in the island. Once the dusty stretch of _carretera_ between the
junction of the road from Tacoronte to the Puerto is left behind, the
drive becomes full of interest. The road passes below the picturesque
little village of Realejo Bajo, skirts the towering cliffs on which
is perched the little village of Icod el Alto some 1700 ft. above,
and winds along the sea shore. Every turn of the road brings into
sight a fresh view of the deeply indented coast-line between the
storm-bent old tamarisk trees which edge the road for miles. The long
avenues of eucalyptus trees, with their ragged bark hanging in strips,
will always be associated in my mind with all the carriage roads in
Teneriffe. Early in March the vegetation reminds one that spring
has begun. The geraniums in the cottage gardens are showing promise
of their summer glory, fringing the walls or hanging in long trails
from the little flat roof tops. The winter rains have washed the dust
off the hedge-rows and banks, and in places where water is dripping
from the rocks they are draped with a thick coating of maiden-hair
fern, and the pale lilac blossoms of the wild coltsfoot, _Cineraria
tussilaginis_, stud the banks. I should imagine this to have been the
parent of the variety known in cultivation as _Cineraria stellata_, so
much grown of late years in English greenhouses. The rocks themselves
are studded with the curious flat _Sempervivum tabulæformæ_, looking
like great green nail heads, and _S. canariensis_ was just throwing up
flower-spikes from its rosettes of cabbage-like leaves. Here and there
a little waterfall gives welcome moisture to water-loving plants.
Common brambles, encouraged by the dampness, grow to vast dimensions
and hang in rich profusion, winding themselves into cords until they
look like the lianes of a tropical forest. Far down in the crevasse
below the stone bridges, the long fronds of ferns, the untorn leaves of
a seedling banana, with the large leaves of the common yam, suggest a
sub-tropical garden.
Between the road and the sea are great stretches of land cultivated
with bananas, a mine of wealth to their owners, who now no longer visit
their summer residences on these estates. Neglected gardens tell a tale
of departed glories, and many of the houses are left to fall to rack
and ruin, or are merely inhabited by the _medianero_ who has rented the
ground.
Near the outskirts of San Juan de la Rambla a stone arch crosses the
road, and just beyond, the deep Barranco Ruiz cuts into the mountain
sides. It is a grand rocky ravine, and by a steep narrow path which
winds up the side it is possible to reach Icod el Alto at the top of
the _barranco_.
The little town of San Juan de la Rambla is very picturesquely
situated, and every traveller is shown the beautifully carved latticed
balcony on an old house, as the carriage rattles through the little
narrow street. We are told that luckily the balcony is made of the
very hard and durable wood of the beautiful native pine, _Pinus
canariensis_, which is rapidly becoming a rare tree in the lower parts
of the island. The wood itself is locally called _tea_, and the trees
are called _teasolas_ by the country people, who know no other name for
them.
Once San Juan is passed the Peak becomes the centre of interest.
The luxuriant vegetation is left behind, the beauty of the coast is
forgotten, and the completely different aspect which the Peak presents
from this side absorbs one’s attention. The foreground is nothing
but rocky ground, but numbers of _Cistus Berthelotianus_ brighten up
the barren ground with their bushes of showy rose-coloured flowers.
In places they were interspersed with great quantities of asphodels,
whose branching spikes of starry white and brownish flowers seem hardly
worthy of their romantic name. In reality they have always sadly
shattered my mental picture of the asphodel--the chosen flower of the
ancients, the flower of blessed oblivion--this surely should have been
a superb lily, pure white, and “fields of asphodels” which we read
of should be rich green meadows full of moisture, where the lilies
should grow knee deep, not arid tufa slopes where erect rods of this
strange blossom rise from a cluster of half-starved narrow leaves. The
local name is _gamona_, and in Grand Canary where they abound, one
large tract of land is called _El llano de las gamonas_, the plain of
asphodels.
At a higher level begins the _Pinar_ or forest of that most beautiful
of all pines, the native _Pinus canariensis_. Here on the lower
cultivated ground the few specimens that remain, having escaped
complete destruction, are mostly mutilated, having had all their lower
branches cut for firewood or possibly for fear they should shade some
little patch of potatoes or onions, and the younger trees resemble a
mop more than a tree, with nothing left but a tuft of fluffy branches
at the top.
The little town of Icod de los Vinos is prettily situated, being
built on a great slope, intersected by many streams of lava. There is
a very picturesque Plaza with a little garden and fountain in front
of the old convent of San Augustin, whose façade has several carved
latticed balconies which are the great beauty of all the old houses in
Teneriffe.
Visitors to Icod are all taken to see their famous dragon tree,
_Dracæna Draco_, of which the inhabitants are justly proud, as it is
now the largest and oldest in the island since the destruction of its
rival in Villa Orotava. We were assured its age was over 3000 years, an
assertion I was not prepared to dispute, and hardly even ventured to
look incredulous, and so cast a slur on their almost sacred _El drago_.
There is no doubt the growth of these trees is almost incredibly slow;
they increase in height in the same way as a palm, putting out new
leaves in the heart of the tufted crowns and dropping an equal number
of old ones, which process leaves a curiously scarred marking on the
bark. No one seems to know how often a tuft flowers, but certainly
only once in many years, and it is only after flowering that the stem
forks, so in specimens which are centuries old the head of the tree
becomes a mass of short branches with tufted heads, which in their turn
become divided, and so it goes on until one begins to wonder whether
there is not some truth in the immense age attributed to them. The
curious aerial roots which descend from the branches gradually creep
down, and it is the layers upon layers of these that strengthen the
original stem sufficiently to enable it to bear the immense weight of
its tufted crown, as decay seems always to set in in the heart of the
stem, and by the time the trees attain to a venerable age they are
invariably hollow. An old document describing the tree says “it has no
heart within. The wood is very spongy and light, so that it serves for
the covering of hives or making shields. The gum which this tree exudes
is called dragon’s blood, and that which the tree sweats out without
cutting is the best, and is called ‘blood by the drop.’ It is very good
for medicine, for sealing letters, and for making the teeth red.”
Icod is a good centre for expeditions, and those who are brave enough
to face the dirt and discomfort of a Spanish _fonda_ can pass a week
or so very pleasantly. It is a matter of great regret that better
accommodation is not available in many of the smaller towns, and I own
that personally I could never bring myself to face the native inn. No
scenery is worth the discomfort of dirty beds, impossible food and
the noise of the _patio_ of a _fonda_, where as often as not, goats,
chickens, pigeons and a braying donkey all add to the concert of the
harsh loud voices of the women servants.
Now that motor-cars are available in Orotava it renders matters much
easier for making expeditions in the day. Formerly, the greater part
of the day was occupied by the drive to and from Icod, but if an early
start is made, on arrival at Icod there is still a long day before one,
and it is possible to make a visit to the old Guanche burial caves or
to continue the road to Garachico. This now unimportant little village
was once the chief port of the island, and the number of old churches
and convents still remaining speak for themselves of the former
importance of the place. In the days when Icod de los Vinos, as its
name implies, was celebrated for its vines, the wine which was made
there was shipped from the port of Garachico. The old sugar factory
which still stands was once the property of an English firm, but the
various booms in the wine, cochineal and sugar trade, are things of the
past, and Orotava is now the centre of the banana boom.
Possibly the pleasantest expeditions from Icod are those which lead
through the pine forest past the Ermita Sta. Barbara. Good walkers
will find magnificent walks along fairly level paths once they have
accomplished the first climb of about 3000 ft., and can make their way
along to the Corona and down the steep zig-zag path below Icod el Alto,
or there is a lower track which makes a good mule ride back to Orotava.
VII
TENERIFFE (_continued_)
Many visitors to Teneriffe find their way across the mountains from
Orotava to Guimar in the course of the winter or spring, which is the
best time for the expedition. Though the actual time required for the
journey from point to point may be only about seven hours, according
to the condition of the road, it is best to make an early start and to
have the whole day before one, so as to have plenty of time to rest on
the way and enjoy all there is to be seen.
Once the last steep streets of the Villa Orotava are left behind the
country at once changes its aspect. The banana fields, which have
become somewhat monotonous after a long stay in their midst, have
vanished, the air is cooler, and in the early morning the ground
is saturated with dew. In spring the young corn makes the country
intensely green, and the pear and other fruit blossoms lighten up
the landscape, while in the hedge-rows are clumps of the little red
_Fuchsia coccinea_, and great bushes of the common yellow broom. Here
and there the two Canary St. John’s worts, _Hypericum canariensis_ and
_H. floribundum_, are covered with berries, their flowers having fallen
some months before. Ferns and sweet violets grow on the damp and shady
banks, and occasionally fine bushes of _Cytisus prolifer_ were to be
seen smothered with their soft, silky-looking white flowers. Gradually
the region of the chestnut woods is reached, but these having only
dropped their leaves after the spell of cold weather early in January,
are still leafless, and it is sad to see how terribly the trees are
mutilated by the peasants. Though not allowed to fell whole trees, the
law does not appear to protect their branches, and often nothing but
the stump and a few straggling boughs remain, the rest having been
hacked off for firewood. Small bushes of the white-flowered _Erica
arborea_ soon appear, and the showy rose-coloured flowers of _Cistus
vaginatus_ were new to me.
At a height of about 3800 feet the level of the strong stream called
Agua Mansa is reached, and though it is not actually on the road to
Guimar many travellers make a short détour to visit the source of the
stream and the beautifully wooded valley. The absence of woods in the
lower country no doubt makes the vegetation on the steep slopes of
the little gorge doubly appreciated. Many narrow paths lead through
the laurel and heath, and on the shady side of the valley the extreme
moisture of the air has clothed the stems of the trees with grey
hoary lichens. The luxury of the sound of a running stream is rare
in Teneriffe and one is tempted to linger and enjoy the scene under
a giant chestnut tree, which has shaded many a picnic party from the
Puerto.
By retracing one’s steps for a short distance the track is regained;
Pedro Gil looms far ahead and the long steep ascent begins, up the
narrow mule path among thickets of the tree heaths. Here these heaths
are merely shrubby, not the splendid specimens which may be seen near
Agua Garcia, where they are protected from the charcoal-burners, but
the wide stretches covered with white flowers are very lovely appearing
through the mist, which even on the finest day is apt to sweep across
occasionally. The vegetation on these Cumbres is much the same as that
which is passed through on the way to the Cañadas, and in spring the
_Adenocarpus viscosus_ or _anagyrus_, its tiny yellow flowers growing
among the small leaves which crowd the branches, is about the last
sign of plant life. Above this region are merely occasional patches of
moss which live on the moisture of the mist which more often than not
enwraps these heights. In clear weather, the long and rather tedious
scramble of the last part of the road is soon forgotten in the delight
at the magnificent view at the end. The top of the pass, 6800 ft., is
like the back-bone of the island, and on the one side the whole valley
of Orotava lies stretched below, with the Peak standing grand and
majestic on the left, and on the other side lie the slopes down to the
pine woods above Arafo. It is hard to agree with a writer who describes
the scene as one of “immense desolation and ugliness, the silence
broken only by the croaking voice of a crow passing overhead.” It is
just this silence and stillness which appeals to so many in mountain
regions; there is something intensely restful yet awe-inspiring in the
complete peace which reigns in high altitudes in fair weather.
[Illustration: CONVENT OF SANT AUGUSTIN, ICOD DE LOS VINOS]
A long pause is necessary to rest both man and beast, as not only is
the path a long and trying one, but it is possible for the sun to
be so extremely hot even at that altitude that it seems to bake the
steep and arid slopes of lava and volcanic sand, and the loose cinders
near the end of the climb make bad going for the mules. The so-called
path becomes almost invisible except to the quick eye of the mules,
accustomed as they are to pick their way across these stretches of
loose scoriæ. Often the question “Which is the way?” is met by the
owner of the mule answering “_Il mulo sabe_” (the mule knows), instead
of saying, “To the right” or “To the left,” and I generally found he
was right.
Many people prefer the ascent to the descent, and certainly though
I have nothing but praise for mules as a means of locomotion going
uphill, there are moments when I preferred to trust to my own legs
going down the loose cindery track.
The fact that the eastern mountain slopes are warmer and drier, as the
rainfall is not so great, encourages the vegetation to rise to a much
higher altitude and the barren world of lava and cinders is sooner
left behind. Our old friend the _Adenocarpus_ soon greeted us, like
a pioneer of plant life, and gradually came the different regions of
pine, tree heaths, laurels, and then the grassy slopes.
The gorge known as the Valle is described as “one of the most
stupendous efforts of eruptive force to be seen in the world, the gap
appearing to have been absolutely thrown into space.” A network of what
might well be mistaken for dykes seems to cut up the surface, and the
whole formation of the Valle is of great interest to geologists. To
the ordinary observer it is certainly suggestive of a desolate waste,
and the black hill known as the Volcan of 1705 does not help to give
life to the scene. The white lichen, which is the true pioneer of plant
life, is only beginning to appear, though in crevices where deep cracks
in the lava have probably exposed soil below the sturdy Euphorbias are
getting a hold, and a few other robust plants, such as the feathery
_Sonchus leptocephalus_, which I have always noticed seems to revel
in lava. Possibly another century may make a great difference to the
scene, but certainly during the past two hundred years there has not
been much sign of returning vegetation, and the fiery stream has done
its work thoroughly. The relief is great at once more reaching the pine
woods above Arafo, and the fatigue, not peril, of the descent being
over it is pleasant to find the comfort of the well-named Buen Retiro
Hotel at Guimar.
Though over a thousand feet above the sea, the situation is so
sheltered that Guimar boasts of one of the best and sunniest climates
in Teneriffe, the little village lying as it were in a nest among the
hills. The flowery garden of the hotel tells its own tale, better than
any advertisement or guide-book, and a week may be spent exploring the
various _barrancos_ in the neighbourhood, especially by botanists,
or lovers of plants. The Barranco del Rio is renowned as being about
the best botanical collecting ground in the island. Dr. Morris says
he found there no fewer than a hundred different species of native
plants, many of which he had not seen elsewhere. The dripping rocks are
clothed with maiden-hair fern, and the giant buttercup, _Ranunculus
cortusæfolius_, appears to revel in the damp and the high air. The
Barranco Badajoz is perhaps wilder and more precipitous; in places the
rocky walls of these gorges rise to 200 ft., and appeal immensely to
those who enjoy wild scenery. The lack of a roaring river tumbling
down them I never quite got over, during all my stay in Teneriffe.
Perhaps in a bygone age they existed, and owing to some eruption cracks
were formed and the water vanished, as the bed of the stream seems to
be there, but, alas! no water or only a trickling stream. The tiniest
stream has to be utilised to provide water for a village below or for
irrigation purposes, and this, combined with the deforestation of the
island, no doubt has helped to drain the _barrancos_. There is more
water in the Guimar ravines than in most, and from the Barranco del Rio
or the Madre del Agua I should imagine the whole water-supply of the
village is derived.
Those who are interested in relics should visit Socorro, about an hour
distant from Guimar, the original home of the miraculous image of the
Virgin de Candelaria. So celebrated was this image that nearly a whole
book on the subject has been issued by the Hakluyt Society, edited and
translated from old documents by Sir Clement Markham. The image is
supposed to have been found in about the year 1400, by some shepherds,
standing upright on a stone in a dry deserted spot near the sandy
beach. A cross was afterwards erected by Christians when the Spaniards
occupied the island to mark the spot, and in front of it was built the
small hermitage called El Socorro. One shepherd saw what he supposed
to be a woman carrying a child standing in his path, and as the law in
those days forbad a man to speak to a woman alone in a solitary place,
on pain of death, he made signs to her to move away in order that he
and his sheep might pass. No notice being taken and no reply made, he
took up a stone in order to hurl it at the supposed woman, but his arm
became instantly stiff, and he could not move it. His companion, though
filled with fear, sought to ascertain whether she was a living woman,
and tried to cut one of her fingers, but only cut his own, and did not
even mark the finger of the image. These accordingly were the two first
miracles of the sacred figure.
These shepherds related their experiences to the Lord of Guimar, who
after being shown the stiff arm and cut fingers of the men, summoned
his councillors to consult as to what had best be done. Accompanied
by his followers and guided by the shepherds, he came to the spot and
ordered the shepherds to lift the figure, as it apparently was no
living thing, and to remove it to his house. On approaching the image
to carry out their Lord’s orders, the stiff arm of the one and the cut
fingers of the other instantly became cured. The Lord and his followers
were so struck with the strange and splendid dress of the woman, who
was now invested as well with supernatural powers, that they lost their
first terror. Determined to do honour to so strange a guest within
his dominions, the Lord of Guimar raised the image in his arms and
transported it to his own house.
Unbelievers say that the image was merely the figure-head of a ship
which was washed up on the beach, but the faithful maintain that so
beautiful was the image, so gorgeous its apparel and so brilliant the
gold with which it was gilded, that it was the work of no human hands,
and contact with the sea would have destroyed the brilliancy of its
colouring.
The Lord of Guimar sent the news of the wonderful discovery to the
other chiefs in the island, offering that the image, evidently endowed
with supernatural and healing powers, should spend half the year within
the territory of the Lord of Taoro. This offer was declined, but the
chief came with many followers to see the new wonder, which was set
up on the altar in a cave and guarded with great care. For some forty
years the image remained in the care of infidels, who regarded it
with great awe, and then it fell to the lot of a boy named Auton, who
had been converted to Christianity by the Spaniards, to enlighten the
natives as to the nature of their treasure. On being shown the figure
he instantly recognised it as being a representation of the Virgin,
and after having prayed before it, he instructed the natives in the
story of the Virgin Mary. The boy was in return made sacristan of the
image and it was guarded day and night. At certain intervals visions
of processions on the beach were seen and remains of wax candles were
found, and a shower of wax upon the beach was supposed to have been
sent to provide wax for candles to be burnt in honour of Our Lady of
Candelaria.
The neighbouring islands soon heard tales of the holy relic and the
inhabitants came to visit it. For several centuries wonderful miracles
were at different times ascribed to it, and it continued to be regarded
with the deepest reverence, though the housing and care of the image
was the cause of various feuds, and on one occasion it was stolen and
carried away to Fuerteventura, but was returned.
Unfortunately, during a great storm in 1826, the holy relic was swept
away into the sea, and thus was the original Virgin de Candelaria
lost, and though a new image was made and blessed by the Pope it has
never been regarded with quite the same awe and reverence, though many
pilgrims visit the church on August 15, the feast of Candelaria, and
again on February 2.
VIII
GRAND CANARY
I have noticed that there is always a certain amount of jealousy
existing between the inhabitants of a group of islands. In old days
they were of course absolutely unknown to each other, and even spoke
such a different language that they had some difficulty in making
themselves understood. Though such is naturally not the case to-day
when in a few hours the little Interinsular steamers cross from one
island to another, still in Teneriffe you are apt to be told there
is nothing to be seen in Grand Canary, or if you happen to visit Las
Palmas first you will probably be told you are wasting your time
in proposing to spend some weeks or months in Teneriffe or in even
contemplating a flying visit to the other islands.
It was with a feeling of great curiosity that I watched our approach
to Grand Canary, as one evening late in May our steamer crept round
the isthmus known as La Isleta and glided into the harbour of Puerto
de la Luz. Many towns look their best from the sea and this is perhaps
especially true of Las Palmas. The sun was setting behind the low hills
which rise above the long line of sand dunes, dotted with tamarisks,
running between the port and the isleta, and in the evening light the
town itself, some three miles away, looked far from unattractive, its
cathedral towers rising above the palm trees on the shore.
On landing the illusion is soon destroyed; the dust, which is the curse
of Las Palmas, was being blown gaily along by the north-east wind,
which seems to blow perpetually, and the steam tram which connects the
port and the town was grinding along, emitting showers of black smoke,
and I began to think the writer was not far wrong who said Las Palmas
was “a place of barbed wire and cinders.”
Most travellers’ destination is the hotel at Santa Catalina, lying
midway between the port and the town, and here many of them remain for
the rest of their stay, not being tempted ever to set foot outside the
pleasant grounds and comfortable hotel, except possibly to play a game
of golf on the links above, which are a great attraction and boon to
those who are spending the winter basking in the sunshine in search of
health.