A high old time ...

Before it vanishes into the dream-like recesses of memory, a few words on our January holiday. We were walking with a holiday company called HF - no reason for originally choosing this lot other than the name, familiar from my parents' tales of pre-war holidays in the Highlands, but now a firm favourite. We had a week in Gran Canaria, staying in Puerto de Mogàn, which is apparently one of the prettiest of the former fishing villages on the south coast. As I've found on previous winter breaks in the Canaries, I think I would soon have been bored had we spent the entire week in this pretty village - there was a beach, and it was sunny, and there were cafés and tapas bars, but ...

But in the interior of the island there were mountains. A fantastic, volcanic landscape of huge calderas and bright green and red streaks of volcanic deposits, of steep-sided valleys and beautiful villages high on the shoulders of the mountains, where the almond-blossom told of much longer hours of sunshine than their opposite numbers far below. We spent five days walking there on wonderful paths - not your Munro-baggers' paths to a summit here or a distant peak there, but real paths built for communication, for mules and donkeys and people to pass between the valleys and the villages. Dramatic balcony paths used the split between two layers of rock to creep across the precipitous hillside; the occasional levada carried water across dry high plateaux. And we were able to walk here, to traverse ridges and ascend peaks and come down in quite another valley from where we had started, because we were being guided and because we knew that the mini-bus would turn up for us in some village square at an appointed time and whisk us back to our hotel.

I loved every minute of it. The walks, as promised, went on getting better as the week progressed, culminating in a hike to the dramatic Roque Nublo in the geographic centre of the island - we could see El Teide on Tenerife floating in the blue west from our path as we walked.  Our two leaders - for there are always two groups, so that the less energetic can choose a less strenuous option - were wonderful, setting just the right pace so that we progressed without feeling pressured, covering the miles with an easy stride that left plenty of energy for the hilarity that seemed to accompany us wherever we went. (It might give some flavour of said hilarity that one day was occupied by an argument as to whether or not Paul was riding a beast at the time of his conversion on the road to Damascus ...)

Most of our pick-up stops had a café, but whatever the day brought it ended in icy cold beer before we changed out of our boots and dusty clothes. We would march into our hotel bar like something out of a Western, and line up along the counter. Then the inevitable baths/showers/cups of tea/making sandwiches for the next day before the evening briefing and the scamper down to the neighbouring hotel for dinner. (Our hotel, where we had whole apartments as opposed to mere bedrooms, was refurbishing its dining room). We ate prodigiously and went to bed early. And then we'd rise in the chilly dawn (for it was chilly at 6.30am!) and start all over again.

We must have walked between 50-60 miles that week, and climbed or ascended several thousands of feet (people kept talking, confusingly, in metres ...). We were fit, and we all caught the sun despite our shady hats. I loved every minute of it. And I've just booked another HF holiday for May ...

On the march again

On the march again
Originally uploaded by goforchris.

Having caught up on most of my life, thanks to a dreich day with no huvtaes, I find I have time to reflect on my holiday with HF last week. We were walking in the Dordogne, in the neighbourhood of Sarlat, with what turned out to be a wonderfully interesting group of people from New York State, England and New Zealand. I've blogged about HF before, but I came home once more convinced of the merits of this kind of holiday - to say nothing about my enthusiasm for this part of France, new to me despite my frequent visits to more northern areas.

The photo shows pale grey skies on the first full day, replaced for most of the week by flawless blue, but the line of walkers shows for the sceptical how not every moment of a walk is filled with conversation - and reflects the fact that I had sprained my ankle, infuriatingly, within 10 minutes of starting off. (I subsequently completed the 10 mile hike, and resumed the programme after a day by the pool, but I'm not telling the quack)

So what do I remember? Birdsong, poppies, warmth, mellow golden stone, undulating landscape, the river deep in its gorge, the amazing troglodyte dwellings at Roque St Christophe ... singing "Veni Creator" in a stolen moment in a wonderful church in a tiny village when everyone else had moved off and hearing it soar in the awesome acoustic ... fascinating conversations with interesting people ... talking about all the so-called forbidden subjects as Mina took my mind off my ankle by discussing politics and religion ... food so good that we all looked forward to the leisurely dinners cooked by the chefs who came nightly to our hotel to cook for us.

Ok, so this is becoming a list, and therefore boring. Enough to say that the week was far from boring, and that my French felt much more useful than in the past. I enjoyed conversations in French on my day off, and I shared the poolside with a lizard in the hot sun. I'd love to be there now, and start to look forward to my next trip.

Itchy feet? Moi?

A high point

Setting off
Originally uploaded by goforchris.

This pic comes from a wonderful day spent high above the clouds which enveloped the coast near Puerto de la Cruz. The crater of Las Cañadas, below El Teide, is absolutely vast, and at 6,500' was quite snowy at the time of our visit. (We just missed a week of horrid weather, at the end of which El Teide was entirely white). The crater was formed around 300,000 years ago, but the last volcanic activity was only 200 years ago, when Pico Viejo erupted. We walked from the foot of the peak, past the volcanic cone of Montana de los Tomillos to Cañada de los Guancheros, a wide gravel plain. We then climbed to the summit of La Fortaleza on the crater rim of Las Cañadas, where we sat on the red rocks and fed little grey lizards which came flocking (slight hyperbole) like ducks in a pond for our crumbs. I also quoted a little Eliot - the literary among you might guess what. (Think red rocks rather than lizards) By this time my walking companions had become used to my eccentricities - I think.

By the end of the day I had bright red patches on the back of my calves (the only place not protected with sunscreen) - the sun was extremely fierce and the cool air meant that you didn't always remember that fact. Interestingly, the moment we moved into shade at the end of the walk, we felt chilled - goosebumps chilled.

This was the harder walk of the day; I was pleasantly surprised at the slightly less relentless pace than I had expected and at my own growing fitness. Pity I've spent the whole of this afternoon at the computer...

Black desert

Black desert
Originally uploaded by goforchris.

One of our most remarkable walks on Tenerife was through the area known as Las Arenas Negras, to the west of Puerto de la Cruz. The last major volcanic eruption here was in 1706, and the black ash over which we walked for much of the day sparkled in the sun and crunched under our feet like a million crushed Crunchie Bars. There are trees growing in places - you can see some wonderfully green little ones to the right of the photo, beyond the line of the Canal Vergara, a covered canal about the same width as a Madeiran levada. But around the central ash desert are forests which have been recently burned, and it was amazing to see how the new growth shoots out from the charred trunks, so that the trees resemble these hilariously disguised telegraph poles and communications masts that you see on the way to Perth.

If you're interested, there are more photos of this day on Flickr - just click through on the photo here.

Follow my leader

The leaders
Originally uploaded by goforchris.

Time to reflect, then, on the experience that is an HF holiday – a Classic Walking Holiday, as the organisation dubs it – in a foreign country. On the second evening, I was asked if I’d be doing this again, and I have to confess that at the time I wasn’t sure. However, by the end of the week I was amazed at what a successful recipe it is. I don’t know how much of that was because of the specific group that had assembled in Puerto de la Cruz, Tenerife, how much because of the leadership, how much because of the timetable and set arrangements, but I’d like to look further at these components.

The leadership is very important. Not only have they to ensure that they don’t lose anyone on a hike – whether by their wandering off or by someone falling off the path – but they also have to provide the atmosphere at the evening meetings and ensure that the hotel provides for meals to be taken together. This last was apparently a novel idea for the hotel we were in – they couldn’t understand how, having walked together all day, we could bear to sit together for dinner. But we did, and it is surely this that makes this kind of holiday such a good one for someone on their own: eating alone at the end of the day can be an isolating experience.

Our group was terrific. One of our new friends remarked early on how most HF groups seem to have a good number of Guardian readers in them, and whether or not that was the case we were certainly an interesting bunch, from different walks of life (pun, when spotted, left as felicitous), with plenty to say. The Scots came in for the customary lumping together, though it has to be said that our shared sense of humour made for pretty instant rapport and some of us felt that our accents stuck out like sore thumbs. And it also has to be said that anyone looking at the group would notice the general level of fitness and lack of surplus weight on this bunch of people (the oldest of whom was 79) tucking into the large and varied buffet.

The timetable felt breathless at first – we had to go for breakfast while it was still dark and the dawn chorus was giving it laldy – but we got used to it, managing to fit in visits to the pub down the road to have a sandwich made up before leaving on our bus at 9.15am to drive to our starting point. And we were occasionally breathless because of the need to meet up with the bus at the end of 8 miles or so; the ethos of the “A” walks seemed occasionally to concentrate on distance covered rather than on allowing for photography and reflection – a point worth considering when choosing which walk to go on. But one of the chief benefits was the removal of responsibility: we never had to make decisions about where to go, when to go, when to eat, how to find transport. In a way, it was like being a kid again, with all the hilarity of a fifteen-year-old on an outing – and that’s fun, when the rest of your life is decision-based.

We were incredibly lucky with the weather. I think we had three drops of rain on our last walk, and that was all. The sun was brilliant, especially at altitude, and the temperatures like a good Scottish summer. I loved it. And yes – I shall do it again.

Volcano day

Felt like making an appearance on my own blog for once. I'm perched on top of the crag on the rim of the caldera just before the break where the collapsing super volcano which preceded el Tiede poured a massive torrent of material into the sea. We were at 7,000 feet here, walking over patches of snow in brilliant sunshine, but far below us the coast had vanished under a sea of cloud. And as we drove down through that cloud, I thought of the sunloungers towel-bagged at breakfast-time by our German friends, and smiled. Just a little.

Day off

One of the joys of an activity holiday such as this is The Day Off. Today, in temperatures of 20 Celsius or so, we've been almost as idle as these delightful cats, who roam the gardens unhindered (presumably they are useful) and curl up on the lobby sofas in the evening. Tomorrow we shall be walking again - one can take only so much leisure!

Ultreya!

Those in the know will recognise in the title of this post an exhortation to tired pilgrims who appeared to be flagging. In Spain. So it seems appropriate after an epic hike, at the high point of which I retained sufficient vigour to take this pic of el Teide with my phone as well as my Leica. I shall return to the exhortatory aspects of the day when I have a computer to work on; it's enough for now to say it was a great walk in brilliant sun and I have a pink nose. Cheers!

Beyond the Ice Age

There is warm sun! This pic from our balcony may look a tad grey, but we've spent the day walking the coast in got sun, watching the Atlantic swell pound the rocks and drinking beer beside one of Tenerife's black sandy beaches where surfers ignore the red flags and bodies bake in a manner I thought had gone out of fashion. Guess I've been on the wrong kind of holidays. Biggest laugh of the day came as we trooped past the hotel pool, in our boots, carrying supermarket bags full of stuff for picnics. 15 of us. The sunloungered Germans gaped. Maybe I thought they had a point.