Facing Fears in Tenerife.

Today’s guest post is by Kirk Shackleton.

I was taken to Tenerife by my parents once when I was a child.  The week was going pretty well until we got back to our hire car one day after an afternoon frolicking around a water park and found our cameras had been swiped from the boot (or trunk, if you speak yank.)  I didn’t return for some time.

It wasn’t the fear of crime that kept me away, however, it was the fear of hens.  That’s right, hens.  Tenerife is plagued by them in their hundreds, grotesque creatures who stumble around the streets shouting obscenities and vomiting, often back into the glass from which they just gulped.  Add to this scene the stags that are prone to violent outbursts and impulsive nudity, and you can begin to understand why Tenerife has long been anathema to me.

But there’s only so long you can ignore a place that sits barely off the coast of West Africa when a return flight from London costs less than £100.  I was to return to Tenerife to face my fears, or at least to see if my fears were justified, and if so, whether the island was a complete lost hope or it still has something to offer.

The first thing I learned was that anyone with reservations like mine should doggedly avoid staying in Playa de las Americas.  I’ve done it so you don’t have to.  I should have known as much just by reading the name; something about it makes me think it’s been written by a fourteen year old foreigner in an internet chat room.

But this is where a good amount of Tenerife’s accommodation and dining establishments are situated, and consequently where a penniless backpacker like me finds himself haplessly drawn.  There is an area of about one kilometre squared where all of the earth’s louts seem to have been collated, a sea of tight clothing over sweaty rolls of flesh falling in and out of bars as if being dragged by an invisible leash.  My fears had become reality.

It’s not all bad though.  Playa de las Americas is within spitting distance of Arona, beyond which rises Mount Teide, Spain’s highest elevation and the world’s third largest volcano.  Indeed, the island is volcanic, and it is partly because of this that Tenerife’s climate is so pleasant; the northeast receives more rain and is thus more verdant, while the southwest is more arid, the land literally baking beneath the intense sun.

Like a carrot to an indolent donkey, I set my sights upon Tenerife’s mountainous spine and decided I would walk it.  It was a hasty decision that I panicked about almost immediately, for I had packed no appropriate hiking gear.  But then I realized I never wear appropriate hiking gear, so this wouldn’t be a problem.

My route took me across a lunar landscape, rivers of solid rock scattered with protruding calluses and splashed generously with black and red rust.  It was an otherworldly panorama, isolated, silent and seemingly endless, brought to life by the sun’s invisible feelers which made the horizon dance in a haze of heat.

There is something I find incredibly satisfying about the crunch of volcanic gravel beneath my shoe.  It is a quality quite unlike any other rock; hollow and light with a slight tinkle.  It was while I was lost in my own little world considering this sound that I felt the earth shake violently beneath me, and before I had time to say Eyjafjallajokull great balls of flaming lava began hurling themselves skywards and a menacing river of molten rock appeared on the slope above me.

Obviously, this didn’t actually happen, but it illustrates just how weary the baron and featureless landscape made me, and the lengths to which my imagination was allowed to run.  Irked by the heat of the day, I trudged diligently onwards for what seemed like hours until Mother Nature did that thing she does so well and dragged me forcefully from my moping reverie.

I mounted a summit which I had thought to be innocuous, but which actually concealed an expansive view so impressive it would make even the most despondent traveler stop in his tracks.  Behind me lay the brown parched earth of southern Tenerife, complete with its hens and stags, before me the green carpet of the north, inviting me to step upon its irrigated folds.  In the distance, the Atlantic Ocean shimmered, sending blinding sparkles through the dry air.

As I gawped, I took a moment to reflect on my feelings towards Tenerife; my initial fears did have grounding, I decided, but the causes were minor, contained and easily avoidable.  Besides, the natural beauty that lay before me dispelled them in an instant.

Kirk was reared in Australia’s Outback before travelling extensively across the globe, eventually settling in London.  He is passionate about food, travel and any sport that isn’t cricket!

*All photos in this post provided by Kirk.

*Please remember all photos on this website are copyrighted and property of BeersandBeans.com, NarikosNest.com & Bethany Salvon. Please do not use them without my permission. If you want to use one of them please contact me first because I do love to share and I would be flattered. Thanks!

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