My days have been very quiet of late, some gentle meanderings around the island: a visit to a couple of pretty parks in El Sauzal on the north coast.
Atlantic winds and heavy rain on the south coast always mean snow in the mountains. A drive through the caldera and down again through spring meadows of wildflowers in La Laguna, and a stop for cake on a lazy, seaside promenade in Punta Larga on the way home.
Yesterday I left the house three times. Once I wore a waterproof jacket, and the other times just heavy sweatshirts. Guess on which occasion it did not rain! C’est la vie!
So this morning I poked my head out of the window to sniff the air before I stepped out. The streets looked damp, but not wet, but there was still that smell of rain in the air (that exists, although perhaps if you live somewhere like England it’s possible to be so accustomed to it that you no longer notice), so I donned waterproof and beenie and we trotted forth.
An incandescent blue was beginning at the end of my street as we turned left for Playa Cabezo, and in the couple of mintes it took to reach the Paseo Maritimo the clouds on the horizon had a distinct yellow edge, a happy sign that the storm was passed. We stolled slowly past the junipers which obscure the beach, Trixy doing that which a dog’s gotta do, and when we could see the horizon again it had adopted a much rosier hue. It was shaping up to be a glorious sunrise, and so we stood and watched, as the remnants of the dark storm clouds succombed to the sun’s greeting.
There is a point at sunrise where the colors fade, between the peak of their intensity (above) and the actual appearance of the sun, which is a whole other vista, and so at that point we turned for home, because there were chores to do, before my first class at 10.
Late afternoon yesterday
It’s looking like the worst may be over, although outside my window right now looks like an English August Bank Holiday on Blackpool Promenade (you need to know the north of England to get that reference, sorry!). The point being, however, that this is winter and this would be summer in England.
As the day dragged on yesterday, the streets were abnormally quiet, especially for a Sunday. Walking around town around lunch time, cafés and bars were already giving up and stacking their tables. Everywhere here relies on having seating outdoors, even if normally protected from the wind by blinds or awnings. But this wind was coming from the opposite direction, and foiled their attempts at protection. Two valient (or foolhardy), middle-aged couples meandered around the main plaza, the women dressed in white trousers and frilly blouses, the men in nicely-pressed shorts, you could see they were pretending they weren’t cold – tourists then – everyone else was clad in sweats or waistcoats, even though they sported shorts and thongs. There were only a couple of small boats still moored up within the harbor. There are never that many, but clearly most had been taken out of the water, being tethered is one of the worst places to be in a big surge, and sure enough one of the two was half-sunk this morning. The other, I think, had broken its mooring and was rescued during the night.
In that way that storms move, it was almost dark before 6 o’clock, and it seemed that the worst was approaching, but it lightened briefly before night fell, and with the night came the high point of the storm. In Plaza Roja outside my window the palm trees bent over and the rain was horizontal. It was a scene familiar from tv news coverage of hurricanes. I read online of hurricane-force winds being recorded up in Izaña by the Observatory, they were saying 199 km per hour, but this morning it says 149km – still pretty windy!
It passed quickly. In fact, I’ve never known a storm to pass over as quickly. Hurricane Delta in 2005 rattled my shutters for hours. But I wasn’t venturing out. I watched pictures of the rescued boat, floods right across the plaza from me (but hidden by buildings, so no direct view) on the internet and turned in for any early night, expecting to be woken by the winds again, but the only things which broke my sleep were text messages and the neighbors screaming at each other at midnight.
Phases of a stormy sunrise
The pictures were taken yesterday. This morning the sky met the ocean in endless grey, and Trixy and I were drenched on our morning walk.
You read that with a shrug of the shoulders perhaps? It’s a common occurence in some climates of course, but not so much in south Tenerife. The last time I remember dog walking in the rain was three years ago. I felt sorry for my neighbor scurrying out with her wee dogs in the half light, dressed only in leggings and sweater, holding another sweater over her head. Looks like she doesn’t have the right clothes for rainy days!
We are momentarily in that weird calm as one swathe of rain clouds have passed over us, and another is fast approaching. The next one is looking denser and is driven by high winds, gusts up to hurricane force are forecast, although that will probably be in the north.
Main beach El Médano mid-morning
By mid-morning the first phase past, El Médano’s beach looked almost normal …. except for the absence of people. This is how it normally looks early morning, folk walking and running and exercising, but by mid-morning the sunworshippers are normally out. The market was cancelled, not that many folk had turned up it seemed, the ones who obviously had come for that were wandering aimlessly around, as bars and cafés decided to chance it and set out their tables. These businesses rely so much on good weather, almost all have terraces, and many have nothing but terrace. They wouldn’t make a living from the number of covers indoors.
The two events I’d planned to go to this weekend are postponed until the storm is past, which leaves the usual dilema, what does one do here on a rainy day? Museums are open and free Sundays, but the drive to Santa Cruz and then the walk from the parking to a museum are not appealing. So, it’s looking like a possibly productive weekend.
It wasn’t the aboriginal Guanche, who lived on this archipelago before the Conquest, nor the Spanish Conquistadors, who named the island chain, but Juba ll of Mauritania, well, at least according to Pliny it was. The word Canaria (Canary) coming from the Latin word for dog, canis, and having nothing at all to do with our feathered friends. Apparently, back in history, multitudes of wild dogs roamed the islands, or, another theory postulates, possibly it was seals, canis marinus, but whatever, the name stuck.
There is an abundance of myths surrounding the islands, which some claim are the Lost Garden of the Hesperides; and others claim to be the site of Atlantis. They were also known as The Fortunate Islands – an ancient Greek version of paradise, which was somewhere in Macronesia, they say. Take your pick, and remember that perhaps choosing one name does not preclude another.
Whichever name you like to use, there is no doubting that the Canary Islands are idealized, and that is, largely, because of their climate, which is, overall, warm, rather than hot, and rarely extreme; even when snow falls on the mountains of Tenerife (remember that El Teide is the highest peak in Spain) it never settles long. When you put the gentle climate together with the rich and porous, volcanic soil you have a veritable Garden of Eden (and, yes, that is another theory).
So, is there a Spring? Are there seasons at all? I’ve written about Autumn here before, about how different it is from countries further north, and about how much I miss it, but I’ve hardly mentioned the other seasons apparently. Odd in one way, because Tenerife’s nickname is The Island of Eternal Spring. In a way, that confirms the idea that there is no change in season, and that’s not really true, and yet in another way it is! If you’ve lived in countries where seasons are more clearly defined as the year rolls around, it takes a while to get used to the subtle seasonal changes.
Blue skies, blue ocean and fun on the beach. Summer on Tenerife – oh, wait a minute, this happens all year round!
Summer is a state of mind in the Canary Islands. A change comes over the islands. Local television celebrates the onset of the season every bit as much as if it signaled the major weather change which it does further north. Familiar faces disappear from local tv as long holidays are taken. Life moves outdoors whether beach or mountain barbecue, or simply sitting on a terrace or balcony, however humble, to catch the morning sun, or the evening breeze. It’s that evening breeze which keeps us sane, curtails the temperatures, so that when you step outside after 7 or 8 o’clock there is a pleasant balminess, a breeze which can feel even cool on sunburned skin.
Many offices grind to a near halt in late June, and school is out until early September. Flights are more expensive – which makes me feel trapped. In an emergency I would have to pay a small fortune to get to mainland Europe. A weekend visit to Santa Cruz is a delight as the city streets empty and residents flock to the coasts. The highest temperature I ever experienced here was in Santa Cruz, an unpleasant, but not unbearable, 43º. As in all cities, the heat bounces off the concrete, hence the weekend exodus. Many residents of the capital have holiday homes in the south, or elsewhere along the coasts, and it isn’t unusual for mom and the kids to decamp for the entire summer, to be joined by dad on the weekend. Yet, with low humidity and Atlantic breezes the heat isn’t nearly so exhausting as I’ve experienced elsewhere in Europe.
I don’t often post pictures just for the sake of it. I think of this blog as more about the writing than the photos, but this morning’s sunrise was, quite simply, too lovely not to share.
It hadn’t looked too promising when I first got down to the Paseo Maritimo
…but as I waited it began to spread and glow. Glorious morning……would be so nice if this day fulfills its promise.
Needing to get out of a rut, into which I’d inadvertently slipped the last, few, post-Christmas weeks, I take out each of my secret anxieties, and examine them, trying to find one within my budget (zero) and timeframe (a free half day); something which will challenge me even just a little, and get the juices flowing again. Is there one of my vast collection of hidden angsts which fits the bill?
I lie in bed, waiting for the alarm, and mull them over, camping solo in the mountains is out because I have work to finish by the end of the day, and anyway it requires gas, and my budget is zero. That’s the killer for almost every idea I drag out. I could just go down to the beach and swim, swim further out than my comfort zone, but the wind is rattling the shutters, which tells me that wouldn’t be facing a fear, it would plain foolish.
I close my eyes and take an imaginary flight over El Médano, since there is no money for gas meaning further afield not an option, and as I hover at the end of the beach, where the windsurfers play, I spy it – what I’ve thought of as a “hidden valley.”
About to enter a “Lost World”
So many times, curving the coast road home I’ve glanced over to admire raw, volcanic forms. A few weeks back my son, Austin, came back from trail running there, waxing quite poetic about the scenery. I mentioned I’d always meant to go take a look at it, and he replied that there were folk down there, living in caves, and I shouldn’t go without him. We never made it before he went away, and I’d been wary since on account of what he said. Today I would face my fear of wild men jumping out from behind tabaiba bushes, and go see the splendors for myself. I remember that the light there will be best in the early morning, so I jump out of bed quite sharpish and get myself ready.
A quick walk with Trix (who is too old now for the walk ahead), a strong coffee, slip a canister of pepper spray into my pack – you know, just in case my fears are justified – and I sally forth.
I amble, drinking in the way the sun scintillates off the ruffled sea; the virgin-white waves crashing along the harbor wall; the contentment of the folk taking early coffee in the street-bars, and the kind of relaxed bustle of the folk setting up the market, fighting against the stiff breeze to put up their awnings and set out their goods.
It takes me ten to fifteen minutes at that pace to reach that part of the beach which is claimed by the windsurfers and kite boarders. Unlike surfers, these guys aren’t such early risers, and it’s quiet. I hanger right under the bridge which carries the main coast road across the end of a barranco, and pause. The landscape before me is exactly as expected. “A mini Arizona,” had been Austin’s words (he’s been there, I haven’t). It’s that sort of arid, weird-shaped scenery which begs for Apaches to come cantering around the bend, whooping and in full war paint.
Once past the heap of rubbish under the bridge, there is, at first glance, no sign of humans. Of course, even without Austin’s warning I know this can’t be true. As I pad down the trail, other paths open up before me, they criss-cross the area; certainly worn by modern feet, and also used for hundreds of years, if not more. The main trail leads to a cave where the goat-herd/saint Hermano Pedro dwelt (more of him another time), so we know that the trails were in use in the 17th Century, and probably by the aboriginal Guanche before that. Again I get that little shiver I’ve had before walking this island, the palpable connections with the past are everywhere. Ghosts walk the pathways, but this surreal landscape was created millions of years before man ever set eyes on it; layer upon layer of history lies here. Continue reading
Islands are breeding grounds for myths and legends. Perhaps it’s the smallness, the lack of alternatives, which embellishes stories until the truth becomes lost in the mists of time, or in the case of Tenerife, perhaps in the sea of clouds which wreathes itself around the island’s heights. Whatever the reason, storytelling is alive and well and most definitely living on the archipelago.
My first story of El Médano was a true one, a curiosity. The next one is a myth, and, like all good myths, it varies slightly with the telling, which is the fascination with myths, isn’t it?……but I get ahead of myself.
Granadilla’s older street have changed little. Maria perhaps lived in a house like this one.
It seems that around two hundred, or it might be three or even four hundred years ago, because the story would be appropriate to any of those eras, there lived in Granadilla de Abona, the municipality in the foothills to which El Médano was once port, a young girl called Maria, and her lover, Juan. Juan desperately wanted to marry Maria, but was poor and had nothing to offer her, so he hit on the idea of hopping on one of the trading vessels which stopped in Canarian ports in those years, and emigrating to the new world in search of his fortune.
This he did. Maria had eyes for no other, and swore she would wait for him until the day they could be together as man and wife. Long years passed. Juan prospered in the Americas and grew rich, and Maria waited.
One day, some say after two years, some say many more, Maria received a letter from Juan, telling her that at last he was wealthy enough to return to Tenerife and make her his wife. He was shortly to embark on a returning vessel which was bringing other émigrés back to their sunlit mountain in the sea.* Overjoyed, Maria spent her days on the sea-shore hoping to spy the ship’s sails on the horizon. Weeks passed, months passed, and finally years also passed without sight, without another word from or of her lover.
How many sunrises did Maria witness in her long sojourn on the shore?
Speculation about what had happened to Juan and his companions was rife. It was mooted that a ship such as his, laden with treasures from the Americas was a prime target for pirates, and that it had been attacked and captured. Other tattle had it that a huge storm had dragged the boat down to Davy Jones’ Locker. It remained a mystery. Juan had, simply, disappeared.
Distraught, Maria stopped returning to the village at night, remaining on the beach, waiting and watching. She spoke with no-one, and rumors sprang up that sorrow had made her dumb, or that her voice and meshed with the roar of the waves, and she could only cry in anguish. Continue reading
Food isn’t, especially, a theme of this blog, but anyone who knows me can tell you that my interest in it is more than just a matter of fueling up!
To be sure, these days I waffle on about the delights of the hearty, traditional dishes of Tenerife, but of course there are whole other dining experiences here in the island’s south……thing is, you may need to venture into a resort to find one………something I try to avoid, and if I do recommend somewhere I generally will prefix with “don’t think this is typical of Tenerife!” Of course it is typical of one face of Tenerife, just not one that I care for very much personally.
I came back from London last November not only with my wanderlust turned up to max (not only because of WTM but because of having had a great time there overall), but with my taste buds refreshed, and still dreaming of the memorable meal I had at PJs in Covent Garden, and feeling not a little despondent that, although there is great food around here, I wouldn’t find the variety I had in England…..so …Yay! I was proven wrong within just a couple of weeks.
Empire’s elegant interior, with just a touch of British “colonial” feel to live up to the restaurant’s name.
Just before Christmas Venture Restaurants opened a new eatery in the Safari Center (sometimes considered Playa de las Americas, sometimes considered Los Cristianos, take your pick – but definitely grockleland), so when a friend suggested eating out one evening my first throught was ” try the new place” – and let me, right away, tell you that this opinion wasn’t solicited in any way. The meal was paid for in the normal fashion, and I didn’t speak with anyone about the possibility of writing about it until it was pretty much over, so this is a totally honest verdict. I’m quite the fan of Venture’s other restaurants, so my expectations were high.
The Safari Center is quite swish, and the surrounding area, home to some relatively up-market shops like Escada – in other words I felt a need to wear shoes, although Tenerife is very much the sort of place where dress rules go by the board, and you see girls in cocktail dresses and guys in shorts and vests dining in the same restaurant. Still, old habits die hard! It’s a daily delight to shrug on casual clothes, even after all these years, and I don’t even own really formal clothes any longer, but I think it’s both respectful and fun to wear what passes for decent gear for dining in a “proper” restaurant i.e. shoes!
We had a drink first in Harry’s Bar – no, not somewhere I’d recommend, but their view of the dancing fountains, which happens on the hour in the center of the mall is the best, and it’s worth watching if you haven’t seen it before. You can be forgiven for thinking you’re in Las Vegas as Ride of the Valkyries heralds the beginning of the display, which melds into Elvis and the Hawaiian Wedding Song if you’re feeling romantic. I wasn’t. I was feeling irritated because the barman didn’t know what a spritzer was – remember I’d just come back from London, so that was a bit of a shock, almost as much of a shock as noting that he didn’t even care. Ah the sub-standard service so typical of Tenerife! (T’ongue firmly in cheek -it’s only typical of certain type of places.)
Trotting across to Empire which is just at right-angles to the bar I was inwardly muttering to myself about this possibly not having been a good idea. See, this is exactly one reason I don’t come to these places. Hey, but one smile from the greeter at the restaurant entrance dispeled my mood. Even if the food wasn’t as good as it is, it would be worth visiting a Venture establishment just for the service. Since it’s the same in every one, I conclude it’s the training. They walk that tightrope between friendliness and efficiency which is not easy to balance. You know – overfriendly and your food goes cold whilst they’re talking, or so formal that you worry about your elbows on the table and which knife and fork to use all night.
Truly, truly melt-in-the-mouth Wild Mushroom Wellington, a veggie alternative to Beef Wellington.
We settled into comfortable chairs close to one of those patio heaters on the large terrace…….always, always be outdoors if you can and the place isn’t full of smokers (which it wasn’t, happily) anywhere that is, not specifically in Empire. Why live in a climate like this and be indoors if you don’t need to be?? I eagerly studied the menu. Hmmm……hard not to squeal in delight……talking to the Venture owner later, he described the theme as “upmarket pub grub,” and I’m guessing that’s perhaps the best description, though my intimacy with English pub grub is a thing of the past.
Let me regale you with a few items from the starters: Seared Queen Scallops on sliced crispy belly pork with crushed cream peas; Quiche Tartlet with pumpkin, goat’s cheese and artichoke; and Empire’s Exclusive Scotch Egg – made with our exclusive Empire sausgage meat, carefully prepared by our butcher using only finest local ingredients, served on a bed of mixed green leaves with beetroot chutney – really? This is pub grub? Even the traditional prawn cocktail had a new twist. OK – perhaps another visit to England is necessary to bring myself up to date! Continue reading
One of the great things about being a dog owner (or is that being owned by a dog?) is the enforced exercise, though, honestly, do you need an excuse to walk along the shore here? I was brought up fairly close to the sea, and whenever I’ve been away from it I’ve missed it – a lot. Most days I thank the universe that I have this at the end of my street, makes up for a lot!
It had been a fine day for wind and kite surfers, but as dusk began to fall and the tide came in the waves were becoming gentler and this driftwood tossed up on the rock pools was caught in the sun’s final rays.
At sunset the colors of the island skies aren’t confined to the west. As if the spectacle is just too intense to contain in one place, the hues bleed along the horizon. This, looking almost east, through junipers which frame the walkway to the beach. The windsurfer just happened to speed past as I clicked!
Turning the corner of the harbor wall to face west, there is a huge stone with a hefty iron cleet on top. Whether this was part of the original fishing village or a piece of art I can’t honestly say.
