And the wind it blows
Well I cried on touchdown. It was the sight of the barren forms of the mountains of Los Ajaches, Lanzarote’s southern massif, and the villages of La Quemada then Puerto Calero coming into view, then the sprawling mass of white cubes that is Puerto del Carmen and the villages in its hinterland. Michelle had the window seat so didn’t notice my tears, but the woman seated to my right, who had been reading a Joanna Harris all flight, couldn’t have missed them. So I turned to her and said, ‘It’s my age.’
I hadn’t spoken to Bernie for the duration of the 4 hour flight, but once she had put down her book, I struck up a conversation, asking her where she was staying and the like. When she returned the inquiry, I hestitated. But the moment I mentioned I was an author and that I had written a novel set on the island, she took note of my name and the title and said she would buy my book straight away. Suddenly, I became aware of a new significance to my being here.
Michelle designated herself as driver. What a relief! I’m a good navigator so we managed to find our way round the capital, Arrecife, and on to the northern road with ease. And I could take in the mountains, the calderas, the ocean. The first thing that struck me was the size of the calderas, made all the greater by their closeness, something lost in a photograph.
According to all my internet searches all supermarkets are closed on Sundays save for those in the tourist south. And since we had driven past all of that and were in open country, our only hope seemed to be a petrol station for some basic supplies, and restaurant meals. We didn’t care that much, both keen to reach our destination, our farmhouse on the very edge of the village of Maguez.
When we neared the fishing village of Arrieta, I suggested we take a look. And there on the corner of the main road in, was an open supermarket! And down a narrow alley, the ocean…
Parking was fun, Michelle forced to drive down the narrow streets so typical of old Lanzarote, bereft of pavements and lined with low-rise dwellings, all whitewashed. She was doing well, having mastered the gear box, the indicators, the strangeness of finding herself on the wrong right side of the road.
The supermarket was well-stocked and had several aisles and a deli at the back. We bought locally grown produce, cheese, bacon cut to order on a meat slicer, wine, both local and Spanish, and other bits and pieces. It was all so inexpensive, so familiar to me. Atun (tuna backwards), champu (if you don’t know what that is, I can’t help you), leche semidesnatada (nata is cream), the whole experience of intuiting meaning came back to me. Along with a strong sense of belonging.
At the checkout I tried out my Spanish, with my usual apologetic caveat about not speaking the language for twenty-six years. Imagine the thrill when the woman smiled and chatted and I understood and she saw that I did, and we had a conversation. At the end she told me there was nothing wrong with the way I spoke. And there I stood; I’d come home.
I’ve come home to the mountains, the ocean, the wind, the ever present wind, to the palm trees, the lava, the buildings and, the people.
We loaded up the car and headed up the steep sided valley to the little plateau nestled in the mountains, the location of Haria, and Maguez. More narrow streets, this time a warren, but with the caldera of La Corona ever present in the north, it was easy to find our way.
It was when we arrived that we knew it had been more than worth the trek, not only across the globe, but the island too, for the house is magnificent.
Ten foot ceilings, walls of stone two foot thick, spacious rooms, and just for us. So I’m seated here at the large table, with Michelle opposite, the chocodate tin open between us, with the cool wind howling through the shutters, the scudding clouds releasing flurries of light rain, with all of our two week stay ahead of us, happy and fulfilled.
Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: Canary Islands, Lanzarote, Odyssey Books, The Drago Tree, Travel blog, Travel diary
