Overwintering in the Canaries

Part 1: Beach life

Las Canteras beach

I’m not wealthy, not even moderately well-off, just retired with a small pension, no children at home and a dread of winter. So I rent out my apartment at home and that allows me to spend January and February in Gran Canaria, in the city of Las Palmas, where the temperature has not dropped below 16 in the night and has reached up to 32 degrees some days. The cost of living is cheaper and it feels like the whole island is a market garden. This makes me very happy; I write in the mornings and read on the beach most afternoons.

The beach has a life of its own 24/7. After midnight when most of the little groups of friends or families have left for home, comes the tractor to clean the beach, the operatives to clean the shower and empty bins, and another truck to clean the promenade.

Before daylight the hardy swimmers are out under floodlights, the elderly ladies chatter their way through an aqua-aerobics session, while a yoga class takes place on the beach. Later the families, couples and singles on a shift break arrive, quickly laying claim to their space. In the evening, families have picnics until it gets dark, kids still mess about in the water and the daily cycle begins again.

The sand on the beach at Las Palmas is soft which means there is no elegant way to walk across it, at least I’ve never found a way that isn’t like a I’m enacting a scene from that well known odyssey ‘The Treacle Lake’. Flip flops on or off, no difference; I still have the gait of a duck sinking into a muddy field. I wouldn’t mind if we were all so afflicted, but the Bright Young Things (BYT), suntanned bodies in teeny tiny thongs, dance lightly across the sand, barely skimming the surface. I watch in horror as they enthusiastically throw themselves under the freezing shower at the foot of the steps. Under no circumstances would I contemplate standing under water less than my own body temperature.

They come in big groups, the BYTs, flopping down on towels and throws and chattering, all the while busy on their phones, the never-ending round of texts, TikTok’s and selfies. The selfies go on all day, each in their own fantasy world of superstardom. I was at the airport the other day having a coffee waiting for my sister’s flight, when a young woman sitting at the next table took 16 selfies in the ten minutes it took me to drink my coffee. Cute little hat on, cute little hat off, victory sign, no victory sign, smiling, pouting, view from above, view from the side, check in desks in the background, coffee bar in the background; there was no end to her inventiveness. I fully expected her to hurl herself onto the luggage belt for the next one. She was with a companion who was behaving similarly but not as often. They didn’t speak or show one another the results, each in their own narcissistic world.

But I digress, back to the beach. In the post-Christmas rush to the sun, families turned up mostly ready for a good time, but in the case of the adolescent dragged along – mutinous. They refused to play with younger siblings and would not take little Archie for a paddle. They just wanted to get back to their PS5s and mates. If they could wheedle money out of parents, they could usually be found in either Burger King or Starbucks, both of which are a blot on the landscape of an otherwise elegant promenade.

When the schools went back, the families with pre-school children arrived, which is great because they provide the best entertainment. Parents eager to share the joys of the seaside with their toddlers, take them to the water’s edge and one of two things happens. Either the child screams with terror at the first wave to ripple over their little toes, or they embrace the sea too literally and fall in, even though the parent is holding their hand. They don’t seem to realise that their 18 month-old is no match for the Atlantic.  Screaming, dripping or both, the child is then carried back up the beach to be soothed and allowed to eat sand for the rest of the afternoon.

Exhausted, the toddler will fall asleep in his buggy which sinks in the soft sand and has to be carried off the beach by both parents, who keep one eye anxiously on the extensive collection of bags and towels they have left temporarily unattended. Oh, the relief when one of them dashes back and finds that no one was at all interested in their 10-year-old towels and bags full of suntan oil, baby food and soiled nappies covered in sand. Their surrounding beach mates were far too busy taking selfies.

There are, inevitably, the local poseurs and pests who appear from under a local stone, usually in the afternoon. Easy to spot, they wear budgie smugglers, not shorts, are very brown, think they have a body almost too good for the women around them, and are ridiculously old to be approaching young women and girls. The girls usually give them short shrift and ignore them.  They stand with legs apart and arms akimbo, trying to impress. I’ve never once seen them ‘cop off’; they are just a nuisance.

The other sort of poseur is the middle-aged beer-belly, very loud, usually on his mobile lurching (soft sand, remember?) importantly in front of the sunbeds, waving away any beach seller that has the temerity to offer sunglasses, watches or a throw.

The beach sellers are a very polite bunch, not pushy, just trying to scrape a living. Some wander the beach all day while others sell from the promenade. There’s a bit of jeopardy about selling from the prom. Having set out their throws on railings, and sitting beside them, they only raise their eyes from their phones when a prospect stops to look. However, sometimes they suddenly spring into action, gather up the throws, heave them over the rail onto the beach, then stroll off. A few minutes later two policemen on bicycles will pass by but won’t stop. When the danger is passed, the seller returns, recovers his wares, and starts the process of carefully arranging them on the railings again. This game between sellers and the law happens two or three times a week, and the bobbies on bicycles seem quite happy not to investigate too closely.

A peaceful day when he’s not being chased by the police.

Restaurants on the prom have tables lining the railings. It’s lovely to be able to eat looking out at the waves. However, last week, a man sat on the sand beneath the (very) cheap Chinese restaurant. He was eating a sandwich and was suddenly besieged by pigeons. There are always pigeons on this beach, dotted about, looking for the main chance, but this poor man was surrounded by about twenty of the perishing things. It appeared that one of the diners at the Chinese directly above him was throwing food down onto the beach from his table at the restaurant. This led to quite an altercation - in English - between the two men, one of whom sounded German, and the other, at the restaurant, Spanish.

It provided great sport for the rest of us beached whales sunning ourselves and wanting to correct their grammar. Unbeknown to the protagonists, a lone bicycling bobby was observing them at a distance, so after the disgruntled sandwich eater removed the thrown food from his hair and moved down the beach, the policeman ‘had a word’ with the Spaniard, who, judging from the shouting and gesticulations, somehow thought he was the injured party. Free entertainment for us, the audience.

Throughout the day and night, singers, guitarists, acrobats, penny whistle blowers and other ‘entertainers’ in varying states of capability and talent stand in front of the restaurants and regale us with a couple of numbers then come round with a hat. It’s hard work for them because most people refuse. Some say they are not carrying cash any more in which case the more canny entertainers whip out a card machine; the look on the diner’s faces is a joy to behold!

This month we’ve had Carnival, but I think that has to be a whole newsletter in itself, so it can wait until next time. in the meantime, here’s a glimpse of the fun.

It's carnival time!

Thanks for reading or listening.

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I’ve read so much in the last few weeks that I’ll be brief with these reviews

The Foundling - Stacey Halls. Set in 1754 and based on a foundling hospital that existed, this immaculate story is a page turner. A poor young mother, Bess, who had to give her one-day-old baby to the hospital, saves up and returns for her six years later, only to find her daughter has been claimed by someone using her name. I loved it.

Great and Horrible News: Murder and Mayhem in Early Modern Britain - Blessin Adams. This is history at its grisly best. The author, who is ex-police and therefore an expert in understanding what she’s researching. This book contains several real cases of suspected murder, suicide, and other horrors, which kept me reading to the end. Probably shouldn’t say so but I really enjoyed it.

Feast of Sorrow: A Novel of Ancient Rome - Crystal King. Another book with terrific research at its heart which never overpowers the story. I have learned so much about the social structure of Ancient Rome as well as about Apicius, the infamous epicure who is determined to become Caesar’s culinary advisor. All told through the eyes of his slave who becomes his cook. What a cruel, but fascinating story.

The Dressmakers Parcels - Silvano Stagni. We’re in the 1930s Venice with an upper-class Jewish family who have to cope with their world crashing around them when the Jews are rounded up in 1938. They escape to the country and the eldest daughter joins the resistance. An entertaining story of survival which is only slightly marred by naming two male characters the same, which confused me and I had to keep working out which one it was. Maybe change one of them for the next edition?

The Tattooist of Auschwitz - Heather Morris. A hard read in many ways, but based on a wonderful true life love story and ends on a note of optimism. That’s not to detract from the horrors of the concentration camps, but even through the horrors, there were moments of humanity.

Persephone’s Children - A Memoir - Rowan Mc Candless. Rowan has written a most unusual memoir. It’s written in sections because she was so badly abused that it was the only way she could make sense of what had happened to her. So she attended classes and wrote small chunks in different styles. It’s hard to describe how she’s written it, but it’s a stunning read and I was left speechless at her bravery and what she’s been through.

You Could Make This Place Beautiful - A Memoir - Maggie Smith. This is a poignant reminder of how awful a divorce is for one side of the partnership when it’s least expected. It’s written in lyrical style as one would expect from Maggie Smith, but I sometimes found it repetitive, which I suspect is sacrilegious to ears of Smith fans.

I’ve listened to

The Evening and the Morning - Ken Follett. Follett’s never appealed but it’s a book club choice, so I dutifully read it. It’s a medieval historical epic. I can’t honestly say I enjoyed it. It was yawningly long, the boatbuilder lead was too good to be true and the the other characters were unbelievably awful. The noblewoman from Normandy was fuzzy. I don’t think he can write women very well.

Trouble With Goats and Sheep - Joanna Cannon. Loved this. The kid’s voices and preoccupations were so true. Having had two daughters, it took me back. I realise i’m behind the curve with one, it was published some time ago, but if you haven’t read it or listened to it, do. If you listen to it, the narration is by Paula Wilcox and she is totally empathetic with the girl’s quest to find Jesus in the summer holidays of 1976. The other characters are very believable; you’ll know some, if not all of them, if you’ve ever lived in suburbia.

I’ve watched - not very much this month, except

One Day - 14 episodes on Netflix, from the novel by David Nicholls. binged-watched this at three or four 30-minute episodes a night. The leads were well cast, with Ambika Mod as Emma and Leo Woodall as Dexter. It’s a long time since I read the book but I thought it was quite faithful. Can’t say more, no spoilers for those who haven’t seen it or read the book.

Much better than

All the Light We Cannot See also Netflix. I only watched two episodes - enough!

Phew, that’s quite enough reviewing for one month!