Garachico

[Mac]

We leave Puerto Cruz late, delayed by the remains of the Guanches -
the surprisingly resilient primitive residents who resisted the
Spanish for quite a while longer than their South American
counterparts before similarly succombing to disease and bloody-minded
colonialism.

And then west to Icod de los Viños to look at a tree - a bit ironic
really, as we live on the edge of the biggest forest in the UK. But
this is The Dragon Tree, the oldest and biggest of its kind, sort of a
giant Venus Fly Trap (not in appearance!) in that it attracts hordes
of tourists and sucks them dry. Mrs Mac is in acute danger of having
her purse emptied by the various expensive products of its blood-red
sap, but we are saved by an avalanche of Germans, and escape with our
money and sanity almost intact, and wander off up into the hills.

The high mirador picnic stop has a view of almost all of the populous
northern coast, more or less thickly dotted with white houses on the
green slopes, towards the Anaga mountains in the northeast. This is
where I sort of intended to go next, but we sort of didn't, and landed
in nearby Garachico instead.

Garachico has been a long time recovering from the night in 1706 when
a stream of lava from the erupting 'Black Volcano' set half the town
on fire and engulfed the harbour, destroying at a stroke its status as
the most important port on the north coast. You'd have expected the
inhabitants to have upped and left, but no, they struggled on, and on,
in poverty, until now at last they have a gem of a town, a core of
narrow cobbled streets and and elegant old houses having survived the
eruption, thriving on low-key tourism, saved by lack of beaches and
space from the apartment blocks and banana plantations of the
surrounding coast.

The twin lava flows which ruined the town are still clearly visible,
and climbing the steep path through the jumbled scree, the distance
and height gradually silence the sound of the sea and the car horns,
bells and occasional fireworks of a small Canarian town preparing for
a fiesta.

The Pension Jardín is one of the elegant original houses, but is also
possibly the most ramshackle place we have ever stayed in. Apparently
there is a fierce and ongoing argument between the owners about
whether to modernise or not, resulting in a time-warp of threadbare
carpets and battered furniture, missing doorknobs and rickety
stairways. I reckon the decision will be made when a guest falls
through one of the holes in the floorboards. It certainly has
character.

¡Medianoche! Debo dejar escribir.

Mac