

Had to include the dandelion ‘ cos it was lonely

 

The thing neither photo nor words can convey is the perfume, stepping out of the car the scent from this orchard of orange trees filled the air with sweetness

And the obligatory shot of a bee gathering pollen

 

ok this one’s a cheat – not flowers, but it was so pretty it was a shame not to share it!

 

 

These photos were taken in Valle de Arriba, Santiago del Teide, Teno, Esperanza, Escalona and Vilaflor. And, finally a very bad, wee video:

Island Eating Adventures Part 1

Of The Humble Potato

Eating adventures might seem like a curious choice of title for a post which was inspired by a plate of potatoes, and not even an exotically robed plate of potatoes. As my friends over at Magnificent Potato will attest, there are some extravagant and, well, adventurous ways to cook a spud, but this plate was draped merely with a coating of Mojo Verde, the traditional Canarian salsa, and had simply been boiled in their skins. The result, however, was ambrosial.

Perhaps it was the setting, halfway up a mountainside in Anaga, looking way down to the sparkling sands of Las Teresitas Beach that made them special. They certainly hadn’t been cooked to order, because they appeared on our lonely table at the Albergue Montes de Anaga terrace far too quickly, but showed no signs of microwave stodginess. They were quite simply delicious.

My friend, Colleen, and I had been tempted inside by a blackboard which mentioned tapas, and what we could see from the side of the building was a fabulous view from the terrace. It turned out that there was only cheese or potatoes, and both of us having surfeited a bit on cheese lately we opted for potatoes and beer to quell the hunger pangs which, you know, driving around and taking snaps, which is what we’d been doing since around 9.30, brings on. The Albergue is just that, a mountain hostel, and despite the sign isn’t really set up to do food, but it set the right note to our meanderings yesterday. Traditional, Canarian food in a magnificent setting – a typical Tenerife experience in fact.

Traditional, Canarian food isn’t exotic**. It owes nothing to the spicier cuisine of neighboring Morocco despite the aboriginal inhabitants having come from North Africa. The only thing which might burn your mouth is the hot, red version of the Mojo, made with peppers instead of the cilantro/parsley used in the green sauce. Basically, it’s hearty peasant fare, intended to sustain agricultural workers during their long days on the island’s hillsides. No visit to Anaga or Teno, or even the hillsides around the south, is complete without a remark about how difficult the lives of those early farmers were. Terraces creep up mountain sides to unbelievable heights, and zip lines are often seen, still used to convey stuff from the hillsides down into valleys. It wasn’t an easy life, and demanded nourishing, fuelling foods.

Of Fairs of Cheese….and Other Stuff

The animal most suited to these hilly, sometimes barren, landscapes is, of course, the goat, and a portion of almost any hike is accompanied by the bleating, if not from the hills around you, then from pens in the fincas you pass…..which takes me back to surfeiting on cheese.

Every Canary Island boasts its own special cheeses, and many win international awards. I was at the village of Pinolere in Orotava at weekend for their Cheese Fair, hence the overdoing it a tad – can you overdose on cheese I ask myself? It was very pleasant to observe this village, with its breathtaking mountain backdrop, without all the trappings of its Annual Artisan Fair, which attracts huge crowds from all over the islands. I’d never been when the Artisan Fair wasn’t in progress, and despite the hustle and bustle of the Cheese Fair it was much easier to imagine how tranquil the normal, daily pace of life must be. It’s very tempting to think I could live there, but my network had no 3G connection – shock, horror – or then again perhaps that’s a part of the tranquility.

Lest you think a Cheese Fair doesn’t sound very adventurous I have to point out that the accompaniment to cheese is wine, preferably red, and there it was, at 11am, doing a roaring trade, and who am I to not enjoy local cheese in the traditional manner? Mind you balancing cheese, wine and camera is a fine art, only try it if you are equally dedicated to every element of the puzzle!

There was every taste and texture imaginable on display, from soft, fresh cheeses with a texture like silk, to hard, strong flavors, not unlike Parmesan. There were cheeses mixed with the aforementioned mojo rojo into delicious pastes and spreads; there was yoghurt and there was requesón, something like cottage cheese. I spotted the name Orchilla on one stand, and was delighted to realize it was the same artisan queseria I’d discovered when out taking photos with Maria last year. Even better to realize how yummy their products are, because they sell them in the farmer’s market close to where I live, not my local one, but the next town along basically.

There were also goat dogs or was it hot goats? At any rate they were hotdog-looking rolls stuffed with, I guess, goat sausage. Now, I’m not a vegetarian, and I don’t want to wax all philosophical about why I am or am not, but, you see the museum grounds where the fairs take place is terraced (it’s on a hillside of course), and well, on the next terrace up there were goats. Not only were there goats, but there were baby goats. Now how can you walk around munching a hot goats with those cute little critters all huddled up together like that. Even mom was quite cute.

Of Guachinches

So it was that we left the goat milking demonstrations, and the folk music, the bread stall (well, they’d sold out of my favorite coconut bread by time we’d worked our way back to the beginning where it was sited), the dog show (it was a combined dog show and Cheese Fair – go figure), the artisan cakes and deserts and jams, and went in search of a guachinche.

Briefly, a guachinche is….hmmm, no that’s a whole other post!

**Before anyone fires off an angry comment that Canarian cuisine is as fine as any in the world these days let me emphasize that I said traditional there, the dishes which have been passed down through generations of families, and are still eaten every day, not the, yes, wonderful modern twists on these dishes now prepared in first class restaurants and hotels around the island!

Canary Island Easter

A friend, driving from south to north of the island last Sunday, Palm Sunday, the first day of Semana Santa (Holy Week) was held up no less than four times on her journey by processions. In a tourist paradise famous for nightlife and debauchery you might think that religion had died, but truth is that the nightlife and debauchery scene is by far the smaller part of island life, and traditional religious celebrations are by far the larger, even though some these days eschew the machinations of the Catholic Church.

Many fiestas have become crowd-pullers in recent years, especially those in villages close to the tourist hotspots of the south-west, it’s reported that over 20,000 watch the annual bathing and blessing of animals in La Caleta on the January fiesta of San Sebastian, and over 30,000 were expected to visit Adeje for this year’s PassionPlay. Islanders are, rightly, proud of their traditions, but it’s hard to guess whether the traditions would survive without the Church (most of them being based on some religious observance), or whether it’s the Church which benefits from the maintaining of the traditions.

In the case of  Semana Santa it’s more clear-cut. This is a religious festival, and a surprising number of folk wholeheartedly believe in it. There remains, of course, the question of whether the lesson (which Jesus preached and to emphasise which he died)  is learned or whether it has become the very idolatry against which he railed.

Adeje’s Passion Play I find moving, and something resembling a genuine expression of remorse and sorrow, and a hope for renewal. But I’ve long-wondered, having lived many years in Spain now, how I would feel about the more traditional ways of marking the season, so this year I took myself to La Laguna on Palm Sunday.

Palm Sunday

I found it charming, and was surprised to find that it reminded me of the Salvation Army walks of witness to which my grandmother had taken me when I was a very young. I arrived early, and had a quiet shuffle around the always immaculate streets of this World Heritage Site. No fluffy bunnies and chocolate eggs in shop windows here, but figures showing members of the different brotherhoods, or cofradía, who would take pride of place in the week’s events.

I took coffee in a pavement café opposite an entrance to the Church of the Conception. Folk in La Laguna, mostly, dress more formally than in the warmer south of the island, and groups and couples in Sunday best strolled around the area, many carrying elaborately woven decorations made from dried palm leaves (there had been a workshop in a town square the previous day on how to make them), and others carrying simply a branch or strip of palm. Dignatories arrived, and I understand that palms were blessed inside the church, people came and went, tourists stopped and snapped (the tower of this church set against a mountain backdrop is super-photogenic).

I left the café and leaned against the church wall for a while, making myself invisible. I watched as folk both ordinary and elegant entered and exited the church. By the door sat an old lady, her hand out, begging. The only one to acknowledge her was a boy who looked to be about 12 years old. He asked his father for money, and went back to give it to her. Now, I’m reasonably confident that the woman was a professional beggar, probably not Spanish, and I too ignore them when I see them in Los Cristianos, where they are often found on the tourist streets. It’s the usual story, organized gangs, who shouldn’t be encouraged. Yet, I wondered, were all of these dozens and dozens of people aware of that? I thought it spoke volumes for the young man who gave, regardless of who or what the woman was. I hope he had a happy Easter because that was the one moment of the entire week when I witnessed anything approaching the meaning of Jesus’s teachings.

The procession, when it left the church to wind its way around La Laguna’s lovely, old streets was ornate, and like an amalgamation of all the smaller processions I see around the island on a regular basis celebrating individual saint’s days. A few folk crossed themselves as the tableau depicting the arrival of Jesus on a donkey approached, but there was none of the weeping I’d sometimes seen, nor cries of “Viva.” It was fairly muted, and compared to La Laguna’s romeria far less well-attended. La Laguna is a city, but a country-fied city, sitting in the middle of super-fertile land, and I had expected something grander. Not that I was disappointed, ostentation and finery sit uneasily with me, and the gold-trimmed robes were quite sufficient to the occasion.

Maundy Thursday

On Thursday I cajoled some girlfriends into coming up to the village of Guia de Isora on the other side of the island to see its renowned displays of floral art. They were pretty, arty, or symbolic in turn; and most shouted “Spring” at me, rather than “Easter”. I guess that’s because they were flowers, and flowers have been on my mind a lot lately. We didn’t go to a service or procession but had a gentle amble around delightfully quiet, narrow streets (traffic had been banned for the duration.

Inspired by the Virgin Mary when she met Jesus after he rose from the dead.

The area around the graceful church square had become an open-air art gallery…..this is, you see, the thing I love about this climate – that a place can with such certainty put on an outdoor display like this, knowing the chances of it being spoiled by bad weather are slight, even though Easter is early this year. I’m not saying it never happens, tragically, on an Easter some years ago, heavy rains and floods in Santa Cruz resulted in death and a lot of property damage, though, here, in the south, it remained quite balmy.

Crown of Thorns

We retired to a cosy bar at the end of our stroll and nibbled traditional tapas, pimientos padrón, churros de pescado, whitebait and fresh goat’s cheese. A tranquil afternoon which resembled a tour around an art gallery more than anything Easter-ified, although perhaps that was because of the hour we chose to visit, and that was fine in my book.

This floral art represents the Roman soldiers who were sent to arrest Jesus. Ironically it stands on the Street of the Jews.

Good Friday

Good Friday was an event of a different hue entirely. As a child of the 60s, when I see those conical hats, masking the faces of the brotherhoods who dominate the day’s celebrations I feel a chill. Burning crosses and lynchings  immediately spring to mind, and that is sad, because I have repeatedly been told over the years (and even today searched the internet again) that there is no connection between these groups and the infamous Ku Klux Klan. The best guess seems to be that possibly the original Klan thought these garments were kind of cool and copied them. Of course, they wished to hide their identity for entirely different reasons.

The Catholic cofradías (brotherhoods) hid their faces so they can repent of sins without, in theory, public shame, each group has its own markings and color scheme. The origin goes back to the Inquisition. The Klan did it to escape prosecution. I doubt they felt shame. Even without that connection, though, I am not sure how I am going to feel. I have a strong dislike of secret societies of all kinds.

Procesión Magna

I arrived, with friends, just as the long procession, the Procesión Magna was beginning something after 5pm. The streets which had been unadorned on Sunday now had religious hangings from almost every upper storey window and lamppost, and the area around La Iglesia de la Concepción was milling with people, both hooded and normal gawpers like ourselves. We found a place to watch quite comfortably on the first street along which it passes, which surprised me. With the sun getting low in the sky the narrow street was dappled, half in sunshine, half in shade. The mood, if not festive, wasn’t as sombre as I’d expected either, though voices were low, people were chatting and children fooling around. As the first group of cofradía approached the noise level dropped a tad, and one or two people crossed themselves as the first tableau began to pass our spot.

As the minutes ticked by I became accustomed to the steady drum beat of the different bands as they passed, the swish of the robes, and the evocative smell of incense, which was waved, usually by children, very enthusiastically at the beginning (I noted the enthusiasm waned as the evening wore on), and I found nothing threatening or frightening in the appearance of the almost ghostly figures as they passed.

The first statues were impressive but I’d “seen it all before,” and, yes, I find the opulence hard to take, so I switch into neutral, fly-on-the-wall mode. After a short time the statues changed from mere figures to tableau depicting different scenes from the Easter story, and whatever ones feelings about religion or the Catholic Church in particular one had to admit that some were beautiful works of art, and, of course, spare a thought for the poor costaleros who shoulder these massive masterpieces for the hours it takes this long procession to weave its way around the streets of Tenerife’s ancient capital. They have to be both fit and dedicated, and you have to figure that there is something in this dedication.

Many of the penitents walk barefoot, and some with ankles chained. As some groups passed the silence was almost tangible.

This procession, although the longest of the day, hadn’t been the first, thinking about how my feet some times feel after a hike it occurred to me that perhaps barefoot was a better option! Looking along the street to the starting point by the church it looked as if this procession was endless. Pointed hats, candles and statues filled the horizon as dusk fell. At some point we ducked over to the next street to catch the parade on its return to the church, to find we had arrived at exactly the same point as the first time so long was it.

La Procesión del Silencio

The most overwhelmingly atmospheric procession, however, begins around 9.30 La Procesión del Silencio. We just have time to grab a sandwich and a glass of wine in a very busy bar close to the church, but I imagine that some of the participants went directly from one to the other.

As the name suggests, the procession takes place in utter silence. The lights of the streets and side streets are extinguished so that it takes a while for your eyes to adjust as you pick your way back to find a place to watch in reasonable comfort. Maybe it’s the dark, but there seem to be more people. There is a low rumble of whispered conversation, and I think that perhaps it won’t live up to its name, but as the eerie column of figures approaches total silence falls over the street.

There is no music. There are no tableau. The only light comes from the candles held by the walkers. The only sound is the sound of their feet as they pass; sometimes the grating of chains on the stone street; sometimes the heavy, rhythmic tramp a they mark time with each step. It makes them sway in stately unison. Now, yes, it does seem a little sinister. Not a child cries. It feels as if the world is holding its breath, waiting.  Only one cellphone rings, and it is rapidly stopped. A woman coughs from time to time. In the far distance a motorbike, but no other traffic sounds at all. I have the childish urge to laugh, and yet, at the same time I respect how the crowd is feeling. It is made up of all ages and types. This is by no means the province of the elderly.

Taking photos would be almost impossible, given the numbers of people and the darkness, so I don’t even try. I lean back against a wall, and try to absorb the atmosphere. In the dark it is impossible to tell how long it will take to pass, but fairly quickly there is the faintest hum from the direction of the church. It has passed there, and people are beginning to move quietly away. The only statue, the body of the fallen Jesus passes, and then 3 priests, one of whom I think is the Bishop of Tenerife, and the shadows disappear into the darkness, just the points of light of the candles they carry visible.

This group will now crowd into the small church at the end of the route, apparently packed like the proverbial sardines, and homage will be paid, and vigils will be kept until the Rising of Jesus from the dead is celebrated in three days time.

Treading carefully down an unlit side street, occasionally bumping into people, we make our way back to the church square, where the lights seem over-bright. Folk are chatting in the curbside bars, and a fine trade in cotton candy and nuts is going on. It isn’t exactly the jolly atmosphere of most fiestas, but it is cosy and friendly. The sense of community is palpable, and, in the end, I think, that is the function of a church, the keeping together of a community, the provision of a sense of belonging. It’s what most people need.

This is it for me, though. I’ve had enough of the pomp and the ritual without true meaning. I am told that each Easter a collection of food is made for those in need, and this year there are so many more in need. People are invited to leave suitable foods at a point near the church. This year the gifts were less than ever. Yet there was money for new robes for penitents, and hundreds of flowers to decorate those tableau tonight; money for brocade to drape around statues, money for candles and fresh, white gloves for band members. As my friend, Cristina, said, if every one of those participating in this theater had given just one euro, or one kilo of rice,  how much that would have helped those in need. How much more would that have reflected the Easter message?

Finding Yin and Yang on the Hillsides of Tenerife

I went out to search for evidence of  bleakness,  sadness and possibly anger, a proof of man’s arrogance and his disconnection from the earth. I expected to be overwhelmed by the anger, but instead I arrive home  overwhelmed by beauty and a sense of renewal.

Where was I? What happened? Was this a Road to Damascus moment? (now there’s a phrase to conjure with right now!) Maybe. Maybe not. There it is, you see – Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe Yin? Maybe Yang? Goodness knows I don’t know enough about Eastern philosophy to be sure, but I think that’s what I experienced. I hesitate to use the word Zen, because I’m not sure I totally understand it, and it could be that in saying that I do understand?

Here’s the backstory: A couple of weeks ago my friend, Cristina and I were driving up into the mountains to see the snow – an occurance sufficiently rare, despite what you see on postcards from Tenerife, to prompt folk to take their kids out of school for the day to go to see it – we drove through familiar territory, through the village of Vilaflor and up towards the National Park and the caldera, chatting about this and that, taking in a surroundings which were beautiful, but to which we were accustomed. There are seasons when this journey is remarkable for its loveliness, when flowers are in full bloom, or the seascape, with its glimpses of mysterious, other islands is almost hypnotic, but this was an ordinary day – early spring, before the blooms, the seascape a little dulled by haze, little flora on the roadsides.

We’d been driving through the shade of pines for several minutes, when we rounded a curve and almost paused. The vista in front of us was like a kick in the stomach. We slowed. We pointed. We said very little, because there were no words. The once-familiar panorama to our left, where the mountains glided down to the sea, was like a war zone.

It’s been seven months since wildfires swept across this countryside, and I hadn’t realized that I’d been away that long. This was my first view of the devastation, these black, skeletal posts marching across the contours of the hillsides had been elegant pine trees. As the mountain mists writhed their way between the branches they had left moisture, which the trees fed to the soil below in one of those perfect cycles of nature which leave us awed.

To say that we were shocked would be putting very mildly.

It wasn’t as if I haven’t seen endless pictures on the internet, or film on tv, of what happened, but being up close is something else. Last Tuesday I went back to try to understand:

This time there is no shock. I am prepared. But when I pull over the car it’s a few minutes before I can get out. It feels the same way I feel in a holy place, as if I am intruding. And, of course, this is what happens when thoughtless men intrude on Nature, when they forget that they are a part of the equation which makes up our world, and selfishly blunder their own way, regardless. It is rumored that this enormous destruction was the result of one good old boy having a wee bonfire to burn garden rubbish. Having a bonfire to burn garden rubbish at a time when there had been no rain in the area for two years; when, on every walk, words like ‘arid,’ ‘barren’ or ‘parched’  hung on our lips in unspoken anticipation of a sight like this one;  and when the trees were virtually the only remaining greenery on the landscape. It is also rumored that the village in which he lives has closed ranks and that no prosecutions have been made. I can’t repeat more than rumors. I can’t find information other than rumors. Silence speaks volumes about mankind.

I stop in several places. It is, for want of a better word, heartbreaking, and I am very aware that despite the enormity of what I am seeing, this extends far beyond this area. The tinder-dry ground couldn’t have been more vulnerable. The fire spread, well, like wildfire. If you’d seen the scenes unfolding daily on our tv screens here you would have understood the origin of that phrase.

I wonder if the guy responsible ever comes to look at what he did?

I drive. I stop. I take photographs. I am a witness to destruction. I wanted to come after the fires, but it seemed like rubbernecking, somehow encouraging the idea that this was a spectacle, an entertainment. I am, after all, not a professional journalist. I am saddened. I stand for long moments and think of how it used to be, wonder how long it will take to recover, wonder how the guy who started it all can live with himself. I’m not in a forgiving frame of mind.

The Canary Pine is more forgiving, however. It is resilient and strong. Its bark burns, but at its core it remains alive. In time that surviving core will push out new growth through scorched skin, from its latent battalions of buds, which have been held back for just such an eventuality. Throughout Canarian pine forests you can see blackened trunks from previous fires sporting fresh, new life, but it will take time.

Strange to say, I don’t feel the anger I thought I would feel this day, and it isn’t just the knowledge of the pines’ rebirth which has cheered me, but the, literally, breathtaking sights which I’ve seen on my way to this point. I didn’t do biology in school, so my utterly uninformed opinion is this – we had two years of drought, when there wasn’t sufficient rainfall to provoke much growth in springtime, this must have meant that seeds expelled from flora in the meantime lay, dormant on the earth, until, this year, watered and warmed adequately, the whole island appears to be heaving with an abundance of wildflowers which is making everyone proclaim that they’ve never seen anything like it. Friends who walk more than I, friends whose knowledge of different plants is far vaster than mine, friends who have lived here all their lives are saying the same thing: there never has been a spring like this one.

In a minute I’m going to stop rambling on and just post the pictures of my drive. This is a moment in time which should be shared, no doubt about it. It can’t identify all the flowers you’ll see. I am awed by the profusion of terraces of wild fennel, and enchanted by friendly California Poppies swaying at the roadsides. Beyond those, the purple hazes, the delicate buds and other types of poppy I can’t name for you.

Turning, finally, away from the ruins of once-verdant hillsides, I come home by, for me, a route ‘less-traveled,’ to be put in mind again of the good stuff on our planet. I am driving now away from the direction the fire took, seeing unspoiled countryside, thick forests, elegant terraces (a reminder that man and nature often do work together) and curbsides littered with flowers of every hue under the sun.

I arrive home, not in the state of frustration and anger I anticipated, but serene and hopeful. Perhaps confident in the Earth’s promise of renewal. My faith in man is less, my faith in Nature is more, than when I left home on this very short journey. Is that Zen? Not understanding just why I feel this way? Is this the inevitable balance of yin and yang of which philosophers speak, allowing us to be skeptical and hopeful at the same time?

Added April 8th: This is a post I would have written anyway. I have, almost unwittingly, written a fair bit about the landscapes and nature in Tenerife, which is an island of amazing diversity and beauty, but at the back of my mind whilst writing this post was participating in the monthly Boomer Travel round up theme, which is Nature. I haven’t ready the other contributions yet, but am utterly certain that I’m going to love them. If you enjoyed this post, then you’ll definitely enjoy the others! Take a look at http://greenglobaltravel.com/2013/04/05/nature-travel-blog-roundup/

Earth Hour at my House

 

Candles in my kitchen area tonight

It’s actually a while, now I come to think of it, that I’ve sat around in total candle light. It’s nice. It brings back nice memories too. Good things happened by candlelight. Smells good too. Most of the candles are cinnamon left over from Christmas. The smell of cinnamon brings back good memories too.

It feels amazingly good to be a part of this, even though I’m sitting here alone. I know friends are observing it, or have or will be observing it around the world, and more than that millions of strangers will be doing it too. We are connected as never before and it’s good to be connected for a good reason. At least for a good intention. Of course the need for observing earth hour is very sad.

Also sad is the apparent lack of interest in Tenerife, an area which desperately needs to be in touch with and maintain its relationship with the earth. Overwhelmingly for me, without that connection this island is nothing. What makes it special are its staggerlingly diverse and fiercely beautiful landscapes. Why would people want to abuse them? Why can’t they see the beauty and know that they are a part of it? Why do they assume that stewardship of the environment is not partly their responsibility? Do they assume it will just go on, renovating itself whatever we do to it? More thoughts next time.