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:

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/

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.

2011: A Mixed Bag: Posts-That-Never-Were

York, England

My visit to York was very personal, too personal to write about any time soon, but I did make time in the mornings for a walk in the chill.  There was a serious cold snap whilst I was there, unprecedented they said…..coming from some quite balmy weather in London, and a heatwave on mainland Spain I really felt it – to my bones!  Still, I loved the walking and managed just a few snaps.

Said if before and I’ll say it again, the thing I love about cities is the energy, and despite the cold there were people out running along the riverbank, and even people learning to kayak (goodness knows what would have happened had they overturned and fallen in!), and it was motivating to see.  York is a gentle city compared to many, but still has that buzz.

Romeria Vilaflor, Tenerife, Canary Islands

There is no doubt that, as a foreigner at least, you can get romeria/fiesta burnout, which is probably why I wrote about an abandoned house by the roadside and not about the Romeria in Vilaflor the day I went there. It was a charming fiesta, more casual than the huge event I’d been to in La Laguna a few weeks before, but still with all the traditional ingredients – oxen pulling carts laden with children or folk in traditional dress….and the whole village seemed to be in traditional dress….the plaster saint, to whom homage was paid with folk dances and songs, strolling minstrel groups, goats and horses, toiling along dusty roads in the afternoon heat.  Vilaflor is Spain’s highest village, and steep, it trails down a hillside, so he was carried from the church at the bottom to the church at the top, followed by, well, everyone, plus some tourists like us.  It was very mellow, marred for me  by some young drunks, which is surprisingly unusual at these events.

Fiesta in Amparo, Tenerife, Canary Islands

This is likely the best fiesta I didn’t go to! 20,000 artificial flowers were made by residents of this barrio of Icod de los Vinos to celebrate their saint’s day. I passed through twice during the time of their celebrations, but never at a time when there was anything happening!  Still  the decorations were stunning, quite the most elaborate I’d seen on the island, and in this rich arable area many contained real fruits and vegetables, so rather like a harvest festival in England. Tradition has the women out collecting poleo (so far as I can make out this is pennyroyal, not a herb with which I’m familiar) which is also used prominently in the decorations.

Katrina’s Visit, Tenerife, Canary Islands

Making new friends is always something nice to look back on at the end of a year, and getting to know blogger Katrina Stovold of TourAbsurd.com was a great pleasure in early Fall. Her posts about the island can be found here.  Katrina is a witty and inquisitive person and I’m sure we would have gotten along in any event, but I was secretly delighted that the places she chose to visit were not the usual tourist haunts. Sure, it’s hard to get away from tourism on Tenerife if you only have a week to spend here, but there were a few places on her agenda which most don’t bother to see. We went to  Garachico, Icod de los Vinos, Santa Cruz’s Museum of Man and Nature, and the Pyramids at Güimar, for instance….where Katrina displayed her amazing affinity with cats! As luck would have it, the one day we decided to chill on the beach at Los Cristianos fierce winds blew in from the Atlantic and sent us scurrying!

La Caleta, Tenerife, Canary Islands

I mention La Caleta because I had several seriously good meals there during the course of the year, most at Restaurante La Caleta or at 88, and one over the other side of the bay at Celso. Some of it was in the course of research for this wee post for Tenerife.co.uk but truthfully I didn’t need the excuse, this what-was-once-a-small village really is the gourmet capital of South Tenerife so far as I am concerned, and it’s also very pretty at night and has terrific ocean views by day.

Guildford, England

Guildford has become a staple on my English itineraries since my son moved there, but I was so glad to have discovered it! This is why:

Waiting for him to finish work on the day I arrived, I grabbed a sandwich and coffee from Starbucks and sat on a bench by the river. It was warm, but refreshingly so after the heat of Sevilla and Barcelona. It felt very…..English!

Las Galletas, Tenerife, Canary Islands

Las Galletas I mention mainly because it’s an illustration of my mantra “Always have your camera with you”.  It’s somewhere I go reasonably frequently.  I had breakfast there just a couple of days before Christmas.  Driving back from Santa Cruz a few weeks ago I could see the sunset shaping up to be memorable, and even though I put my foot down I knew I wouldn’t make the best part of the coast to photograph it there,  so I dodged off  the autopista and headed for Las Galletas.  It turned out to be not quite as spectacular as I’d expected, but it was worth the detour :=)

Pinolere, Tenerife, Canary Islands

The annual craft fair at Pinolere was delightful, as always, though very frustrating this year on account of being broke!  There were wonderful jewelry, musical instruments, scarves and shawls, woven baskets and more on which I could have spent fortunes.  I contented myself with edible goodies on the basis that at least they were fodder, and came away with delicious cheeses, honey and some coffee liqueur for my dad. The highlights were this ecological carousel, which knocked me out, and performances of medieval-style plays by a local group, both of which proved that yesterday’s entertainments are quite as valid today.

Of course,  I can think of dozens of other things I didn’t record here, but, yes, I think I am done with 2011 now, in more ways than one. Not sad to see the back of it, bring it on 2012!

 

Finding Autumn at last on Tenerife!

Okay – I can hear you saying, “If she misses Fall so much why doesn’t she just move?” – so this will be the last time I mention it for this year, and anyhow I can now tell you that I know just where to go to get my Autumnal fix next year.

Some days here, October through May, dawn is so incandescently clear it simply makes me want to cry.  The heat haze of summer gone for a few months, no Sahara dust hovering in the air, and early enough so that the clouds which encircle the mountains later in the day are still abed. Yesterday was one of those days.

Cristina and I, for different reasons,  had missed hiking on Sunday with  friends, and since it was her day off yesterday, and I badly needed some fresh air, my sinuses filled with dust from all the pre-removal packing, we decided to head up to Spain’s highest village, Vilaflor (roughly 4,590 ft above sea level), for some fresh, mountain air. We left the south coast as the sun’s rays began to warm the skin, passed through Vilaflor and left the car by the roadside a little higher, at the beginning of the entry road to the Madre de Agua recreational area.

Just stepping out of the car the atmosphere felt different  - sights, sounds and the feel of cool air on the face are all a world away from the beaches. Though on the first steps of the walk we could see a landscape still in need of rain, it was nowhere near as parched as the coast. Vilaflor is an agricultural area, and soon we were looking down onto cultivated terraces, and over the tops of pines and hillsides to the ocean.  Montaña Roja, which I always think of as marking my home, was clearly visible, and though the countryside was dappled with shadows from passing clouds, the ocean still sparkled way below.

This route would take us through the municipalities of both Granadilla de Abona and Vilaflor, land which is the source of the bottled waters of Tenerife. Right now dried-up streams and water courses mark the route.  When the rains come, any time now, they will be in full flow again, and the detritus of summer will be washed away.

What I hadn’t expected was to turn a corner and see Fall colors, yellows and golds clinging to the black skeletons of chestnut trees.  I really hadn’t realized that they grew over this side of the mountains.  We noted that they aren’t the tall, leafy trees of the northern slopes, but seem stunted, as if deprived of some ingredient to make them grow.  Nevertheless, broken shells of chestnuts littered the ground along with the fallen leaves.  Clearly there had been fruit, and folk had been here to collect the bounty.

 

 

 

We walked for a couple of tranquil hours, occasionally greeting other walkers, returning or overtaking us.  It was good to see that people now realize just how rich this island is in walking routes as well as beaches. We breathed that fresh, energizing scent of pine trees.  We stopped and perched in a wee, stone circle to lunch, the sort of place I would have thought of as a fairy meeting place when I was little. I’d made sandwiches of  turkey mortadella – well, it was Thanksgiving!

When turning to return, we met the mists which we’d seen drifting through the tall pines, vistas which had been clear were now hazy, and the graceful needles of the Canary pines were strung with droplets of brume, and looked like delicate Christmas decorations.  The air now was perfumed with the smell of wild fennel, which reminded me of summer. It must have been aroused by the damp.

 

The colors of the  bare rock faces, which had appeared dry, now glowed, their reds and ochres enriched by the moisture, and I found the last flower in this autumnal scene amongst the dead leaves and grasses.

Now I know where to come when my homesickness for Autumn kicks in.

Abandoned

Maria and I were returning from the romeria in Vilalfor the other weekend, most of the pictures of which I have yet to edit (what DO I do with my time? I wonder that myself!), and as we trundled our way slowly round the bends we spotted an old house, perched alongside a vineyard, overlooking the road, and decided to stop to take a look, since our plans for the day were turning out to be quite fluid.

It had obviously been abandoned many, many years ago.  The roof tiles were gone, save for  one or two broken ones, and vines which were writhing their way along the exposed roof timbers had thick and sturdy branches.  They clearly had time to grow like that.

We guessed this had probably been a goatherd’s shelter.  It was no more than two rooms, one of which we couldn’t get at because of the growth around it.  The air was sweet with the scent of wild aniseed around the doorway, and a peek inside revealed that although no-one lived there any longer it clearly was the scene of local lovers’ trysts.

These old dwellings were dark places, small windows on the sides with least sun and thick walls protected from the heat in days long before air conditioning, and kept in the warmth from escaping on cool winter nights. Now there were just gaping holes, where windows and door had been, and the light poured in from above.

Most of the roof struts were withering and parched from long exposure to the sun, and just one had clearly been unseasoned wood. Magical, amber drops of resin, and who knows how many years they had taken to slowly drip their way along the timber,  glowed in the sunlight.

Shadows of beams and slivers of light through the window space were beautiful, offering those glimpses of beauty you want to capture because you know how short-lived they will be.  Of all the photos I took that day, these are my favorites.

Quite Simply the Most Breathtaking Island Sunset I’ve Ever Seen

After our experience last Saturday in Vilaflor, and seeing so many wonderful photos of the star-filled Tenerife skies on the internet,  Maria and I decided it was time to explore night-time photography.  I didn’t feel ready, but as always, one should take the plunge, go for it, just do it.  Procrastination gets us, precisely, nowhere, nothing, zilch, and it’s in the making of mistakes that we learn.

We assumed that it’s better to go on a moonless night (information which the internet has subsequently confirmed – I found this marvelous site recently, and now I simply hang on every word!), but thought it best to go when there is some moonlight to suss out the best places when it would be easier than with no light…….and we had NO idea what we were letting ourselves in for, nor what a learning curve it would be!

We set off around 8pm from the coast, and by my favorite route from the south, via Granadilla de Abona and Cruz de Tea, a quieter route, though it can be a bit scary when the mists shroud the road.  This night we were just ahead of the mists, snippets of cloud spied on us through the trees, but never impeded our travel. It’s so quiet, in fact, at this hour at least, that you can stop, as we did, without fear, on a curve to let a momma partridge herd her two babies across our path.

After that delightful moment we meandered up to Vilaflor, where we stopped to snap Mr Potato Man (and, in fact, Mrs Potato Woman too) which we hadn’t been able to stop for on Saturday night.  Nice emblems of that quirky festival.

We were also enchanted by the view down to the coast.  The route up which we’d just driven was now hidden by the Mar de Nubes (Sea of Clouds) a regular and impressive feature of the island landscape.  You have the same sensation of being above the clouds that you have whilst flying, but with mountains and islands emerging from the mass, and that uneasy feeling that the fog is following you as it slithers its way upwards.  Those terraces below are where we stood on Saturday night to open our minds to what was in store.  The horizon was just beginning to turn pink as the sun was sinking.  Although we were facing, more or less, east at this point, when you are up high you can see the colors of the sunset leaking all along the horizon.  It’s beautiful and slightly disorienting.

Onwards and upwards; we cleared the forests, but stopped on the first bend.  By now the sunset had deepened and was casting a rosy glow across the clouds beneath us.  We couldn’t wait for a better vantage point, we thought, because sunsets and sunrises wait for no man.

The island of Gran Canaria can be glimpsed there, on the horizon.

The warm glow of having experienced Nature’s wonderful display in our hearts and minds, we set off again, only to find……..and this is where words fail me………that Earth’s kaleidoscope had shifted, changing those gentle shades of rose and lavender to jewel-bright reds, oranges and deep purples.  The was no prescribed stopping place, but once again, you can’t wait, we pulled over on the opposite side of the road at the first opportunity and pulled out our cameras.

I tried lighting the foreground with flash to see how they would look, because the foregrounds on the others weren’t actually as dark as they appear to be in the photos, neither, or course, were they are bright as they appear to be here.  Part of the amazing learning curve that this night was turning out to be.

As we  wandered around the ridge on which we had stopped a little the colors changed, the sky darkened and night fell, bit by bit, not with the same suddenness as on the coast.  Even so I find my photos puny in comparison with reality.  I’m not sure if it can ever be captured, though I’ve seen some very impressive attempts.  Certainly, I have much to learn, but I hope these photos give you some idea of the awe we felt, since both words and my photographic ability fail me utterly.

Concentrated as we were on the scene before us, the vibrant sunset colors, the sea of clouds hanging like a night-time blanket over the hillsides and spotting the lights twinkling on other islands, we didn’t quite realize just how dark it had become until we turned around, only to be met by another, equally breathtaking sight – the blue-velvet night display of a million, million stars, suspended in space.  I drew breath and cursed.  The little I knew about night photography told me that I needed a tripod, and I didn’t have one.  Maria did, clever girl.  I’d thought of this drive only as a rekkie, not as an opportunity like this, but the moon wasn’t up, and the sky was achingly clear, and it felt as if we were looking into the future.  I only had one good photo, which you see here, by dint of putting the camera upside down on the top of the car, so that it was stable, everything else I tried was a huge fail, but I include the only other one I’ve kept.  The line of light from center to left of the photo is a passing car – another lesson learned, although because this is such an awful photo I think it gives it interest.  After a while I gave up and just drank in the experience.  It isn’t my first time, seeing this, though it’s a sight I’d never seen until I came to live here, but it was somehow very special, maybe because of the chat we’d had on Saturday, knowing just a bit more about what it was I was seeing.  Slowly, as dark overtook the scene the Milky Way was clearer than I’ve ever seen it, making us feel small but at the same time connected to all this.  It would be a good thing if everyone could experience that, maybe it would give us a sense of our place in the universe.

The next day began to intrude on our thoughts after a while.  I had a ton of stuff to do, and Maria had to be at work at 8am, so we began our roll down the hill, and I remarked that the only thing to complete our experience would be the rising moon…….when we turned a corner, and………… there it was, bright as a billion, billion rubies, rising over the mountains and through the trees.  The first place we could stop was at the same place we’d stopped before, and within that few minutes the shades had changed from ruby to diamond, as she took her place in the night sky.  Before us, the clouds now partly receded, lay the lights of the village of Vilaflor (the highest in Spain, remember) and further lights we knew were coastal towns and villages, and the lights from those and others hidden under the clouds lit the scene from below, giving it a surreal glow.  More curses about the tripod  …….. I will never, ever be without one again, OK!

We thought we were done.  We thought Nature couldn’t possibly have more in store for us after all this, but after all the majesty of the going down of the sun,  the vastness of space, and the grandeur of the landscape around us, she had one, final message.  As we followed the country road home, as happens on country roads, a rabbit suddenly froze in our headlights, and we slowly stopped.  She hopped out of our path fairly quickly, only to reveal a tiny baby which had been hiding behind her. As he hopped off into the forest it was just a reminder that despite the mind-blowing scenes we’d seen these small and more common moments have their beauty too.

Of Astronomy and Traditions; Of Myths and …….. Potatoes

We meet at 8, as the day is on the cusp of fading, and we pile into Cristina’s car, and follow the winding road into the mountains which I’ve described before.  It’s quiet, probably because a car rally took place here today and people may not know the road has reopened.  We see the ugly litter left behind by rally workers or fans, stacked up in some places, disturbing what is normally an unspoiled drive.

We are headed for Vilaflor,Spain’s highest village at something just over 4,500 ft above sea level, and which deserves a whole other post some day. This weekend is the fiesta of La Papa Blanca, the white potato (as opposed to the famous black potatoes, which also deserve a post of their own).   As we reach the outskirts of the town a couple of scarecrow-like apparitions grab our attention, one of which turns out to be a man made entirely out of potatoes calmly sitting on a wall, clearly this is a festival with a sense of humor.

We swing into the car park of the hotel adjacent to the festivities, and the pungent smell, of the evening’s first event, heavy with pine, fills the air, and we see smoke rising through the trees.  This is a demonstration of the traditional way of making charcoal, practised in these parts almost since the Spanish conquest of the island.  We wander over to the source of the aroma, what looks like a huge mound of earth, which is emitting smoke from various orifices.  Apparently, in the morning this had been a huge bonfire of pine logs, about twice the size of what we see before us now.  Once lit, a kind of wall is built around the bottom to contain it, and earth is heaped on top, with holes so that the fire is fed, but doesn’t burn bright.  The object is to have it smoulder, but to rob it of sufficient oxygen to turn into a true fire. The color of the smoke, at times billowing from the gap, indicates that the process is working as it should.   It will have to be tended throughout the night to ensure that everything goes according to plan.  As we watch, guys throw additional spadesful of earth onto the mound. For Maria it’s more than history come to life, it’s a part of her personal past, as her grandfather used to make charcoal in just the same way.

But the light is fading quickly now, as it does here, and it’s time to move on to the night’s next event, a short stroll, a Ruta Nocturna.  We pick our way gingerly along a path which is probably not nearly as bumpy as it looks by the feeble lights of cellphones, through a small copse, and emerge after only five or ten minutes onto an agricultural terrace.  This is where the region’s famous potatoes grow.  Basically what happens here is a sort of ecumenical urging to prayer, in a way in which anyone, of any religion, or of no religion, can identify.  We are asked to feel our connection to the earth beneath our feet and the stars which are now twinkling above, as the sky fades from dusky blue to inkiest black.

No doubt about it,  whether you believe some old guy is sitting up there, orchestrating everything as he plaits his beard, or whether you prefer the proven facts, this clearest of night skies, with a full moon rising in stunning, silver splendour, the pervasive perfume of pine all around, and the insistent chirping of cicadas is a moment to be savoured. A prose poem is read.  A moment of silence is requested to still our minds and open our souls to Mother Earth.  No other sounds are to be heard.  No other lights disturb the perfection, but after a while, inevitably, the few children along get restless, and it’s time to go. We pick our way back, but with long, lingering glances at that full moon until we are in the trees again.

Next on the agenda of this already quirky, but marvellous night, is story telling.  Now I can listen to a good story-teller for hours, even when I only get about 80% of what he says, and this man, Don Savoie Enrique Alvarez, whose picture you see below, is a master.  He even has that look which makes you not want to take your eyes off him, and his voice is rich, words roll from his tongue, perfectly formed pictures which dance in your mind.  He tells funny stories about potatoes – it is, after all, the fiesta of that unpretentious tuber. As we sit in the thin lights around and the mysterious light of the moon,  he tells sad, local legends of unrequited or lost love, and he tells charming stories from South American and Native American folklore.  I am standing, the seating is limited, but I don’t think about the passing of time for one second. In fact I am quite disappointed when it is announced that food is being served, even though my stomach is growling and I haven’t eaten since 2pm.

Food is garbanzas in a slightly picante sauce, typical of the islands, and a stew of meat with dumplings made from gofio (a local flour, and, yes, also worth another post), but, strangely, no potatoes, an irony which doesn’t escape us as we tucked in with gusto, and sip a very acceptable red wine.  The long journey back limits our possible intake of that! Simple but nourishing, this is the kind of food which has sustained generation after generation of families in this town since the conquest. It is perfect for the occasion….except for the strange lack of potatoes.

Duly refreshed, we pile into a small, unlit room for what was for me a real treat, a talk by Don Juan Vicente Ledesma Taoro, President of the Official Association of Guides in Tenerife, and secretary-general of the Spanish Confederation of Professional Tourist Guides.  I have heard him speak before, which is why I know this is going to be seriously good.  I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anyone speak with such passion, authority and wit all at the same time!  He doesn’t disappoint. He gives a compact history/astronomy/science lesson as he rips through his talk, barely pausing for breath, and with all the excitement of a child first captivated by the universe. He ranges from absorbing scientific fact to the stuff of myths and legends of the ancient world. He is part scientist, part actor and he is clearly a movie fan too, references to several movies punctuate his chat, mostly famously he re-enacts a scene from the Lion King, explaining its spiritual and cultural significance, and making everyone laugh, something I remember from the last time I saw him. Afterwards, but not before we do a quick take around the room (which turns out, with lights on, to be a small museum), he does a stroll around the car park, laser pointer in hand, pointing out different stars and planets, constellations and, of course, not forgetting the moon which is now high in the night sky.

At this point I am really very contented, and don’t have the faintest desire to join in the night’s final offering, what is billed as a laughter therapy session.  Whilst I am more than happy to listen to chats and performances and lectures in Spanish I don’t trust my colloquial Spanish enough not to make an utter fool of myself…….. although, perhaps that is the point.  Anyway, Juan Vicente Ledesma is setting up a telescope nearby!  I’ve done laughter therapy in yoga classes, and it was nothing like this.  This is what I remember from the past as being a team building thing, and I’m not entirely sure that I’m not too much of a loner for it anyway, but it’s good to see others enjoying it.  I can see the point, but now that telescope is ready, and there is already a queue.  I stand by and watch Juan Vicente Ledesma as he tirelessly explains to everyone what it is they are seeing, the same words each time five or six times before it is my turn, and adjusting the telescope after every viewing, pointing out where we can see the lunar area named for Tenerife, in homage to its place in astrophysics.  His enthusiasm never wanes, and I find myself envying that.

But our watches are showing something around 2am and we still have almost an hour to drive to where we all met.  The return is filled with laughter and chat, and I appreciate how much these friends mean to me.  We stand for ages, still chatting before getting into our individual cars and going our individual ways.

This morning, as I wake, the smell of smouldering pine permeates my half-dreams and I realize that my hair, my clothes, which lie in a jumble on the floor, and even now my pillow smell of the burning charcoal, but, hey it’s Sunday, so who cares?