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.

Of Weather Now and Then

It’s 5 in the morning, and I’ve lain, awake for at least a half hour, listening to the wind shake the window blinds in swift, sharp attacks, and the sliding of the furniture on the roof terrace, as the wind tries to rearrange it.  The kite boarders here for the week on the international circuit must be awake and anticipating a good day’s sport, after three days of waiting, of weather so still it seemed like the whole world was on tip toe, waiting for …. something.

There is an orange weather alert  today, even coastal temperatures are expected to reach close to 38ºC, and whilst that’s not unusual in the mountains in August, the coast is usually a bit cooler.  Anything which might provoke a fire in the tinder-dry mountains is banned – well, except for smoking, but then, that would be infringing personal liberty I guess……oops no apologies for the sarcasm.

Weird and wild dreams rode on the back of the winds, disturbing further what was already a fragile sleep.  It reminded me of my childhood, living  in an old farmhouse, so badly in need of repair that the fierce autumn gales which swept in from the Irish Sea invariably kept me awake, fearful of flying roof slates and breaking glass in my grandfather’s greenhouses.

Those winds kept us shivering by the hearth, the winds here and now keep me indoors with blinds drawn but windows open, so that the heat is rejected, but a breeze blows through the apartment.  Last year, living in Los Cristianos I had air conditioning, and was grateful (there is less cooling breeze there), except that it proved to be a handy hiding place for cockroaches, and put a nice dent in the bank account.  It isn’t the necessity here that it is in Florida, for instance.  The Atlantic breezes are almost constant on this coast, you open windows, roof terrace doors and those drafts flow through your home, and bring relief on all but the hottest days.

One of things which seems odd, when you migrate  from north to south in Europe, is how the old buildings have thick walls and small windows, often no windows on the side of the house which faces the sun.  It seems as if this wonderful climate is being rejected.  One of the reasons we northerners migrate is not only for the warmth, but for the light.  English winters make me blue not because of the cold, which I can bundle myself up against, even enjoy, it’s the lack of light, those endless times when it’s necessary to have indoor lighting during the day.  So we come south, we buy or rent facing the sun, we throw open our doors and windows in celebration of the luminescence and the warmth.  Even now in chosing a new abode I look for light, and I do those things.  Forty northern winters have left their indelible impression on me, but I am a bit wiser now.  I look for blinds which can be drawn against the summer glare, and I consider that the sun’s path across the sky, and thus its appearance at my windows, changes with the seasons.  Now I understand why the old houses were built that way.  They keep out the worst of the summer heat and they retain the winter warmth.  Walking onto one today it seems as if it has some sort of delicate air conditioning, but it’s all done by observing nature, by going along with it, not by defying it.  We all know how bad for the environment air conditioning is, not to mention the health problems it encourages.

So far, in the south, the heat is dry, although that might well change.  The other day the cap of calima which hovered over us trapped the escaping condensation from the manmade golf courses and gardens which have been planted in recent years, and humidity soared.

I remember hot, childhood summers, hiding under hedges and trees from the heat, lying on our backs watching the sunlight filter through branches.  I remember summer Sundays waiting for the tinkle of the ice cream van, or all piling into clunky, old cars and heading inland for a picnic by a river.  I remember one, particular hill which our ancient cars couldn’t climb unless everyone got out to push.  Thirty years on,  my kids jumped into the pool when it got too hot, and ice cream was no longer  the big treat, there was no waiting, no anticipation ……….  but there were a lot more flavors.  The hills here are much higher and steeper than those of Lancashire, and present no problems to today’s cars or buses, but in Summer people throng to the coast, where it is a bit cooler.

It surprises me to realize that I don’t much like summer here, or at least August.  When the boys were young we used to visit family and friends in England, and so missed the intense heat of high summer.  It isn’t just the heat, it’s the crowds who descend from the north and inland, so there is no weekend parking; the inconveniences, like early closing of the Post Office; the fact that lawyers take the entire month as vacation; the fact that the teenage offspring of these people from the north are in the community pool shouting and screaming until after dark, sometimes until the wee, small hours, not being part of the fulltime community here, they don’t give a damn about disturbing neighbours.

Next year I plan to spend the summer somewhere cooler and quieter.