The Northern Coast of Tenerife

Orotava

The Atlantic foamed and crashed on black lava rocks below, while above, the volcano El Teide slightly parted the thunder clouds to reveal a sweet blue. We were at the overlook where the German explorer Alexander von Humboldt had fallen on his knees at the view, which would still be wondrous were it not for the tracts of development below, where we were headed to Orotava.

Orotava is a lovely, well-to-do, Spanish city complete with tourist shops where fashion manikins dress in native peasant costumes and little canaries sing from their beautifully carved wooden prisons. The Canarian architecture is highly renovated, carved wood balconies and palmy courtyards rising 3, 4, 5 levels. Much rustic reconstruction--too much--only the Plaza San Francisco was genuinely charming with its shabby elegance.

Puerto de la Cruz

We proceeded to Orotava's original port, Puerto de la Cruz, which still bore resemblance to its fishing village origins in the old quarter. Rough black bricks sheltered an old harbor where truly artisanal goods were sold in a small market, but beyond, facing the lava beds of the coast, where the Atlantic crashed and foamed against the writhing black rock, were the hotels: grandiose, with large swimming pool decks, empty of any sunbathers.

However, the Puerto de la Cruz where we walked the old streets had more of a sense of humor: an obese woman in white face posed as a feathered angel with a feathered heart; another fairy in yellow gold perched apparently on thin air; a midget in white face in a baby carriage rocked back and forth to an hysterically funny sound track that mimicked crying. I laughed and laughed, and he met my smile, but as he kept rocking back and forth, he saddened. Nearby another midget sat in a wheelchair selling lottery tickets, looking totally depressed. But the ocean filled us with tranquility.

Garachico, beneath the volcano that destroyed it

Then we drove the coastal ridges to Garachico, at the ocean's edge, under the volcano that destroyed it in 1705.

"And the Bishop ordered spells to be cast as a result of the great roar of thundering, crashing and throbbing coming from under the earth..unceasing tremors with such roaring that it seemed as if firearms were discharging and hurricanes blowing to and fro..." --1704

We parked at a little square, causing a freshly shampooed little dog to bark his head off at us. By the old church Santa Ana, reconstructed after the Negro eruption, our path was blocked by a small film production. Like Puerto de la Cruz's church, Santa Ana was enormous and gray, square huge columns up to the carved wood vaults. A nearby Convent to San Francisco and Palaccio des Condes de Gomera had been reconstructed.

The castle survived, beneath the volcano

But at the water's edge a small castle, Castillio San Miguel, had survived the eruption and stood hard and quaint. The lava that had hardened in splashes in the ocean had become a paved waterfront park with bathing pools, along with a grand Olympic size pool that reflected the purple gold light of the setting sun. It was the place I would like to live on Tenerife, under the shadow of its nemesis.

We drove on dark winding mountain roads home, through clouds, in oncoming traffic and arrived to simply eat and pack. Despite an angry wind, the night was balmy and tender--Tenerife night, gentle hospitality, peerless sweet air.

Garachico's lava pools