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!

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/

I Love the Smell of Dawn….

I love the smell of dawn on the Tenerife coast. The air bears scents you don’t smell during day nor during  night – a mixture of ozone, the scrub of the dunes, and a freshness, which melts under the warmth of the sun. The silence, as the first light seeps along the horizon, is vast and exquisite. It surrounds you as the landscape stands on tiptoe, waiting for the new day’ s first sounds, and you hope it be the cry of a bird, or the whispering of ocean to earth,  and not the ugly sounds of men.

It has to have been an awfully good drop of wine which has made me sleep in and not want to get down to the beach.

I am ridiculously happy with this photo, because it’s taken me 3 years to achieve it!  I knew that sooner or later the sun would be rising in line with this pathway down to Playa Cabezo. I’ve taken snaps here before, but never managed to get it quite so framed as this morning. I must have taken about a dozen, but this is also the only one where that wave is trickling in just that way.

Living a Quiet Island Life

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.

 

After the Storm

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.

Storm Passing

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.