Canaries

Dandelion
Rick, Helen, Sue, John
Thu 29 Sep 2016 12:56
28.00.N 17.00W
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> Saturday, September 23rd
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> We departed Las Palmas today.
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> One or two reflections on the island....
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> As one approaches Gran Canaria (from the east anyway) one is perhaps not immediately smitten. One might gaze with something less than delight at a seemingly unending string of IKEA warehouses, retail parks, distribution units, fuel terminals and wind farms linked by a coast-hugging, 6-lane highway. And one might ponder the question, 'is this what we've just sailed 1600-odd miles to find?'
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> Yet, lurking above and well beyond these, not entirely delectable features, are the mountains of the interior, thrusting jagged, craggy peaks over the industrial portion and promising, for the arriving yachtsmen anyway, an opportunity for wilderness and exploration.
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> (Of course, one should never entirely discount the scope for excitement and discovery within an IKEA store but having, on a few occasions, experienced that sense of utter displacement within their seemingly limitless dining areas, bedroom areas, areas for living, storage areas etc, I've come to believe that one should not always rely on the God of Good Fortune being on hand to extract one from dire situations.)
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> Seen from space, Gran Canaria would appear as a more-or-less round blob with a sort of wart to the NE, which they call La Isleta, and which offers Las Palmas a little natural protection against the constant NE trades.
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> The N half of the island is hilly, lush and green. There are banana plantations, old cave dwellings, terraced hillsides and a few lakes. The southern half is hilly, dry, dusty and barren. At the very southern tip lie the sand dunes of Maspalomas and knocking on their door, the grim, sprawling enormity of Playa del Ingles.
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> THE INTERIOR
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> If you drive away from Gran Canaria's coast (given the foregoing a GOOD THING to do anyway) you will go up. And up. And up windy, precipitous, narrow-yet-well-made roads until, ears popping, you arrive at the MIDDLE. As you climb out, ignoring the haze of burnt clutch fumes, you'll discover the MIDDLE to be a revelation. Here we have a land so different, so completely at odds with the coastal fringe that one might wander if one hasn't somehow driven off to another island - or, indeed, another world. Before you, lies a gorgeous land of lush valleys, white-washed villages and steep hillsides clothed in pine forests which, as they peter out with altitude, give way to craggy mountains, with buttes, mesas and other geological features (the names of which I know not). A land that speaks of newness, fresh, crisp, still sharp-edged. Perhaps suggestive of how the earth might have appeared straight after He put in the Seven Days.
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> (And maybe there's just a smidgeon of truth behind all this nonsense - after all, the dinosaurs were long-gone before the birth of these islands.)
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> This region is served by a network of well-signed footpaths. These are not paths created by a health and safety committee, with hand rails, steps and notices warning that one might get hurt (or worse) if one goes over a cliff. Other than utilising the remnants of ancient Camino Real routes, the trails are mostly defined by the action of walkers boots with the odd, strategically placed, cairn to either confirm the route or alert one to a wrong turning. The truth is that many of the trails pass through fairly precipitous countryside, so keeping an eye on where one is placing one's feet, and not on the scenery, can be a tad crucial as, in one or two places, a trip might result in one becoming part of the scenery, in perpetuum.
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> LAS PALMAS
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> Las Palmas is a busy city with a port. It's a destination for cruise liners, so, within its grid of bustling intersecting streets you discover every conceivable retail experience. Indeed, within a line throw of the Cruseros' dock there's a huge shopping mall which, bizarrely, includes a hypermarket. Makes you wonder, with all those 7-course dinners, why you'd need to visit a grocery store?
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> Due to it being pressed 'twixt mountains and sea, the city's rather linear, so it's a bit of a shlep from one end to the other. The buses are regular, charge €1.40 for any journey and I can attest that the No 1 goes by the marina. No 47, however, does not and the driver will not engage in any conversation even if presented with a street map and finally one is let out, well on the way to the suburbs.
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> For fresh food shopping, you could do no better than visit one of the city's 3 mercados. The fish, meat and veg stalls are truly comprehensive. On Fridays and Saturdays the Mercado Puerto is open till 2am and you can move from stall to stall, rather like a gigantic tapas, sampling their produce. Most offer something in liquid form.
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> WINDSURFING..
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> The inflatable windsurfer got its first outing from the beach just o'er the way from the marina:
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> Imagine that you're in a bustling town square and, with you, perhaps on wheels, you have a large wooden chest. You find the most prominent spot, open the chest and start taking out bits and pieces therein which, as you put them together, form a complicated sort of musical instrument. People gather round. There's an expectant hush. Elbows are nudged. The crowd is ready. You stand on the chest. You draw a long breath/loosen fingers/or whatever. You smile at the, now, audience, and start to play.
> It's straightaway obvious that you have not mastered this thing. Or even nearly mastered it. In fact there is no music. There is discordant noise. The crowd grow restive, they've feel duped. There's angry murmuring. There's angst. Soft fruits and overripe vegetables are incoming.....
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> Exchange the town square for the (crowded) town beach and the complicated instrument for the windsurfer and you have the bones of the Windsurfing Day. I put together the thing together - with little fluency. Much fumbling and redoing. The beach population looked on expectantly. I slid the mast into the sail. Wrong way round. Pretending this was part of the process was easy. Out it came, try again. Young children are gathered round, hammering away in (probably helpful) Spanish. Work out how the mast step thingy locks into the mast. Tension the sail. The whole rig then damn near takes off in the breeze and very nearly wipes out a brown, fat baby, gurgling in the shallows. Eventually get the thing rigged but find it's aground - there's a small keel and skeg. Try pushing a grounded, fully rigged windsurfer into deeper water, I tell you, is not easy. Eventually I'm afloat, standing on it and wobbling. The beach crowd are still interested. Bring the rig up and we're moving. But only sideways. A number of swimmers are now in imminent danger. Dump the rig and paddle out into the harbour. Haul it up once more and we're going. Just about.
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> As a small warship hoves into view. There's white water under its bows. We're going to be up-close-and-personal in about 2 minutes. Try to recall the tacking process. Dump the rig and sit there, waiting for it to pass...
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> CAR HIRE
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> There's a very good car rental business in Las Palmas. Auto Sansu will efficiently deliver the car to wherever you want it. The car itself will be clean and it will work. It will not be of showroom condition. A number of non-essential parts (wing mirrors, trim etc) may be missing and there will be scuff marks and one or two dented or creased panels. In short it will have seen LIFE. The counter to this being that there are almost no return formalities - I.e. no little man with the clipboard and the dreaded form. 'Just leave it with the keys under the mat', being the extent of return protocol.
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> I was reminded of another hire car experience, many years ago and, funnily enough, also in Spain.
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> Myself and a companion decided on a day in the hills behind Malaga. Call in at the car hire depot.
> 'Senor, I have completely no cars left'
> 'OK, well, you know, what about a van?'
> 'No vans, Senor'
> 'Small lorry, minibus, dumper truck?'
> 'Senor, I have no vehicles to hire'.
> 'Look you must have something, anything, just for a day!'
> Pause, 'we do have a small Honda, Senor, but it's just been crashed into into at the back and we are waiting for the assessor'
> Go out to examine Honda. Yep, it had been rear-ended BUT, ignoring one set of tail lights, missing bumper and non-opening tail gate (and, as it transpired a slightly crabby gait), it was pretty much a going concern.
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> All signed up and off we go.
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> About an hour later, up in the hills we are stationary, with the map, at a T-junction. From behind comes a slithering sound followed by a short, expectant, what-now, silence. Then a fairly cataclysmic BANG! From the rear view mirror I deduce that a large, ancient utility truck has made good, solid contact. I climb out to view the damage. The farmer (driver of the ultility) remains placidly in his cab. The damage is bad but, in all honesty, it's difficult to distinguish between inherited damage and newly-acquired damage. We look at each other. There's a huge dog in the back (open) part of the truck also looking at me. The concept of exchanging details with this fella, whilst passing the time of day with the slavering hound, defeats me. Instead we exchange shrugs and drive off and thus out of each other's lives.
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> In the afternoon, back down on the coast road, we're approaching a major junction. The lights go red. Now in this part of the world, from the moment the lights change, there's about a two-and-a-half second 'no mans land' where stopping or not stopping is somewhat down to individual preference. We choose to stop. From behind comes the now familiar slithery noise. BANG! Out I go into oft-visited territory.
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> The accumulated damage is now pretty severe but, once again it's hard to differentiate between the inherited + truck damage and the inherited + truck + coast road collision damage. I exchange a shrug with the crasher and again we part ways. Well after-hours, I deliver the shortened Honda back to the depot and first thing in the morning we're in the air, back to Blighty.
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> The timing of our departure from Gran Canaria is of course determined by our own timetable and the various meteoritical gates (imposed by the Weather Gods) through which we must pass (or avoid) to continue our voyage south. Our departure from the MARINA though, is determined by the massing of the 225 participants of the ARC rally. This Atlantic Rally for Cruisers, which leaves Las Palmas at the end of November, is, within a whisker pole, in fact a race. Even for those who elect to 'not race' there are prizes for first across the line, biggest fish caught, French merchantmen engaged or boarded, that sort of thing. So, as an independent cruiser, one can perhaps be excused for becoming the teeniest bit narked when one is flung out in favour of this fleet of shiny, white plastic. The upshot being that as of September 20th we're back out in the (now miraculously reopened) anchorage.
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> Speaking of Frenchmen, there's one who's also just been ejected and his transom lies about 15 feet from our bows. He's in his cockpit, up wind, and I can smell his foul pipe.
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> Matter of fact, the positioning of this vessel leaves us in a moderate pickle.
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> I suppose we all understand the principals of anchoring: You drop the hook, back off the boat, the hook digs in, the cable pays out and, after laying roughly 4 times depth you call it a day. Thing is, this 4-times-depth rule puts old Frenchie right over our own cable. In fact our anchor is almost certainly lying well the OTHER side of him.
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> (Just so you follow this, when one raises 'weighs' the anchor, the winding-in of the cable through the windlass (damn great winch) actually pulls the boat forwards through the water until one is more-or-less above the anchor. Clearly this action would involve us passing more-or-less through this wretched Frenchman.)
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> I signify matters across the intervening 15 feet. No response. Use sign language. He puffs away at his odious pipe.
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> Eventually we gain eye contact.
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> Me: 'Oi! Jimmy! You're anchored right over our chain mate!'
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> Him. Puff, puff, puff, puff, puff, puff.
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> Me: 'You need to re-anchor old boy'.
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> Him. Puff, puff, 'no problem', puff, puff.
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> The mate has a go with some French.
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> Him: Puff, puff, 'no moteur', puff, puff and buggers off below.
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> So the long and short of it is that to make room for the ARC the marinos have cleared out this geezer and dumped him right across our cable. Triffic.
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> In the end The Mate got in the RIB and got it hard up against him, wound it up to full-chat and pushed the blighter sideways whilst we on Dandelion slowly recovered our cable, keeping the Donk ticking over in astern, so we didn't end up over-running and skewering the fella.
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> And all was well.
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> And so we watch as the W coast of Gran Canaria recedes behind us and, there, fine on the starboard bow, just peeking over a cloud bank, there's a dark triangle. The 12,198' peak of El Teide on Tenerife, Spain's highest mountain. There's even a white patch just below the summit. Snow?
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> We're looking forward to washing the Gran Canarian dust of the boat.
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> More as and when,
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> Love, the Skipper.
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> S/V Dandelion
> Santa Cruz
> Tenerife.
>