Islandmomma

Exploring the Stories of the Islands and the Freedoms of Third Age


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Travel by Color: London is Red!

Do you ever see places as colors? I do and it struck me as a new way to look at destinations. Perhaps I will turn this into some kind of series of posts, but for now I have to tell you that I went to London just over a week ago expecting it to be golden and brown, the hues of its parks in Autumn but  this year it was red.

Of Poppies and Debts

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Biggest reason for the shades of crimson  was the utterly stunning art work at the Tower of London “Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red,” dedicated to those who fell during WW1 in this 100-year anniversary of its beginning. I’d been yearning to see this, as I’d watched it develop over the internet for weeks and weeks, but didn’t think there was enough in the kitty to go. Happily for me, at the very last-minute there was a bit extra, plus Ryanair flights from Nimes in France, where I was staying, to Luton. So off I went.

My early childhood was peppered with the names “Our Arnie” and “Our Irving,” brothers my grandmother had lost in WW1. Of course, as a baby boomer, stories of WW2 were much more current and plentiful for me, but I used to wonder what nana’s brothers had been like. Forever young, had they borne any resemblance to the crusty, old siblings of hers that I met on my “holidays” to the stern, mill-dominated landscapes around Halifax in Yorkshire? My family, I should, explain, was the old-fashioned sort, who “didn’t talk” about anything which stirred the emotions, so I found out very little.  Still it was moving to know that there were two poppies there in that magnificent display which represented members of my family.

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For anyone who didn’t hear about the project; one ceramic poppy was placed in the moat of the Tower of London for every British and colonial life which was lost in WW1. They spilled from a window, and drained like lifeblood into the moat. The scale was much huger than I had guessed from photos on the internet. Powerful imagery. Powerful reminder of the futility of war, and was there ever a war so futile as that one? Already, today, half of them have been gathered up and have been sold for the benefit of military charities like the marvelous and historic British Legion or the more recent and equally marvelous Hope for Heroes. At 9am on Saturday morning, my son, Guy, and I had hoped to be ahead of the crowds, but we’d underestimated the public desire to see this tribute to the fallen, and although I would like to have gotten closer, taken better photos, it was heartening to know that.

Bought my poppy from the Pearly Kings & Queens in Covent Garden

Bought my poppy from the Pearly Kings & Queens in Covent Garden

Just as warming, was seeing how almost everyone was proudly wearing a red poppy. This custom dates back to 1918, and although it’s not observed in the US for Veterans’ Day, it was, apparently, an American lady named Moira Michael who began it, although the legend of the poppies which grew amidst the horrors of the battlefields in Flanders was recorded in eloquent poetry, most famously by Laurence Binyon, in the lines:

“Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning

We will remember them.”

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Strolling through the city on Sunday afternoon, after watching the celebration, observing the silence at the 11th minute of the 11th hour, on tv, it was humbling to see proud chests wearing medals amongst the crowds. Of course, there are now no survivors of WW1, but still so many from WW2 and subsequent battles, whatever the rights and wrongs of some of those fights, we owe a debt to these guys which goes way beyond our comprehension as civilians.

And Other Redness

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Red is the color of Paddington Bear’s hat! Well, normally! Right now until the end of December 50 likenesses of our childhood hero are dotted around London, on the Paddington Trail, each “dressed” by a famous personality. Some of them are probably only know to Brits, or at least I should say residents of UK, because I didn’t know them all, but you will recognize names like Ben Wishaw, Sandra Bullock and Liam Gallagher who lent their talents. At the end of the display they will be auctioned off for charity, and in the meantime if you take a snap of yourself or family with one of the bears, you can enter a competition to win a weekend in London :)  This was our entry!   Any votes greatly appreciated!!!!

Bright red bow around the Christmas tree at Covent Garden

Bright red bow around the Christmas tree at Covent Garden

Red was also the predominant color in most store windows, as it is close to the holiday season. Looking for a new winter coat (the last one I bought was …..er….around 30 years ago! So little do I need one!) in Marks and Spencer it seemed like a sea of scarlet, and, yes, the one I bought was red. You can just see the collar in the photo Guy snapped of me at the NFL game at Wembley. Where the event featured the British Legion again, and more poppies.

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Poppies at Wembley Stadium

Poppies at Wembley Stadium

The day before I arrived the Oxford Street Christmas lights had been switched on, and whilst they seemed to be mostly white and shimmery from what I saw, red is also the color of Christmas, which we toasted in Starbucks, me with Gingerbread latte (no chestnut nor pumpkin :( ) and Guy with hot chocolate – in, of course, a red cup!

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And finally an apology : Most of the photos were taken with my awful little Samsung phone, and not even approaching the quality I would like, even from a mobile phone. Still, there for the memories :)

 


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When Home Isn’t Quite the Right Word: The Seeds of my Wanderlust

The pilot warns us to buckle up because we are on final approach, and I glance out of the window. This view, this is why I bagged a window seat. Ascending from the ripples of the Atlantic, swathed around its midriff by a drift of white clouds is Tenerife. My island. My home. From its core rises El Teide, darkly against ocean and clouds, guarding its terrain, chiding me for my absence.

I have to wonder sometimes why I roam. This island fulfils so many of my needs, not all, but then, I’ve come to the conclusion that nowhere ever can; or at least that my chances of finding my personal Shangri-La are diminishing with time. Yet the need to roam is in my blood, because I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel this way. Another month and my feet will itch again. I know it.

Wanderlust fulfilled in the 70s in the South of France

Wanderlust fulfilled in the 70s in the South of France

I’ve tried to trace my longing back. Is it something I acquired or something with which I was born? I’m inclined to think the latter. There was a time when I blamed television. We got our first television set in 1953 for two reasons. One: Blackpool Football Club was playing in the FA Cup Final and Two: Queen Elizabeth ll’s Coronation was in June. That June I was six and a half years old, and long after the fun of dressing up as a princess, pretending to ride in a golden carriage had worn off, another image was still imprinted on my brain, a picture of a huge, snow-covered mountain towering into the blue heavens, and I wanted to see it in real life. The Coronation coincided with the first summit of Everest, and my imagination was on fire.

Over the next few years television fuelled the fire, Cisco Kid galloping free across the US west, David Attenborough in search of dragons, Flipper apparently happily surfing the warm waters of Florida, the team from Sea Quest exploring the ocean, Armand and Michaela Dennis getting up close with the exotic animals of Africa. I acted out scenes and invented more amongst the long grasses of the half of my granddad’s market garden that he didn’t cultivate. I think I ran just a little bit wild.

First coin in the fountain in 1967

First coin in the fountain in 1967

Third coin tossed to the gods of Trevi in 2004

Third coin tossed to the gods of Trevi in 2004

Not only TV but books egged me on Anne of Green Gables called me to Canada, the Swiss Family Robinson to live on a desert island in a tree house (still a dream that one!), Little Women hinted at life in the US (and left me with an undying curiosity about the American Civil War). At one point I decided to become a missionary, and have no doubt that had more to do with wanting to see Africa than any deep religious convictions; at another time, by contrast and inspired by our annual visit to Blackpool Tower Circus, I decided to run away and join a travelling show –the gypsy lifestyle had lots of appeal.

Dream come true carriage ride in Rome in 1967

Dream come true carriage ride in Rome in 1967

Into my teen years I watched TV and movies as much for the locations as for the plots or stars. In my mind I traveled to Paris and Rome with Audrey Hepburn, to the mountains of Austria with Julie Andrews, to Russia with Omar Sharif and to just about every state in the US. When my first chance to step onto foreign soil came I was ready.

Me and my several petticoats on the left

Me and my several petticoats on the left

That opportunity came by way of a school exchange to Solingen in the north of Germany. My parents must have scrimped and saved to let me go, and there was no money for a new suitcase, so I traveled with a heavy, old, brown leather one, which had been my dad’s. Strapped to the outside was my tennis racket. This girl was going to seize every opportunity that presented itself on this trip, and wasn’t going to miss a game of tennis because she didn’t have a racket! A little under an hour into the journey I realized my folly as I struggled over the bridge which connected platforms on Preston station, but happily this was back in the day when gentlemen still came to the rescue of a girl in distress, and it happened again as I plodded along the platform of a Tube station to change stations for the Dover train and the exotic. The time in Germany passed in a swirl of new tastes, scents, customs and sights. Travel was everything I dreamed it would be, despite turning green apparently (I have that on good authority and I certainly felt it!) on the Ostend ferry, and feeling gauche in my layered petticoats (all the rage in England, but not so much in Germany).

Solo to Germany at 18 and rocking the Jackie Kennedy look

Solo to Germany at 18 and rocking the Jackie Kennedy look

When it came to my first solo trip at 18 I was more than ready, I’d already lived it in my head over and over again. I was just on the cusp of when we used to “dress” to travel, so I bought a Jackie Kennedy hat and a neat suit, and thought I was the bee’s knees. I also missed my first opportunity to get bumped to first class because the flight was overbooked, and I was offered a flight to Cologne instead of Düsseldorf to where I was booked. What was I thinking???’

Emigrating came naturally to me. I read blogs about the pitfalls and the angsting and I don’t get it. It was simply long, long-term travel. Something I’ve learned about myself of late though it this. I am not a nomad. I can travel for months without feeling homesick, but there comes a point when I crave the familiar. I’m not sure that homesick is the right word, it’s a need for tranquillity and for people, rather than for place, but one has to store ones possession somewhere, and so I come back to the Canary Islands, and when I see the mountain rising from the seas it feels something like home.

The ultimate dream come true, riding the Orient Express which remains one of my best travel memories

The ultimate dream come true, riding the Orient Express which remains one of my best travel memories

Travel has changed one heck of a lot in the intervening years, even in the years since I became an “expat.” Now we dress for comfort, travel like sardines, at least on short haul and if we can’t afford better. I’ve stayed in five star hotels and grotty hostels. I’ve traveled light and I’ve traveled with the “kitchen sink.” I have yet to do a long boat trip, but I’ve done a couple in small Cessna. I’ve traveled with my family, with friends and solo. I’ve seen so much more of the world than my mom ever did, but already my sons have been to places I still yearn to see. Eating lunch in a sunny square in France the other day with a dear friend, one with whom I’d shared that first trip years ago, we mused about how we’d seen ourselves evolving back then. Would we have predicted how this moment in time would find us – both expats, and her journey having been even more exotic than mine? I realized then that the journey will never be done. There are so very many places still to see, experiences to share, tales to tell. I still haven’t seen Everest for a start.

The Orient Express took us to Venice. A never-to-be-forgotten trip.

The Orient Express took us to Venice. A never-to-be-forgotten trip 


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Mistakes and Successes with Accommodation on the Road

When your travels are dictated by budget but still have to cope with a medium-sized, elderly dog there are complications you don’t have otherwise. As I found out, finding accommodation, even for one night, with a dog isn’t as easy as you might think. I’d actually been pretty lucky up to that point.

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A year ago slow travel was my only option, because rental prices are far cheaper for long term than for vacation rental. 3 months is the accepted minimum stay to qualify as long term in the Canary Islands. I was hoping to be able to arrange accommodation in advance, but prepared to sleep in my van for a while if necessary, or even from choice if the going got financially tough. I hadn’t even left Tenerife when I realized that wasn’t going to happen. Even after I’d dwindled by stuff down, there was no way there would have been enough room for Trix and I plus everything else to sleep in there! Lesson learned, not ruling out future sleeping in van trips, but not on this one!

La Gomera: A private apartment

My alarm clock was the crowing of roosters and the bleating of lambs. At night, my lullaby was the croaking of hundreds of frogs in the barranco nearby. I wondered if I was in paradise.

Just a year ago I walked into my apartment in La Gomera, and couldn’t believe my luck. I’d seen it online, but it was even more idyllic than its photos, and situated in a historic church square to boot. It was the sort of place you dream about finding when you’re travelling! Finding it had been pure serendipity. Recommended by pupils, who’d been recommended by the brother of a previous pupil, who’d been recommended by my son’s friend, it had been one of those delightful coincidences we love to think of as twists of fate.

The lower half of a historic house, turned into a two bedroom studio – there was a double and a single bedroom, separated by curtains, rather than doors, and when I saw the bed that was to be mine for the next three months (or so I thought, that 3 months turned into 5 and then I added another month in spring), it almost took away my breath.

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The midday sun streamed in through the casement window as I put my bags down, and I noticed a huge plate of sponge cake, and a bowl of delicious nisperos on the kitchen table, a gift from my landlady, and within the hour her daughter had arrived with an overflowing bag of juicy, ripe mangoes…yes, I did pinch myself to make sure it was all real!

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At that time I was kind of on a roll. Fresh from simply wonderful times in France, England and Ireland, I didn’t even fall into my bad habit of thinking that the next event would burst my bubble. I just drifted along with it, and nothing spoiled it until the excessive rains in the New Year! That apartment being so great was a part of the feeling of euphoria that I rode for weeks on end. Apart from the gorgeous bedroom, the kitchen had everything I needed, I was able to store the ridiculous amount of stuff I’d packed in the spare room, (which I suppose is why I didn’t realized I’d packed way too much until later on the trip), the water pressure in the shower was great, and there was a dryer as well as a washing machine. To add icing to my cake the TV picked up lots of my favorite shows, and I could change the language to English.

Sitting outside the apartment just before we left La Gomera for the first time.

Sitting outside the apartment just before we left La Gomera for the first time.

An important factor was that it was perfect for Trixy, although it was a short, steep walk to get to the road; we both soon got used to that, and within a week we were taking it at a run. My alarm clock was the crowing of roosters and the bleating of goats. The croaking of hundreds of frogs lulled me to sleep. The ocean was a five-minute drive, capital and port San Sebastian was about 40 minutes away, even on one of those mysterious, mist-filled mornings. Good, and I mean GOOD eateries were 3 or 4 minutes away. The beauty of this apartment was the intense privacy too; excepting the odd tourist who assumed that the place was a part of the historic church surroundings (it was but not for the public!), and important local fiestas, I saw almost no-one, could disturb no-one, and my life was entirely my own. My only problem was lack of wifi. I’d bought a mobile modem, which worked a treat –just not in the apartment, where my telephone signal was also sketchy…..all those mountains of course. I learned that La Gomera is famous for its lack of mobile facilities! Still, sitting on the beach or in a picnic area, or in a local bar became a very acceptable way to work!

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Do you wonder that I extended my stay by three months? (OK there were other factors, but being entirely happy there was a huge part of it!).

Fuerteventura: Homestay

I’d scarcely unpacked when I was invited to a local bar for their regular Friday night get together, where animated conversation and jokes flowed with the local beer.

More serendipity resulted in my next accommodation. My landlady, and by now friend, had family in Fuerteventura who recommended a homestay to me, which sounded perfect, and the idyll continued, and so it turned out to be.

As I approached Las Playitas on the island’s southeast coast I was impressed by all the sporty folk, walking, running and cycling along the running/cycle track alongside the last, long curve into the village. It turned out that these people all stayed at the sports hotel on the opposite side of the bay where Las Playitas shelters, and the original village was a mishmash of low, white, old buildings, and a scattering of modern houses and apartments. My home stay was one of the latter.

It was my first time sharing a home with strangers, and the success of it makes me now realize how fraught with problems it might be. My hosts were a mother and daughter, intelligent, fun and active, as well as kind and helpful. I couldn’t have asked for better companions for the two-month stay I’d booked. I’d scarcely unpacked when I was invited to a local bar for their regular Friday night get together, where animated conversation and jokes flowed with the local beer. I was invited to a barbeque, and a cheese tasting (one of them had just returned from France); we laughed over a Japanese lunch in Puerto del Rosario, and I was taken to meet a local potter, whose home I would never have bee able to find on my own. They surpassed any standards for being perfect hosts, and made me very welcome.

Las Playitas

Las Playitas

My room had its own terrace, although I quickly realized that it was a mixed blessing in a place as windy as Fuerteventura. One theory as to the origin of the island’s name is that it comes from fuerte meaning strong, and viento meaning wind. A purple, gauze curtain fluttered across the full-length windows, letting in a radiant morning light, but shading from the full force of the sun as it moved across the bay. It proved to be a great place to work, using the house’s wifi too. I had my own beautifully tiled bathroom, and was offered use of everything in the kitchen, although I only ever used the fridge. I could have asked for nothing more.

That said, there were downsides. Firstly, visiting even close friends with your pet can be a problem. Trixy was petted and accepted, both by my hosts and their own, two dogs; she ate well, and didn’t seem at all fazed by the change in our living arrangements. I, however, was. The owners’ dogs slept in the garage, which was clean and dry. Trix had her own bed in a comfy corner, but coming from small apartments, where I could hear her breathing, her occasional snoring and those funny noises dogs make when they dream, I missed her more than expected. I’d known what the arrangements were beforehand, and it hadn’t worried me, so I was surprised at my reaction. I also worried whenever I heard the sound of the garden gate. Its latch frequently didn’t take, and people constantly left it open. The other two dogs would seize their chance to escape and would hightail it out of there, waddling off up the hillside or into the village in search of adventure. Trix was too old for that kind of adventure, but would wander into the street, and deaf as she is I was scared that a car might hit her. In La Gomera she had spent a lot of time with me as I explored, but I could also leave her behind if it was too hot, or if I was going to museums or restaurants where dogs weren’t allowed. In Fuerteventura she became my constant companion, limiting what I could do sometimes. Whilst I enjoyed having her with me so much, I know I missed out on things too.

Trixy aside, a homestay isn’t something I would choose to do again as long term accommodation, though I am definitely up for it as short term. Great as my hosts were, I had a certain sense of creeping around, not because of anything they said or did, but because their hours were different to mine. One of them worked shifts in fact, so I was never quite sure if she was sleeping or not. Then there are the manners concerned with sharing a kitchen. No one I’ve ever known who has shared a house has not had some degree of problem with this. Short term it really isn’t important, but long term, and it can become irritating.

Lanzarote: Resort Apartment

My invite from Sands Beach was so open and unstructured that I was able to plan my own schedule, and factor in work time too.

Halfway through my stay in Fuerteventura I was invited to stay at the Sands Beach Resort in Lanzarote’s Costa Teguise. It’s a chance I would have jumped at in any circumstances, but in the circumstance I was in, it also provided me with some breathing space and privacy for a while. I can’t praise Sands Beach enough. My luck was still holding, and I was riding that wave of euphoria that I jumped on back in September of last year yet again. One day I know, the odds are that I will be offered a blog trip and something will be wrong. So far I have had the amazing good fortune to have been offered only trips and meals I can genuinely praise without reservation. My invite from Sands Beach was so open and unstructured that I was able to plan my own schedule, and factor in work time too. Couldn’t have been better.

And this was my view on my first evening as the sun slide into the Atlantic

And this was my view on my first evening as the sun slide into the Atlantic

Of course, unlike the rest of my trip it was a short-term stay, but I genuinely want to go back for longer one day in the not too distant future. The combination of airy and light apartment, wonderful views out to the coast, and the warmth of the staff made it memorable. I also enjoyed having the eating choices available to me too, whether on site in the hotel, in the excellent nearby restaurants, or using the modern, well equipped kitchen, all of which I did. It was such a great place to come back to on the days I spent out and about exploring the island.

La Palma: Rural Apartment

That night I lay awake, wondering whether I could afford to blow the month’s rent I’d just paid, too weary to begin looking for alternatives that day, imagining forest fires and volcanic eruptions, lizards tumbling from the wooden ceiling or spiders attacking me if I slept.

Before going to La Palma, I stopped off for another month in La Gomera to enjoy some family time, and hopefully catch up with the photography that the bad winter had curtailed. The family time was wonderful, but the photography was not to be. My favorite auntie died in May, and I returned to England for a while for the funeral and to catch up with family there.

Eventually, I set off for La Isla Bonita in early June. My arrival was the disaster I wrote about. So, whether it was the bad beginning, my aunt’s death, or that the accommodation I’d booked was really as bad as I remember, that finally burst my bubble, I can’t say.

When I arrived in Las Tricias I had a vague feeling of discontent and weariness, which hit bottom when I opened the door to my reserved apartment. Again, I’d had recommendations, though perhaps this time they were a bit less tenuous, and I still wonder, had I still been floating, whether my reaction would have been the same.

Although the apartment was the lower section of the owner’s own house, it was completely private, even with its own kind of terrace and garden area – perfect for Trixy in fact. On closer inspection it was clear that this part of the house had comprised storage rooms, and a lean-to garden shed. The furnishings reminded me of the museums I’d seen in Ireland of impoverished fishermen’s or farm workers dwellings, where the bed was the main feature of the living room. It all looked as if it had been rescued from the village dump, and nature was quite freely invading what was supposed to be my space. I’d indicated 3 months when I’d been looking, but the owner, I think, sensed my dismay, and agreed to the trial month I suggested – or maybe she’d been there before!

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That night I lay awake, wondering whether I could afford to blow the month’s rent I’d just paid, too weary to begin looking for alternatives that day, imagining forest fires and volcanic eruptions, lizards tumbling from the wooden ceiling or spiders attacking me if I slept. I woke, after brief and fitful sleep, to realize that losing a month’s rent was too stupid for words, when I had a roof over my head, a garden for Trixy to root in, and a terrace which wasn’t at all unpleasant to sit once the sun had come around…it rises late over on the west coast of La Palma.

I found the nearest supermarket, bought cleaning materials and insect repellents and set about making it as decent as needed, scrubbing kitchen sink and bathroom, washing bed linen, and crockery, and finally sat to enjoy my first meal in the sunshine, as birds serenaded, and kittens eyed us suspiciously from all around.

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Needless to say, wifi, even a reasonable cell phone signal was impossible again, but my landlady proved to be kind, bringing me wine, and local cheese, and cake from time to time, as well as fresh eggs from the chickens she kept, which I heard but never did see. She was one of those people who seem to be “elsewhere” most of the time, for whatever reason I can only speculate, and I learned to avoid her unless I wanted to settle for a long chat, but she was kind, and I had the sense that she really didn’t know how awful the apartment was.

After a while, even the lizards who lived in the roof space seemed to stop resenting our presence, and life settled to a routine. A part of the routine was taking all my electronics with me when I left the house, since the doors didn’t lock properly, and at least if they were stolen from my car they would be covered by insurance! In fact, most of my possessions stayed in the car throughout my stay for that same reason. The car lived on the roadside at the top of a steep, steep driveway. I brought it down on the first day, and truly thought I would never get it out. Eventually I had to drive right over my landlady’s garden to use her drive on the other side of the house – clearly I wasn’t the first person to do that either!

Ceverzeria Isla Verde in Tijarafe which quickly became my favorite place to eat in La Palma

Ceverzeria Isla Verde in Tijarafe which quickly became my favorite place to eat in La Palma

My impressions of La Palma have been so colored by that apartment, both in itself and its situation that I’ve written very little about my time there. I feel that my memories of what is an island of breathtaking landscapes are unfair, and intend to rectify that in the not too distant future, hopefully from a less disgruntled and biased viewpoint. Las Tricias is probably not the best place to stay to get to know La Palma. Even by standards on the world’s steepest island, where everywhere else is a drive and half away, it is remote. In early summer the long grasses that fill every roadside are crisp and yellow, and are cut back against the fire risk by gangs of men who seemed to be out from dawn to dusk. The nearest real supermarket is a 40 minute drive away in Tazacorte, although Spar shops abound, where I was frequently admonished to “have a nice day” – something which rarely happens in Tenerife. I eventually found some nice places to eat, where I could use my mobile modem, though there was nowhere with wifi.

To be honest, at the end of the month, I couldn’t wait to get away. The struggle to get online, the distances I needed to travel to get somewhere else, the repetition of covering the same routes day after day to get to those places just added to my angst over the depressing apartment. My knee was beginning to hurt again, and Trixy clearly had some aches and pains …. and so, we are where we are.

Only half way through our trip I at least know what to avoid on the remainder when we start out again. No more housestays, unless they are short; no more accepting that somewhere is dog-friendly because it says so online without ringing first to confirm; and, I think, no more booking long term without seeing it first. I’d been exceedingly lucky, I know. It could have been much worse. Next time, unless I have a clear and sure recommendation from someone who knows a property firsthand, I will book somewhere short term to give me time to look around. It will increase the costs, but at least I will be able to sleep the first night!


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Fuerteventura an Overview: Can it survive modern tourism?

Arrival

Arriving in Fuertenventura’s capital, Puerto del Rosario, on the overnight ferry, my bones still felt the chill of a damp winter in La Gomera, or was it the cramp of fitful sleep? A bunk had seemed like a luxury at the time of booking, but the previous night, I saw cabin keys being doled out to the dozens of truck drivers, who clearly make this run regularly, and wished I’d splurged on one. Even so, I’d guessed sleep might have been elusive, making a bunk a waste of money.

fuerteventura landscape

Down below Trix was still snoring when I slid the van door open. By now a fearless ferry traveller, she lapped up her water, and minutes later we were rumbling over the echo-y ramps and off the boat.

Odd how the mind stores stuff without us realizing; it was over 20 years since I’d visited this Canary Island, but my sense of direction nudged me, rightly, south. I didn’t have a map at this stage – part of the adventure. When we got to a suitable spot on the edge of town, we stopped, stretched our legs. The sun was rising rapidly, and had reached that point when you feel its first warmth on your skin, when the day really takes off. Absolutely unfazed by the strangeness of heat after a long winter, Trix gobbled her breakfast. I marvelled, as I had before, at her trust in me. No indication of nervousness at being in a strange location.

That warmth was what had brought us here at this stage of our trip. My original plan had been to explore La Palma and El Hierro, before heading to the easterly islands for winter, assuming them to be warmer; but two months of damp and almost unceasing rain, and I had a need for sunshine. I am nothing if not adaptable – it said so on the letter of recommendation I had from my headmistress when left school, (though how she knew I never understood). Plan B it was then, Fuerteventura, miles of white sand beaches, and a reputation as the warmest, windiest of this island chain.

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Battle For The Net

If you woke up tomorrow, and your internet looked like this, what would you do? Imagine all your favorite websites taking forever to load, while you get annoying notifications from your ISP suggesting you switch to one of their approved “Fast Lane” sites.Think about what we would lose: all the weird, alternative, interesting, and enlightening stuff that makes the Internet so much cooler than mainstream Cable TV. What if the only news sites you could reliably connect to were the ones that had deals with companies like Comcast and Verizon?On September 10th, just a few days before the FCC’s comment deadline, public interest organizations are issuing an open, international call for websites and internet users to unite for an “Internet Slowdown” to show the world what the web would be like if Team Cable gets their way and trashes net neutrality. Net neutrality is hard to explain, so our hope is that this action will help SHOW the world what’s really at stake if we lose the open Internet.If you’ve got a website, blog or tumblr, get the code to join the #InternetSlowdown here: https://battleforthenet.com/sept10thEveryone else, here’s a quick list of things you can do to help spread the word about the slowdown: http://tumblr.fightforthefuture.org/post/96020972118/be-a-part-of-the-great-internet-slowdown Get creative! Don’t let us tell you what to do. See you on the net September 10th!

via Battle For The Net.


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“Believe You Can” is Marieke Vervoort’s Motto: Something We Should All Remember!

Traveling is good for you; it broadens the mind; it opens us to experiences, opinions, and ways of life we are unlikely to see if we don’t stir from our hometowns; it makes us more tolerant of different opinions, and raises our general knowledge and our empathy for others. Mark Twain famously said

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.”

Passionate as I am about landscapes and seascapes, the best travel memories always come back to the people I meet. It might be the waiter who makes you laugh, the good old guys playing dominoes outside the bar you stop to joke with, or the kindness of strangers who go out of their way to put you back on the right road when you are lost. Sometimes people who are totally extraordinary cross your path, making your travel really inspiring.

In April in Lanzarote I met someone who is, simply, one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met. Meeting her was an experience not to be forgotten. Her name is Marieke Vervoort, which is likely a name you don’t know unless you are familiar with her world of Paralympic competition. This story is as full of positivity, determination, focus and inspiration as you will find anywhere.

Until she became ill at 14, Marieke lived the active life of a sporty, teenage girl. Without warning, in 1993 a, then, mysterious illness struck. It is rare, it is degenerative, it is progressive and incurable.  By the turn of the century she had lost the use of her legs, and the condition, which few in her home country, Belgium, suffer, had confined her to a wheelchair. To use the word “suffer” in the same breath as her name seems a bit insulting. She does, but she takes it in her stride, deals with each day as it comes.

Marieke Vervoort

 

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Things I Learned from My Islands Trip: No.3 My Need to be Near the Ocean!

 

The lush and very beautiful Hermigua valley in La Gomera

The lush and very beautiful Hermigua valley in La Gomera

I’d long been aware that I had the good fortune to live somewhere so easy to enjoy both ocean and mountain scenery. Running through my list of pros and cons of continuing to use Tenerife as a base (and there hasn’t been one year in the 27 I’ve spent here that I have not done that), it ties for first place with the pleasant climate. But now I have that same certainty about the seas that Juanjo has about the mountains. I’m lucky I don’t have to choose, but if I ever did, I know which one makes my heart beat that bit faster.

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