_TENERIFFE_
(1863)
I went up into the infinite solitudes. I saw the sunrise gleaming on
the mountain-peaks. I felt myself nearer the stars—I seemed almost to
be in sympathy and communion with them.
IBSEN.
The first sight of Santa Cruz (where we arrived next morning) is
disappointing. When you see it from the deck of your ship, looking from
right to left, you see a red, brown, and yellow coast, barren grey
mountains, and ravines. The mountains, being exposed to much wind,
present the most curious, harsh, and fantastic outline against the sky.
These are called Passo Alto (a child would guess their volcanic origin);
they are wide irregular masses of rock, as desolate and savage as can be
imagined. Close to the water is a flat, whitewashed town, which always
looks in a white heat. The only two high buildings are churches. The
town bristled with cannon near the sea. The mountains, which are close
to the town on the right, and shut it off, were covered with round,
bushy, and compact green splotches, which were in reality good-sized fig
trees. Behind the town is a steep rising mountain, with a good winding
road; to the left of it is a regiment of windmills drawn up in line, as
if waiting for Don Quixote; and in the distance, still on the left, and
extending away from you, are masses of mountains, and hanging over them
is a little haze in the sky, which might be a little woolly cloud,
sugar-loaf in shape, which you are told is the Peak of Teneriffe. The
sky, the sea, the atmosphere are perfect, and far surpassing Madeira.
Most exhilarating is the sensation thereof. The island, saving one pass,
is covered with small barren hills, some of them conical, some like
Primrose Hill, only much bigger, which are, I am told, the small
disturbances of volcanoes.
These were my first impressions as we were rowed to a little quay in a
little boat, and a dozen boys took our dozen packages; and a small
walk brought us to Richardson’s Hotel, _as it was_, a funny, old,
broken-down place, with a curious interior, an uncomfortable
picturesque remnant of Spanish-Moorish grandeur and style, better to
sketch than to sleep and feed in. There was a large _patio_, or
courtyard, and a broad carved oak staircase, and tiers of large
balconies to correspond, running all round the interior of the house,
into which galleries the rooms open. Green creepers covered the roof
and balcony, and hung over, falling into the _patio_, giving it an
ancient and picturesque look, like an old ruin. Rita, a peasant woman,
came out to wait upon me, in a long white mantilla, topped by a black
felt Spanish wide-awake, a comfortable-looking woman, but neither
young nor pretty. The food was as poor and ancient as the hotel, and
the servants to match. I could imagine the garlicked sausages to have
been a remnant left in a mouldy cupboard by some impoverished hidalgo
of a hundred years back.
Richard wanted to pass a few days here, but I suggested that, as the
yellow fever was raging, and as Santa Cruz and all round could be seen
in three or four days, we should do it on return, and meantime seek some
purer abode, lest a yellow-fever bed or infected baggage should lay us
low; so we voted for Laguna, or rather San Christoval de la Laguna, a
large town fifteen hundred feet above sea-level, and consequently above
fever-range; and we ordered the hotel carriage at once.
The vehicle was the skeleton of the first vehicle that was ever
made—perhaps the one Noah provided in the Ark to drive his family down
Mount Ararat when it became dry—no springs, windows, blinds, lining, or
anything save the actual wood; three mules abreast, rope, reins and
driver all ancient to match. We found a crowd of men wringing their
hands at the amount of small baggage to be packed away in it, swearing
they could not and would not try to put it in. Always leave these men to
themselves. After loud vociferation, swearing, and quarrelling, they
packed it beautifully, and we were stowed away on the top of it, and
rattled out of the town at a good pace, up a winding road, ascending the
steep country behind Santa Cruz towards Laguna. As we rose higher we had
a splendid view of the sea, and the white flat town with its two
solitary towers lay at our feet. The winding road was propped up with
walls to prevent landslip; the mountains looked wild and rugged; the
weather was perfect. We met troops of pretty peasants with heavy loads,
and every here and there a picturesque chapel or hermitage.
Our drive was pleasant enough, and I think at about 3 p.m. we were
driving hard up and down the old Noah’s-Ark-town called San Christoval
de la Laguna. We drove to three inns. Number one was not possible.
Number two, something like it; where they were going to put us into the
same room (perhaps the same bed—who knows?) with a sick man (maybe a
convalescent yellow-feverist). We held a parley and consultation. Was it
possible to go on? No, neither now nor to-morrow; for the new road was
being made, the old one broken up, and the coach (which, by the way, was
the name given to a twin vehicle such as ours) was not allowed to run
farther than Sausal, three miles off, from which we had twelve miles
more to accomplish in order to reach the valley and town of Orotava—the
El Dorado, and deservedly so, of Teneriffe. We did not like to descend
again into the heat and pestilence of Santa Cruz. Moreover, we had made
up our minds (not knowing Laguna) to pass a week there, and had ordered
our muleteers to bring up and deposit our baggage there.
The coachman thought he knew of another house where we might get a room.
So we drove to the “forlorn hope,” which looked as bad as the rest, and
were at first refused. The _patio_ was a ruin, full of mud and broken
plantains, the village idiot and the pig huddled up in one corner. In
fact, the whole house was a ruin, and the inevitable carved-wood balcony
looked like tawdry finery on it. The landlady was the most
fiendish-looking old woman I have ever seen, with sharp, bad, black
eyes. She exchanged some words in a whisper with three or four ruffianly
looking men, and said that she could let us have a room, but only one.
Richard went up to inspect it, and while he was gone, and I was left
alone, the village idiot worried and frightened me. Our quarters
consisted of a small barnlike room with raftered ceiling, a floor with
holes big enough to slip your foot through into the courtyard,
whitewashed walls, and a small latticed window about two feet square
near the ceiling. It was filthy, and contained two small paillasses full
of fleas, two hard kitchen chairs, and a small kitchen table. For
safety, we had all our baggage brought up. We asked for a light, and
they gave us a rushlight, growling all the time because we did not find
the light of a dim oil-lamp in the passage enough, and bread sufficient
nourishment; but we clamoured for supper.
After three hours’ preparation, during which we were inspected by the
whole band of ruffians composing the establishment, and after loud,
bewildering chatter about what should become of us on the morrow, we
were asked with much pomp and ceremony into the kitchen. We could not
both go at once, as there was no key to our door, and the baggage was
unsafe. Richard was not away five minutes, but returned with an
exclamation of disgust, threw himself on the paillasse, lit a cigar, and
opened a bottle of Santa Cruz wine we had brought with us. I then
started, and found it necessary to hold the light close to the ground,
in order not to put my feet through the holes, or fall on the uneven
boarding of the gallery. In a dirty kitchen, on a dirty cloth, was a
pink mess in a saucer, smoking hot (which, if analysed, would have
proved to be eggs, beetroot, garlic, and rancid oil), stale bread, dirty
rancid butter, looking like melted tallow-grease; and what I thought was
a large vinegar-cruet, but in reality a bottle of wine, completed the
repast. I tried to eat, but, though starved, soon desisted. When I
returned to my room, Pepa, the dirty handmaiden—who was always gaping
into the streets for excitement (which was not to be found in Laguna),
but who proved more good-tempered and honest than her mistress—followed
me, and, looking nervously around, put a large key into my hand, and
told me to lock my door at night. I did not need a second hint, but also
piled up the baggage and kitchen chairs and table against what looked to
me like a second suspicious door, opening out on leads and locked
outside. I then got out our arms—two revolvers and three
bowie-knives—loaded the former, and put one of each close to our hands
ready. Sleep was out of the question for me on account of the fleas,
which were legion; but I experienced nothing of a more alarming nature.
We were up betimes, and clamouring to get on to Orotava. They naturally
wished to keep us, and so they invented every excuse. They all spoke
loudly and at once. “The _public_ coach was engaged by a _private_
gentleman for several days; there were no horses or mules to be had for
some time” (they would almost have told us there was no hotel at
Orotava, if they had dared); “the yellow fever raged everywhere except
at Laguna, which was above its range.” “Well, then,” we said, “under all
these circumstances we would _walk_.” Now they never walk themselves,
and a woman doing such a thing was incredible. They said, “_He_ might
walk; but what about the Señora and the baggage?” Seeing, finally, that
we were determined, and offered good pay, the driver of the vehicle
agreed to drive us three miles farther on to Sausal, and to furnish us
with several mules for our baggage; but no _riding_ mules, never
thinking that we should accept such a proposition. To their surprise, we
closed with it at once. They tried a last dodge in the shape of charging
us the exorbitant price of five dollars, or £1, for our atrocious
night’s lodging and mess of eggs, and we gave it cheerfully. When we
went to pack up, we discovered that, although we had been there but
fifteen hours, and had never left the room at the same time without
locking our door and taking the key, they had contrived to steal our
best bowie-knife, but had touched nothing else. It were better to leave
gold than a knife in the way of a Spaniard. We would not even stay to
dispute this.
We finally started in the “coach,” in high glee, through the melancholy
streets, up a rising country, grand and hilly, and over a good road.
Richard said that it was a most interesting mountain-pass, for reasons
which were rather _au-dessus de ma portée_; and as I have no doubt of
it, I will describe the trifles.
The chief travellers on this road were muleteers, picturesque men in
blankets and sombreros, sitting on comfortable-looking and heavily laden
pack-saddles, walking or galloping, and singing in a peculiar Moorish
roulade, and smoking their little paper cigarillos. The only difference
that I could see between them and a Spanish gentleman was, that the
latter’s mule was better bred and went a faster pace, and he had, in
place of the blanket, a black cloak, with perhaps a bit of red sash or
binding. Pretty peasant women, with a sturdy yet graceful walk and
undulating figures, went by. They wore white flannel mantillas, topped
by a sombrero, and carried enormous weights on their heads, and sang and
chattered, not at all distressed by their burthens. We passed all the
scenes of historical interest in our passage through the island. Our
coach arrived finally at Sausal. Our aneroid marked nineteen hundred
feet at the highest part of our drive through the pass. Here we
dismounted, and the coach waited for an hour to see what passengers it
might pick up.
We were in a very peculiar position, quite by ourselves (without even a
servant), at a wayside house of refuge on a mountain-side, beyond which
precincts no vehicle went at this time, and where it was impossible to
remain, and without knowing a soul in the island. Luckily Richard spoke
the language well. Still, we did not exactly know where we were going.
We had an indistinct wish to go to Orotava; but where it was, or how
distant at that moment, we knew not; nor did we know, when we got there,
if we should find any accommodation, and if not, how we should be able
to get back, or whether we should have to pass the night out of doors.
Yet it was the happiest moment of my life. I had been through two
mortally dull years (without travel), in commonplace, matter-of-fact Old
England, where one _can’t_ get into a difficulty. Independently of this,
our baggage—some twenty-five packages—was scattered all over the place
on mule back, some coming up from Santa Cruz, some from Laguna, and the
smaller ones with us. They would not know what had become of us. And how
were we to rid ourselves of those we had with us? We saw several
handsome, proud, lazy-looking fellows, in blankets, sleeping about,
outside the cottage, and asked them if, for a couple of dollars, they
would carry these, and walk with us to show us the way? Not a bit of it!
They did not want to earn two dollars (8_s._ 4_d._) at such a price!
They _have_ nothing, and _want_ nothing but sleep and independence. At
last a party of muleteers came by. Richard explained our difficulties,
and one good-natured old fellow put our small traps on the top of his
pack, and we left orders at the house of refuge with the girl that any
mules passing by laden with an Englishman’s luggage were to come on to
Orotava, and then commenced our walk. And an uncommonly pretty, pleasant
walk it was. This path was only fit for mules; and the continuation of
the good road we could not enter upon, on account of the people at work,
and incessant blasting.
At the end of four hours a mere turn in the road showed us the tropical
valley in all its beauty, and the effect was magical: the wealth of
verdure and foliage, wild flowers, and carolling birds of pretty
plumage. A horseshoe-shaped range of mountains shuts out the Vale of
Orotava from the rest of the world, enclosing it entirely, except where
open to the sea and its cool breezes; and we gradually wound down under
its eastern range, sloping to the beach.
A boy guide met us, and led us through many a winding, paved street of
Orotava, till the trickling of the mountain stream reached our ears; and
then, following its course, he brought us to the door of our _fonda
gobea_, or inn, which, from its outward appearance, charmed me
inexpressibly. It is an ancient relic of Spanish-Moorish grandeur—the
palace of a defunct Marchesa—a large building, of white stone,
whitewashed over, built in a square, the interior forming the _patio_,
or courtyard. Verandahed balconies run all around it inside, in tiers of
dark carved wood, and outside windows, or wooden doors, empanelled, and
with old coats of arms above them. These open on to balconies of the
same. There is a flat roof, with garden or terrace at the top. The
inside balconies form the passage. All the rooms open into the side next
the house; the other looks into the court. We were very weary and dusty
as we entered the _patio_. The _amo_, or master, made his appearance,
and, much to our chagrin, conducted us to a room very much like the one
we left at Laguna. I will not say that our spirits fell, for we looked
at each other and burst out laughing; it was evident that the Canaries
contained no better accommodation; but people who go in for travelling
laugh at the discomforts that make others miserable; so, with a glance
at an upper skylight, a foot square, we agreed that it would be a
capital place for work, in the way of reading, writing, and study.
While Richard was settling something, and drinking a cup of coffee, I
asked the _amo_ to let me inspect the house, and see if I could not find
better accommodation; but he assured me that every nook and cranny was
occupied. I explored an open belvedere at the top of the house, a garret
half occupied by a photographer in the daytime, and the courtyard, and
was going back in despair, when I came upon a long, lofty, dusty,
deserted-looking loft, with thirty-two hard, straight-backed kitchen
chairs in it. I counted them from curiosity.
“What,” I asked, “is this?”
“Oh,” he replied, “we call this the _sala_, but no one ever comes into
it; so we use it as a lumber-room, and the workwomen sit here.”
“Will you give me this?” I asked again.
“Willingly,” he replied, looking nevertheless as surprised as if I had
asked to sleep in the courtyard; “and, moreover, you can run over the
house, and ask Bernardo [a peasant servant] to give you whatever
furniture you may choose.”
I was not long in thanking him and carrying his offer into execution.
Bernardo and I speedily fraternized, and we soon had the place broomed
and aired. It had evidently been the ballroom or reception-room of the
defunct Marchesa in palmy days. Stone walls painted white, a wood floor
with chinks in it, through which you could see the _patio_ below, and
through which “brave rats and mice” fearlessly came to play; a raftered
wood ceiling with a deep carved cornice (through the holes above the
children overhead subsequently pelted us with nuts and cheese); three
chains, with faded blue ribbons, suspended from the lofty ceiling,
whereon chandeliers had evidently hung. Three carved-wood doors (rusty
on their hinges) opened on to a verandah balcony, from which we had a
splendid view. The hotel opened sideways, on the hillside, on to a
perpendicular street, with a mountain torrent dashing down it beneath
the windows. To the left, above, was the mountain range of Tigayga; to
the right was the town, or _villa_; and below, and sideways to the
right, was the cultivated valley, and the sea stretching broadly away,
and, when clear, we could see the _white cone_—the immortal Peak. One
double door, of cedar wood, opened on to the balcony overhanging the
_patio_; and one more into another room, which I had subsequently to
barricade against an inquisitive old lady, who wanted to see if English
people bathed and ate like Teneriffians.
Such was the aspect of the loft after a brooming. I then routed out an
old screen, and ran it across the room, dividing it into two, thereby
enabling the _amo_ to charge me for bedroom and sitting-room. In the
bedroom half I ran two straw paillasses together for a bed; two little
primitive washstands, capable of containing a pint of water; and two
tiny tables of like dimensions for our toilet. My next difficulty was to
rig up a bath and a stove. Hunting about, I found a large wine-wash, as
tall as myself. I rolled it in, and ordered it to be filled every day
with sea water. The drawing-room contained two large kitchen tables (one
for Richard’s writing, one to dine on), and a smaller one for _my_
occupations, a horsehair sofa, a pan of charcoal, kettles, and pots for
hot water, tea, eggs, and minor cooking.
Presently mule after mule began to arrive with the baggage; not a thing
was missing. I divided the thirty-two hard-backed kitchen chairs between
the two apartments. For want of drawers or wardrobe we kept most things
in our trunks, hanging dresses, coats, and dressing-gown over the screen
and chairs in lieu of wardrobe. Books, writing, and instruments strewed
the whole place. I was delighted with my handiwork. We had arrived at
seven, and at nine I went to fetch my philosophic husband, who had
meanwhile got a book, and had quietly sat down, making up his mind for
the worst. He was perfectly delighted with the fine old den, for we had
good air, light, a splendid view, lots of room, and good water, both
fresh and salt; and here we intended to pass a happy month—to read,
write, study, chat, walk, make excursions, and enjoy ourselves.
_Saturday, March 21, 1863._—Of course we could not rest until we had
“done” the Peak. We were in our saddles at nine. Our little caravan
consisted of six persons and four animals—Richard and myself mounted on
good horses, two mules laden with baggage, one guide, and three
_arrieros_, or muleteers. Our distance varied (by different reports)
between eighteen and thirty-two miles, from the Villa d’Orotava to the
top of the great Peak and back; and by the route we returned from
choice—a longer, varied, and more difficult one—I dare say it was nearer
the latter mark, and our time was thirty-five hours.
We clattered up the streets, and went out by a pretty road, studded with
villages, gardens, cottages, _barrancos_, and geraniums falling in rich
profusion over the walls into the main road. We turned abruptly from
this road up the stony side of the Barranco de San Antonio, and
proceeded through cultivated fields, but ever winding by the _barranco_,
which becomes deeper and deeper. Here rushes a fierce mountain torrent.
The stone at the sides is scooped as smoothly by its impetuous rush as a
knife would carve a cake of soap, and you hear the rebounding in the
gigantic caverns, which present all the appearance of being excavated by
an immense body of water. On the borders of this mass of stone and of
rushing waters, startling caverns, and mysterious rumblings, the edges
were bound with rich belts of chestnut trees, wild flowers of every
sort, myrtle and rosemary, looking as placid as in a garden; and you do
not expect to be awestruck—_as you are_—when you look into the depth of
the ravine, into which you might have taken a step too far, deceived by
the treacherous borders, if the strange sounds below had not induced you
to look down. We were now about two thousand five hundred feet above the
sea.
We ascended a very jagged and rough mountain, like a _barranco_, ever
ascending, and came upon a beautiful slope of forest of mixed bay and
broom. The soil, however, is a mass of loose stones as we wind through
the forest, and again emerge on another barren, jagged, and stony
mountain, like the one before the forest. It is now eleven o’clock, and
we are four thousand five hundred feet above the sea, and the men ask
for a halt. The valley rises like a hanging garden all the way till you
come to the first cloud and mist, after which are no more houses; the
mist rests upon the woods, and ascends and descends for about the space
of a league. We had now just got to the clouds. They usually descend to
this distance, and, except on very clear days, hang there for several
hours in the day—if not all day—shutting out the upper world of
mountains like a curtain, though above and below it all may be clear. We
dismounted in a thick, misty cloud, and looked about us, leaving the men
to eat, drink, and breathe the animals.
The whole of our ascent appeared to me to be like ascending different
mountains, one range higher than another, so that when you reached the
top of one you found yourself unexpectedly at the foot of another; only
each varies as to soil: stones, vegetation; stones, cinders, stones.
At one o’clock we passed the last vegetation, six thousand five hundred
feet, with a shady clearing under the _retornas_, which our men told us
was the Estancia della Cierra—the first station. The thermometer in
shade was at 60°. Here we unloaded the mules, and tied them to the
bushes, upon which they fed. We ate, drank, the men smoked, and then we
reloaded and remounted, and soon emerged from the last vegetation, and
entered upon Los Cañadas, through a gap, by the gate of Teora—a natural
portico of lava. Here we ceased ascending for some time, the Cañadas
being a sandy plain, extending fifteen miles in circumference round the
base of the Peak. Richard wished to build him a house in this his
peculiar element, wanted a good gallop, and all sorts of things. The hot
sun literally rained fire, pouring down upon our heads and scorching the
earth, and blistering our faces, hands, and lips, as if it spitefully
begrudged us our pleasant excursion and boisterous spirits. There was
water nowhere.
[Illustration: THE PEAK OF TENERIFFE, FROM THE VALE OF OROTAVA.]
We rode along the plain laughing and chattering, and presently began to
ascend again the same soil as on the plain, but steepening and more
bleak and barren, with not a sign of life or vegetation. We came to the
mountain, and put our poor beasts to the steep ascent, breasting the red
pumice bed and thick bands of detached black blocks of lava. The soil,
in fact, consists of loose pumice stones sprinkled with lava and broken
bits of obsidian. Our animals sank knee-deep, and slid back several
yards; and we struggled upwards after this fashion for three-quarters of
an hour, when we came to a little flat space on the right, with blocks
of stone partially enclosing it, but open overhead and to one side.
This was the second station, called the Estancia de los Ingleses, nine
thousand six hundred feet above the sea; temperature 16°, only
accessible on the south-eastern side. Here we gladly dismounted, after
eight hours’ ride.
The _arrieros_ unpacked and dismantled their beasts, let the mules roll,
and put all four in shelter with their nosebags, and then went in search
of fuel. Richard went off to take observations; and I saw him with
pleasure enjoying the indescribable atmospheric charm under the
rose-pink blush of the upper sky. I knew mine was Martha’s share of the
business, and that I had better look sharp; so I unpacked our panniers,
and made the _estancia_ ready for the night. In less than an hour our
beds were made comfortable, and composed of railway-rugs, coats, and
cloaks. There were two roaring fires, and tea and coffee; and spread
about were spirits, wine, fowls, bread, butter, hard eggs, and sausages.
We could have spent a week there very comfortably; and we sat round our
camp-fire warming ourselves, eating, and talking over the day. The men
brought out hard eggs, salt fish, and prepared _gofia_—the original
Guanche food—which is corn roasted brown, then pounded fine, and put
into a kid-skin bag with water and kneaded about in the hand into a sort
of cake. They were immensely surprised at a sharp repeater which I had
in my belt, and with which we tried to shoot a raven; but he would not
come within shot, though we tried hard to tempt him with a chicken’s leg
stuck upon a stick at a distance.
We read and wrote till seven o’clock, and then it grew darker and
colder, and I turned in, _i.e._ rolled myself round in the rugs with my
feet to the camp-fire, and did not sleep, but watched. The _estancia_,
or station, was a pile of wild rocks about twenty feet high, open
overhead to one side, with a space in the middle big enough to camp in.
At the head and down one side of our bed was a bank of snow; two mules
were tethered near our heads, but not near enough to kick and bite. The
horses were a little farther off. There were two capital fires of
_retorna_ wood; and strewed all around were rugs, blankets, and wraps of
all sorts, kettles, canteens, bottles, books, instruments, eatables, and
kegs. It was dark at seven o’clock. The stars shone brilliantly, but it
was only the third night of the moon, so we were badly off for that. But
the day had been brilliant, and our only drawback had been that the
curtain of clouds had shut out the under-world from us about one o’clock
for good and all. Our men consisted of one guide, Manuel, and three
_arrieros_. They lay round the fire in their blankets and black velvet
sombreros in careless attitudes. (I did not know a blanket could look so
picturesque.) Their dark hair and skins, white teeth, flashing eyes, and
handsome features, lit up by the lurid glare of the fire, and animated
by the conversation of Richard, to say nothing of the spirits and
tobacco with which he made their hearts glad, made a first-rate bivouac
scene, a brigand-like group, for they are a fine and hardy race. They
held loud and long theological discussions, good-humouredly
anathematizing Richard as an infidel, and showed their medals and
crosses. He harangued them, and completely baffled them with his
Mohammedan logic; and ended by opening his shirt, and showing them a
medal and cross like their own—the one I had given him long ago. They
looked at each other, shook their fists, laughed, and were beside
themselves with excitement. I laughed and listened until the Great Bear
went down behind the mountain-side, and then fell fast asleep. The men
took it in turns to keep up the fire, while they slept around it. The
only sound heard was once or twice the spiteful scream of a mule trying
to bite its neighbour, or a log of wood being thrown on the fire; and
outside the _estancia_ the silence was so profound as to fully realize
“the last man.” The pleasant reminiscences of that night will live in my
memory when most other things are forgotten, or trials and sorrows make
me temporarily forget to be grateful for past happiness. It was perfect
repose and full contentment. The tangled world below was forgotten, and
the hand of him whom I cannot dispense with through life was near to
clasp mine.
At half-past three o’clock Manuel awoke us. It was a pitch-dark night
save the fires. The thermometer at 14°. We got up and crowded on every
warm thing possible, made some coffee, using brandy for milk. Now one of
the _arrieros_ was to remain behind to look after the fires, beasts, and
_estancia_ generally. I mounted my horse, and Richard one of the mules.
Our guide went first. One _arriero_ with a pitch-pine torch, and one
_arriero_ to return with the animals, made our party to start. At
half-past four o’clock we commenced upon what seemed the same kind of
thing as the last part of yesterday’s ride—steep, broken pumice,
obsidian, and lava—only twenty times more difficult and steep, with an
occasional rock-work or snowdrift. We were the first people who had
ascended in winter since 1797; and even the guide did not exactly know
what might happen for the snow. Manuel went therefore first with a
torch; then Richard; then the second torch; then myself on my poor
Negro; and, lastly, a third torch. Our poor beasts sank knee-deep, and
slid tremendously. Once or twice my steed refused, and appeared to
prefer descent to ascent, but fortunately changed his mind, or an
inevitable roll to the bottom and broken bones would have been the
result. Richard’s mule went into a snowdrift, but emerged, with much
pluck, without unseating him. I got a little frightened when it got to
the steepest part, and found myself obliged to cling to the mane, for it
was too dark, even with torches, to see much. In three-quarters of an
hour we came to the highest and third _estancia_, ten thousand five
hundred feet above sea-level, called Estancia de los Allemanes.
Here we dismounted, and our third _arriero_ went down with the animals,
while we, pike in hand, began the ascent of the Mal Pais, which is
composed of what yesterday I had imagined to be walls of black stone,
radiating from the ridge below the cone to the yellow mountain, but
which are really very severe lava beds, about thirteen hundred feet
high, consisting of immense blocks of lava; some as big as a cottage,
and some as small as a football; some loose and rolling, others firm,
with drifts of snow between, and piled up almost perpendicularly above
you; and when you have surmounted one ridge, and fancy yourself at the
top, you find there is another still more difficult, until you have had
so many disappointments that you cease to ask. It took me two hours,
climbing on my hands and knees, with many rests. First I threw away my
pike, then my outer coat, and gradually peeled, like the circus dancers
do, who represent the seasons, army and navy, etc., until I absolutely
arrived at the necessary blouse and petticoat. As there were no thieves,
I dropped my things on the way as I climbed, and they served as so many
landmarks on return. Every time we stopped to breathe I was obliged to
fill my mouth with snow, and put it on my head and forehead—the sun had
blistered me so, and the air was keen. At about 5.30 a.m. a truly soft
light, preceding day, took the place of torchlight. The horizon
gradually became like a rainbow, with that peculiar effect it always has
of being on a level with one, and the world beneath curved like a bowl,
which is very striking to a person who is on a great height for the
first time. More toil, and we pass the icedrift at our right, and sight
the Cone, which looks like a dirty-white sugar-loaf; which, I was told,
was a low comparison! Every ten minutes I was obliged to rest; and the
guides, after each few moments’ rest, would urge me to a _toutine_—just
a little more—to which I had manfully to make up my mind, though I felt
very much fatigued.
At 6 a.m. the guides told us to turn round: a golden gleam was on the
sea—the first of the sun; and gradually its edge appeared, and it rose
majestically in pure golden glory; and we were hanging between heaven
and earth—in solitude and silence—and were permitted to enjoy this
beautiful moment. It was Sunday morning, March 22—Passion Sunday.[20]
Out of the six souls there, five of us were Catholics, unable to hear
Mass. We knelt down, and I said aloud a Paternoster, Ave Maria, and
Gloria Patri, and offered to our Lord the hearts of all present with
genuine thanksgiving, and with a silent prayer that the one dear to me,
the only unbeliever of our small party, might one day receive the gift
of faith.
We arose, and continued our now almost painful way, and at 6.45 reached
the base of the dirty-white sugar-loaf. Here we breathed; and what had
seemed to me to be a ridge from below was a small plain space round the
base of the Cone. The thermometer stood at 120° in the steam, but there
was no smell of sulphur till we reached the top. Manuel and Richard
start, pike in hand. My muleteer took off his red sash, tied it round my
waist, and took the other end over his shoulder, and with a pike in my
hand we did the last hard work; and it was very hard after the Mal Pais.
The Cone is surrounded, as I have just said, by a little plain base of
pumice, and its own soil is broken, fine pumice—out of which, from all
parts, issue jets of smoke, which burn you and your clothes: I think I
counted thirty-five. We had five hundred and twelve feet more to
accomplish, and we took three-quarters of an hour. The top consists of
masses of rock, great and small, covered with bright, glistening, yellow
sulphur, and frost; and from which issue powerful jets of smoke from the
volcano within. Richard helped me up to stand on the corona, the top
stone, at 7.40 a.m. It is so narrow there is only room for one person to
stand there at once. I stood there a minute or two. I had reached the
Peak. I was now, at the outside computation, twelve thousand three
hundred feet high.
The guides again suggested a Gloria Patri, in thanksgiving—Richard a
cigar. Both were accomplished. The guides had been a little anxious
about this first winter attempt. They now told us it had been deemed
impossible in Orotava to accomplish it; and as for the Señora, they had
said, she could not even reach the second Estancia de los Ingleses, and
lo! there she stood on the corona! From where we stood at this moment,
it is said that on a clear day the eye can take in the unparalleled
distance of eight hundred miles in circumference of ocean, grasping the
whole of Teneriffe as from a balloon, and its coast, and the whole
fourteen Canaries and coast of Africa. Unfortunately for us, the banks
of clouds below were too thick for us to do more than obtain a view of
the surrounding mountain-tops and country, and see the crater. The sea
we could only behold at a great distance. We spent forty minutes at the
top, examining the crater, and looking all around us; during the latter
part of which operation, I am sorry to say, I fell fast asleep from
sheer fatigue, and was aroused by Richard hallooing to me that my
clothes were on fire, which, alas! was too true. I pocketed specimens of
obsidian, sulphur, and pumice. It was piercing cold, with a burning sun;
and we experienced a nasty, choking, sickening smell of sulphur, which
arose in fetid puffs from the many-coloured surface—dead white, purple,
dull red, green, and brilliant yellow. A sense of awe stole over me as
Richard almost poked his head into the holes whence issued the jets of
smoke. I could not help thinking of the fearful catastrophes that had
taken place—how eruptions, perhaps from that very hole, had desolated
Teneriffe—how, perhaps, it was that which had caused Hanno to say that
on the coast of Africa it rained fire; and yet here we were fearlessly
poking our heads inquisitively into it. What if this should be the
instant of another great convulsion?
I did not experience any of the sensations described by most travellers
on the Peak, such as sickness, pains in the head or inside, or faintness
and difficulty of breathing, though the air was rare in the extreme, and
although I am of a highly sensitive and nervous temperament, and suffer
all this when obliged to lead a sedentary life and deprived of open air
and hard exercise. I found my brain clear and the air and height
delightfully exhilarating, and could have travelled so for a month with
much pleasure. The only inconvenience that I did experience was a sun
that appeared to concentrate itself upon me as a focus (as, I suppose,
it appeared to do the same to each of us), and a piercing cold and
severe wind besides, which combined to heat and yet freeze my head and
face, until the latter became like a perfect mask of hard, red skin,
likewise my lips and inside of my mouth. My hands, feet, and knees also
were torn by the rocks, and I was a little bruised by sleeping on
stones; but that was all; and my only difficulty about breathing
proceeded from the labour of climbing on hands and feet, and had no
connexion with the rarity of the atmosphere; and as we were, I believe,
the first winter travellers living who had ascended at that season, we
had an excellent opportunity of judging. My guide also told me that I
was the only señora who had performed some feat or other; but I could
not exactly understand what.
At 8.30 we began the descent, planting our pikes and our heels in the
soft stuff, sliding down ten or twelve yards at a time, and arrived in a
quarter of an hour at the little plain base. Here we breathed for a few
moments, and then started again for the descent of that truly Mal Pais.
It was even _worse_ to descend. I only wondered how we got up in the
dark without breaking our ankles or legs over those colossal ruins,
called the “Hobberings,” of the Peak. Twice twisting my ankle in the
loose masses, though not badly, warned me that it was better to take my
time than get a bad hurt; and the others were most considerate to me,
both going and coming, begging me not to be ashamed to stop as often and
as long as I liked. We were therefore two hours coming down, picking up
the discarded garments on the way, and inclining a little to the right,
to see the ice cave—Cueva de Zelo—which occupied twenty minutes. It is a
large cavern in the rock, hung with huge icicles, and covered over with
ice inside. We now descended to the place we had mounted on horseback in
the night. How the poor beast ever came up it is my astonishment; and I
am sure, if it had been daylight, I should have been a great deal more
frightened than I was. It was a case of “poling” down on our heels
again; and our two guides hailed the two below with a Guanche whistle,
which meant “Put the kettle on.”
We reached the next stage at 10.11. I was now rather “done up,” so I
drank a bowl of strong green tea, and performed a kind of toilet, etc.,
under the lee of a rock, taking off the remnants of my gloves, boots,
and stockings, and replacing them with others, which I fortunately had
taken the precaution to bring; washed, brushed, and combed; dressed a
little more tidily; and glycerined my hands, feet, and face. I then
wanted to lie down and sleep; but alas! there was no shade except in the
snowdrifts; so I tied a wet towel round my head, and erected an umbrella
over it, and slept for half an hour, while Richard and the men
breakfasted and reloaded. We sent the animals down the remainder of the
steep ascent which had taken up our last three-quarters of an hour
yesterday—that is, from the _estancia_ where we slept to the
commencement of the Cañadas—and we followed on foot, and were down in
about half an hour. This is the bottom of the actual mountain out of
which the Cone rises. Once more being on almost level ground, we soon
passed the desert, fifteen miles in circumference, surrounding the
mountain. There were still ranges of mountains and country to descend,
below it, to reach Orotava. We accomplished them all after a hot but
pleasant ride, broken by rests, and arrived safe home at Orotava at 7
p.m.
We spent a thoroughly happy month at Orotava, in the wilds, amongst the
peasantry. No trammels of society, no world, _no post_, out of
civilization, _en bourgeois_, and doing everything for ourselves, with
the bare necessaries of life. All our days were much alike, except
excursion days.
We rose at seven, cup of tea, and toilet. Then came my domestic work
(Richard had plunged into literature at half-past seven): this consisted
of what, I suppose, Shakspeare meant by “chronicling small beer”; but I
had no fine lady’s maid to do it for me—she would have been sadly out of
place—ordering dinner, market, and accounts, needlework, doing the room,
the washing, small cookery on the pan of charcoal, and superintending
the roughest of the work as performed by Bernardo. Husbands are
uncomfortable without “Chronicle,” though they never see the _petit
détail_ going on, and like to keep up the pleasant illusion that it is
done by magic. _I_ thought it very good fun, this kind of gypsying.
Breakfast at ten, write till two (journals and diaries kept up, etc.),
dinner at two; then walk or ride or make an excursion; cup of tea on
coming in, literature till ten, with a break of supper at eight, and at
ten to bed: a delightfully healthy and wholesome life, both for mind and
body, but one which I can’t recommend to any one who cannot rough it, or
who has no serious occupation, or lacks a very agreeable companion.
Sometimes, when Richard was busy writing, I would stroll far away into
the valley to enjoy the sweet, balmy sea-breeze and smell of flowers,
and drink in the soft, clear air, and would get far away from our little
straggling, up-and-down town on its perch, and cross over _barrancos_
and ravines and enjoy myself. One day, so occupied, I came upon a lovely
_quinta_ in a garden, full of fruits and flowers, a perfect forest of
tall rose trees and geranium bushes, which hung over the garden hedge
into the path. Two charming old ladies caught me prigging—Los Senhoras
T. They came out and asked me in, showed me all over their garden, gave
me fruit and sweetmeats and flowers, and kissed me. They did not know
what five o’clock tea meant, but I often wandered there about that time,
and found a charming substitute in the above articles, and I quite
struck up a friendship with them.
We put off leaving our peaceful retreat until the last possible day,
when we went down to Santa Cruz. When we had been at Santa Cruz three or
four days, the fatal gun boomed—the signal of our separation. It was
midday, and there was my detestable steamer at anchor—the steamer by
which I was to return to England. I felt as I did when I was a child,
and the cab stopped at the dentist’s door. I may pass over this
miserable day and our most miserable parting. Richard was going again to
pestilential Fernando Po. I should not see him for many, many weary
months, and perhaps never again. How gladly would I have gone with him;
even to the eleventh hour I had hoped that he would relent and let me
go. But the climate was death to a white woman, and he was inexorable.
He would not even let me sleep one night at Fernando Po. So we parted,
he to his consulate, and I to go back home—which was no home without
_him_. I pass over the pain of that parting. With many tears and a heavy
heart I embarked on my steamer for England.