The next day I was due to move to my villa on the south west coast of Madeira. The weather in Santana was still very cloudy, but as soon as I had driven down to the south coast, the clouds were replaced by bright sunshine.  The road seemed to consist almost entirely of tunnels.  I couldn’t check in to my villa until 1 o’clock, so I made a short stop to visit Ribiera Brava, a pretty coastal town where I bought some food.

I then abandoned the highway and its endless tunnels for a slower winding mountain road, and I was rewarded by some spectacular views. My villa was in a small village called Faja da Ovelha, strung out over a steep hill which descended to the sea.

The village was tiny, with a church and a small bar but no shops.  After checking in I enjoyed the view of the ocean from my terrace and then decided to take the steep path down to the village of Paul do Mar on the coast.  The path gave a magnificent view of the mountains and the sea.

Paulo do Mar is a traditional fishing village but is also a surfing centre and had a few bars aimed at the surfer community. I stopped at the first bar I found and ordered a cold cocktail.  The heat and the sound of the waves breaking against the sea wall made me feel very lazy, so instead of continuing my walk into the centre of the village, I ordered another cocktail.

A van stopped to deliver bread to the bar; in this part of Madeira people get their daily bread from this van, so I followed the local tradition and bought a loaf for 50c.  The trip back to the villa was much slower than the trip down. The sun was now lower down on the horizon, and its warmth seemed to beam horizontally across the ocean directly onto the path.  When I got back to the villa I was sweating heavily.  I relaxed in a sunlounger for a bit and then cooked myself a huge tasty tuna steak for dinner – Madeira is a fish lover’s paradise.

The next day the weather forecast was not great, but all the same the sun was shining when I woke up. The webcam site showed the weather in the north and centre was indeed bad, so I decided to visit the small seaside villages near my villa. The area is far off the usual tourist circuit and a long way (by Madeira standards) from the island’s main attractions. First, I drove to Paul do Mar, this time visiting the old centre, away from the surfers’ places. A maze of narrow streets led parallel to the sea and below towering cliffs to a small harbour.

There I was met by a simple statue of a man staring out to sea, which had been commissioned by the local fishing captains and somehow seemed to perfectly capture the relationship between man, the land and the sea.

The next village along the coast was called Jardim do Mar and had long sea front path as well as a similar maze of small streets and colourful buildings. I stopped in a bar for a snack, enjoying the pleasant warmth and the gurgle of water running down the “Levada” running through the town. These small channels carry water from the mountainous centre of Madeira to the drier coast; many of them have walking paths running along their banks, which form an extensive long-distance hiking network around the island.  

My final stop was Calheita, the next town along the coast. It was completely different, smart and modern, with a couple of large hotels and harbour filled with yachts. I enjoyed watchimg the ocean waves beating against, and occasionally over, the harbour wall before visiting the supermarket to do my shopping for the week. Although 30 minutes’ drive away, this was the closest large shop to my villa. There isn’t much to do in this part of Madeira but I was really enjoying taking things slowly and listening to the wind and the sea. Back at the villa I enjoyed a glass of red wine whilst looking out over the ocean.  The welcome leaflet left by the owners said that sometimes you could see whales, and they had left some powerful binoculars for guests.

I couldn’t see any whales today, but it was fun looking. Maybe tomorrow. Here, it feels like “tomorrow” is the answer to everything.

Before starting my blog, a few words are in order to illustrate the difficulty of travelling during the global Covid epidemic and explain how I chose to visit Madeira, a little-known tourist destination. I had to go to Paris in October and was determined to avoid a repeat of two weeks’ quarantine  on my return to the UK that I had had to do in the summer. I decided to spend time in a second, “approved” country instead of returning straight to the UK. Most of the countries on the approved list were in northern Europe and not somewhere worth going in October, but Italy was still on the list so I booked to spend two weeks on the Amalfi Coast. But then the president of the Campania Region said that all arriving travellers at Naples airport would have to do a Covid test and be quarantined until they got the result. My flight was scheduled to arrive very late, and who knows how long I would have to wait for a test at the airport or how long they might take to give me results. My Italian friends advised me to change my plans, so  I cancelled everything and booked to go to Madeira instead. 

Madeira is a group of volcanic islands located off the coast of Africa. Even the largest island is not very big – only 50km long by 20km wide.  The islands were discovered and colonised by Portugal in 1420, but before that had been uninhabited. Today Madeira is known as a tourist destination, which has avoided the massive development of say Tenerife or Majorca, and as the source of Madeira wine. In the Covid era, the islands are now marketing themselves as “Madeira – clean and safe”. There is a complicated system where you do a Covid test before departure and fill in a long health form online. Someone checks everything and you get a QR code on your phone which lets you on to the island without having to do a test at the airport or quarantining.  Having a holiday has never been so much work.

I spent a great few days in Paris in a flat with a view of the Eiffel Tower, enjoying the unique experience of visiting the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay without the crowds.  

I left Paris the day that a new 9pm curfew started and that the UK announced that Italy was no longer on its “exempt from quarantine list” (fist pump!!).  With all the uncertainty and changing rules, I was greatly relieved that my flight left on time and I got thru the Madeira Covid controls with my QR code.  I emerged from the airport into bright sunshine and a temperature of 20C, a welcome improvement on Paris and London.

I picked up my hire car and drove up to the small town of Santana in the east of Madeira. My accommodation was a small bungalow, which had a terrace with sun lounger, hammock…and lot lots of cats.

I bought some wine and pasta in a small local shop and enjoyed the cool evening air sipping my wine and playing with my new feline friends.  They were used to visitors and had worked out a number of cute tricks to wheedle food out of them.  These ranged from the traditional – being cute and asking to be stroked – to the adventurous – run inside as soon as a door is opened, take refuge in a kitchen cupboard and meow pitifully until fed.

During the night I heard the sound of heavy rain and sure enough the next morning there were thick clouds in the sky. Over breakfast the hotel owner told me that the tropical storm Barbara was passing and we would have bad weather for four days.  She recommended me a website which allows you to check the weather with webcams of towns all around Madeira. I thought it was strange to have such a website, but I soon found out why it was set up. Although the island is small, the weather in places only a few km apart can be completely different, and it changes constantly.   However this morning all of the webcams showed the same fuzzy grey picture of thick cloud, so  I  decided to visit the vulcanology centre on the north coast,  where you can visit lave tubes – caves formed when the outside of a flow of lava solidifies whilst the inside continues to flow.  The guidebook described it as a good wet weather option.  The road to get there was tricky – lots of steep climbs and sharp turns, with heavy rain most of the way.  I arrived after about an hour, to find that the centre was shut due to bad weather – the caves flood during heavy rain.  Disappointed I turned back and was rewarded with a small consolation – the sun appeared and revealed the spectacular mountain scenery of the island.  

Back at Santana, I bought some fish for dinner in the local supermarket and visited some of the traditional houses for which the town is known. I am not sure how anyone – even a teddy bear – could ever live in something so small, but they are very pretty. 

I noticed that the weather seemed to be improving.  I checked out the website with the webcams, which showed bright sunshine at the Ponta de Sao Lorenco,  a thin strip of land projecting into the Atlantic Ocean on the east side of the island, and one of Madeira’s national parks.   The road leading there was good, with many tunnels instead of the twisting turns I had negotiated in the morning. Every time I went through a tunnel, the weather at the other end was different, and usually better.  When I arrived at my destination there was bright sunshine, a clear blue sky and a very strong wind, which drove big waves against the colourful red and brown cliffs.   The site was busy and I joined a stream of other walkers on the path to the far eastern point of the island.  The scenery was spectacular, the red and brown cliffs contrasting with a bright blue sky and dark blue sea.

After 3km and lots of stops for photographs, I reached the information centre for the park, which, like everything else I had visited today, was closed.  As might have been expected, the weather then suddenly changed.  First grey clouds covered the sun.  Then came heavy rain, driven in horizontally from the sea by the wind.  Just by opening your mouth and facing the wind you could have a drink of fresh rain water. What had been a muddy path turned into a river, fed by small waterfalls falling from the hills. It might have been pretty if it hadn’t been so………..wet.  It is at times like these that you discover how waterproof your walking gear is – my top was good, but my legs were soon soaked through.  Back at the car I peeled off the wet layers of clothing, removed my shoes and scraped the mud off them.

I drove back to my hotel barefoot and in my underpants, hoping that I wouldn’t be stopped by the police (even though my furry bear body is rather cute…). Back in my room, I hung up my wet clothes in a futile attempt to dry them.  I reflected that the reason that there are very few Covid cases on Madeira is that if anyone coughs of sneezes, any infected droplets are immediately blown to Africa by the ferocious winds. At least dinner was delicious – fresh swordfish with tomatoes and pasta.

Today was the last visiting day of my holiday. It started with a quick visit of a Roman Fort near Hexham.

Then I headed north to the Northumbrian coast, where I parked in the pretty seaside port of Craster, and walked along the coast to visit the ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle.  In its time (it was built in the 14^th century) it must have been huge, and rivalled neighbouring Bamburgh Castle. The castle suffered badly during repeated sieges in the War of the Roses when it changed hands several times between Lancastrian and Yorkist forces. There is not much left now, but it was still impressive, with great views over steep cliffs and the sea.

On one of the cliffs I noticed some cute, teddy-sized, penguin-like birds, which a quick search of the internet revealed were Auks.  I would have gone to say hello, but the cliff looked very steep, so I took photos from a safe distance. 

Back at the port, I enjoyed fresh crab sandwiches and a drink in the local pub, looking over the sea. From Craster I drove north along the coast road; it was a sunny Sunday afternoon and a lot of others had had the same idea.  I stopped briefly in Bamburgh for coffee and to admire the huge castle from the outside. Parts of the castle date from the 11^th century and Norman times and it is amazingly well-preserved.  Unfortunately I didn’t have time to visit, but given the Sunday crowds this might not have been such a good idea anyway.

From Bamburgh I headed further up north to Holy Island, home of the famous ruined abbey of Lindisfarne.  This was established as a monastery in 634AD and was a leading centre of learning and religion for all northern England.  The monastery was probably the first ever place in Europe to be raided by the Vikings, in 793.  Holy Island can only be reached during low tide, and many road signs advise you of safe crossing times and the perils of getting your timing wrong.  There isn’t much left of the abbey any more – yet another ruined abbey to add to my list for this holiday – but the site still somehow has a special feeling to it, and is very photogenic, with a 15^th century castle looming on a hill in the background.

After Lindisfarne, it was time to head on to my next hotel. On the way I passed two other famous castles, Alnwick and Warkworth, but didn’t have time to visit.  The whole area is rich in history – the many castles are a legacy of England’s turbulent relations with the Scots and also the struggle for power between local northern barons and the king.  Appropriately, my last hotel was also a castle – Lumley Castle, built by Sir Ralph Lumsley in 1389.  Sadly Sir Ralph backed the wrong side during one of medieval England’s many power struggles and lost his head shortly after the castle was finished. I ended my holiday in style with a room in the very oldest part of the castle.

The next day was the end of my holiday, and I completed the long drive back down to London. It was a very varied and interesting holiday, despite indifferent weather and Coronavirus restrictions. I will definitely return to Northumberland the Scottish borders – there are easily enough castles and walks to fill a good week of holiday and in two days I only scratched the surface of these little-known destinations. The Lake District was just as beautiful as I remembered it – despite my policy of not visiting the same place many times, I’ll keep my book of Lake District walks, just in case. After all I still haven’t climbed Scafell Pike, England’s highest mountain.

The next day I said farewell to my cottage and set off on a long driving tour into the Scottish borders and then back to Northumbria in England.   I first made a small detour to see the north western part of the Lake District, around Keswick and Buttermere.  This turned out to be a bad idea – the weather was poor, and with the arrival of the weekend, lots of other motorists had the same idea.  I spent most of the time squeezing past oncoming vehicles on the tiny roads rather than looking at the scenery, but I did stop to take a photo of beautiful Buttermere in the rain.

From there I headed straight north up the M6 into Scotland, leaving the motorway at Moffat.  This was a pretty little town, and much less touristy than the Lake District. Scotland had not fully emerged from its Coronavirus lockdown, so some shops were closed and everyone wore masks. I searched hard for a tea or coffee room, like there are all over the Lake District, but couldn’t find even one. In Scotland people seem to do their drinking in pubs (which were open) and drink beer rather than coffee at lunch time.  I also had to search hard for somewhere to buy lunch, but finally found a bakery. After many communication problems caused by face masks and the owner’s broad Scottish accent, I finally managed to order three scones.  A final communication issue arose when I couldn’t believe the price – only £1.65 in total. You’d pay that per scone in London. 

From Moffat I headed off along a country road, through rolling, empty hills. The straight and broad road was a relief after the twisty roads of the Lake District.  I stopped briefly – along with what looked like half of the local borders population – at a local beauty spot called the Mare’s Tail, where there is a pretty waterfall.

Then I headed on through Selkirk to Abbottsford Castle, the home of Sir Walter Scott (author of many classic British novels, such as Ivanhoe and Rob Roy).  The castle was still closed (Coronavirus again) but I spent a very pleasant half hour strolling through the beautiful gardens.

From Abbottsford, I headed on to Melrose, yet another pretty borders town with a nice central square and ruined abbey.

 I searched again in vain for a tea-room, but there were none, not even closed ones. One pub was open, but was full and wouldn’t let me in.  Just outside of Melrose I visited another local beauty spot called Scott’s View- three hills rising out of rolling Scottish countryside.  It was a beautiful sight in the late afternoon sun.

Last on my Scottish excursion was Kelso, another small market-town.  All these towns seem to be built to the same pattern, with a pretty central square and ruined abbey.  I arrived after five o’clock so had no hopes of finding a coffee room open (I didn’t even see a closed one) but did I stumble across a Co-op and stocked up on some snacks and some cans of cold latte to help me drive the remaining two hours to my hotel.

From Kelso my route took me back south to England.  I passed through Jedburgh, which was also supposed to be worth visiting – but it was late and I’d seen enough pretty town squares and ruined abbeys for the day.  The border with England was marked by a Scottish flag and large “Goodbye from Scotland” sign on the Scottish side….and a small inscription “England” on a stone on the other side.

The road continued through rolling hills of the Northumberland National Park and yielded one further interesting detour to see a part of Hadrian’s Wall. 

Hmm, small………Not nearly as impressive as the Great Wall of China (see my very first blog for a description of this), but given that it is nearly 2000 years old it’s still remarkable.  Apparently, there are more extensive sections elsewhere but unfortunately my route didn’t go past them.  I finally arrived at my hotel in Hexham at around 8pm.  I’d picked a really nice hotel, facing………yes, another medieval abbey, only this time still in use as a church.  I had a quick stroll around town – another pretty place, very similar to the others I had visited – before enjoying a surprisingly sophisticated dinner in my hotel’s restaurant.

Thursday’s weather forecast was for more grey cloud and some light rain, so I decided to do a short low level walk instead of climbing another peak.  However, I missed the turning off the main road to the start of the walk and found myself on the road to Barrow. I made a quick decision not to turn back but to carry on and do a driving tour first before the walk. The road left the mountains and then followed a pretty coastal route, before reaching Barrow. I  had expected the city to be poor, and suffering from the collapse of the British shipbuilding industry, but instead it seemed quite active, and had some fine and well-maintained Victorian architecture from its glory days.  On the road back from Barrow I noticed a sign for Furness Abbey, so I decided to visit that.  The abbey used to be the second biggest in England, but was destroyed in the Reformation by Henry VIII.  The remaining ruins were very atmospheric – it helped greatly that I was almost the only visitor. I enjoyed my sandwich lunch  at a pretty spot by a small stream.  By the time I’d finished visiting, there wasn’t time to do my originally planned walk any more, so I headed back to the cottage.

Friday was my last full day in the cottage, and I opted for another classic walk – climbing the Langdale Pikes in the very middle of the Lake District.  I took a roundabout drive to get there, taking the smaller rounds around the west of Lake Windermere.  These turned out to be winding and very narrow, and a real test of my driving skills.  One compensation of my route was the opportunity to visit Hawkshead, a pretty small village with many very nice tea shops.

The hike up to the Langdale Pikes was almost as enjoyable as Helvellyn.  The walk started up a broad valley, surrounding ahead and on each side by  almost sheer mountains, with the distinctive dome-shaped Langdale Pikes on my right. 

Then I climbed up alongside a stream to a plateau, with views out to Scafell to the west.  Next came another climb to Pike o’Stickle mountain and a short, easy, hands and feet scramble up to the top.  The view from there was the very best I’d seen so far – a sheer drop on two sides, views back down the valley to the east, to Scafell to the north west and as far as the sea to the  south-west.  There were even seagulls for company, gliding effortlessly in the stiff breeze. 

The walk was supposed to continue with a climbing of the other “pikes”,  but it was getting late – all that time I spent having tea and cakes in the morning! I thought the view would be pretty much the same from all of the others, so I took a short-cut back down the mountain. I arrived back at the car park in bright sunshine and was very happy to find a nice pub with a beer garden and views of the mountains. I toasted my latest climbing success with a lager shandy and suddenly remembered that this was the first day of the week when I hadn’t rained at all.

The weather forecast of Tuesday was cloud ad rain, so I stayed at home recovering from my conquest of Helvellyn and enjoying the cottage.  I did a little local walk from the cottage to a small nature reserve which apparently was the home to nine types of rare moss. 

Wednesday’s weather was better, and I drove out to a village called Grasmere for another hill walk.   I was now becoming very familiar with Lake District Hill walk – there is usually a bit of walking up a gentle slope alongside a pretty stream, and then a steep climb to enjoy the view from the top of a mountain.  Then a long descent, that at the end becomes more tiring (on the knees especially) than the climb. 

Today’s walk followed this standard pattern but was enriched by some unexpected company.  About half way up the climb, I saw a famer using his dogs to herd sheep down the hill. It was an interesting site and three of the four dogs did their work professionally. The fourth one was more interested in making friends with me.  The farmer shouted “Ned, come on!” several times, but then gave up on his youngest dog team member and headed down the hill.  I continued my walk up with Ned playfully running ahead of me, behind me, or following at my side. 

When I took a rest to catch my breath, he’d roll around beside me on his back, tummy in the air, expecting a tickle.   Ned followed me all the way to the top of the hill, from where  the usual spectacular view was enhanced by a glimpse of the sea to the west. 

I enjoyed Ned’s company but was getting a bit worried – surely the farmer would want him back?  What would do I if he followed me all the way back to Grasmere, I couldn’t take him with me.  In the end Ned solved the problem himself but attaching himself to another couple of walkers I met on the way down.  I hurried off  downhill and out of sight before he changed his mind.

On the way back home, I stopped in an upmarket supermarket and bought some excellent lamb and red wine for my dinner in the front of the wood fire.

Undeterred by my “practice” walk, today I resolved to climb Helvellyn by the famous Striding Edge route.  The weather forecast for the rest of the week didn’t look promising, and this was the only day I was sure of getting some sun. Striding Edge can be dangerously slippery in the rain, so it was today or never. 

I parked my car in a village on Ullswater lake, and set off on a well-marked path, part of a steady stream of other walkers.  The path led steadily up grassy hills, with fine views back across Ullswater. After I reached the crest of the first hill,  a magnificent vista opened up of the high fells, with the massive bulk of Helvellyn looming up in the distance. The summit looked very far away and very high.  On each side of the mountain a steep ridge led up – Striding Edge, my way up, to the left, and Swirral Edge, my return route to the right. 

I’d climbed Helvellyn once before by a different route and looked down on these “edges”, wondering how anyone could possibly walk along them but when I got closer and could see the path along Striding Edge, I felt a bit reassured. 

There was indeed a steep drop on both sides, but by being careful and holding on with both hands, it was possible to clamber over or around the ridge. 

Occasional flat platforms in the rock gave me a chance to catch my breath, admire the stunning views over the fells, and see how other climbers were doing. Some had obviously been here many times and progressed fearlessly and quickly, but most proceeded as slowly and cautiously as I did.  Eventually I reached the end of the ridge, from where I had to scramble with my hands to the summit up a steep rocky slope.  I was rewarded by a spectacular view back down the mountain, over the Edges and back to Ullswater.  

Although the climb was bigger than the first day – Helvellyn is 950m high – the good weather, the more gradual slope at the beginning and the excitement of negotiating Striding Edge meant that it felt  much easier.  I had a quick sandwich lunch at the shelter at the top, admiring the view, before the increasing cold (the sun was now hidden in cloud) encouraged me to start the return trip down Swirral Edge. This ridge required much less hand and foot climbing and I was soon back on a grassy slope.

My trekking guidebook encouraged me to make one last climb up to a small isolated peak called Catstye Cam – from where the view was possibly even better than before, because you could see the sheer cliff under the summit of Helvellyn. What’s more, the sun had returned and unlike the main summit, there were no people. I sat down for a break and to take in the stunning scenery.   

From Catstye Cam, the trip back seemed longer than the climb up and even became a bit boring at the end, but my spirits rose when the village came into sight.  I arrived just after 5pm and was amazed that all the tea shops had already closed, but this didn’t detract from a great feeling of achievement at having completed one of England’s classic hikes.

Since Coronavirus has made international travel difficult – quarantine rules apply even for a teddy bear unlikely to be susceptible to a human virus – this year  I stayed at home for my summer holiday. I returned to the Lake District, which I first visited around 15 years ago. Since then my travels have taken me all around the world – from Kamchatka to Kyrgyzstan, and from Ireland to Iran. Out of the all these places, I have a list of a few places that I would return to –  the world is big, and there are so many places to see, so a place has to be very special to make it on to the “return” list.  The Lake District is firmly on the list, and this year seemed like the best time to visit it a second time.

My first day was a long but smooth drive up the M40 and M6 to my holiday cottage. The owner’s directions warned that it was remote, that the roads were full of potholes, and that SatNav should not be trusted – all of which turned out to be correct.  It was raining but I could already appreciate the pretty scenery as a I left the M6 onto the Kendal-Windermere road, and then found an unnumbered narrow road that led to the tiny village of Winster.  From there a bumpy track led  to our cottage,  a traditional building next to a stream at the bottom of a wooded hill, facing a bright green flowery meadow.  It was getting late to I unpacked and settled down to dinner (I’d brought a lot of food with me from London) and a glass of wine in front of the big wood fire.

The next day I planned a practice short walk to prepare for more ambitious treks later in the week.  Low clouds hung in the sky, but the weather forecast promised some sun later in the morning before a return of heavier clouds and rain in the afternoon.  I picked a walk from my book graded 2 out of 5 for difficulty and supposed to last around 4 hours – such that I should be finished before the rain came.   I had yet to learn two facts of Lake District life. Firstly the weather forecast should not be taken literally and  is only a broad indication of the types of weather you might meet during the day. Whatever happens, they will always be some sort of rain, whether it be a short shower, prolonged drizzle, or powerful storm.  Secondly,  there are no easy strolls in the hills – any hill walk will always involve a steep climb of several hundred metres. The Lake District’s mountains sound puny by international standards – the highest, Scafell Pike, is only 978 m high – but the starting point for any walk is always close to sea level, so climbing any peak will always involve lots of very steep climbing.  Both of these truths hit me on my first walk. Initially the path from the car park followed the shores of a lake – or tarn, as they are called here – accompanied by a soft and bearable drizzle. 

Then the route went relentlessly up a very steep grassy hill – I am guessing that the slope was 1 in 2 – and a strong wind transformed the gentle drizzle into a nagging, penetrating rain.   I reached the top soaked with the heavy sweat that builds up under waterproofs during intense exertion. The promised spectacular view was partially hidden by the clouds, and the cold wind encouraged me to move on quickly rather than stand and enjoy it. 

The guidebook offered me a short-cut to finish the walk early, which I took gladly. On regaining my car, the sun promised by the weather forecast finally arrived – a few hours later than forecast. On the way home I decided to pop into Winster’s local pub. I was expecting something old and traditional and quiet, but whilst the outside of the building indeed looked traditional the inside was modern, cheap, and noisily crowded with people finishing Sunday lunch. To further dampen the experience, I was offered a pen at the bar and asked to write down my contact details in case there was a Covid 19 case in the pub and I needed to be traced. I looked at the cheap, heavily used biro that the barman was holding out to me and which every other pub visitor had presumably handled. I found my own pen and signed with that instead.  I found a table as far away as possible from other visitors and hurried to finish my beer – the whole experience felt very remote from the traditional English pub visit that I love, and I didn’t stay long. Although my first day hadn’t been a great success, I sat down to a nice meal and drink in my cozy cottage and hoped for better things the next day.

The next day I enjoyed a late breakfast. It was the penultimate day of my holiday and today I was going to drive around the north and west coasts of the island to a different hotel, located near Tenerife South airport. My first port of call was the town of Icod de los Vinos, a pleasant old town mostly famous for its huge and ancient dragon tree. Legends say it is 1000 years old, but botanists put its age as close to 500 years – still not bad for a tree, and much better than any human or bear.  The dragon tree is the symbol of the Canary Island and a good example of the exotic flora that grows here.

Icod is firmly on the route of tourist groups touring around the island, although away from the main square and the view of the dragon tree, and into the quite little side roads, the tourist crowds disappear and the town is pleasantly relaxed. From Icod, the road led along the coast to Garachico, another pleasant old town. As usual it had a central square with cafes and an old church.

I carried on around the North-West coast; every town seemed to have its own “centro historico” with a church and a square. Even the ones that weren’t mentioned in my guidebook were very pleasant – maybe better than the popular towns even, since there were no tourists.  Eventually the road led inland and up steep hills. This was the very north-west tip of Tenerife and the beautiful but wild countryside combined with the mist rolling in from the sea gave me a sad feeling, like reaching the end of the world.  I had been following the news back home over the past days and thought of the thousands of people affected by the coronavirus outbreak, many of whom were confined to their homes.  I wondered what lay in store for me on my return to London.

The road carried on up, twisting and turning along the hill side through strange and colourful plantations and past small houses, occasionally offering a spectacular view of the steep slope down to the sea.

At the very top of the ascent was a mirador with a café looking out over the town of Masca, far down in the valley below. It was a great place to sit and recover from the rather difficult driving on the mountain roads, especially since now the sun had appeared from behind the mist and low clouds.

After my break, the road led down into Masca and then relentlessly up.  Every 100 metres there was a hairpin bend on a steep slope, and I often had to stop to let other cars past on the narrow track.  Once I met a bus, but fortunately the driver was patient and very used to the road; as soon as I had given him enough space, he nimbly squeezed around me, avoiding the side of my car by less than an inch. When I reached the top, I was sweating from anxiety, as is if I had walked all that way up.  

The next part of my route was an uninteresting main road that turned into a motorway.  After an hour I turned off to drive back into the hills, to my last hotel, Casa Alberto, which was outside a small village far from anywhere. My holiday home turned out to be enormous – with big living room, wood fire and two balconies. The common areas of the hotel were laid out in a garden of orange trees, with a heady sweet scent of orange blossom.  I picked a couple of deliciously tasty oranges and flopped down onto a bed to enjoy them.  One of the great things about the Canary Islands is the pleasant temperature all year round – 20 to 25C in daytime – ideal for lazing around or sitting on the terrace of a café. I attracted the interest of the hotel’s cat, who, it seemed, had never met a teddy bear before.

The next day I enjoyed the garden and orange blossom in the morning, before heading off to the airport.  There, chaos reigned; Spain had just announced the closure of all schools, bars and restaurants in two days’ time, so a lot of people wanted to get back, but some of the flights in- and out- bound were cancelled and most of the rest (including mine) were delayed by several hours. During the wait I wrote my blog and thought about what might await me in London, where the coronavirus outbreak, although less bad than in Spain and Italy, seemed to be taking off.  Adding the three-hour delay to a four-hour flight, I eventually arrived home at around 1am, with very happy memories of the Canary Islands and a feeling of foreboding about what was to come.

That’s all – each day’s blog was published a few days after the events it describes. This will be probably be my last blog for a while – I had great plans in spring and summer, but it looks like I will be stuck at home in London.  Still, I was lucky – I could have my holiday exactly as planned and got back just in time before everything closed in Spain.  Not everyone has been this lucky, and my thoughts are with those who are sick, or have sick loved ones, or who are simply stuck at home under curfew. I hope you all stay safe and healthy, wherever you are, and that my blog can cheer up these difficult times and help you look forward to all the great things life has to offer once things return to normal.  

Yours,

Trouspinet

Today I visited the ancient city of La Laguna. This town was founded in 1496, shortly after the Spanish conquest, and for a while was the capital of the whole Canary Islands.   The city is full of old churches, pedestrian streets, and old town houses with magnificent flowery courtyards inside.

First, I visited the Church of Nuestra Señora de La Concepción, the oldest church in the Canary Islands. I was dismayed that in La Laguna the churches charge for entry and post very assertive doormen to bar entry to anyone without a ticket – in my country entry to a church is free on principle. But I still stumped up 2€ to visit the bell tower, with nice views over the old town, and the church interior, which was a bit plain and not worth my euros!

After that I simply roamed around the town to see what I could find, occasionally checking with my guidebook where I was. My next stop was a former monastery, which now housed an art gallery and a separate school. 

The entrance to the art gallery was through a beautiful cloister, in the centre of which was a garden with beautiful tropical plants.  There was an exhibition of paintings by a local artist, Pino Ojeda, and I really liked here work.

After that I continued my stroll, checking out the other churches (from the outside – they didn’t get my entrance fee, nor the money I’d normally invest in lighting candles for my loved ones) and other historical buildings.

I stopped frequently – first for coffee, then for a cold drink in the grounds of the former casino.

Finally I stopped for a late lunch in a café on the main square where a talented guitarist was playing.

La Laguna is really made for chilling out, drinking coffee and watching the world go by, something I think I’d earned the right to do after trekking on La Palma, La Gomera and Mount Teide. However, there is only so much coffee and low alcohol beer a little bear can drink, and in the mid-afternoon I set off back to my hotel.

In the evening I tried some typical local food in a “Tasca” – a cheap local restaurant. The décor was very simple, and most of the food was good.

I couldn’t resist trying another of the local fish specialities, “Cherne” which apparently translates as “wreckfish” in English, although it isn’t served anywhere other than here. It had a very strange salty and oily taste – no surprise it doesn’t get exported. Like parrotfish, it is not something I’d order again, but my motto has always been that if you never try new things, you never know what you are missing.  To take the taste of the fish away I had a very nice local desert and headed back to the hotel for bed.