THE
CANARY ISLANDS
BY
FLORENCE DU CANE
WITH 16 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
IN COLOUR BY ELLA DU CANE
A. & C. BLACK LTD.
4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
_First published in 1911_
CONTENTS
I
PAGE
TENERIFFE 1
II
TENERIFFE (_continued_) 21
III
TENERIFFE (_continued_) 32
IV
TENERIFFE (_continued_) 50
V
TENERIFFE (_continued_) 68
VI
TENERIFFE (_continued_) 84
VII
TENERIFFE (_continued_) 93
VIII
GRAND CANARY 105
IX
GRAND CANARY (_continued_) 115
X
GRAND CANARY (_continued_) 127
XI
LA PALMA 136
XII
GOMERA 146
XIII
FUERTEVENTURA, LANZAROTE AND HIERRO 151
XIV
HISTORICAL SKETCH 160
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. A PATIO _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
2. A STREET IN PUERTO OROTAVA 16
3. THE PEAK, FROM VILLA OROTAVA 21
4. REALEJO ALTO 28
5. ENTRANCE TO A SPANISH VILLA 49
6. STATICES AND PRIDE OF TENERIFFE 64
7. LA PAZ 69
8. BOTANICAL GARDENS, OROTAVA 76
9. EL SITIO DEL GARDO 81
10. CONVENT OF SANT AUGUSTIN, ICOD DE LOS VINOS 96
11. AN OLD BALCONY 113
12. A BANANA CART 117
13. AN OLD GATEWAY 124
14. THE CANARY PINE 128
15. SAN SEBASTIAN 149
16. A SPANISH GARDEN 156
_Sketch Map at end of volume_
CANARY ISLANDS
I
TENERIFFE
Probably many people have shared my feeling of disappointment on
landing at Santa Cruz. I had long ago realised that few places come
up to the standard of one’s preconceived ideas, so my mental picture
was not in this case a very beautiful one; but even so, the utter
hideousness of the capital of Teneriffe was a shock to me.
Unusually clear weather at sea had shown us our first glimpse of the
Peak, rising like a phantom mountain out of the clouds when 100 miles
distant, but as we drew nearer to land the clouds had gathered, and
the cone was wrapped in a mantle of mist. There is no disappointment
attached to one’s first impression of the Island as seen from the sea.
The jagged range of hills seemed to come sheer down to the coast, and
appeared to have been torn and rent by some extraordinary upheaval
of Nature; the deep ravines (or _barrancos_ as I afterwards learnt to
call them) were full of dark blue mysterious shadows, a deeply indented
coast-line stretched far away in the distance, and I thought the land
well deserved to be called one of the Fortunate Islands.
Santa Cruz, or to give it its full title, Santa Cruz de Santiago,
though one of the oldest towns in the Canaries, looked, as our ship
glided into the harbour, as though it had been built yesterday, or
might even be still in course of construction. Lying low on the shore
the flat yellow-washed houses, with their red roofs, are thickly massed
together, the sheer ugliness of the town being redeemed by the spires
of a couple of old churches, which look down reprovingly on the modern
houses below. Arid slopes rise gradually behind the town, and appear to
be utterly devoid of vegetation. Perched on a steep ridge is the Hotel
Quisisana, which cannot be said to add to the beauty of the scene, and
all my sympathy went out to those who were condemned to spend a winter
in such desolate surroundings in search of health.
Probably no foreign town is entirely devoid of interest to the
traveller. On landing, the picturesque objects which meet the eye make
one realise that once one’s foot has left the last step of the gangway
of the ship, England and everything English has been left behind. The
crowd of swarthy loafers who lounge about the quay in tight yellow or
white garments, are true sons of a southern race, and laugh and chatter
gaily with handsome black-eyed girls. Sturdy country women are settling
heavy loads on their donkeys, preparatory to taking their seat on
the top of the pack for their journey over the hills. Their peculiar
head-dress consists of a tiny straw hat, no larger than a saucer, which
acts as a pad for the loads they carry on their heads, from which hangs
a large black handkerchief either fluttering in the wind, or drawn
closely round the shoulders like a shawl.
Here and there old houses remain, dating from the days when the wine
trade was at its zenith, and though many have now been turned into
consulates and shipping offices, they stand in reproachful contrast
to the buildings run up cheaply at a later date. Through many an open
doorway one gets a glimpse of these cool spacious old houses, whose
broad staircases and deep balconies surround a shady _patio_ or
court-yard. On the ground floor the wine was stored and the living
rooms opened into the roomy balconies on the first floor. Here and
there a small open Plaza, where drooping pepper trees shade stone
seats, affords breathing-space, but over all and everything was a thick
coating of grey dust, which gave a squalid appearance to the town.
Narrow ill-paved streets, up which struggle lean, over-worked mules,
dragging heavy rumbling carts, lead out of the town, and I was thankful
to shake the dust of Santa Cruz off my feet; not that one does, as
unless there has been very recent rain the dust follows everywhere. An
electric tramway winds its way up the slopes behind the town at a very
leisurely pace, giving one ample time to survey the scene.
The only vegetation which looks at home in the dry dusty soil is
prickly pear, a legacy of the cochineal culture. In those halcyon
days arid spots were brought into cultivation and the cactus planted
everywhere. In the eighteenth century the islanders had merely regarded
cochineal as a loathsome form of blight, and it was forbidden to be
landed for fear it should spoil their prickly pears, but prejudice
was overcome, and when it was realised that a possible source of
wealth was to be found in the cultivation of the cactus, _Opuntia
coccinellifera_, which is the most suited to the insect, the craze
began. Land was almost unobtainable; the amount of labour was enormous
which was expended in breaking up the lava to reach the soil below,
in terracing hills wherever it was possible to terrace; property was
mortgaged to buy new fields; in fact, the islanders thought their
land was as good as a gold-mine. The following figures are given by
Mr. Samler Brown to show the extraordinary rapidity with which the
trade developed. “In 1831 the first shipment was 8 lb., the price at
first being about ten pesetas a lb.; in ten years it had increased
to 100,566 lb., and in 1869 the highest total, 6,076,869 lb., with a
value of £789,993.” The rumour of the discovery of aniline dyes alarmed
the islanders, but for a time they were not sufficiently manufactured
seriously to affect the cochineal trade, though the fall in prices
began to make merchants talk of over-production. The crisis came in
1874, when the price in London fell to 1_s._ 6_d._ or 2_s._, and the
ruin to the cochineal industry was a foregone conclusion. Aniline dyes
had taken the public taste, and though cochineal has been proved to be
the only red dye to resist rain and hard wear, the demand is now small,
and merchants who had bought up and stored the dried insect were left
with unsaleable stock on their hands. Retribution, we are told, was
swift, sudden, and universal, and the farmer who had spent so much on
bringing land into cultivation foot by foot, realised that the cactus
must be rooted up or he must face starvation.
Possibly there are many other people as ignorant as I was myself on
my first visit to the Canaries on the subject of cochineal. Beyond
the fact that cochineal was a red dye and used occasionally as a
colouring-matter in cooking, I could not safely have answered any
question concerning it. I was much disgusted at finding that it is
really the blood of an insect which looks like a cross between a
“wood-louse” and a “mealy-bug,” with a fat body rather like a currant.
The most common method of cultivation, I believe, was to allow the
insect to attach itself to a piece of muslin in the spring, which
was then laid on to a box full of “mothers” in a room at a very high
temperature.
The muslin was then fastened on to the leaf of the cactus by means of
the thorns of the wild prickly pear. When once attached to the leaf the
_madre_ cannot move again. There were two different methods of killing
the insect to send it to market, one by smoking it with sulphur and the
other by shaking it in sacks. A colony of the insects on a prickly pear
leaf looks like a large patch of lumpy blight, most unpleasant, and
enough to make any one say they would never again eat anything coloured
with cochineal.
This terraced land is now cultivated with potatoes and tomatoes for the
English market, but the shower of gold in which every one shared in the
days of the cochineal boom is no more, though the banana trade in other
parts of the island seems likely to revive those good old days.
La Laguna, about five miles above Santa Cruz, is one of the oldest
towns in Teneriffe; it was the stronghold of the Guanches and the
scene of the most desperate fighting with the Spanish invaders. To-day
it looks merely a sleepy little town, but can boast of several fine
old churches, besides the old Convente de San Augustin which has been
turned into the official seat of learning, containing a very large
public library, and the Bishop’s Palace which has a fine old stone
façade. The cathedral appears to be in a perpetual state of repairing
or rebuilding, and though begun in 1513 is not yet completed. One of
the principal sights of La Laguna is the wonderful old Dragon tree in
the garden of the Seminary attached to the Church of Santo Domingo,
of which the age is unknown. The girth of its trunk speaks for itself
of its immense age, and I was not surprised to hear that even in the
fifteenth century it was a sufficiently fine specimen to cause the land
on which it stood to be known as “the farm of the Dragon tree.”
Foreigners regard the town chiefly as being a good centre for
expeditions, which, judging by the list in our guide-book, are almost
innumerable. One ride into the beautiful pine forest of La Mina should
certainly be undertaken, and unless the smooth clay paths are slippery
after rain the walking is easy. After a long stay in either Santa
Cruz or even Orotava, where large trees are rare, there is a great
enchantment in finding oneself once more among forest trees, and what
splendid trees are these native pines, _Pinus canariensis_, and in damp
spots one revels in the ferns and mosses, which form such a contrast
to the vegetation one has grown accustomed to.
Alexander von Humboldt who spent a few days in Teneriffe, on his way to
South America, landing in Santa Cruz on June 19, 1799, was much struck
by the contrast of the climate of La Laguna to that of Santa Cruz. The
following is an extract from his account of the journey he made across
the island in order to ascend the Peak: “As we approached La Laguna,
we felt the temperature of the atmosphere gradually become lower. This
sensation was so much the more agreeable, as we found the air of Santa
Cruz very oppressive. As our organs are more affected by disagreeable
impressions, the change of temperature becomes still more sensible when
we return from Laguna to the port, we seem then to be drawing near the
mouth of a furnace. The same impression is felt when, on the coast
of Caracas, we descend from the mountain of Avila to the port of La
Guayra.... The perpetual coolness which prevails at La Laguna causes it
to be regarded in the Canaries as a delightful abode.
“Situated in a small plain, surrounded by gardens, protected by a
hill which is crowned by a wood of laurels, myrtles and arbutus, the
capital of Teneriffe is very beautifully placed. We should be mistaken
if, relying on the account of some travellers, we believed it rested
on the border of a lake. The rain sometimes forms a sheet of water of
considerable extent, and the geologist, who beholds in everything the
past rather than the present state of nature, can have no doubt but
that the whole plain is a great basin dried up.”
“Laguna has fallen from its opulence, since the lateral eruptions of
the volcano have destroyed the port of Garachico, and since Santa Cruz
has become the central point of the commerce of the island. It contains
only 9000 inhabitants, of whom nearly 400 are monks, distributed in
six convents. The town is surrounded with a great number of windmills,
which indicate the cultivation of wheat in these higher countries....”
“A great number of chapels, which the Spaniards call _ermitas_,
encircle the town of Laguna. Shaded by trees of perpetual verdure, and
erected on small eminences, these chapels add to the picturesque effect
of the landscape. The interior of the town is not equal to the external
appearance. The houses are solidly built but very antique, and the
streets seem deserted. A botanist should not complain of the antiquity
of the edifices, as the roofs and walls are covered with Canary house
leek and those elegant _trichomanes_ mentioned by every traveller.
These plants are nourished by the abundant mists....”
“In winter the climate of Laguna is extremely foggy, and the
inhabitants complain often of the cold. A fall of snow, however, has
never been seen, a fact which may seem to indicate that the mean
temperature of this town must be above 15° R., that is to say higher
than that of Naples....”
“I was astonished to find that M. Broussonet had planted in the midst
of this town in the garden of the Marquis de Nava, the bread-fruit
tree (_Artocarpus incise_) and cinnamon trees (_Laurus cinnamonum_).
These valuable productions of the South Sea and the East Indies are
naturalised there as well as at Orotava.”
The most usual route to Tacoronte _en route_ to Orotava, the ultimate
destination of most travellers, is by the main road or _carretera_,
which reaches the summit of the pass shortly after leaving La Laguna,
at a height of 2066 feet. The redeeming feature of the otherwise
uninteresting road is the long avenue of eucalyptus trees, which gives
welcome shade in summer. If time and distance are of no account, and
the journey is being made by motor, the lower road by Tejina is far
preferable. The high banks of the lanes are crowned with feathery old
junipers, in spring the grassy slopes are gay with wild flowers, and
here and there stretches of yellow broom (_spartium junceum_) fill
the air with its delicious scent. Turns in the road reveal unexpected
glimpses of the Peak on the long descent to the little village of
Tegueste, and below lies the church of Tejina, only a few hundred feet
above the sea. Here the road turns and ascends again to Tacoronte, and
the Peak now faces one, the cone often rising clear above a bank of
clouds which covers the base.
At Tacoronte the tram-line ends and either a carriage or motor takes
the traveller over the remaining fifteen miles down through the fertile
valley to Puerto Orotava. The valley is justly famous for its beauty,
and in clear winter weather, when the Peak has a complete mantle of
snow, no one can refrain from exclaiming at the beauty of the scene,
when at one bend of the road the whole valley lies stretched at one’s
feet, bathed in sunshine and enclosed in a semi-circle of snow-capped
mountains. The clouds cast blue shadows on the mountain sides, and here
and there patches of white mist sweep across the valley; the dark pine
woods lie in sharp contrast to the brilliant colouring of the chestnut
woods whose leaves have been suddenly turned to red gold by frost in
the higher land. In the lower land broad stretches of banana fields
are interspersed with ridges of uncultivated ground, where almond, fig
trees and prickly pears still find a home, and clumps of the native
Canary palm trees wave their feathery heads in the wind. Small wonder
that even as great a traveller as Humboldt was so struck with the
beauty of the scene that he is said to have thrown himself on his knees
in order to salute the sight as the finest in the world. Without any
such extravagant demonstration as that of the great traveller, it is
worth while to stop and enjoy the view; though, to be sure, carriages
travel at such a leisurely rate in Teneriffe, one has ample time to
survey the scene. The guardian-angel of the valley--the Peak--dominates
the broad expanse of land and sea, in times of peace, a placid broad
white pyramid. But at times the mountain has become angry and waved
a flaming sword over the land, and for this reason the Guanches
christened it the Pico de Teide or Hell, though they appear to have
also regarded it as the Seat of the Deity.
Humboldt himself describes the scene in the following words: “The
valley of Tacoronte is the entrance into that charming country, of
which travellers of every nation have spoken with rapturous enthusiasm.
Under the torrid zone I found sites where Nature is more majestic and
richer in the display of organic forms; but after having traversed the
banks of the Orinoco, the Cordilleras of Peru, and the most beautiful
valleys of Mexico, I own that I have never beheld a prospect more
varied, more attractive, more harmonious in the distribution of the
masses of verdure and rocks, than the western coast of Teneriffe.
“The sea-coast is lined with date and cocoa trees; groups of the
_musa_, as the country rises, form a pleasing contrast with the dragon
tree, the trunks of which have been justly compared to the tortuous
form of the serpent. The declivities are covered with vines, which
throw their branches over towering poles. Orange trees loaded with
flowers, myrtles and cypress trees encircle the chapels reared to
devotion on the isolated hills. The divisions of landed property are
marked by hedges formed of the agave and the cactus. An innumerable
number of cryptogamous plants, among which ferns most predominate,
cover the walls, and are moistened by small springs of limpid water.
“In winter, when the volcano is buried under ice and snow, this
district enjoys perpetual spring. In summer as the day declines, the
breezes from the sea diffuse a delicious freshness....
“From Tegueste and Tacoronte to the village of San Juan de la Rambla
(which is celebrated for its excellent Malmsey wine) the rising hills
are cultivated like a garden. I might compare them to the environs
of Capua and Valentia, if the western part of Teneriffe were not
infinitely more beautiful on account of the proximity of the Peak,
which presents on every side a new point of view.
“The aspect of this mountain is interesting, not merely from its
gigantic mass; it excites the mind, by carrying it back to the
mysterious source of its volcanic agency. For thousands of years
no flames or light have been perceived on the summit of the Piton,
nevertheless enormous lateral eruptions, the last of which took
place in 1798, are proofs of the activity of a fire still far from
being extinguished. There is also something that leaves a melancholy
impression on beholding a crater in the centre of a fertile and
well-cultivated country. The history of the globe tells us that
volcanoes destroy what they have been a long series of ages in
creating. Islands which the action of submarine fires has raised above
the water, are by degrees clothed in rich and smiling verdure; but
these new lands are often laid waste by the renewed action of the same
power which caused them to emerge from the bottom of the ocean. Islets,
which are now but heaps of scoriæ and volcanic ashes, were once perhaps
as fertile as the hills of Tacoronte and Sauzal. Happy the country
where man has no distrust of the soil on which he lives.”
[Illustration: A STREET IN PUERTO OROTAVA]
Low on the shore lies the little sea-port town of Orotava, known as
the Puerto to distinguish it from the older and more important Villa
Orotava lying some three miles away inland, at a higher altitude.
Further along the coast is San Juan de la Rambla, and on the lower
slopes of the opposite wall of the valley are the picturesque villages
of Realejo Alto and Bajo, while Icod el Alto is perched at the very
edge of the dark cliffs of the Tigaia at a height of about 1700 ft.
A gap in the further mountain range is known as the Portillo, the
Fortaleza rises above this “gateway,” and from this point begins the
long gradual sweep of the Tigaia, which, from the valley, hides all but
the very cone of the Peak. Above Villa Orotava towers Pedro Gil and the
Montaña Blanca, with the sun glittering on its freshly fallen snow, and
near at hand are the villages of Sauzal, Santa Ursula, Matanza and La
Victoria.
Though Humboldt describes them as “smiling hamlets,” he comments on
their names which he says are “mingled together in all the Spanish
colonies, and they form an unpleasing contract with the peaceful and
tranquil feelings which these countries inspire.
“Matanza signifies slaughter, or carnage, and the word alone recalls
the price at which victory has been purchased. In the New World it
generally indicates the defeat of the natives; at Teneriffe the village
Matanza was built in a place where the Spaniards were conquered by
those same Guanches who soon after were sold as slaves in the markets
of Europe.”
In early winter the terraced ridges, which are cultivated with wheat
and potatoes, are a blot in the landscape, brown and bare, but in
spring, after the winter rains, these slopes will be transformed into
sheets of emerald green, and it is then that the valley looks its best.
For a few days, all too few, the almond trees are smothered with their
delicate pale pink blooms, but one night’s rain or a few hours’ rough
wind will scatter all their blossoms, and nothing will remain of their
rosy loveliness but a carpet of bruised and fallen petals.
The valley soon reveals traces of the upheavals of Nature in a bygone
age; broad streams of lava, which at some time poured down the valley,
remain grey and desolate-looking, almost devoid of vegetation, and the
two cinder heaps or _fumaroles_ resembling huge blackened mole-hills,
though not entirely bare, cannot be admired. No one seems to know
their exact history or age, but it appears pretty certain that they
developed perfectly independently of any eruption of the Peak itself,
though perhaps not “growing in a single night,” as I was once solemnly
assured they had done. One theory, which sounded not improbable, was
that the bed of lava on which several English villas, the church and
the Grand Hotel have been built, was originally spouted out of one
of these cinder heaps, and the hill on which the hotel stands was in
former days the edge of the cliff. The lava is supposed to have flowed
over the edge and accumulated to such a depth in the sea below that it
formed the plateau of low-lying ground on which the Puerto now stands.
The little town is not without attraction, though its streets are dusty
and unswept, being only cleaned once a year, in honour of the Feast
of Corpus Christi, on which day at the Villa carpets of elaborate
design, arranged out of the petals of flowers, run down the centre of
the streets where the processions are to pass. My first impression of
the town was that it appeared to be a deserted city, hardly a foot
passenger was to be seen, and my own donkey was the only beast of
burden in the main street of the town. Gorgeous masses of bougainvillea
tumbled over garden walls, and glimpses were to be seen through open
doorways of creeper-clad _patios_. The carved balconies with their
little tiled roofs are inseparable from all the old houses, more or
less decorated according to the importance of the house. The soft green
of the woodwork of the houses, and more especially of the solid green
shutters or _postijos_, behind which the inhabitants seem to spend many
hours gazing into the streets, was always a source of admiration to
me. The main street ends with the mole, and looking seawards the surf
appears to dash up into the street itself. The town wakes to life when
a cargo steamer comes into the port, and then one long stream of carts,
drawn by the finest oxen I have ever seen, finds its way to the mole,
to unload the crates of bananas which are frequently sold on the quay
itself to the contractors.
[Illustration: THE PEAK, FROM VILLA OROTAVA]
II
TENERIFFE (_continued_)
About a thousand feet above the Puerto de Orotava, on the long gradual
slope which sweeps down from Pedro Gil forming the valley of Orotava,
lies the _villa_ or town of Orotava. This most picturesque old town is
of far more interest than the somewhat squalid port, being the home of
many old Spanish families, whose beautiful houses are the best examples
of Spanish architecture in the Canaries. Besides their quiet _patios_,
which are shady and cool even on the hottest summer days, the exterior
of many of the houses is most beautiful. The admirable work of the
carved balconies and shutters, the iron-work and carved stone-work
cannot fail to make every one admire houses which are rapidly becoming
unique. The Spaniards have, alas! like many other nations, lost their
taste in architecture, and the modern houses which are springing up
all too quickly make one shudder to contemplate. Some had been built
to replace those which had been burnt, others were merely being built
by men who had made a fortune in the banana trade. Not satisfied
with their old solid houses, with their fine old stone doorways and
overhanging wooden balconies, they are ruthlessly destroying them to
build a fearsome modern monstrosity, possibly more comfortable to live
in, but most offending to the eye. The love of their gardens seems also
to be dying out, and as I once heard some one impatiently exclaim,
“They have no soul above bananas,” and it is true that the culture of
bananas is at the moment of all-absorbing interest.
Though the _patios_ of the houses may be decked with plants, the air
being kept cool and moist by the spray of a tinkling fountain, many of
the little gardens at the back of these old family mansions have fallen
into a sad state of disorder and decay. The myrtle and box hedges,
formerly the pride of their owners, are no longer kept trim and shorn,
and the little beds are no longer full of flowers. One garden remains
to show how, when even slightly tended, flowers grow and flourish in
the cooler air of the Villa. In former days a giant chestnut tree
was the pride of this garden, only its venerable trunk now remains
to tell of its departed glories; but the _poyos_ (double walls) are
full of flowers all the year, and the native _Pico de paloma_ (_Lotus
Berthelotii_) flourishes better here than in any other garden; it
drapes the walls and half smothers the steps and stone seats with
its garlands of soft grey-green, and in spring is covered with its
deep red “pigeons’ beaks.” The walls are gay with stocks, carnations,
verbenas, lilies, geraniums, and hosts of plants. Long hedges of
_Libonia floribunda_, the _bandera d’España_ of the natives, as its red
and yellow blossoms represent the national colours of Spain, line the
entrance, and in unconsidered damp corners white arum lilies grow, the
rather despised _orejas de burros_, or donkeys’ ears, of the country
people, who give rather apt nick-names to not only flowers, but people.
Though the higher-class Spaniards are a most exclusive race, I met
with nothing but civility from their hands when asking permission
to see their _patio_ or gardens; as much cannot be said for the
middle and lower classes of to-day, who are distinctly anti-foreign.
The lower classes appear to regard an incessant stream of pennies
as their right, and hurl abuse or stones at your head when their
persistent begging is ignored, and even tradesmen are often insolent
to foreigners. A spirit of independence and republicanism is very
apparent. An employer of labour can obviously keep no control over his
men, who work when they choose, or more often don’t work when they
don’t choose, and the mother or father of a family keeps no control
over the children. One day I asked our gardener why he did not send his
children to school to learn to read and write, as he was deploring that
he could not read the names of the seeds he was sowing. I thought it
was a good moment to point a moral, but he shrugged his shoulders, and
said they did not care to go, and also they had no shoes and could not
go to school barefoot. The man was living rent free, earning the same
wages as an average English labourer, and two sons in work contributed
to the expenses of the house, besides the money he got for the crop on
a small piece of land which the whole family cultivated on Sundays, and
still he could not afford to provide shoes in order that his children
should learn to read and write. Another man announced with pride that
one of his children attended school. Knowing he had two, I inquired,
“Why only one?” On which he owned that the other one used to go, but
now she refused to do so, and neither he nor his wife could make her
go. This independent person was aged nine!
One of the great curiosities of the Villa was the great Dragon Tree,
and though it stands no more, visitors are still shown the site where
it once stood and are told of its immense age. Humboldt gave the age
of the tree at the time of his visit as being at least 6000 years, and
though this may have been excessive, there is no doubt that it was of
extreme age. It was blown down and the remains accidentally destroyed
by fire in 1867, and only old engravings remain to tell of its wondrous
size. The hollow trunk was large enough for a good-sized room or cave,
and in the days of the Guanches, when a national assembly was summoned
to create a new chief or lord, the meeting place was at the great
Dragon Tree. The land on which it stood was afterwards enclosed and
became the garden of the Marques de Sauzal.
The ceremony of initiating a lord was a curious one, and the Overlord
of Taoro (the old name of Orotava), was the greatest of these lords,
having 6000 warriors at his command. Though the dignity was inherited,
it was not necessary that it should pass from father to son, and more
frequently passed from brother to brother. “When they raised one to be
lord they had this custom. Each lordship had a bone of the most ancient
lord in their lineage wrapped in skins and guarded. The most ancient
councillors were convoked to the ‘Tagoror,’ or place of assembly. After
his election the king was given this bone to kiss. After having kissed
it he put it over his head. Then the rest of the principal people
put it over his shoulder, and he said, ‘_Agoñe yacoron yñatzahaña
Chacoñamet_’ (I swear by the bone on this day on which you have made me
great). This was the ceremony of the coronation, and on the same day
the people were called that they might know whom they had for their
lord. He feasted them, and there were general banquets at the cost of
the new lord and his relations. Great pomp appears to have surrounded
these lords, and any one meeting them in the road when they progressed
to change their summer residence in the mountains to one by the sea
in winter, was expected to prostrate himself on the ground, and on
rising to cleanse the king’s feet with the edge of his coat of skins.”
(See “The Guanches of Teneriffe,” by Sir Clement Markham.) After the
conquest the Spaniards turned the temple of the Guanches into a chapel,
and Mass was said within the tree.
In the Villa are several fine old churches, whose spires and domes
are her fairest adornment. The principal church is the Iglesia de la
Concepcion, whose domes dominate the whole town. The exterior of the
church is very fine, though the interior is not so interesting. It is
curious to think how the silver communion plate, said to have belonged
to St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, can have come into the possession of
this church. The theory that this and similar plate in the Cathedral
at Las Palmas are the scattered remains of the magnificent church
plate which was sold and dispersed by the order of Oliver Cromwell is
generally accepted.
The fine old doorway and tower of the Convent and Church of Santo
Domingo date from a time when the Spaniards had more soul for the
beautiful than they have at the present time.
The narrow steep cobbled streets are hardly any of them without
interest, and the old balconies, the carved shutters and glimpses of
flowery _patios_, with a gorgeous mass of creeper tumbling over a
garden wall or wreathing an old doorway, combine to make it a most
picturesque town. A feature of almost every Spanish house is the little
latticed hutch which covers the drip stone filter. In many an old
house creepers and ferns, revelling in the dampness which exudes from
the constantly wet stone, almost cover the little house, and even the
stone itself grows maiden-hair or other ferns, and their presence is
not regarded as interfering with the purifying properties of the stone,
in which the natives place great faith. I never could believe that
clean water could in any way benefit by being passed through the dirt
of ages which must accumulate in these stones, there being no means of
cleaning them except on the surface. The red earthenware water-pots of
decidedly classical shape are made in every size, and a tiny child may
be seen learning to carry a diminutive one on her head with a somewhat
uncertain gait which she will soon outgrow, and in a year or two will
stride along carrying a large water-pot all unconscious of her load,
leaving her two hands free to carry another burden.
[Illustration: REALEJO ALTO]
A charming walk or donkey-ride leads from the Villa along fairly level
country to Realejo Alto, passing through the two little villages of La
Perdoma and La Cruz Santa. In early spring the almond blossom gives a
rosy tinge to many a stretch of rough uncultivated ground, and in the
villages over the garden walls was wafted the heavy scent of orange
blossoms. The trees at this altitude seemed freer of the deadly black
blight which has ravaged all the orange groves on the lower land,
and altogether the vegetation struck one as being more luxuriant and
more forward. The cottage-garden walls were gay with flowers: stocks,
mauve and white, the favourite _alelis_ of the natives, long trails of
geraniums and wreaths of _Pico de paloma_, pinks and carnations and
hosts of other flowers I noticed as we rode past.
The village of Realejo Alto is, without doubt, the most picturesque
village I ever saw in the Canaries. Its situation on a very steep slope
with the houses seemingly piled one above the other is very suggestive
of an Italian mountain village. Part of the Church of San Santiago,
the portion next the tower, is supposed to be the oldest church in the
island, and the spire, the most prominent feature of the village and
neighbourhood, is worthy of the rest of the old church. The interior
of the church is not without interest when seen in a good light, and
a fine old doorway is said to be the work of Spanish workmen shortly
after the conquest. The carved stone-work round this doorway and a very
similar one in the lower village are unique specimens of this style of
work in the islands.
The _barranco_ which separates the upper and lower villages of Realejo
was the scene of a great flood in 1820 which severely damaged both
villages. Realejo Bajo, though not quite as picturesque as the upper
village, is well worth a visit, and its inhabitants are justly proud of
their Dragon Tree, a rival to the one at Icod which may possibly some
day become as celebrated as the great tree at Orotava.
These two villages are great centres of the _calado_ or
drawn-thread-work industry. Through every open doorway may be seen
women and girls bending over the frames on which the work is stretched.
It is mostly of very inferior quality, very coarsely worked and on poor
material, and it seems a pity that there is no supply of better and
finer work. Visitors get tired of the sight of the endless stacks of
bed-covers and tea-cloths which are offered to them, and certainly the
work compares badly both in price and quality with that done in the
East.
III
TENERIFFE (_continued_)
A spell of clear weather, late in February, made us decide to make
an expedition to the Cañadas, which, except to those who are bent on
mountain climbing and always wish to get to the very top of every
height they see, appeals to the ordinary traveller more than ascending
the Peak itself. In spite of the promise of fine weather the day
before, the morning broke cloudy and at dawn, 6 A.M., we started full
of doubts and misgivings as to what the sunrise would bring. We had
decided to drive as far as the road would allow, as we had been warned
that we should find nine or ten hours’ mule riding would be more than
enough, in fact, our friends were rather Job’s comforters. Some said
the expedition was so tiring that they had known people to be ill for
a week after undertaking it. Others said it was never clear at the
top, we must be prepared to be soaked to the skin in the mist, for
the mules to stumble and probably roll head over heels, in fact that
strings of disasters were certain to overtake us. Our mules were to
join us at Realejo Alto, about an hour’s drive from the port, and there
we determined we would decide whether we would continue, or content
ourselves with a shorter expedition on a lower level.
Sunrise did not improve the prospect, a heavy bank of clouds lay over
Pedro Gil, while ominous drifts of light white clouds were gathering
below the Tigaia, and the prospect out to sea was not more encouraging.
The mules were late, in true Spanish fashion, and we consulted a few
weather-wise looking inhabitants who gathered round our carriage in the
Plaza, shivering in the morning air, with their _mantas_ or blanket
cloaks wrapped closely round them. They looked pityingly at these mad
foreigners who had left their beds at such an hour when they were not
forced to--for the Spaniard is no early riser--and were proposing to
ride up into the clouds. The optimistic members of the party said: “It
is nothing but a little morning mist,” while the pessimist remarked,
“Morning mists make mid-day clouds in my experience.”
The arrival of the mules put an end to further discussion. The
muleteers were full of hope and confident that the clouds would
disperse, or anyway that we should get above the region of cloud and
find clear weather at the top, so though our old blanket-coated friend
murmured “_Pobrecitas_” (poor things) below his breath, we made a
start armed with wraps for the wet and cold we were to encounter. The
clattering of the mules as we rode up the steep village street brought
many heads to the windows; the little green shutters, or _postijos_,
were hastily pushed open to enable the crowd, which appeared to inhabit
every house, to catch a sight of the “_Inglezes_.” Inquiry as to where
we were bound for, I noticed, generally brought an exclamation of “Very
bad weather” (“_Tiempo muy malo_”), to the great indignation of our
men, who muttered, “Don’t say so!”
The stony path from Realejo leads in a fairly steep ascent to Palo
Blanco, a little scattered village of charcoal-burners’ huts at a
height of 2200 feet. The wreaths of blue smoke from their fires mingled
with the mist, but already there was a promise of better things to
come, as the sun was breaking through and the clouds were thinner.
The chant of the charcoal-burners is a sound one gets accustomed
to in these regions, and I never quite knew whether it was merely a
song which cheered them on their downward path, or whether it was to
announce their approach and ask ascending travellers to move out of
their way, as the size of the loads they carry on their heads makes
them often very difficult to pass. Presently two stalwart girls came
into sight, swinging along at a steady trot; their bare feet apparently
even more at home along the stony track than the unshod feet of the
mules, as there is no stopping to pick their way, on they go, only
too anxious to reach their journey’s end, and drop the crushing load
off their heads. We anxiously inquired as to the state of the weather
higher up, and to our great relief, with no hesitation, came the
answer: “_Muy claro_” (very clear), and in a few minutes a puff of wind
blew all the mist away as if by magic, and there was a shout of triumph
from the men.
Below lay the whole valley of Orotava, and we were leaving the
picturesque town of the Villa Orotava far away below us on the left.
The little villages of La Perdoma, La Cruz Santa, and the two Realejos,
Alto and Bajo, were more immediately below us, and far away in the
distance beyond the Puerto were to be seen Santa Ursula, Sauzal and
the little scattered town of Tacoronte. Pedro Gil and all the range
of mountains on the left had large stretches of melting snow, shining
with a dazzling whiteness in the sun. It had been an unusual winter
for snow, so we were assured, and it was rare to find it still lying
at the end of February, but we were glad it was so, for it certainly
added greatly to the beauty of the scene. At the Monte Verde, the
region of green things, we called a halt, for the sake of man and
beast, and while our men refreshed themselves with substantial slices
of sour bread and the snow white local cheese, made from goats’ milk,
and our mules enjoyed a few minutes’ breathing-space with loosened
girths, we took a short walk to look down into the beautiful Barranco
de la Laura. Here the trees have as yet escaped destruction at the
hands of the charcoal-burners and the steep banks are still clad with
various kinds of native laurel mixed with large bushes of the _Erica
arborea_, the heath which covers all the region of the Monte Verde. The
almost complete deforestation by the charcoal-burners is most deeply
to be deplored, and it is sad to think how far more beautiful all this
region must have been before it was stripped of its grand pine and
laurel trees. The authorities took no steps to stop this wholesale
destruction of the forests until it was too late, and even now, though
futile regulations exist, no one takes the trouble to see that they are
enforced. The law now only allows dead wood to be collected, but it is
easy enough to _make_ dead wood--a man goes up and breaks down branches
of trees or _retama_, and a few weeks later goes round and collects
them as dead wood, and so the law is evaded. As there is a never-ending
demand for charcoal, it being the only fuel the Spaniard uses, so
matters will continue until there is nothing left to cut.
No doubt we were on the same path as that by which Humboldt had
travelled when he visited Teneriffe in 1799 and ascended the Peak.
His description of the vegetation shows how the ruthless axe of the
charcoal-burners has destroyed some of the most beautiful forests in
the world. Humboldt had been obliged to abandon his travels in Italy
in 1795 without visiting the volcanic districts of Naples and Sicily,
a knowledge of which was indispensable for his geological studies.
Four years later the Spanish Court had given him a splendid welcome
and placed at his disposal the frigate _Pizarro_ for his voyage to the
equinoctial regions of New Spain. After a narrow escape of falling
into the hands of English privateers the Trade winds blew him to the
Canaries. The 21st day of June, 1799, finds him on his way to the
summit of the Peak accompanied by his friend Bonpland, M. le Gros,
the secretary of the French Consulate in Santa Cruz, and the English
gardener of Durasno (the botanical gardens of Orotava). The day appears
not to have been happily chosen. The top of the Peak was covered in
thick clouds from sunrise up to ten o’clock. Only one path leads from
Villa Orotava through the _retama_ plains and the _mal pays_. “This
is the way that all visitors must follow who are only a short time in
Teneriffe. When people go up the Peak” (these are Humboldt’s words)
“it is the same as when the Chamounix or Etna are visited, people
must follow the guides and one only succeeds in seeing what other
travellers have seen and described.” Like others he was much struck
by the contrast of the vegetation in these parts of Teneriffe and in
that surrounding Santa Cruz, where he had landed. “A narrow stony path
leads through Chestnut woods to regions full of Laurel and Heath, and
then further to the Dornajito springs; this being the only fountain
that is met with all the way to the Peak. We stopped to take our
provision of water under a solitary fir tree. This station is known
in the country by the name of Pino del Dornajito. Above this region
of arborescent heaths called Monte Verde, is the region of ferns.
Nowhere in the temperate zones have I seen such an abundance of the
_Pteris_, _Blechium_ and _Asplenium_; yet none of these plants have
the stateliness of the arborescent ferns which, at the height of 500
and 600 _toises_, form the principal ornaments of equinoctial America.
The root of the _Pteris aquilina_ serves the inhabitants of Palma and
Gomera for food. They grind it to powder, and mix it with a quantity
of barley meal. This composition when boiled is called _gofio_; the
use of so homely an aliment is proof of the extreme poverty of the
lower classes of people in the Canary Islands. (Gofio is still largely
consumed).
“The region of ferns is succeeded by a wood of juniper trees and firs,
which has suffered greatly from the violence of hurricanes (not one is
now left). In this place, mentioned by some travellers under the name
of Caraveles, Mr. Eden states that in the year 1705, he saw little
flames, which according to the doctrines of the naturalists of his
time, he attributes to sulphurous exhalations igniting spontaneously.
We continued to ascend, till we came to the rock of La Gayta and to
the Portillo: traversing this narrow pass between two basaltic hills,
we entered the great plain of _Spartium_.... We spent two hours in
crossing the Llano del Retama, which appears like an immense sea of
white sand. In the midst of the plain are tufts of the _retama_, which
is the _Spartium nubigenum_ of Aiton. M. de Martinière wished to
introduce this beautiful shrub into Languedoc, where firewood is very
scarce. It grows to a height of 9 ft. and is loaded with odoriferous
flowers, with which the goat-hunters who met in our road had decorated
their hats. The goats of the Peak, which are of a dark brown colour,
are reckoned delicious food; they browse on the _spartium_ and have
run wild in the deserts from time immemorial.” Spending the night on
the mountain, though in mid summer, the travellers complained bitterly
of the cold, having neither tents nor rugs. At 3 A.M. they started by
torch-light to make the final ascent to the summit of the Piton. “A
strong northerly wind chased the clouds, the moon at intervals shooting
through the vapours exposed its disk on a firmament of the darkest
blues, and the view of the volcano threw a majestic character over the
nocturnal scenery.
“Sometimes the peak was entirely hidden from our eyes by the fog,
at other times it broke upon us in terrific proximity: and like an
enormous pyramid, threw its shadow over the clouds rolling at our feet.”
Scaling the mountain on the north-eastern side, in two hours the party
reached Alta Vista, following the same course as travellers of to-day,
passing over the _mal pays_ (a region devoid of vegetable mould and
covered with fragments of lava) and visiting the ice caves. After the
Laurels follow ferns of great size, Junipers and Pines (not one is now
left of either) all the way up to the Portillo.