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| Almond trees in flower |
The wind was ripping white foam off the wave tops as we arrived in Santa Cruz de la Palma, the pale clouds scudding across the sky, the ship’s flag stretched out flat at the stern. The third smallest of the Canary Islands (only El Hierro and La Gomera are smaller), La Palma lays claim to one of the largest caldera (craters) in the world, and this was what we set off to see. The road uncoiled, snake like, up through the town and into the foothills, passing flamboyant bourgainvillia in magenta, orange, scarlet; blood red poinsettia, taller than the houses and perennial here; prickly pears, like bushes of bright green table tennis bats. Then came the deciduous sweet chestnut trees, unusual in their autumn colours; laurels; almond bushes, their tiny flowers blushing with the most delicate of pinks.
A little church, white and volcanic grey rested easily beside a shaded village square, perched on the steeply sloping mountainside. Large trees grew as they had done for centuries through the neat cobbles. It’s Sunday and the priest’s voice, deep and rich, echoes through the sun and shadows. Past the church, the ground fell away, ledges crowded with banana palms and jostling tobacco plants surrounded white houses, dotted across the crevasses below and above. The church was lit by chandeliers, which picked out the ruby red drapes along the walls. Altar nooks were home to carved saints, one surrounded by baby clothes – a tradition to donate these at Christmas time, so that they can be distributed to needy families in January. The most detailed Nativity scene I had ever seen filled the entire front of the church – behind the stable scene, little caves contained figures and animals grouped with their animals around tiny camp fires – the more one peered the more little little tableaux appreared. Instead of the usual little family in a lonely stable, this one was in the heart of a whole community of activity.
We travelled onward and upward through the precipitous slopes. Then a tunnel punched through the massive heart of the mountain, and we emerged into bright sunshine and tall Canarian pines, their soft thread like leaves, bunched like feather dusters, moving gently in the breeze, the ground below dappled with sunbeams on dry tan pine needles.
The rock faces of the caldera were stark – brown rock so sheer that not even the ubiquitous pine trees could cling on. To convey the precipitous nature of the landscape is impossible, even by photographs. Place your chin on your chest and stare down – you cannot see anywhere near the bottom. Now raise your head till your neck cricks, and, shading your eyes, you can just pick out the fretwork of trees rimming the cliff tops. The sight inspires awe; the total silence of it, reverence.
Across the chasm, one tiny house perches on the cliff face, a green field surrounding it. Its occupant, we are told, lives there alone, making his own cheese and wine, producing his own meat and vegetables. It takes him forty five minutes to walk and scramble to his van, in order to begin the long, twisting descent to the market to sell his goods.
Back down again we find Santa Cruz de La Palma is a relatively small city, as yet largely unaffected by tourism. Two storey houses line the shore, old carved balconies slightly askew with age. This is the most volcanically active island of the Canaries. Out of the thirteen eruptions there have been here in the last five hundred years, seven have been here, the most recent in 1971. Our guide could remember it – a deep forbidding rumbling that foretold what was about to happen, but not where. This was the most terrifying bit. Once the volcano showed itself, you knew where you were. In fact, it was good for business – tourists came to see it, and it ended up producing acres of extra land that went on to be sold for banana plantations. In fact, the neighbouring island of El Hierro is erupting right now, underwater near the island, and a new island is beginning to break the surface. But it has also killed all the fish, and as that island’s main economy is fishing, that is a real anxiety.
Our guide said people ask her if it doesn’t make her nervous, living here. ‘No’, she said ‘I was born on a volcano. I live on a volcano. That’s just the way it is’.
A little church, white and volcanic grey rested easily beside a shaded village square, perched on the steeply sloping mountainside. Large trees grew as they had done for centuries through the neat cobbles. It’s Sunday and the priest’s voice, deep and rich, echoes through the sun and shadows. Past the church, the ground fell away, ledges crowded with banana palms and jostling tobacco plants surrounded white houses, dotted across the crevasses below and above. The church was lit by chandeliers, which picked out the ruby red drapes along the walls. Altar nooks were home to carved saints, one surrounded by baby clothes – a tradition to donate these at Christmas time, so that they can be distributed to needy families in January. The most detailed Nativity scene I had ever seen filled the entire front of the church – behind the stable scene, little caves contained figures and animals grouped with their animals around tiny camp fires – the more one peered the more little little tableaux appreared. Instead of the usual little family in a lonely stable, this one was in the heart of a whole community of activity.
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