Walking Amongst Volcanoes

When a Winter day in the Canary Islands is good, it is nothing short of dazzling. The air is so unbelievably crystal-clear and the colors  so vibrant that you might be excused for thinking you’re on the set of some technicolor movie.

We had a day almost like that for a short hike on Thursday. The temperatures were warm, but not hot, the sun shone and the skies were blue.  The only complaint was the calima which made the views less than perfect…….and it seems really picky to complain! As we twisted our way up to the National Park from Arona the mountains shimmered in the haze, and as we rose higher the ocean became a kind of whitish blur below us, and finally became invisible.

Calima is the suspension in the air of Saharan sand and dust, blown across that stretch of the Atlantic which separates these islands from Africa. The culture here is so very European that if it weren’t for this reminder from time to time we might forget that geographically we have far more in common with that continent than with Europe. Sometimes the calima’s effect is the same as low cloud, blocking the sun and giving life a gloomier backdrop than usual, but this day it wasn’t so intense.

When we stopped for coffee in Vilaflor, even at 10am, the sun was warm and bright, and it was hard to believe that this is Spain’s highest village, something that never fails to amaze me in Winter. Sitting there at a Coca Cola- red, plastic table and remembering similar chairs and tables in the ski resorts of the Sierra Nevada,  it was hard to take in that I was higher here than there.

Instead of driving into the caldera, we turned left and took the road which eventually leads down to Chio and the west coast. It’s a bleak stretch of road at times, depending on the weather and time of day, but Thursday morning the stark badlands to our right, with distinct, ancient lava flows and little vegetation contrasted with the intense sapphire of the sky, and seemed warmer than I remembered. We were heading, however, away from Tenerife’s most famous volcano in the direction of its youngest, Chinyero.

Chinyero last erupted a mere 103 years ago, in 1909, Cristina remarked that her grandmother had remembered the event, and I was struck by, often, how little we treasure the living links with history we have amongst family and friends. I love to hear Cristina’s own reminiscences about her childhood and insights from older generations. Life in the Canary Islands, under Franco, meant that progress we took for granted in western Europe and north America in the 50s and 60s didn’t happen here until later, with the effect that there are still folk living who are young enough to remember the much harsher kind of life which my long-dead grandparents used to talk of…….. but I digress (what’s new?!).

Pulling off the main road and leaving the car on a cleared space on the hard shoulder, we set off through sparse forest and  barren lava fields.  The forests of these slopes are pine, and almost exclusively Canary Pine, a hardy tree which can withstand the strong winds which whistle across the spaces between the island’s volcanoes, and which bring down the less stalwart species, which have been planted over the years to fill in deforested areas. Their needles, long and graceful,  collect the morning dew, channeling it to earth to seep through the porous rock and underground to feed hidden reservoirs.

In this area almost all the trees we saw bore witness to the forest fires which raged there four years ago, their blackened trunks,  left charcoal stains on your fingers when touched. Canary Pines are almost totally fire-resistant, and new growth on the charred trunks signaled rebirth and life’s continuing cycle.

With Chinyero to our left and El Teide and Pico Viejo to our right, though veiled by the calima, there really was a sense of pre-history, as we emerged from the trees to pass through lava fields so bleak and desolate it wasn’t hard to imagine them steaming as they cooled down a hundred years ago. It most certainly was a landscape to inspire musings on the powerful forces of Nature.  Between the reminders of raging forest fires and Nature’s ability to renew, and the stunning lava landscapes, from the fine, black sands to the huge boulders all spewed from earth’s mysterious interior, a walk here has the effect of putting you, as a puny human, in your place.

Rugged badlands of basalt opened up before us as we turned a corner. The route we had chosen was circular, and would bring us back to our starting point without having to retrace our steps. We passed from dark and arid landscape and back into forest, crisp with pine needles underfoot. We haven’t had any rain to speak of this winter yet.  Canarian pine forests typically have little undergrowth, in contrast to the lusher forests of the Anaga Mountains with their bracken and moss.  Here the undergrowth was dominated by pennyroyal, locally known as poleo, and widely used in infusions, despite its dubious reputation.

Since 1994 the area around the main volcanic cone of Chinyero has been a Protected Natural Reserve, and I was really happy to note that everyone going there seems to respect that, because we didn’t see one piece of  litter of any kind.  The paths are well laid out, and the signs, hmm, quite good, could be better, there were a couple of places where they were a tad confusing. Pilar, the expert amongst us, had anticipated a two-hour walk, but with stops to admire views and take snaps it took us around three. It was easy, not at all steep on the circular route, just a bit rocky underfoot at times, and although there are stretches which are quite exposed, it isn’t long before you’re under cover of trees again. We passed other walkers, all either German or Italian, but we had moments of silence and solitude too.

I never cease to be surprised at things I learn here, and on this day my learning curve came when Pilar observed that the bird call we could hear in the background as we picnicked at the end of our walk was a crow. My surprise  was that the sound was worth remarking on, but apparently there are very few on Tenerife, Pilar knew the statistic for the number of pairs breeding in the area. For me, even after living here for almost 25 years now, the sound was nothing out-of-the-ordinary, to the point where I even remember once going on a crow shoot in England, at the invitation of a farmer whose crops they were devastating. It’s surprising how another culture can seem so familiar and yet so different at the same time.

Walking the Badlands of the Coast

The longer I live on this island, the more I understand our connection to the earth. It isn’t simply the connection of someone who lives off the land, like a farmer, it’s also a connection to the places where nothing of any apparent use can possibly grow, the badlands, or malpaís. There is something about touching rocks which were spewed out of volcanoes millions of years ago that gives you a sense of place, and of being a part of it all, and not only the land itself, but to the people, back in  history, who had to overcome the difficulties of these forsaken places.  Modern life seems to trivialize them, but if you stop and listen you can feel the ghosts.

There are several of these places called Malpaís on the island, the most spectacular being on the western slopes of Mount Teide. Stopping to photograph there last winter, with a tidal wave of white fog bearing down on us, gave me a spooky sense of desolation and loneliness, even though I knew there were folk only ten minutes away.  When the disgorged rocks are sinister, dark and jagged shapes it seems even more unsettling – as if it wasn’t that long ago that nature flung them from the bowels of the earth.

I walked one of these landscapes a few days ago.  The walk, a circular one, beginning in Puerto de Güimar and back, has been somewhat tamed by man.  Paths are unobtrusively but helpfully laid out, and maybe even follow paths taken hundreds of years ago by the Guanches.

Guanches were the island’s first inhabitants, who valiantly resisted the forces ofSpain, making Tenerife the last island of the archipelago to fall to the Conquistadors in 1496.  They were an interesting race, who mummified their dead and who used the cosmic spiral symbol, though no-one is absolutely sure what it represented to them, as once the Conquistadors were finished, there were few of them left to explain.

These inhabitants of the archipelago were curiously not seafarers, as if, having arrived in a place, often described as paradise, from the deserts of North Africa, they intentionally forgot how to leave.  This walk is coastal, and standing on black, hardened lava overlooking where it stopped in its tracks as it met the ocean, and watching the waves, even after all these years, still hurling themselves at the land, it’s easy to imagine a goatskin-clad youth standing in the same spot, staff in hand, wondering if anything lay beyond the blue.

This landscape is its own storyteller, with pre-historic tales of hot lava which curved, and must have hissed and steamed as it met the cold Atlantic waters, and of small volcanic tubes forming, some of which, after the ages, have collapsed like this one, or formed caves and crevices on the shoreline, like the one you can glimpse under this natural “bridge”.

Modern Canarian history can be found amongst this rocky crust of the earth too.  This old water pump must have tapped into an underground stream at one time, though there were no signs that anyone had lived close enough to it to not make carrying water a hard chore each day, just as it still is in parts of Africa. However, I couldn’t get out of my mind an image of R2D2 lost in the desert and rusting away waiting for Luke to come find him!

These salinas, or salt pans, weren’t that easy to reach either.  On high tides, when the sea crashed further over onto the shore, water was left in these manmade pools, and as it dried salt was left behind, which was then collected, and had to be humped over to the village, or up to the main village in the foothills.

Close to the shoreline, we came across this very touching memorial, though the lettering was faded, and covered by that buoy, which I was reluctant to move so that I could read better.  It seemed, somehow, disrespectful. So we could only guess that a boat from Puerto de Güimar had possibly been lost, probably within living memory, as there were flowers around it, which had clearly been left quite recently.

Adding our own thoughts or prayers that the folk memorialized Descansan en Paz, or Rest in Peace, we moved on. Close by the beach was littered with debris, not the rubbish left behind by weekenders, but washed down the gullies and dry river beds during the torrential rains of winter, and out to sea, only to be returned to land by the incoming tides.  The driftwood you could even call picturesque, but the plastic bottles and tin cans so apparently essential to our modern life were ugly and out-of-place amongst the old rocks, likewise the shards of wood, once probably fencing, and the rags which had been fishing nets.  I was remembered reading that Chay Blyth once reported finding floating rubbish on even the most remote legs of his sailing adventures.

Desert, for sure, this terrain is, but not, by any means devoid of life, although the closer to the sea we got the less we found.  We shared our apples and some water with this guy and at least a dozen of his friends and family, as swifts circled overhead on their endless quest for food, and the star of the ant’s life photo I posted the other day was also working busily away with his mates. We also saw rabbit droppings too, but where in the world don’t you, though it was really hard to imagine what food they found around there.

This barren scenery was an utter contrast to what I’d intended to see on this day. Our goal had been a favorite walk in the Anaga Mountains in the far tip of the island, and I was anticipating it hugely, but when we left La Laguna at around 9am the fine chirimiri quickly turned into a heavy drizzle as we ascended.  I’m not at all averse to walking in rain (I am English after all), but when the swirling mists obscured what are amazing views there didn’t seem to be much point, so we re-thought and headed for the coast.  With images of the lush laurel forests I’d been expecting still in my brain, I think I appreciated the starkness of this scenery even more.  I was left wondered if there is anywhere else on earth where you can drive from a misty forest and only twenty minutes later be chucking waterproofs and sweaters out of your pack to begin a desert walk.

The walk should have taken around two hours, but with plenty of photo stops, and one other stop to nibble some delicious, Canarian goat’s cheese together with crispy apples…..and feed the local wildlife as a result, it took us three on a hot day, but it wasn’t that hard.  Steps have been cut into the steeper parts of the walk, to make it more accessible. The rugged terrain means you are far better with a thick-soled boot or shoe.  As one of us found out – you feel every, unyielding and sharp stone underfoot if you don’t!

And – at the end of the walk, you return to the village of Puerto de Güimar, where good food is abundant I am very happy to report.  This dish (photographed by Austin to give him full credit, because normally I only post my own photos!) was lapas, or limpets, which were divine, tasting of the ocean and garlic and olive oil, and a royal feast to crown the day, along with tuna in mojo, fried eel, a melt-in-the-mouth pulpo gallego (and that is saying something!) together with salad, and a plate of the very, very best papas arrugadas, the real, creamy papas negras and not the white potatoes so often used in tourist areas…….thank god I’d walked off enough calories not to feel any guilt!

Subtropical Snow

There’s no doubt about it, the sight of snow on the mountaintops whilst you’re strolling along a sunny, palm-lined street, or even floating in the ocean is almost surreal, and  it still gives me a thrill.  I was both born and bred in a flat and damp English landscape, and the vista from my roof terrace yesterday morning was so very different from those lingering winter memories! I just had to get up there!

So I seized the chance to take some time off to take a closer look. A few weeks back when it snowed, I wasn’t able to get up into the mountains for 3 days, and by that time much of the snow had melted away. It was cold too, with a keen windchill factor. Yesterday, however, was different, it was only 24 hours since the last snow had fallen, and it was a morning of halcyon purity, with a sapphire  sky straight out of a glossy travel magazine to offset the shimmering white,  and bone-warming sunshine.

I was stoked, as my sons would say, to be up in the mountains again. The drive was easy, through the first stirrings of spring; some lingering almond blossoms, a few adventurous California poppies and evident, fresh, green growth on the pines. When you drive up from the Vilaflor road it’s a mellow ride, taking you to another season, through those first glimpses of springtime, into pine forests and snow-lined roads, then into the barren rockery on the outskirts of the crater, until El Teide rises before you, lord of all he surveys, and in his winter coat, more awe-inspiring and imposing than ever. If you live in the north, the omnipresence of  Teide is perhaps not so much of a surprise when you arrive, but from the southern coast he rises tall but distant, and arriving you marvel at his domination of the scene.

Traffic was light enough, though it was obvious that locals as well as tourists were heading upwards to admire the winter landscape.  It’s not uncommon, it snows up here most years, but it doesn’t last long under the sun’s fierce glow, and there isn’t always chance to come see it, nor mornings like this to see it at its most breathtaking.  I overheard people talking about taking their kids out of school for the outing.  By weekend when they have no school it will mostly be melted away.

At the first  stop I looked back, and could see that mountain mists were following us. We must have been driving just ahead of them as they wound through the trees and rocks, and now they were beginning to finger their way across the crater, but for the meantime we were well ahead, and the road in front was clear and quiet enough.

The thing which struck me about this depth of snow cover was that it highlighted the ebbs and flows of lava, so that you could see how it had inched its way down the mountains, and where and how, at some point, it had halted, sometimes producing lacey effects, like festooned curtains, with the weird shapes and boulders, randomly spewed out from the earth, stark against the white.

Drawing level with the parador, we turned into the viewing area opposite, where the vista is unfailingly jaw-dropping in any kind of weather or time of day, but it was chock-a-block with cars, buses and tourists. I have nothing against them. We need them – just not in my photos! So it was back into the car. I wanted to see what the view was like from where I taken these photos a few weeks back. However, it wasn’t to be. Just past the cable car the road was still closed off. I learned later that roads from La Orotava in the north, and la Esperanza just above La Laguna were still closed. We’d only seen one snow plough on our journey, and though there had been some light rockfalls, the road had seemed quite safe, but as always here, life on the other side of the mountain is a different story, so we turned back, to see the mist now approaching fast, an over-powering, immense wall of dense white, shifting shape as it flowed over hilltops and crater. We took the road down to the west coast and Chio, partly because it’s wider with smoother bends than the Vilaflor road, and partly for the change, Mother Nature and the Enviromental Service having spoiled my plans.

The lava beds through which this road winds are sombre black and rich brown, contrasting with the snow, and resilient to whatever kind of weather Nature hurls at them, be it a temperature of 5ºC or searing heat in August. We’d lost the sun’s warmth to that mist now, and the day was chilling fast.

Stopping to try to capture the diversity of landscape between the snow covered forest floor and the sight of the island of La Gomera seemingly floating on that sub-tropical ocean (It didn’t turn out that well. The camera doesn’t see what the eye does – or is it time to try out HDR I mused – that stain of a darker blue in the top right is La Gomera), I turned around to see, on the other side of the road, a bleak and colorless scene, as the clouds bore down on us. Thank goodness this was a drive and not a hike, though hiking in those conditions wouldn’t have fazed me at one time! But I’d seen the desolate scenes on morning tv the day before, and I hadn’t expected to be able to walk very far, so I wasn’t entirley euqipped, plus lunch was calling too!

There was even less traffic on this road, and as we descended and, as the temperature rose, the road was adorned for springtime again.  These bonnie flowers are lotus campylocladus, and were so prolific in places that they carpeted the floor of the forest which was getting sparser as we drove down.  By now, however, the light had gone, despite heading west, it was too gloomy to get a decent snap.

And so we returned to the coast, casting aside layers of clothing until the normal jeans and T-shirt remained, and marvelling at how we’d seen at least three out of four seasons in something short of one day. I know I keep saying it, but diversity is what keeps me here. At the end of the day, this is an island, it’s small, there are constrictions which come with that, however beautiful it might be, but it does feed my need for variety very well.

Punta Hidalgo

Words and time seem to be failing me this week, so some photos of the stunning north east tip of the island, where Atlantic swells and rugged coastlines keep the tourists away.