Another catch-up post. This one
takes us from Thursday, February 23 to Saturday, February 25. I’m writing it
over a week later. Damn visitors. They come, and my routines go out the window…
The pattern for our days on
Lanzarote had long been set: rise late, do nothing much all morning, eat lunch, then set
out in the early afternoon for some outing or other. Thursday, our second last full day on the island, we decided to climb a volcano, Monte Corona. It's the one that
looms over the north end of Lanzarote and that created the fantastical landscape of
jagged rocks in the malpaís, the so-called badlands that start just to the north of our village. It was not an
auspicious-looking day, with lowering clouds and an off-shore breeze that felt cool.
We drove the narrow winding
roads up to Ye, struggling as always with the misnumbering of highways on our
otherwise excellent map. We found the start of the walk, at a vineyard on the
edge of town. Other cars were parked on the side of the road, but there was a
little laneway. I pulled into it and we were set to leave the car there when a
couple of young walkers came past us and the fellow – who looked like a very
young Naveen Andrews, the Sikh bomb disposal guy in The English Patient – pointed out to us that the farmer had asked people
not to park there. We thanked him, backed out and parked on the road. They
strode off; they were on a mission.
The vineyard was interesting. I
had not realized there were any this big other than in the Geria area in the middle
of the island, where we’d gone to visit the El Grifo winery. This one was quite
extensive, with vines growing all up the lower slopes of the mountain, enclosed by the usual drystone windbreaks. We also spotted a couple of flowering almond
trees planted in among the vines. Along the laneway, the farmer had placed
empty plastic water bottles over steel fence posts. They created a constant hubbub of rattling, presumably intended to scare the birds away – like the shotgun
blasts in the Niagara wine growing region.
The mountain really does loom
when you’re right below it as we were here. As we climbed higher, we passed the
end of the vineyards and came to a place where the drystone windbreaks began to
look poorly cared for, old and bearded with lichen. It’s clearly very damp here,
or damp by Lanzarote standards. The winds come, hit the mountain, and dump their
load of water, leaving nothing to fall on the coasts. These windbreaks were not
protecting vines, they were the remnants of abandoned prickly pear plantings.
As we climbed higher, the farm
fields gave way to rocky terrain, with lots of wildflowers, but still some long
drystone walls straggling up the mountain, perhaps marking property lines. The
footing grew more treacherous. The sidewalk-width cinder path became a narrow rocky
path that rose more steeply now. We’d felt a few sprinkles of rain, but not
even enough for me to stow my camera. It was quite a bit cooler up here than down
below, though. And me in shorts.
A little unexpectedly, we
reached the rim of the crater. You can’t tell that’s what it is until you’re
right at it. There is still a peak off to the right – which the young couple from
the parking lot were climbing – and another lower ridge rising to the left. It
looked like the lava had exploded out of the side of the mountain. There were
paths down into the crater. Two women and their dog came up the path while we
were there. A couple of young guys came up behind us and starting clambering up
the jagged ridge to the left of the crater.
We explored the rim, and
watched the tiny figures of the younger walkers up higher. The two from the
parking lot were huddled in a little nook just below the peak, sipping from
thermoses. Karen had done well to get this far, and insisted her knees weren’t
sore at all, but we wouldn’t take any chances by trying to go higher.
The weather began to brighten.
It was almost sunny as we started back down. There were lovely views off to the
east, down gentle slopes covered with vineyards, with glimpses of the coast and
the ubiquitous yellow villa standing out against the sky.
It was a good walk, bracing. We
felt quite virtuous as we drove back down to Punta Mujeres. The evening was
spent in the usual way – photo processing, dinner, Netflix. Or did we play
scrabble that night? Can’t remember. If we did, I won. Karen is having an
atrocious run of bad luck.
The next day was more of the
same: leisurely morning, followed by an early afternoon outing.
Sandra had emailed with the
amount owing for Caitlin and Bob’s visit. It was based on 15€ per person per
night, a reduction from the original 20€ they were asking. It still rankled.
Karen had noticed that the place in Málaga only charged $7 U.S. So I emailed
Sandra back, saying I was still unhappy with the amount, that their fee was
more than double what we would be charged at the next place, that our guests
had incurred very little expense to the owner and that Sandra and her cleaning
crews had not had to do as much work as they would if the place was rented out
by the week.
To my surprise, she wrote back
and said, basically, just pay whatever you think is fair. I said we would pay 7€,
which was probably still too much - no, is definitely too much. When I handed her the money later that
morning, the way she received it and thanked me was
as if she were receiving a tip, which makes me wonder if her arrangement with
the owner is that she gets to keep whatever she can collect in extra fees for
overnight visitors.
The kicker is that when we told
our landlord in Málaga that we had visitors coming, he said, that was fine, that
we were renting the place for four people – although we hadn’t said we would be four. So
we pay nothing here.
The whole business of charging
extra for overnight visitors is one that has only come up the last couple of
years in Europe. In the past, we always assumed we were renting the entire
apartment and we could have as many people staying in it as we liked. That's the whole point of renting a two-bedroom instead of a one-bedroom flat. In many
cases, we never even mentioned to the landlords when we had visitors coming. Then
the contracts started asking you to say how many people would be staying, and
some ads now quote the charge for extra people.
There may be some justification
for charging a very small amount extra. The visitors will use electricity to
heat water and they will create additional laundry, but charging any more than
a few dollars a night is just a way to raise prices without appearing to.
In the afternoon, I wanted to
drive up the coast to a place where we had noticed a ruined yacht beached near
the shore. We’d driven by it several times but were always past it before I could
see a place to pull over. This time we went specifically to walk along the
beach at this spot, just south of Orzola. It’s a pretty wild bit of beach,
mostly rocky but with some white sand. It’s almost deserted at this time of
year, but there are signs it might be a popular place in the summer.
As we walked to where the boat is, I noticed again the surprising variety of plant life in these supposed badlands. The soil left as the volcanic rock has broken down over thousands of years is quite rich apparently. Most of what we saw looked to be succulents, and very hardy. Spring had arrived in Lanzarote during our visit. Everything was greener than when we first arrived, and wildflowers were out.
The boat is a fiberglass-hulled
sailing vessel, maybe 20 or 25 feet long, mastless, lying on its side. Perhaps
the mast was salvaged at some point, or broke off and floated away somewhere
else. Some of the hull is staved in. Whether this happened when it foundered on
the rocks or it was damaged afterwards by vandals, we couldn’t tell.
Who just abandons an expensive-looking yacht, we wondered? Karen decided it was
“a drug boat.” Maybe.
In any case, the boat has been decorated,
by different artists on top and bottom. We spent some time circling it and taking
pictures. A family with two bored children came along and examined the boat,
and then wandered off.
After we’d had enough of the
boat, we struck off north along the beach, on a barely discernible path through
the sand and then rock. The footing was a little difficult in places, over
piled stones. We picked our way along for about a kilometer or so. At one point,
we passed a middle-aged couple sunbathing in the middle of nowhere. She was
lying on a towel in her bathing suit; he was sitting in a folding chair in
shorts and t-shirt, reading a newspaper. He nodded and smiled as we went past. Were
they northern Europeans? Of course, they were. Who else would be mad enough to sunbathe on such a breezy, cool day?
We had thought we might find a
way up from the beach to the road to save walking back the same route. There
must have been paths, but we couldn’t find one, so walked back the way we came.
It wasn’t as tedious on the return journey. We did finally spot some steps up
from the beach to the road and took what looked like a path to it, running on a
diagonal across the badlands. The path petered out but we kept going anyway,
over rocks and low-lying bushes that sproinged unnervingly under foot.
It wasn’t much of a walk, but
it was a walk. And I had my pictures of the boat.
That night, we drove into
Arrieta and had dinner at the El Amanecer, the restaurant we’d gone to with
Caitlin and Bob. We sat out on the terrace again, this time at a nice table in
the corner by the window overlooking the sea. We ordered only mains this time,
having finally learned our lesson that Lanzarotean restaurants like to serve ridiculously
large portions. I had pork cutlets, Karen steak. Ever the adventurers, us.
Which brings us to Saturday,
our last day on Lanzarote. It was a leisurely schedule in the morning. We didn’t
have to leave the house until after noon as our flight wasn’t until 15:20. It
left plenty of time for breakfast, showers, last-minute packing, newspaper
reading (Karen), photography (me), etc.
The drive to the airport was by
now familiar and quick. We dropped the rental car and inside found a long queue
for our Vueling flight. We’d checked in online, but there was only one line-up
for checking in and dropping bags, so basically checking in online had been a
complete waste of time – especially since we couldn’t change our automatically
assigned seats anyway.
The flight showed as leaving on
time. We sat briefly in the shopping mall on the other side of security and waited
until the gate number was called. When we got to the gate, a queue was already
forming. We joined it, and waited. And waited. And waited.
Ten minutes before flight time,
people were starting to grumble. Many looked to be locals off on school break
getaways. They were in high spirits, but the delay was beginning to dampen enthusiasm.
I noticed somebody near the front taking his phone to the gate agent and
showing her something on it, so I checked my phone. The Vueling website now
showed our flight leaving an hour and forty-five minutes late and arriving
almost two hours late. Yet, nothing had been announced, nothing had changed on
the screens in the airport or on the pixel board at the gate.
Karen and I went and sat down
again, but after ten minutes, we noticed that they were starting to board our
flight. WTF! So we got back in line, and boarded. Was it all a mistake? Was the
flight leaving on time or only slightly late after all? No such luck. We sat on
the effing plane for over an hour and ended up taking off about an hour and a
half late.
Arrival in Málaga was
uneventful. Our bags came off the plane – that’s the important thing. There were
lots of cabs at the taxi rank, and no queue. Our driver understood the address I
gave him, and knew where it was, always a bonus. The ride took about 20 or 25
minutes.
I had been texting with Bart
and Christina, our landlords. I texted them again when we reached the apartment
building and they responded that they’d be over immediately. They live in
the next building. Bart who is Belgian speaks fluent English. He’s in
his 30s, charming and helpful. He showed us around the flat and talked to us
for almost a half hour about what there was to see and do. He urged us to rent
a car and get out into the natural areas and beaches nearby – something we
gathered that he and his wife like to do.
After Bart left, we went out in
search of the nearest Mercadona, which is closer than it appeared to be on the map. We
did a small shop. The immediate neighbourhood looks to be lower middle class
and working class. There’s a fresh produce market between us and the Mercadona,
and lots of Chinese-run bazaars (a cross between a convenience store and a
Dollarama.) There’s a little square across the street with exercise equipment.
And the pedestrian area in the old town, Bart told us, started only a few blocks south
of us.
The apartment itself made a
good first impression: clean, modern, marble floors, not large, but livable.
The kitchen is a little oddly organized, but nothing we can’t work around. It’s
outfitted better than the one in Lanzarote, but still not as well as we’d like.
We’ll have to deal with a shortage of tableware again. There’s a little terrace
courtyard that we didn’t know about, but not that useful for sitting in, and
shared with one neighbour. There is also a terrace on the roof where we can
hang clothes. Bart said he would get us a key for it, but that hasn’t happened
yet.
All in all, a good start.
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