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Title: The Canary Islands

Author: Florence Du Cane

Illustrator: Ella Du Cane

Release date: September 21, 2021 [eBook #66355]
                Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: GB: A. and C. Black Ltd

Credits: Fay Dunn, Fiona Holmes and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CANARY ISLANDS ***

Transcriber’s Notes.

In the Contents List, a V has been added to show VI.

Page 35 — swalwart changed to stalwart (two stalwart girls).

Page 41 — form changed to from (entirely hidden from our eyes).

Page 165 — iberty changed to liberty (“fly-flappers” were set
  at liberty).

Hyphenation has been standardised.


[Illustration: A PATIO]

    THE
    CANARY ISLANDS

    BY
    FLORENCE DU CANE


    WITH 16 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
    IN COLOUR BY ELLA DU CANE


    A. & C. BLACK LTD.
    4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1.

    PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
    _First published in 1911_

CONTENTS


    I
                                   PAGE
    TENERIFFE                                1

    II
    TENERIFFE (_continued_)                 21

    III
    TENERIFFE (_continued_)                 32

    IV
    TENERIFFE (_continued_)                 50

    V
    TENERIFFE (_continued_)                 68

    VI
    TENERIFFE (_continued_)                 84

    VII
    TENERIFFE (_continued_)                 93

    VIII
    GRAND CANARY                           105

    IX
    GRAND CANARY (_continued_)             115

    X
    GRAND CANARY (_continued_)             127

    XI
    LA PALMA                               136

    XII
    GOMERA                                 146

    XIII
    FUERTEVENTURA, LANZAROTE AND HIERRO    151

    XIV
    HISTORICAL SKETCH                      160




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


    1. A PATIO                           _Frontispiece_

                                            FACING PAGE

    2. A STREET IN PUERTO OROTAVA                    16

    3. THE PEAK, FROM VILLA OROTAVA                  21

    4. REALEJO ALTO                                  28

    5. ENTRANCE TO A SPANISH VILLA                   49

    6. STATICES AND PRIDE OF TENERIFFE               64

    7. LA PAZ                                        69

    8. BOTANICAL GARDENS, OROTAVA                    76

    9. EL SITIO DEL GARDO                            81

    10. CONVENT OF SANT AUGUSTIN, ICOD DE LOS VINOS  96

    11. AN OLD BALCONY                              113

    12. A BANANA CART                               117

    13. AN OLD GATEWAY                              124

    14. THE CANARY PINE                             128

    15. SAN SEBASTIAN                               149

    16. A SPANISH GARDEN                            156

    _Sketch Map at end of volume_




CANARY ISLANDS


I

TENERIFFE


Probably many people have shared my feeling of disappointment on
landing at Santa Cruz. I had long ago realised that few places come
up to the standard of one’s preconceived ideas, so my mental picture
was not in this case a very beautiful one; but even so, the utter
hideousness of the capital of Teneriffe was a shock to me.

Unusually clear weather at sea had shown us our first glimpse of the
Peak, rising like a phantom mountain out of the clouds when 100 miles
distant, but as we drew nearer to land the clouds had gathered, and
the cone was wrapped in a mantle of mist. There is no disappointment
attached to one’s first impression of the Island as seen from the sea.
The jagged range of hills seemed to come sheer down to the coast, and
appeared to have been torn and rent by some extraordinary upheaval
of Nature; the deep ravines (or _barrancos_ as I afterwards learnt to
call them) were full of dark blue mysterious shadows, a deeply indented
coast-line stretched far away in the distance, and I thought the land
well deserved to be called one of the Fortunate Islands.

Santa Cruz, or to give it its full title, Santa Cruz de Santiago,
though one of the oldest towns in the Canaries, looked, as our ship
glided into the harbour, as though it had been built yesterday, or
might even be still in course of construction. Lying low on the shore
the flat yellow-washed houses, with their red roofs, are thickly massed
together, the sheer ugliness of the town being redeemed by the spires
of a couple of old churches, which look down reprovingly on the modern
houses below. Arid slopes rise gradually behind the town, and appear to
be utterly devoid of vegetation. Perched on a steep ridge is the Hotel
Quisisana, which cannot be said to add to the beauty of the scene, and
all my sympathy went out to those who were condemned to spend a winter
in such desolate surroundings in search of health.

Probably no foreign town is entirely devoid of interest to the
traveller. On landing, the picturesque objects which meet the eye make
one realise that once one’s foot has left the last step of the gangway
of the ship, England and everything English has been left behind. The
crowd of swarthy loafers who lounge about the quay in tight yellow or
white garments, are true sons of a southern race, and laugh and chatter
gaily with handsome black-eyed girls. Sturdy country women are settling
heavy loads on their donkeys, preparatory to taking their seat on
the top of the pack for their journey over the hills. Their peculiar
head-dress consists of a tiny straw hat, no larger than a saucer, which
acts as a pad for the loads they carry on their heads, from which hangs
a large black handkerchief either fluttering in the wind, or drawn
closely round the shoulders like a shawl.

Here and there old houses remain, dating from the days when the wine
trade was at its zenith, and though many have now been turned into
consulates and shipping offices, they stand in reproachful contrast
to the buildings run up cheaply at a later date. Through many an open
doorway one gets a glimpse of these cool spacious old houses, whose
broad staircases and deep balconies surround a shady _patio_ or
court-yard. On the ground floor the wine was stored and the living
rooms opened into the roomy balconies on the first floor. Here and
there a small open Plaza, where drooping pepper trees shade stone
seats, affords breathing-space, but over all and everything was a thick
coating of grey dust, which gave a squalid appearance to the town.
Narrow ill-paved streets, up which struggle lean, over-worked mules,
dragging heavy rumbling carts, lead out of the town, and I was thankful
to shake the dust of Santa Cruz off my feet; not that one does, as
unless there has been very recent rain the dust follows everywhere. An
electric tramway winds its way up the slopes behind the town at a very
leisurely pace, giving one ample time to survey the scene.

The only vegetation which looks at home in the dry dusty soil is
prickly pear, a legacy of the cochineal culture. In those halcyon
days arid spots were brought into cultivation and the cactus planted
everywhere. In the eighteenth century the islanders had merely regarded
cochineal as a loathsome form of blight, and it was forbidden to be
landed for fear it should spoil their prickly pears, but prejudice
was overcome, and when it was realised that a possible source of
wealth was to be found in the cultivation of the cactus, _Opuntia
coccinellifera_, which is the most suited to the insect, the craze
began. Land was almost unobtainable; the amount of labour was enormous
which was expended in breaking up the lava to reach the soil below,
in terracing hills wherever it was possible to terrace; property was
mortgaged to buy new fields; in fact, the islanders thought their
land was as good as a gold-mine. The following figures are given by
Mr. Samler Brown to show the extraordinary rapidity with which the
trade developed. “In 1831 the first shipment was 8 lb., the price at
first being about ten pesetas a lb.; in ten years it had increased
to 100,566 lb., and in 1869 the highest total, 6,076,869 lb., with a
value of £789,993.” The rumour of the discovery of aniline dyes alarmed
the islanders, but for a time they were not sufficiently manufactured
seriously to affect the cochineal trade, though the fall in prices
began to make merchants talk of over-production. The crisis came in
1874, when the price in London fell to 1_s._ 6_d._ or 2_s._, and the
ruin to the cochineal industry was a foregone conclusion. Aniline dyes
had taken the public taste, and though cochineal has been proved to be
the only red dye to resist rain and hard wear, the demand is now small,
and merchants who had bought up and stored the dried insect were left
with unsaleable stock on their hands. Retribution, we are told, was
swift, sudden, and universal, and the farmer who had spent so much on
bringing land into cultivation foot by foot, realised that the cactus
must be rooted up or he must face starvation.

Possibly there are many other people as ignorant as I was myself on
my first visit to the Canaries on the subject of cochineal. Beyond
the fact that cochineal was a red dye and used occasionally as a
colouring-matter in cooking, I could not safely have answered any
question concerning it. I was much disgusted at finding that it is
really the blood of an insect which looks like a cross between a
“wood-louse” and a “mealy-bug,” with a fat body rather like a currant.
The most common method of cultivation, I believe, was to allow the
insect to attach itself to a piece of muslin in the spring, which
was then laid on to a box full of “mothers” in a room at a very high
temperature.

The muslin was then fastened on to the leaf of the cactus by means of
the thorns of the wild prickly pear. When once attached to the leaf the
_madre_ cannot move again. There were two different methods of killing
the insect to send it to market, one by smoking it with sulphur and the
other by shaking it in sacks. A colony of the insects on a prickly pear
leaf looks like a large patch of lumpy blight, most unpleasant, and
enough to make any one say they would never again eat anything coloured
with cochineal.

This terraced land is now cultivated with potatoes and tomatoes for the
English market, but the shower of gold in which every one shared in the
days of the cochineal boom is no more, though the banana trade in other
parts of the island seems likely to revive those good old days.

La Laguna, about five miles above Santa Cruz, is one of the oldest
towns in Teneriffe; it was the stronghold of the Guanches and the
scene of the most desperate fighting with the Spanish invaders. To-day
it looks merely a sleepy little town, but can boast of several fine
old churches, besides the old Convente de San Augustin which has been
turned into the official seat of learning, containing a very large
public library, and the Bishop’s Palace which has a fine old stone
façade. The cathedral appears to be in a perpetual state of repairing
or rebuilding, and though begun in 1513 is not yet completed. One of
the principal sights of La Laguna is the wonderful old Dragon tree in
the garden of the Seminary attached to the Church of Santo Domingo,
of which the age is unknown. The girth of its trunk speaks for itself
of its immense age, and I was not surprised to hear that even in the
fifteenth century it was a sufficiently fine specimen to cause the land
on which it stood to be known as “the farm of the Dragon tree.”

Foreigners regard the town chiefly as being a good centre for
expeditions, which, judging by the list in our guide-book, are almost
innumerable. One ride into the beautiful pine forest of La Mina should
certainly be undertaken, and unless the smooth clay paths are slippery
after rain the walking is easy. After a long stay in either Santa
Cruz or even Orotava, where large trees are rare, there is a great
enchantment in finding oneself once more among forest trees, and what
splendid trees are these native pines, _Pinus canariensis_, and in damp
spots one revels in the ferns and mosses, which form such a contrast
to the vegetation one has grown accustomed to.

Alexander von Humboldt who spent a few days in Teneriffe, on his way to
South America, landing in Santa Cruz on June 19, 1799, was much struck
by the contrast of the climate of La Laguna to that of Santa Cruz. The
following is an extract from his account of the journey he made across
the island in order to ascend the Peak: “As we approached La Laguna,
we felt the temperature of the atmosphere gradually become lower. This
sensation was so much the more agreeable, as we found the air of Santa
Cruz very oppressive. As our organs are more affected by disagreeable
impressions, the change of temperature becomes still more sensible when
we return from Laguna to the port, we seem then to be drawing near the
mouth of a furnace. The same impression is felt when, on the coast
of Caracas, we descend from the mountain of Avila to the port of La
Guayra.... The perpetual coolness which prevails at La Laguna causes it
to be regarded in the Canaries as a delightful abode.

“Situated in a small plain, surrounded by gardens, protected by a
hill which is crowned by a wood of laurels, myrtles and arbutus, the
capital of Teneriffe is very beautifully placed. We should be mistaken
if, relying on the account of some travellers, we believed it rested
on the border of a lake. The rain sometimes forms a sheet of water of
considerable extent, and the geologist, who beholds in everything the
past rather than the present state of nature, can have no doubt but
that the whole plain is a great basin dried up.”

“Laguna has fallen from its opulence, since the lateral eruptions of
the volcano have destroyed the port of Garachico, and since Santa Cruz
has become the central point of the commerce of the island. It contains
only 9000 inhabitants, of whom nearly 400 are monks, distributed in
six convents. The town is surrounded with a great number of windmills,
which indicate the cultivation of wheat in these higher countries....”

“A great number of chapels, which the Spaniards call _ermitas_,
encircle the town of Laguna. Shaded by trees of perpetual verdure, and
erected on small eminences, these chapels add to the picturesque effect
of the landscape. The interior of the town is not equal to the external
appearance. The houses are solidly built but very antique, and the
streets seem deserted. A botanist should not complain of the antiquity
of the edifices, as the roofs and walls are covered with Canary house
leek and those elegant _trichomanes_ mentioned by every traveller.
These plants are nourished by the abundant mists....”

“In winter the climate of Laguna is extremely foggy, and the
inhabitants complain often of the cold. A fall of snow, however, has
never been seen, a fact which may seem to indicate that the mean
temperature of this town must be above 15° R., that is to say higher
than that of Naples....”

“I was astonished to find that M. Broussonet had planted in the midst
of this town in the garden of the Marquis de Nava, the bread-fruit
tree (_Artocarpus incise_) and cinnamon trees (_Laurus cinnamonum_).
These valuable productions of the South Sea and the East Indies are
naturalised there as well as at Orotava.”

The most usual route to Tacoronte _en route_ to Orotava, the ultimate
destination of most travellers, is by the main road or _carretera_,
which reaches the summit of the pass shortly after leaving La Laguna,
at a height of 2066 feet. The redeeming feature of the otherwise
uninteresting road is the long avenue of eucalyptus trees, which gives
welcome shade in summer. If time and distance are of no account, and
the journey is being made by motor, the lower road by Tejina is far
preferable. The high banks of the lanes are crowned with feathery old
junipers, in spring the grassy slopes are gay with wild flowers, and
here and there stretches of yellow broom (_spartium junceum_) fill
the air with its delicious scent. Turns in the road reveal unexpected
glimpses of the Peak on the long descent to the little village of
Tegueste, and below lies the church of Tejina, only a few hundred feet
above the sea. Here the road turns and ascends again to Tacoronte, and
the Peak now faces one, the cone often rising clear above a bank of
clouds which covers the base.

At Tacoronte the tram-line ends and either a carriage or motor takes
the traveller over the remaining fifteen miles down through the fertile
valley to Puerto Orotava. The valley is justly famous for its beauty,
and in clear winter weather, when the Peak has a complete mantle of
snow, no one can refrain from exclaiming at the beauty of the scene,
when at one bend of the road the whole valley lies stretched at one’s
feet, bathed in sunshine and enclosed in a semi-circle of snow-capped
mountains. The clouds cast blue shadows on the mountain sides, and here
and there patches of white mist sweep across the valley; the dark pine
woods lie in sharp contrast to the brilliant colouring of the chestnut
woods whose leaves have been suddenly turned to red gold by frost in
the higher land. In the lower land broad stretches of banana fields
are interspersed with ridges of uncultivated ground, where almond, fig
trees and prickly pears still find a home, and clumps of the native
Canary palm trees wave their feathery heads in the wind. Small wonder
that even as great a traveller as Humboldt was so struck with the
beauty of the scene that he is said to have thrown himself on his knees
in order to salute the sight as the finest in the world. Without any
such extravagant demonstration as that of the great traveller, it is
worth while to stop and enjoy the view; though, to be sure, carriages
travel at such a leisurely rate in Teneriffe, one has ample time to
survey the scene. The guardian-angel of the valley--the Peak--dominates
the broad expanse of land and sea, in times of peace, a placid broad
white pyramid. But at times the mountain has become angry and waved
a flaming sword over the land, and for this reason the Guanches
christened it the Pico de Teide or Hell, though they appear to have
also regarded it as the Seat of the Deity.

Humboldt himself describes the scene in the following words: “The
valley of Tacoronte is the entrance into that charming country, of
which travellers of every nation have spoken with rapturous enthusiasm.
Under the torrid zone I found sites where Nature is more majestic and
richer in the display of organic forms; but after having traversed the
banks of the Orinoco, the Cordilleras of Peru, and the most beautiful
valleys of Mexico, I own that I have never beheld a prospect more
varied, more attractive, more harmonious in the distribution of the
masses of verdure and rocks, than the western coast of Teneriffe.

“The sea-coast is lined with date and cocoa trees; groups of the
_musa_, as the country rises, form a pleasing contrast with the dragon
tree, the trunks of which have been justly compared to the tortuous
form of the serpent. The declivities are covered with vines, which
throw their branches over towering poles. Orange trees loaded with
flowers, myrtles and cypress trees encircle the chapels reared to
devotion on the isolated hills. The divisions of landed property are
marked by hedges formed of the agave and the cactus. An innumerable
number of cryptogamous plants, among which ferns most predominate,
cover the walls, and are moistened by small springs of limpid water.

“In winter, when the volcano is buried under ice and snow, this
district enjoys perpetual spring. In summer as the day declines, the
breezes from the sea diffuse a delicious freshness....

“From Tegueste and Tacoronte to the village of San Juan de la Rambla
(which is celebrated for its excellent Malmsey wine) the rising hills
are cultivated like a garden. I might compare them to the environs
of Capua and Valentia, if the western part of Teneriffe were not
infinitely more beautiful on account of the proximity of the Peak,
which presents on every side a new point of view.

“The aspect of this mountain is interesting, not merely from its
gigantic mass; it excites the mind, by carrying it back to the
mysterious source of its volcanic agency. For thousands of years
no flames or light have been perceived on the summit of the Piton,
nevertheless enormous lateral eruptions, the last of which took
place in 1798, are proofs of the activity of a fire still far from
being extinguished. There is also something that leaves a melancholy
impression on beholding a crater in the centre of a fertile and
well-cultivated country. The history of the globe tells us that
volcanoes destroy what they have been a long series of ages in
creating. Islands which the action of submarine fires has raised above
the water, are by degrees clothed in rich and smiling verdure; but
these new lands are often laid waste by the renewed action of the same
power which caused them to emerge from the bottom of the ocean. Islets,
which are now but heaps of scoriæ and volcanic ashes, were once perhaps
as fertile as the hills of Tacoronte and Sauzal. Happy the country
where man has no distrust of the soil on which he lives.”

[Illustration: A STREET IN PUERTO OROTAVA]

Low on the shore lies the little sea-port town of Orotava, known as
the Puerto to distinguish it from the older and more important Villa
Orotava lying some three miles away inland, at a higher altitude.
Further along the coast is San Juan de la Rambla, and on the lower
slopes of the opposite wall of the valley are the picturesque villages
of Realejo Alto and Bajo, while Icod el Alto is perched at the very
edge of the dark cliffs of the Tigaia at a height of about 1700 ft.
A gap in the further mountain range is known as the Portillo, the
Fortaleza rises above this “gateway,” and from this point begins the
long gradual sweep of the Tigaia, which, from the valley, hides all but
the very cone of the Peak. Above Villa Orotava towers Pedro Gil and the
Montaña Blanca, with the sun glittering on its freshly fallen snow, and
near at hand are the villages of Sauzal, Santa Ursula, Matanza and La
Victoria.

Though Humboldt describes them as “smiling hamlets,” he comments on
their names which he says are “mingled together in all the Spanish
colonies, and they form an unpleasing contract with the peaceful and
tranquil feelings which these countries inspire.

“Matanza signifies slaughter, or carnage, and the word alone recalls
the price at which victory has been purchased. In the New World it
generally indicates the defeat of the natives; at Teneriffe the village
Matanza was built in a place where the Spaniards were conquered by
those same Guanches who soon after were sold as slaves in the markets
of Europe.”

In early winter the terraced ridges, which are cultivated with wheat
and potatoes, are a blot in the landscape, brown and bare, but in
spring, after the winter rains, these slopes will be transformed into
sheets of emerald green, and it is then that the valley looks its best.
For a few days, all too few, the almond trees are smothered with their
delicate pale pink blooms, but one night’s rain or a few hours’ rough
wind will scatter all their blossoms, and nothing will remain of their
rosy loveliness but a carpet of bruised and fallen petals.

The valley soon reveals traces of the upheavals of Nature in a bygone
age; broad streams of lava, which at some time poured down the valley,
remain grey and desolate-looking, almost devoid of vegetation, and the
two cinder heaps or _fumaroles_ resembling huge blackened mole-hills,
though not entirely bare, cannot be admired. No one seems to know
their exact history or age, but it appears pretty certain that they
developed perfectly independently of any eruption of the Peak itself,
though perhaps not “growing in a single night,” as I was once solemnly
assured they had done. One theory, which sounded not improbable, was
that the bed of lava on which several English villas, the church and
the Grand Hotel have been built, was originally spouted out of one
of these cinder heaps, and the hill on which the hotel stands was in
former days the edge of the cliff. The lava is supposed to have flowed
over the edge and accumulated to such a depth in the sea below that it
formed the plateau of low-lying ground on which the Puerto now stands.

The little town is not without attraction, though its streets are dusty
and unswept, being only cleaned once a year, in honour of the Feast
of Corpus Christi, on which day at the Villa carpets of elaborate
design, arranged out of the petals of flowers, run down the centre of
the streets where the processions are to pass. My first impression of
the town was that it appeared to be a deserted city, hardly a foot
passenger was to be seen, and my own donkey was the only beast of
burden in the main street of the town. Gorgeous masses of bougainvillea
tumbled over garden walls, and glimpses were to be seen through open
doorways of creeper-clad _patios_. The carved balconies with their
little tiled roofs are inseparable from all the old houses, more or
less decorated according to the importance of the house. The soft green
of the woodwork of the houses, and more especially of the solid green
shutters or _postijos_, behind which the inhabitants seem to spend many
hours gazing into the streets, was always a source of admiration to
me. The main street ends with the mole, and looking seawards the surf
appears to dash up into the street itself. The town wakes to life when
a cargo steamer comes into the port, and then one long stream of carts,
drawn by the finest oxen I have ever seen, finds its way to the mole,
to unload the crates of bananas which are frequently sold on the quay
itself to the contractors.

[Illustration: THE PEAK, FROM VILLA OROTAVA]




II

TENERIFFE (_continued_)


About a thousand feet above the Puerto de Orotava, on the long gradual
slope which sweeps down from Pedro Gil forming the valley of Orotava,
lies the _villa_ or town of Orotava. This most picturesque old town is
of far more interest than the somewhat squalid port, being the home of
many old Spanish families, whose beautiful houses are the best examples
of Spanish architecture in the Canaries. Besides their quiet _patios_,
which are shady and cool even on the hottest summer days, the exterior
of many of the houses is most beautiful. The admirable work of the
carved balconies and shutters, the iron-work and carved stone-work
cannot fail to make every one admire houses which are rapidly becoming
unique. The Spaniards have, alas! like many other nations, lost their
taste in architecture, and the modern houses which are springing up
all too quickly make one shudder to contemplate. Some had been built
to replace those which had been burnt, others were merely being built
by men who had made a fortune in the banana trade. Not satisfied
with their old solid houses, with their fine old stone doorways and
overhanging wooden balconies, they are ruthlessly destroying them to
build a fearsome modern monstrosity, possibly more comfortable to live
in, but most offending to the eye. The love of their gardens seems also
to be dying out, and as I once heard some one impatiently exclaim,
“They have no soul above bananas,” and it is true that the culture of
bananas is at the moment of all-absorbing interest.

Though the _patios_ of the houses may be decked with plants, the air
being kept cool and moist by the spray of a tinkling fountain, many of
the little gardens at the back of these old family mansions have fallen
into a sad state of disorder and decay. The myrtle and box hedges,
formerly the pride of their owners, are no longer kept trim and shorn,
and the little beds are no longer full of flowers. One garden remains
to show how, when even slightly tended, flowers grow and flourish in
the cooler air of the Villa. In former days a giant chestnut tree
was the pride of this garden, only its venerable trunk now remains
to tell of its departed glories; but the _poyos_ (double walls) are
full of flowers all the year, and the native _Pico de paloma_ (_Lotus
Berthelotii_) flourishes better here than in any other garden; it
drapes the walls and half smothers the steps and stone seats with
its garlands of soft grey-green, and in spring is covered with its
deep red “pigeons’ beaks.” The walls are gay with stocks, carnations,
verbenas, lilies, geraniums, and hosts of plants. Long hedges of
_Libonia floribunda_, the _bandera d’España_ of the natives, as its red
and yellow blossoms represent the national colours of Spain, line the
entrance, and in unconsidered damp corners white arum lilies grow, the
rather despised _orejas de burros_, or donkeys’ ears, of the country
people, who give rather apt nick-names to not only flowers, but people.

Though the higher-class Spaniards are a most exclusive race, I met
with nothing but civility from their hands when asking permission
to see their _patio_ or gardens; as much cannot be said for the
middle and lower classes of to-day, who are distinctly anti-foreign.
The lower classes appear to regard an incessant stream of pennies
as their right, and hurl abuse or stones at your head when their
persistent begging is ignored, and even tradesmen are often insolent
to foreigners. A spirit of independence and republicanism is very
apparent. An employer of labour can obviously keep no control over his
men, who work when they choose, or more often don’t work when they
don’t choose, and the mother or father of a family keeps no control
over the children. One day I asked our gardener why he did not send his
children to school to learn to read and write, as he was deploring that
he could not read the names of the seeds he was sowing. I thought it
was a good moment to point a moral, but he shrugged his shoulders, and
said they did not care to go, and also they had no shoes and could not
go to school barefoot. The man was living rent free, earning the same
wages as an average English labourer, and two sons in work contributed
to the expenses of the house, besides the money he got for the crop on
a small piece of land which the whole family cultivated on Sundays, and
still he could not afford to provide shoes in order that his children
should learn to read and write. Another man announced with pride that
one of his children attended school. Knowing he had two, I inquired,
“Why only one?” On which he owned that the other one used to go, but
now she refused to do so, and neither he nor his wife could make her
go. This independent person was aged nine!

One of the great curiosities of the Villa was the great Dragon Tree,
and though it stands no more, visitors are still shown the site where
it once stood and are told of its immense age. Humboldt gave the age
of the tree at the time of his visit as being at least 6000 years, and
though this may have been excessive, there is no doubt that it was of
extreme age. It was blown down and the remains accidentally destroyed
by fire in 1867, and only old engravings remain to tell of its wondrous
size. The hollow trunk was large enough for a good-sized room or cave,
and in the days of the Guanches, when a national assembly was summoned
to create a new chief or lord, the meeting place was at the great
Dragon Tree. The land on which it stood was afterwards enclosed and
became the garden of the Marques de Sauzal.

The ceremony of initiating a lord was a curious one, and the Overlord
of Taoro (the old name of Orotava), was the greatest of these lords,
having 6000 warriors at his command. Though the dignity was inherited,
it was not necessary that it should pass from father to son, and more
frequently passed from brother to brother. “When they raised one to be
lord they had this custom. Each lordship had a bone of the most ancient
lord in their lineage wrapped in skins and guarded. The most ancient
councillors were convoked to the ‘Tagoror,’ or place of assembly. After
his election the king was given this bone to kiss. After having kissed
it he put it over his head. Then the rest of the principal people
put it over his shoulder, and he said, ‘_Agoñe yacoron yñatzahaña
Chacoñamet_’ (I swear by the bone on this day on which you have made me
great). This was the ceremony of the coronation, and on the same day
the people were called that they might know whom they had for their
lord. He feasted them, and there were general banquets at the cost of
the new lord and his relations. Great pomp appears to have surrounded
these lords, and any one meeting them in the road when they progressed
to change their summer residence in the mountains to one by the sea
in winter, was expected to prostrate himself on the ground, and on
rising to cleanse the king’s feet with the edge of his coat of skins.”
(See “The Guanches of Teneriffe,” by Sir Clement Markham.) After the
conquest the Spaniards turned the temple of the Guanches into a chapel,
and Mass was said within the tree.

In the Villa are several fine old churches, whose spires and domes
are her fairest adornment. The principal church is the Iglesia de la
Concepcion, whose domes dominate the whole town. The exterior of the
church is very fine, though the interior is not so interesting. It is
curious to think how the silver communion plate, said to have belonged
to St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, can have come into the possession of
this church. The theory that this and similar plate in the Cathedral
at Las Palmas are the scattered remains of the magnificent church
plate which was sold and dispersed by the order of Oliver Cromwell is
generally accepted.

The fine old doorway and tower of the Convent and Church of Santo
Domingo date from a time when the Spaniards had more soul for the
beautiful than they have at the present time.

The narrow steep cobbled streets are hardly any of them without
interest, and the old balconies, the carved shutters and glimpses of
flowery _patios_, with a gorgeous mass of creeper tumbling over a
garden wall or wreathing an old doorway, combine to make it a most
picturesque town. A feature of almost every Spanish house is the little
latticed hutch which covers the drip stone filter. In many an old
house creepers and ferns, revelling in the dampness which exudes from
the constantly wet stone, almost cover the little house, and even the
stone itself grows maiden-hair or other ferns, and their presence is
not regarded as interfering with the purifying properties of the stone,
in which the natives place great faith. I never could believe that
clean water could in any way benefit by being passed through the dirt
of ages which must accumulate in these stones, there being no means of
cleaning them except on the surface. The red earthenware water-pots of
decidedly classical shape are made in every size, and a tiny child may
be seen learning to carry a diminutive one on her head with a somewhat
uncertain gait which she will soon outgrow, and in a year or two will
stride along carrying a large water-pot all unconscious of her load,
leaving her two hands free to carry another burden.

[Illustration: REALEJO ALTO]

A charming walk or donkey-ride leads from the Villa along fairly level
country to Realejo Alto, passing through the two little villages of La
Perdoma and La Cruz Santa. In early spring the almond blossom gives a
rosy tinge to many a stretch of rough uncultivated ground, and in the
villages over the garden walls was wafted the heavy scent of orange
blossoms. The trees at this altitude seemed freer of the deadly black
blight which has ravaged all the orange groves on the lower land,
and altogether the vegetation struck one as being more luxuriant and
more forward. The cottage-garden walls were gay with flowers: stocks,
mauve and white, the favourite _alelis_ of the natives, long trails of
geraniums and wreaths of _Pico de paloma_, pinks and carnations and
hosts of other flowers I noticed as we rode past.

The village of Realejo Alto is, without doubt, the most picturesque
village I ever saw in the Canaries. Its situation on a very steep slope
with the houses seemingly piled one above the other is very suggestive
of an Italian mountain village. Part of the Church of San Santiago,
the portion next the tower, is supposed to be the oldest church in the
island, and the spire, the most prominent feature of the village and
neighbourhood, is worthy of the rest of the old church. The interior
of the church is not without interest when seen in a good light, and
a fine old doorway is said to be the work of Spanish workmen shortly
after the conquest. The carved stone-work round this doorway and a very
similar one in the lower village are unique specimens of this style of
work in the islands.

The _barranco_ which separates the upper and lower villages of Realejo
was the scene of a great flood in 1820 which severely damaged both
villages. Realejo Bajo, though not quite as picturesque as the upper
village, is well worth a visit, and its inhabitants are justly proud of
their Dragon Tree, a rival to the one at Icod which may possibly some
day become as celebrated as the great tree at Orotava.

These two villages are great centres of the _calado_ or
drawn-thread-work industry. Through every open doorway may be seen
women and girls bending over the frames on which the work is stretched.
It is mostly of very inferior quality, very coarsely worked and on poor
material, and it seems a pity that there is no supply of better and
finer work. Visitors get tired of the sight of the endless stacks of
bed-covers and tea-cloths which are offered to them, and certainly the
work compares badly both in price and quality with that done in the
East.




III

TENERIFFE (_continued_)


A spell of clear weather, late in February, made us decide to make
an expedition to the Cañadas, which, except to those who are bent on
mountain climbing and always wish to get to the very top of every
height they see, appeals to the ordinary traveller more than ascending
the Peak itself. In spite of the promise of fine weather the day
before, the morning broke cloudy and at dawn, 6 A.M., we started full
of doubts and misgivings as to what the sunrise would bring. We had
decided to drive as far as the road would allow, as we had been warned
that we should find nine or ten hours’ mule riding would be more than
enough, in fact, our friends were rather Job’s comforters. Some said
the expedition was so tiring that they had known people to be ill for
a week after undertaking it. Others said it was never clear at the
top, we must be prepared to be soaked to the skin in the mist, for
the mules to stumble and probably roll head over heels, in fact that
strings of disasters were certain to overtake us. Our mules were to
join us at Realejo Alto, about an hour’s drive from the port, and there
we determined we would decide whether we would continue, or content
ourselves with a shorter expedition on a lower level.

Sunrise did not improve the prospect, a heavy bank of clouds lay over
Pedro Gil, while ominous drifts of light white clouds were gathering
below the Tigaia, and the prospect out to sea was not more encouraging.
The mules were late, in true Spanish fashion, and we consulted a few
weather-wise looking inhabitants who gathered round our carriage in the
Plaza, shivering in the morning air, with their _mantas_ or blanket
cloaks wrapped closely round them. They looked pityingly at these mad
foreigners who had left their beds at such an hour when they were not
forced to--for the Spaniard is no early riser--and were proposing to
ride up into the clouds. The optimistic members of the party said: “It
is nothing but a little morning mist,” while the pessimist remarked,
“Morning mists make mid-day clouds in my experience.”

The arrival of the mules put an end to further discussion. The
muleteers were full of hope and confident that the clouds would
disperse, or anyway that we should get above the region of cloud and
find clear weather at the top, so though our old blanket-coated friend
murmured “_Pobrecitas_” (poor things) below his breath, we made a
start armed with wraps for the wet and cold we were to encounter. The
clattering of the mules as we rode up the steep village street brought
many heads to the windows; the little green shutters, or _postijos_,
were hastily pushed open to enable the crowd, which appeared to inhabit
every house, to catch a sight of the “_Inglezes_.” Inquiry as to where
we were bound for, I noticed, generally brought an exclamation of “Very
bad weather” (“_Tiempo muy malo_”), to the great indignation of our
men, who muttered, “Don’t say so!”

The stony path from Realejo leads in a fairly steep ascent to Palo
Blanco, a little scattered village of charcoal-burners’ huts at a
height of 2200 feet. The wreaths of blue smoke from their fires mingled
with the mist, but already there was a promise of better things to
come, as the sun was breaking through and the clouds were thinner.
The chant of the charcoal-burners is a sound one gets accustomed
to in these regions, and I never quite knew whether it was merely a
song which cheered them on their downward path, or whether it was to
announce their approach and ask ascending travellers to move out of
their way, as the size of the loads they carry on their heads makes
them often very difficult to pass. Presently two stalwart girls came
into sight, swinging along at a steady trot; their bare feet apparently
even more at home along the stony track than the unshod feet of the
mules, as there is no stopping to pick their way, on they go, only
too anxious to reach their journey’s end, and drop the crushing load
off their heads. We anxiously inquired as to the state of the weather
higher up, and to our great relief, with no hesitation, came the
answer: “_Muy claro_” (very clear), and in a few minutes a puff of wind
blew all the mist away as if by magic, and there was a shout of triumph
from the men.

Below lay the whole valley of Orotava, and we were leaving the
picturesque town of the Villa Orotava far away below us on the left.
The little villages of La Perdoma, La Cruz Santa, and the two Realejos,
Alto and Bajo, were more immediately below us, and far away in the
distance beyond the Puerto were to be seen Santa Ursula, Sauzal and
the little scattered town of Tacoronte. Pedro Gil and all the range
of mountains on the left had large stretches of melting snow, shining
with a dazzling whiteness in the sun. It had been an unusual winter
for snow, so we were assured, and it was rare to find it still lying
at the end of February, but we were glad it was so, for it certainly
added greatly to the beauty of the scene. At the Monte Verde, the
region of green things, we called a halt, for the sake of man and
beast, and while our men refreshed themselves with substantial slices
of sour bread and the snow white local cheese, made from goats’ milk,
and our mules enjoyed a few minutes’ breathing-space with loosened
girths, we took a short walk to look down into the beautiful Barranco
de la Laura. Here the trees have as yet escaped destruction at the
hands of the charcoal-burners and the steep banks are still clad with
various kinds of native laurel mixed with large bushes of the _Erica
arborea_, the heath which covers all the region of the Monte Verde. The
almost complete deforestation by the charcoal-burners is most deeply
to be deplored, and it is sad to think how far more beautiful all this
region must have been before it was stripped of its grand pine and
laurel trees. The authorities took no steps to stop this wholesale
destruction of the forests until it was too late, and even now, though
futile regulations exist, no one takes the trouble to see that they are
enforced. The law now only allows dead wood to be collected, but it is
easy enough to _make_ dead wood--a man goes up and breaks down branches
of trees or _retama_, and a few weeks later goes round and collects
them as dead wood, and so the law is evaded. As there is a never-ending
demand for charcoal, it being the only fuel the Spaniard uses, so
matters will continue until there is nothing left to cut.

No doubt we were on the same path as that by which Humboldt had
travelled when he visited Teneriffe in 1799 and ascended the Peak.
His description of the vegetation shows how the ruthless axe of the
charcoal-burners has destroyed some of the most beautiful forests in
the world. Humboldt had been obliged to abandon his travels in Italy
in 1795 without visiting the volcanic districts of Naples and Sicily,
a knowledge of which was indispensable for his geological studies.
Four years later the Spanish Court had given him a splendid welcome
and placed at his disposal the frigate _Pizarro_ for his voyage to the
equinoctial regions of New Spain. After a narrow escape of falling
into the hands of English privateers the Trade winds blew him to the
Canaries. The 21st day of June, 1799, finds him on his way to the
summit of the Peak accompanied by his friend Bonpland, M. le Gros,
the secretary of the French Consulate in Santa Cruz, and the English
gardener of Durasno (the botanical gardens of Orotava). The day appears
not to have been happily chosen. The top of the Peak was covered in
thick clouds from sunrise up to ten o’clock. Only one path leads from
Villa Orotava through the _retama_ plains and the _mal pays_. “This
is the way that all visitors must follow who are only a short time in
Teneriffe. When people go up the Peak” (these are Humboldt’s words)
“it is the same as when the Chamounix or Etna are visited, people
must follow the guides and one only succeeds in seeing what other
travellers have seen and described.” Like others he was much struck
by the contrast of the vegetation in these parts of Teneriffe and in
that surrounding Santa Cruz, where he had landed. “A narrow stony path
leads through Chestnut woods to regions full of Laurel and Heath, and
then further to the Dornajito springs; this being the only fountain
that is met with all the way to the Peak. We stopped to take our
provision of water under a solitary fir tree. This station is known
in the country by the name of Pino del Dornajito. Above this region
of arborescent heaths called Monte Verde, is the region of ferns.
Nowhere in the temperate zones have I seen such an abundance of the
_Pteris_, _Blechium_ and _Asplenium_; yet none of these plants have
the stateliness of the arborescent ferns which, at the height of 500
and 600 _toises_, form the principal ornaments of equinoctial America.
The root of the _Pteris aquilina_ serves the inhabitants of Palma and
Gomera for food. They grind it to powder, and mix it with a quantity
of barley meal. This composition when boiled is called _gofio_; the
use of so homely an aliment is proof of the extreme poverty of the
lower classes of people in the Canary Islands. (Gofio is still largely
consumed).

“The region of ferns is succeeded by a wood of juniper trees and firs,
which has suffered greatly from the violence of hurricanes (not one is
now left). In this place, mentioned by some travellers under the name
of Caraveles, Mr. Eden states that in the year 1705, he saw little
flames, which according to the doctrines of the naturalists of his
time, he attributes to sulphurous exhalations igniting spontaneously.
We continued to ascend, till we came to the rock of La Gayta and to
the Portillo: traversing this narrow pass between two basaltic hills,
we entered the great plain of _Spartium_.... We spent two hours in
crossing the Llano del Retama, which appears like an immense sea of
white sand. In the midst of the plain are tufts of the _retama_, which
is the _Spartium nubigenum_ of Aiton. M. de Martinière wished to
introduce this beautiful shrub into Languedoc, where firewood is very
scarce. It grows to a height of 9 ft. and is loaded with odoriferous
flowers, with which the goat-hunters who met in our road had decorated
their hats. The goats of the Peak, which are of a dark brown colour,
are reckoned delicious food; they browse on the _spartium_ and have
run wild in the deserts from time immemorial.” Spending the night on
the mountain, though in mid summer, the travellers complained bitterly
of the cold, having neither tents nor rugs. At 3 A.M. they started by
torch-light to make the final ascent to the summit of the Piton. “A
strong northerly wind chased the clouds, the moon at intervals shooting
through the vapours exposed its disk on a firmament of the darkest
blues, and the view of the volcano threw a majestic character over the
nocturnal scenery.

“Sometimes the peak was entirely hidden from our eyes by the fog,
at other times it broke upon us in terrific proximity: and like an
enormous pyramid, threw its shadow over the clouds rolling at our feet.”

Scaling the mountain on the north-eastern side, in two hours the party
reached Alta Vista, following the same course as travellers of to-day,
passing over the _mal pays_ (a region devoid of vegetable mould and
covered with fragments of lava) and visiting the ice caves. After the
Laurels follow ferns of great size, Junipers and Pines (not one is now
left of either) all the way up to the Portillo.

The Portillo was still towering far above us, the gateway of the
range, as its name implies, through which we had to pass to get to the
Cañadas, and the stony path, though a well defined one, meanders on,
not at a very steep incline, past rough hillocks where here and there
pumice stone appears. Gradually the heath, which was just coming
into flower, and in a few weeks would be covered with its rather
insignificant little white or pinkish blossoms, becomes interspersed
with _codeso_, _Adenocarpus viscosus_, with its peculiar flat spreading
growth and tiny leaves of a soft bluish-green. During all the long
ascent there is no sign of the Peak; the path lies so immediately
beneath the dividing range that it is not until the Portillo itself
is reached, that it suddenly bursts into view. It is a grand scene
which lies before one. The foreground of rocky ground is interspersed
with great bushes of _retama_ (_Sparto-cytisus nubigens_), a species
of broom said to be peculiar to this district. In growth it somewhat
resembles _Spartium junceum_, commonly known in England as Spanish
broom, but is more stubby and perhaps not so graceful. When in flower
in May its sweet scent is so powerful that not only does it fill the
whole air in this mountain district, but sailors are said to smell it
miles out at sea. Our guides told us some bushes had white flowers and
others white tinged with rose colour. At this season large patches of
thawing snow take the place of flowers, but the bushes of _retama_ can
be seen piercing the Peak’s dense mantle of snow up to a height of
quite 10,000 feet.

I had been told that all the beauty of the Peak was lost when seen from
so near, that the beautiful pyramid of rock and snow which rises some
12,000 feet and stands towering above the valley of Orotava would look
like a mere hill when seen rising from the moat of fine sand, which is
what the Cañadas most resemble, that in fact, all enchantment would
be gone. One writer even has gone so far as to call the Peak an ugly
cinder-heap when seen from the Cañadas on the other side, and to say
they found themselves “in a lifeless, soundless world, burnt out, dead,
the very abomination of desolation, where once raged a fiery inferno
over a lake of boiling lava.” I cannot help thinking that the writer of
the above must have been travelling under adverse circumstances; it is
curious how being overtired, wet and cold will make one find no beauty
in a scene, which others, who like ourselves have seen it in glorious
sunshine, will describe as one of the most beautiful sights in the
world.

The path just beyond the Portillo (7150 ft.) divides, and those who
propose to ascend the Peak follow the track up the side of the Montaña
Blanca, a snow-clad hump at the east base of the Peak. The cone itself
is locally called Lomo Tiezo, and rises at an angle of 28°. The stone
hut at the Alta Vista (10,702 ft.) is where many a weary traveller
spends the night, before ascending the final 1400 ft. on foot, as the
mules are left at the hut. No doubt in clear weather the traveller
is well repaid, and the scene is well described as follows by Mr.
Samler Brown: “Those who cannot ascend the mountain would probably
greatly help their imagination by looking at a lunar crater through a
telescope. The surroundings are the essence of desolation and ruin.
On one side the rounded summit of the Montaña Blanca, on the other
the threatening craters of the Pico Viejo and of Chahorra, the latter
three-quarters of a mile in diameter, 10,500 ft. high, once a boiling
cauldron and even now ready to burst into furious life at any moment.
Below, the once circular basin of the Cañadas, seamed with streams of
lava and surrounded by its jagged and many-coloured walls. Around, a
number of volcanoes, standing, as Piazzi Smyth says, like fish on their
tails with widely gaping mouths. On the upper slopes the pine forests
and far beneath the sea, with the Six Satellites (the islands of La
Palma, Gomera, Hierro, Grand Canary, Fuerteventura and Lanzarote)
floating in the distance, the enormous horizon giving the impression
that the looker-on is in a sort of well rather than on a height which,
taken in relation to its surroundings is second to none in the world.”

To attain the rude little shrine at the Fortaleza where a rest was to
be taken, the path leads down into the Cañadas itself. A stretch of
fine yellow sand, like the sand of the Sahara, thoroughly sun-baked,
proved too great a temptation to one of the mules, and regardless of
its rider and luncheon-basket, it enjoyed a good roll in the soft warm
bed--luckily with no untoward results. After a welcome rest in the
grateful shade of a _retama_ bush, we turned our backs to the Peak and
left this beautiful solitary scene. The island of La Palma seemed to
be floating in the sky; the line of the horizon dividing sea and sky
appeared to be all out of place, in fact it seems to be a weird uncanny
world in these parts, and though to-day the Peak may be standing calm
and serene, bathed in sunshine and clad in snow, still it reminds one
of the death and destruction it has caused by fire and flood, and who
knows when it may some day awake from its long sleep and shake the
whole island to its foundations.

It is an accepted theory that the Cañadas themselves were originally an
immense crater, the second largest in the world, and during a period of
activity they threw up the Peak which became the new crater. Probably
during this process the Cañadas themselves subsided, and left the wall
of rock which appears to form a perfect protection to the Valley of
Orotava in case the Peak should some day again spout forth burning lava.

It was in the early winter of 1909 that the inhabitants of Teneriffe
were reminded that their volcano was not dead. For nearly a year
previously frequent slight shocks of earthquake had warned geological
experts that some upheaval was to be expected, which in November were
followed by loud detonations, each one shaking the houses in Orotava.
One of the inhabitants has described the sensation as one of curious
instability, that the houses felt as though they were built on a
foundation of jelly. An entirely new crater opened twenty miles from
the Peak, and though so far distant from Orotava, the flashes of light
were distinctly visible above the lower mountains on the south side
of the Peak. Very little damage seems to have been done, as luckily
there were no villages near enough to be annihilated by the streams of
lava, but most exaggerated reports of the eruptions were circulated
in Europe, and it is even said that a message was sent to the Spanish
Government asking for men-of-war to be sent at once to take away the
inhabitants as the island was sinking into the sea! Many geological
authorities have given it as their opinion that it is most unlikely
that there will be another eruption in less than another hundred years,
which is consoling and reassuring.

As the paths were dry we were able to return by a different route,
which though rather longer is far more beautiful, and to those who
prefer walking to riding downhill is highly to be recommended. The
mules appear to be more sure-footed in the stony paths and once the
region of the Monte Verde begins again and the path is smooth their
unshod feet get no hold, and in wet weather the path is a mere “mud
slide” and should not be attempted. It was a beautiful walk along the
crest of the range; the Peak was lost to sight but the valley below lay
filled with drifting patches of light mist, through which could just
be seen the Villa bathed in the afternoon light, and above, all was
clear. Pedro Gil, and the Montaña Blanca beyond, glowed in a red light,
and right away in the distance the mountains round La Laguna were just
visible.

[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO A SPANISH VILLA]

From La Corona the view is perhaps at its best. On the left the
pine woods above Icod de los Vinos stretch away into the distance
to the extreme west of the island, and on the right the valley of
Orotava lies spread out like a map. Just below La Corona one gets
back into cultivated regions and the sight of a country-woman with
the usual burden on her head reminded us how many hours it was since
we had seen a sign of life--not, indeed, since we had passed the two
charcoal-burners in the early morning who had given such welcome news
of clear weather ahead. Icod el Alto, with the roughest village street
it has ever been my fate to encounter, was soon left behind, and the
mules trudged wearily down as steep a path as we had met with anywhere,
to Realejo Bajo and back to civilisation and the prosaic. A rickety
little victoria with three lean but gallant little horses took us home
exactly twelve hours from the time we started. We had not meant to
break records, and on the homeward path had certainly taken things
easily--the ride from Realejo Alto to the Cañadas was exactly four
hours, one hour’s rest, five hours’ ride down, partly walking, and two
hours’ driving--and we were neither wet through nor so tired that we
were ill for a week. I had heard a good description of mule riding by
some one who was consulted as to whether it was very tiring, and his
answer was, “It is not _riding_, you just sit, and leave the rest to
the mule and Providence!”




IV

TENERIFFE (_continued_)


I know nothing more enjoyable than a ramble along the coast or up one
of the many _barrancos_ in the neighbourhood of Orotava. I had always
heard that the Canary Islands were rich in native plants, but I hardly
realised that almost each separate _barranco_ (literally meaning a
mountain torrent, but now applied to any ravine or deep gully) would
have its own special treasures, and that the cliffs by the sea are so
rich in vegetation that in many places they look like the most perfect
examples of rock gardens.

One of the best walks is up the steep little path, hardly more than
a goats’ track, which leads from the Barranco Martinez to the cliffs
below the terrace of La Paz. It is possible to wander for miles in this
direction; occasionally, it is true, the spell of enchantment in the
way of plant collecting will be broken by the path suddenly coming to
vast stretches of banana cultivation, but luckily there is still a good
deal of unbroken ground, and the path leads back again to the verge of
the cliffs and inaccessible places. There are so many plants that will
be strangers to the newcomer that it is hard to know which to mention
and which to leave out, as far be it from me to pretend to give a full
list of Canary plants, and the longer I stayed in the islands the less
surprised I was to hear that a learned botanist had been four years
collecting material for a full and complete account of the flora of
the Canaries, and that still his work was not completed. I think the
first place must be given to _Euphorbia canariensis_ as one of the most
conspicuous and ornamental of the cliff plants. Great clumps of this
“candelabra plant,” as the English have christened it (or _cardon_ in
Spanish), are so characteristic that it will always be associated in
my mind with the cliffs of Teneriffe. Its great square fluted columns
may rise to 10 or 12 ft. leafless, but bearing near the top a reddish
fruit or flower, and having vicious-looking hooks down the edges of its
stout branches. If you gash one of the columns with a knife out spurts
its sticky, milky juice, which if not really poisonous is a strong
irritant, and there is a legend that the Guanches used it to stupefy
fish, but precisely in what manner I never ascertained. One feature
of the cliff vegetation cannot fail to strike every one, and that is
the soft bluish-green of nearly all the plants. The prickly pears, as
both the Cactuses are commonly called, _Opuntia Dillenii_ and _Opuntia
coccinellifera_--the latter especially appears to have been introduced
for the cultivation of cochineal, and has remained as a weed--the sow
thistles (_Sonchus_), _Kleinias_, _Artemerias_, and nearly all the
succulent plants have grey-green colouring, which is in such beautiful
contrast to the dark cliffs. The overhanging cliffs just below La Paz
are of most beautiful formation and colouring, in places a deep brick
red colour, owing to a deposit of yellow ochre, and in others a tawny
yellow, and so deep are the hollows in the volcanic rocks and the air
chambers exposed by the inroads of the sea that they have been made
into dwellings. Apparently more than one family and all their goods
and chattels are ensconced in the recesses of the rocks, and here they
live a real open air life, free from house tax or any burden in the way
of repairs to their dwellings. The best of water-supplies is close at
hand, indeed the stream which gushes out of the rock provides drinking
water for the whole town, and when I was told that one of these
cave-dwellers was a harmless lunatic, I thought there was a good deal
of method in his madness when I remembered the vile-smelling, stuffy
cottages that most of the poor inhabit.

_Senecio Kleinia_, or _Kleinia neriifolia_, has the habit of a
miniature dragon tree, its gouty-forked branches having tufts of
blue-green leaves. It remains a shrubby plant about 5 ft. high, and
_Plocama pendula_, with its light weeping form and lovely green colour,
makes a charming contrast to the stiff growth of the Euphorbias
and Kleinias, and all three are so thoroughly typical of the cliff
vegetation that they will probably be the first to attract the
attention of the newcomer. _Artemesia canariensis_ (Canary wormwood)
is easily recognised by its whitish leaf and very strong aromatic
scent, which is far from pleasant when crushed. The native Lavender and
various Chrysanthemums, the parents probably of the so-called “Paris
Daisy” in cultivation, are common weeds, but in March and April, the
months of wild flowers, many more interesting treasures may be found,
and while sitting on the rocks, within reach of one’s hand a bunch
of flowers or low-growing shrubs may be collected, all probably new
to a traveller from northern climes. On the shady damp side of many a
miniature _barranco_ or crevasse will be seen nestling in the shadow of
the rocks which protect them from the salt spray, broad patches of the
wild _Cineraria tussilaginis_, in every shade of soft lilac, prettier
by far than any of the cultivated hybrids. In one inaccessible spot
they were interspersed with a yellow Ranunculus, and close by was one
of the many sow-thistles with its showy yellow flowers. On some of the
steep slopes, too steep happily for the cultivation of the everlasting
banana, the great flower stems of the _Agave rigida_ rear their proud
heads twenty feet in the air, and are the remains of a plantation of
these agaves, which was originally made with a view to cultivating them
in order to extract fibre from their leaves. This variety is the true
_Sisal_ from the Bahamas, botanically known as var. _sisalana_, and
the rapidity with which it increases once the plants are old enough to
bloom may be imagined when it is said that from one single flower-spike
will drop 2000 new plants. Like many other agricultural experiments
in this island, fibre extraction was abandoned, but I heard of some
attempt being made to revive it in the arid island of Lanzarote. Among
the beautiful strata of rock, besides the Euphorbias and prickly pears,
are to be found many low-growing spreading bushes of the succulent,
_Salsola oppositæ folia_, _Ruba fruticosa_, a white-flowering little
_Micromeria_, _Spergularia fimbriata_, whose bright mauve flowers would
be considered a most valuable addition to a so-called “rock garden” in
England, and the low-growing violet-blue _Echium violaceum_, which is
a dreaded weed in Australia, where the seed was probably accidentally
introduced. I often used to think when rambling over this natural rock
garden what lessons might be learnt by studying rock formation before
attempting to lay out in England one of those feeble imitations of
Nature which usually result in lamentable failure, not only in failure
to please the eye, but failure to cultivate the plants through not
providing them with suitable positions.

Those who have a steady head and do not mind scrambling down steep
narrow paths can get right down on to the rugged rocks, and when a high
sea is running the spray dashes high on to the cliffs, and one sits in
a haze of white mist wondering how any vegetation can stand the salt
spray. The small lilac _Statice pectinata_ grew and flourished in such
surroundings, reminding one that in England statices are generally
called Sea Lavenders because the native English Statice, _S. Limonium_,
grows on marsh land. The miniature-flowered heath-like _Frankenia
ericifolia_ was also at home amid the spray.

As the path in our wanderings frequently led us back among large farms
or _fincas_ entirely devoted to the cultivation of bananas, it may be
of interest to mention something of the history of this most lucrative
industry. It used to go to my heart to see charming pieces of broken
ground being ruthlessly stripped of their natural vegetation, old
gnarled and twisted fig trees cut down, and an army of men set to work
to break up the soil ready for planting. In most cases the top soil is
removed, and the soft earth-stone underneath is broken up and the top
soil replaced; but the system appears to differ according to the nature
of the soil. Walls are constructed for the protection of the plants,
or in order to terrace the land and get the level necessary for the
system of irrigation concrete channels being made for the water. So
the initial outlay of bringing land into cultivation is heavy, but then
the reward reaped is almost beyond the dreams of avarice. Good land
with water used to fetch over £40 an acre per annum--indeed, I have
even heard of as high a price as £60 having been obtained; that, even
if true, was exceptional; but perhaps nowhere else in the world is land
let for agricultural purposes at such a rate. Land, however good, which
was not irrigated, was only fetching £4 to £6 an acre, and though I
was never able to ascertain exactly how much per acre the water would
cost, there is no doubt the rate is a very high one; so the rent is not
all profit to the landlord. The life of a banana plantation averages
from twelve to fourteen years, but for eighteen months no return is
obtained, except from the potato crop which is planted in between the
young plants, or, rather, the old stumps, from which a young sucker
will spring up and bear fruit. That shoot will again be cut down, and
by that time several suckers will spring up, about three being left as
a rule on a plant, which will each bear fruit in nine or ten months.
An acre of land in full bearing will produce over 2000 bunches, which
have to be gathered, carted, and carefully packed for export.

Much of the labour on the plantations is done by women, and long
processions of them make their way to the packing-houses, bearing the
immense bunches of green fruit on their heads. Bare-footed, sturdy,
handsome girls many of them, with curiously deep voices in which
they chant with a sing-song note as they trip along with a splendid
upright carriage. Unfortunately their song is instantly broken when
they catch sight of a foreigner, and a chorus of _Peni, peni, peni_,
either getting louder and louder if no attention is paid to the demand,
or turned to a bleating whine for _una perrita_ (a little penny),
accompanied frequently by a volley of stones. Foreigners complain
bitterly of this begging, but they have brought it on themselves by
throwing coins to children as they drive along the road. Or when a
crowd of urchins collects, as if to reward them for their bright black
eyes and pretty faces, which many of them have, a shower of coppers is
thrown to them, so it is small wonder that a race has grown up whose
earliest instinct teaches it to beg, and I feel sure that _Peni_ is
often the first word that a toddling child is taught.

The packing-houses are also a blot on the landscape, sometimes great
unsightly sheds tacked on to what has once been the summer residence
of an old Spanish family, and here crowds of men, women and girls are
wrapping up the bunches, which are shipped in wooden crates by the
thousand, and tens or even hundreds of thousands, I should imagine,
judging by the endless procession of carts drawn by immense bullocks
which wend their way down to the mole, when a steamer comes in to take
a whole cargo of the fruit to England. I used often to wonder that it
was possible to find such an unlimited market for bananas when one
thinks that Grand Canary ships as many as Teneriffe, and they have a
formidable rival also in Jamaica. It is to be hoped that the trade
will not be overdone and the markets fall, or that a blight will not
come on the plants, and that the Islands will not again suffer from
the ruin which followed the cochineal boom. Bananas are said to have
been introduced to the Canaries from the Gulf of Guinea, but that was
not their real home, and no one knows how they were originally brought
from the Far East. From the Canaries they were sent to the West Indian
Islands in 1516, and on from there to Central America. Oviedo, writing
about the natural history of the West Indies, mentions having seen
bananas growing in the orchard of a monastery at Las Palmas in 1520.
The botanical name of the Banana, _Musa sapientum_, was given in the
old belief that it was the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and
evil. The variety now under cultivation is _Musa Cavendishii_, the
least tropical and most suitable for cool climates. Locally they are
called _Plátano_, a corruption of the original name _Plántano_, from
plantain in English, under which name they are always known in the
East. Though the plant has been known in the islands for nearly four
centuries, it was of no use as a crop before the water which is so
absolutely necessary for its cultivation was brought down from the
mountains. Some residents--those, I noticed, who did not own banana
plantations--lament that the excessive irrigation has made the climate
of Orotava damper than it used to be, but if the cultivation has
brought about a climatic change, it has also brought about a financial
change in the fortunes of the farmers and landlords, and many an
enterprising man, who a few years ago was just a working _medianero_,
satisfied with his potato or tomato crop, has little by little built
up a very substantial fortune.

A _medianero_ is a tenant or bailiff who cultivates the ground and
receives a share of the profits. The contract between the landlord
and the _medianero_ varies a good deal on different estates, and the
system is rather complicated, but as a rule he provides his tenant
with a house rent free, pays for half the seed of a cereal, potato or
vegetable crop, but none of the labour for cultivation, and the profits
made on the crop are equally divided. Sometimes, especially in the
case of banana cultivation, the proprietor pays for half the labour of
planting and gathering the crop for sending to market, but never for
any of the intermediate labour. The landlord provides the all-important
water-supply, but all the labour of irrigation has to be done by the
_medianero_, who also pays a share of taxes. The loss of a crop through
blight or a storm is equally shared. The trouble of the system, which
in some ways seems a good one, must come in over the division of the
profits, as either the honesty of the tenant must be implicitly trusted
or an overseer must be present when the crop is gathered to see that
the landlord gets his true _medias_.

At a higher altitude, some 800 or 900 ft. below the village of Santa
Ursula, which is justly famous for its groups of Canary Palms, is
a large estate, as yet uncultivated from lack of sufficient water.
Besides the natural vegetation which stands the summer drought, the
owner has collected together many drought-resisting plants, among
which are several natives of Australia. The Golden Wattle seemed quite
at home, though the trees have not yet attained the size they would
in their native country, and small groves of _Eucalyptus Lehmanni_,
with their curious fluffy balls of flower, gave welcome shade, and
Australian salt bushes were being grown as an experiment with a view
to providing a new fodder plant. The stony ground was covered with a
low-growing _Cystus monspeliensis_ closely resembling the variety much
prized in England as _florentina_, its white blossoms covering the
bushes. Many of the plants were the same as on the lower cliffs, but
_Convolvulus scoparius_ I was much interested to find growing in its
natural state. The growth so closely resembles that of the _retama_
that it might easily be mistaken for it; the natives call it _Leña
Noel_ or _Palo de rosa_, but the flower is like a miniature convolvulus
growing all down the stems. Both this and _Convolvulus floridus_
are known as Canary Rosewoods, and _scoparius_ has become rare owing
to the digging of its roots from which the oil was distilled. Dr.
Morris of Kew was a great admirer of _C. floridus_, and describes
_guadil_, as it is known locally, as “a most attractive plant. When
in flower it appears as if covered with newly fallen snow. It is one
of the few native plants which awaken the enthusiasm of the local
residents.” Many Sempervivums were to be seen, but _S. Lindleyi_ is
most curious. Its fleshy transparent leaves grow in clusters and it
has received the local and very apt name of Guanche grapes. Little
_Scylla iridifolium_ grew everywhere, and one could have spent days
collecting treasures, and I felt torn in two between admiring the
splendid views which the headland commands, and trying to add something
to my most insufficient knowledge of the native plants. Near the house
in cultivated ground were to be seen the two most ornamental native
brooms, _Genista rhodorrhizoides_ and _Cytisus filipes_; both are of
drooping habit, with very sweet-scented white flowers, and should be
more widely cultivated. The former very closely resembles the variety
_mono-sperma_, which grows near the Mediterranean coast.

[Illustration: STATICES AND PRIDE OF TENERIFFE]

Here too were to be seen some splendid clumps of the true native
_Statice arborea_ which for many years gave rise to such botanical
discussions. For a long time this variety was lost and a hybrid of
_arborea_ and _macrophylla_ did duty for the true variety, which was
definitely pronounced extinct. It was, I believe, Francis Messon who
first collected this plant in Teneriffe on his way to the Cape in
1773, and describes its locality as “on a rock in the sea opposite the
fountain which waters Port Orotava.” These rocks were the Burgado Cove
to the east of Rambla del Castro, and it was again found growing in
this neighbourhood in 1829 by Berthelot and Webb, who describe it in
their admirable book on the “Histoire Naturelle des Iles Canaries.”
Before this date another French botanist, Broussonet, had “discovered”
the plant a few miles further along the coast, at Dauté near Garachico,
and after its complete disappearance from the Burgado rocks, owing
probably to goats having destroyed it, it was re-discovered in the
Dauté locality a few years ago, through the untiring efforts and
perseverance of Dr. George Perez. Having heard of the plants growing
on inaccessible rocks, he got a shepherd to secure the specimens for
him, the plants being hauled up by means of ropes to which hooks were
attached, and it was no doubt thanks to their position that even goats
were not able to destroy them. So _Statice arborea_ was rescued and is
once more in cultivation, and one of the most ornamental and effective
garden plants it is possible to see. The loose panicles of deep purple
flower-heads last for weeks in perfection, and are so freely produced
that even one plant of it seems to give colour to a whole garden. The
statices endemic to the various islands form quite a long list and
are all ornamental, and prove the fact I have already mentioned of
the extremely restricted area in which many native plants are found.
The true _Statice macrophylla_ finds a home in only a small area on
the north-east coast of Teneriffe and is another very showy species.
_Statice frutescens_ is very similar to _Statice arborea_, but is
of much smaller stature; its native home appears to be--or to have
been--on the rocky promontory of El Freyle, to the extreme west of
Teneriffe.

From a single high rock, known as Tabucho, near Marca, also on
the west coast, came in 1907 a new variety, at first thought to
be _Preauxii_, but it was eventually found to be an entirely new
contribution and was named _Statice Perezii_ after Dr. Perez who
discovered the plant and sent the specimen to Kew.

The island of Gomera contributes the very blue-flowered _S.
brassicifolia_, its winged stems making it easy to recognise, and
from Lanzarote comes _S. puberula_, a more dwarf kind, very varying
in colour. These appear to comprise the statices best known now in
cultivation, though there are several other less interesting varieties.

Here, at Santa Ursula, great interest is also taken in the Echiums,
another race of Canary plants. _Echium simplex_ must be accorded
first place, as it is commonly called Pride of Teneriffe; it bears
one immense spike of white flowers, and like the aloe, after this one
supreme effort the plant dies. The seed luckily germinates freely. From
the island of La Palma had come seed of _Echium pininana_, and tales
of a deep blue flower-spike said to rise from 9 ft. to 15 ft. in the
air, and though the plants were only one year old some showed promise
of flowering. The pinkish flowered _E. auberianum_, like so many of
the statices, has made its home in almost inaccessible places among
the rocks on the Fortaleza at a height of some 7000 ft., close to the
Cañadas.

Over the walls were hanging masses of _Lotus Berthelotii_, one of the
native plants I most admired. Its long trails of soft grey leaves hang
in garlands and in spring come the deep red flowers. The plant is known
locally as _Pico de paloma_ (pigeon’s beak) and I found one seldom gave
it its true botanical name, which does not seem to fit it. Here again
is another plant whose native lair has been lost. A stretch of country
between Villa Orotava and La Florida is known to have been its home,
but for years past botanists have hunted for it in vain. A variety
which differed slightly found a home in the Pinar above Arico, but that
equally has disappeared.




V

TENERIFFE (_continued_)


To the east of the town lies a district where, in old days, the
Spaniards built their villas, as summer residences, in which to escape
from the heat and dust of the town. In those days vineyards and
cornfields took the place of banana plantations and potato fields, and
near some of the villas are to be seen to this day the old wine-presses
with their gigantic beams made of the wood of the native pine. These
presses have long been silent and idle, as disease ravaged the vines
some fifty years ago, and “Canary sack” is no longer stored in the vast
cellars of the old houses.

[Illustration: LA PAZ]

One of these old villas became our temporary home, so I am to be
forgiven for placing it first on the list. A steep cobbled lane leads
up from the Puerto, bordered with plane trees, and here and there great
clumps of oleanders, to the plateau some 300 feet above the sea on
which stands the house of La Paz. The outer gate is guarded by the
little chapel of Santo Amaro, and once a year the clanging bell summons
worshippers to Mass and to escort the figure of the patron saint, amid
incense and rockets, down the long cypress avenue to the terrace above
the sea.

Each side of the faded green wooden doorway, two giant cypresses stand
like sentries to guard the gate, through which may be seen, on one
side, a row of flaunting red poinsettias, waving their gaudy blossoms
above a low myrtle hedge, and on the other side the high garden wall
is draped with orange creepers. At right angles to this path facing
the entrance to the house, a long avenue of splendid lance-like
cypresses rises above a thick hedge of myrtles whose trunks speak for
themselves of their immense age. A round flight of low steps leads to
the forecourt, and the tiny inner court is guarded by yet another faded
green doorway. Here flowers run riot in a little garden where prim box
hedges edge the paved walks. On a flagged terrace stands the “House
of Peace,” facing the Atlantic, and from the solid green panelled
door there is an unbroken view down the long, straight avenue to the
dazzling, dancing sea below.

Over the door is a weather-stained coat-of-arms, and above, again, on
a piece of soft green scroll-work, is the Latin motto “hic est requies
mea,” as here to his house of rest came the original owner, to rest
from his work in the town.

Very little seems to be known of the history of La Paz, but it seems
fairly certain that it was built by an Irish family of the name of
Walsh; who, with many of their fellow countrymen, emigrated to the
Canaries after the siege of Limerick, and in the church of N. S. de la
Peña de Francia, in the town, the tomb of Bernardo Walsh, who died in
1721, bears the same arms as those which are carved above the door.
The family, who no doubt entered into business in the town, appear to
have found a foreign name inconvenient and changed it into Valois, as
Bernardo Walsh is described as alias Valois. The two Irish families of
Walsh and Cologan intermarried at some time, and the property passed to
the Cologans, who assumed the Spanish title of Marquez de la Candia; to
this family La Paz still belongs, though it is many years since they
have lived there, and the present owner, who lives in Spain, has never
even seen the property.

The traveller Humboldt is said to have been a guest at La Paz for a few
days, which has caused many Germans to call it “Humboldt’s villa,” and
even to go so far as to say that he built it, though he only paid a
flying visit of four days to Orotava in 1799. From the account of his
visit in his “Personal Narrative” it appears doubtful as to whether
he stayed at La Paz or at the house belonging to the Cologan family,
in Villa Orotava. Alluding to his short stay, he remarks: “It is
impossible to speak of Orotava without recalling to the remembrance of
the friends of science, the name of Don Bernardo Cologan, whose house
at all times was open to travellers of every nation. We could have
wished to have sojourned for some time in Don Bernardo’s house, and to
have visited with him the charming scenery of San Juan de la Rambla.
But on a voyage such as we had undertaken, the present is but little
enjoyed. Continually haunted by the fear of not executing the design
of to-morrow we live in perpetual uneasiness....” Further on he says:
“Don Cologan’s family has a country house nearer the coast than that
I have just mentioned. This house, called La Paz, is connected with
a circumstance that rendered it peculiarly interesting to us. M. le
Borde, whose death we deplored, was its inmate during his last visit to
the Canary Islands. It was in a neighbouring plain that he measured the
base, by which he determined the height of the Peak.” The house has no
pretensions to any great architectural beauty, but has an air of peace
and stateliness which the hand of time gives to many a house of far
less imposing dimensions than its modern neighbour.

On one side of the house a few steps lead down to the walled garden,
a large square outlined and traversed by vine-clad pergolas, which
again form four more squares. In the centre of one an immense pine tree
shelters a round water basin, where papyrus and arums make a welcome
shelter for the tiny green frogs. One feature of these old Spanish
gardens might well be copied in other lands; a low double plaster wall
some two feet thick, called locally a _poyo_, makes a charming border
for plants: geraniums, verbenas, stocks, carnations, poppies, and the
hanging _Pico de paloma_, all look their best grown in this way, and at
a lower level a wide low seat ran along the walls. The beds were edged
with sweet-smelling geranium, the white-leafed salvia, a close-growing
thyme, or box, all kept clipped in neat, compact hedges. Some of the
garden has now, alas! been given over to a more profitable use than
that of growing flowers, and a potato crop is succeeded in summer by
maize, but enough remains for a wealth of flowering trees, shrubs,
creepers and plants. The brilliant orange _Bignonia venusta_ covers a
long stretch of the pergola, drapes the garden wall and climbs up to
the flat roof-top of one of the detached wings of the house. In summer
a white stephanotis disputes possession and covers the tiled roof of
a garden shed, filling the whole air with its delicious scent. Among
other sweet-smelling plants were daturas, whose great trumpets are
especially night-scented flowers, and in early spring the tiny white
blossoms of the creeping smilex smell so much like the orange blossoms
which have not yet opened, that their delicious fragrance might easily
be mistaken for it. Sweet-scented geraniums grow in every corner, and
heliotropes, sweet peas and stocks all add to the fragrance of the
garden.

The grounds contain several good specimen palms, too many perhaps
for the health of flowers, as their roots seem to poison the ground;
hibiscus, coral trees, pittosperums and a long list of trees common
to most sub-tropical gardens find a home, but the tree I most admired
was a venerable specimen of the native olive growing near a grove of
feathery giant bamboos.

The cypress avenue leads to a broad terrace at a dizzy height above
the sea; the surf beats against the cliffs below, but the salt air
does not seem to affect the beautiful vegetation, and for long years
great clumps of Euphorbias and Kleinias have stood against the winter
storms when great breakers roll in and crash against the rocks. On
the left lies the little flat town of the Puerto, over which in clear
weather the Island of La Palma emerges from its mantle of clouds, and
many a gorgeous sunset bathes the whole town in a mist of rosy light,
recalling the legend that in days of old, navigators had christened the
little fishing-port the Puerto de Oro, after Casa de Oro, the House of
Gold, which title they had given to the Peak, as night after night the
setting sun had turned its cap of snow to pale gold.

On the right the broken coast-line stretches away into the far
distance, and the mountains rise above the little villages; they in
their turn are caught by the setting sun and kissed by her last
departing rays, and turned to a rosy pink, but as the ball of fire
sinks into the sea, the shadows creep up, and in one moment in this
land which knows no twilight, the light is gone and the cold greyness
of night takes possession.

Just behind La Paz are the Botanical gardens, which owe their existence
to the Marquez de Nava, who in 1795 undertook at enormous expense to
level the hill of Durasno, and lay it out for receiving the treasures
of other climes. Though complaints are often made of its distance from
the so-called “English colony,” the site was well chosen, as the soil
on this side of the _barranco_, which separates it from the lava bed,
is decidedly more fertile, and being of a heavier nature and deeper is
less liable to blight and disease, which are the curse of the gardens
on light dry soil, and which no amount of irrigation will cure. In
this garden are collected treasures from every part of the world; new
ground is sadly needed as the immense trees and shrubs have made the
cultivation of flowers a great difficulty. Humboldt appreciated the
use of these gardens for the introduction of plants from Asia, Africa
and South America, remarking that: “In happier times when maritime
wars shall no longer interrupt communication, the garden of Teneriffe
may become extremely useful with respect to the great number of plants
which are sent from the Indies to Europe: for ere they reach our coasts
they often perish owing to the length of the passage, during which they
inhale an air impregnated with salt water. These plants would meet at
Orotava with the care and climate necessary for their preservation; at
Durasno, the Protea, the Psidium, the Jambos, the Chirinoya of Peru,
the sensitive plant, and the Heliconia all grow in the open air.”

[Illustration: BOTANICAL GARDENS, OROTAVA]

To give a list of all the trees and plants would be an impossibility
and any one who is interested in them will find an excellent account of
the gardens in a pamphlet written by Dr. Morris of Kew, who was much
interested in his visit to the Canary Islands in 1895. The gardens
for some years fell into a neglected state from lack of funds, but
once again bid fair to regain their former glory under new management.
Among the chief ornaments of the gardens are the very fine specimens
of the native pine, _Pinus canariensis_, an immense _Ficus nitida_,
one of the best shade-giving trees, and travellers from the tropics
will recognise an old friend in _Ravenala madagascariensis_, the
“Traveller’s Tree,” in the socket of whose leaves water is always to be
found.

Further up the road is the property of San Bartolomeo; the land is now
entirely devoted to banana cultivation, the house is handed over to
the tender mercies of a _medianero_, and the garden tells a tale of
departed glories. In the _patio_ of the house a donkey is stalled under
a purple bougainvillea, and tall cypresses look down reproachfully at
the fallen state of things. In the chapel of the house mass is still
said daily, but for seven years I was told the _sala_ had not been
opened. In the garden the myrtle hedges have grown out of all bounds,
jessamines have become a dense tangle, and the plaster _poyos_, which
once were full of plants, are crumbling to decay.

Near by is El Cypres, formerly a villa, and named after its splendid
cypresses, which mark every old Spanish garden, and now unfortunately
appear to be little planted. This villa has been turned into a
_pension_, and its glory is also departed. El Drago has been more
fortunate, and has been rescued by foreign hands, and the wealth
of creepers, especially _Plumbago capensis_, which in autumn has a
complete canopy of pale blue flowers clambering over the pergolas,
together with its splendid trees, make a landmark in the landscape.

A few miles away I wandered one evening into another deserted garden,
not entirely uncared for, as I was told the owner from the villa
came there for a few weeks in summer. This garden showed that it had
originally been laid out with great care and thought, not in the
haphazard way which spoils so many gardens, and afterwards I learnt
that it had been planned by a Portuguese gardener, and I recognised
the little beds with their neat box hedges, the clumps of rosemaries
and heaths which, though they were somewhat unkempt, showed that in
former days they had been clipped into shape after the manner of
all true Portuguese gardens. The garden walls and plaster seats of
charming designs showed traces of fresco work in delicate colouring,
and soft green tiles edged the water basin, in which grew a tangle of
papyrus, yams and arums. A garden house, whose roof was completely
covered with wistaria, was surrounded by a balcony whose walls had
also been frescoed, but now, alas, packing cases for bananas had
sorely damaged them. The sole occupants of the garden appeared to be
a pair of peacocks; the male bird at the sight of an intruder spread
his fan and strutted down the terrace steps to do the honours of the
garden. The flower-beds, which had once been full of begonias, lilies,
pelargoniums, and every kind of treasured plant, are now too much
overshadowed by large trees, but I longed to have the restoring of this
garden to its former beauty.

On the other side of the yawning _barranco_ lie Sant Antonio and El
Sitio del Pardo, both old houses, built long before the town began to
develop and new houses cropped up on the western side. Across this
_barranco_ a new road, which was to lead from the _carretera_ to the
Puerto, was commenced some years ago, and left unfinished, after even
the bridge had been constructed, because the owner of a small piece of
land refused to sell, or allow the road to pass through his property.
Thus it remains a “broken road,” because, in true Spanish fashion, no
one had taken the trouble to make sure that the land was available
before the undertaking was commenced; and still all the traffic to the
port has to wind its way slowly along several miles of unnecessary
road.

[Illustration: EL SITIO DEL GARDO]

El Sitio is another old villa which was visited by Humboldt, who was
present on the eve of St. John’s Day at a pastoral _fête_ in the garden
of Mr. Little, who appears to have been the original owner of El Sitio.
Humboldt says: “This gentleman, who rendered great service to the
Canarians during the last famine, has cultivated a hill covered with
volcanic substances. He has formed in this delicious site an English
garden, whence there is a magnificent view of the Peak, of the villages
along the coast, and the isle of La Palma, which is bounded by the
vast expanse of the Atlantic. I cannot compare this prospect with any,
except the views of the Bay of Genoa and Naples; but Orotava is greatly
superior to both in the magnitude of the masses and richness of the
vegetation. In the beginning of the evening, the slope of the volcano
exhibited on a sudden a most extraordinary spectacle. The shepherds, in
conformity to a custom no doubt introduced by the Spaniards, though it
dates from the highest antiquity, had lighted the fires of St. John.
The scattered masses of fire, and the columns of smoke driven by the
wind, formed a fine contrast with the deep verdure of the forest, which
covered the sides of the Peak. Shouts of joy resounding from afar
were the only sounds that broke the silence of nature in the solitary
regions.”

El Sitio is also well known as being the house where Miss North made
her headquarters when she visited Teneriffe, and made her collection
of drawings of plants from Canary Gardens, which are in the gallery
at Kew. Miss North, in her book of “Recollections,” appears to have
thoroughly enjoyed her stay, and describes this garden as follows:

“There were myrtle trees ten or twelve feet high, Bougainvilleas
running up cypress trees. Mrs. Smith (the owner of the garden
in those days) complained of their untidiness, and great white
Longiflorum lilies growing as high as myself. The ground was white
with fallen orange and lemon petals; the huge white Cherokee roses
(_Rosa lævigata_) covered a great arbour and tool-house with their
magnificent flowers. I never smelt roses so sweet as those in that
garden. Over all peeped the snowy point of the Peak, at sunrise and
sunset most gorgeous, but even more dazzling in the moonlight. From
the garden I could stroll up some wild hills of lava, where Mr. Smith
had allowed the natural vegetation of the island to have all its own
way. Magnificent aloes, cactus, euphorbias, arums, cinerarias, sundry
heaths, and other peculiar plants, were to be seen in their fullest
beauty. Eucalyptus trees had been planted on the top, and were doing
well with their bark hanging in rags and tatters about them. I scarcely
ever went out without finding some new wonder to paint, lived a life of
most perfect peace and happiness, and got strength every day with my
kind friends.”

This property has been fortunate enough to pass to other hands who
still appreciate it, and the above paragraph, though written so many
years ago, is still a very good description of the garden.

Sant Antonio has not been so fortunate. For some years its garden was
the pride of Orotava. In the terraced ground in front of the house,
plants and trees from every part of the world found a home; but when
the maker of this garden left it, the owner ruthlessly tore up the
garden to plant bananas. Here and there among the banana-groves may
be seen a solitary bougainvillea still climbing over its trellised
archway, but little remains, except on one terrace below the house, to
show that the garden was ever cared for. In the grounds there still
remains some very good _treillage_ work. The pattern of the screens,
arches, and arbours are distinctly Chippendale in character and design,
and are painted a soft dull green. In several other instances I noticed
admirable patterns in the woodwork of screens to deep verandahs, and in
the upper part of wooden doorways. Chippendale must at one time have
been much admired and copied in the Canaries, and to this day, in even
the humblest cottage, the chairs are of true Chippendale design, though
roughly carved.




VI

TENERIFFE (_continued_)


Icod de los Vinos, a little town on the coast, some seventeen miles
from Orotava, was in the days of its prosperity a great centre of the
wine and cochineal trade. Its prosperous days are a thing of the past,
and to-day it appears to be rather a sleepy little town; but possibly
for just this reason it is more picturesque than some of its richer
neighbours, whose inhabitants can afford to build modern and most
unsightly houses.

The drive from Orotava to Icod is by far the most beautiful drive
in the island. Once the dusty stretch of _carretera_ between the
junction of the road from Tacoronte to the Puerto is left behind, the
drive becomes full of interest. The road passes below the picturesque
little village of Realejo Bajo, skirts the towering cliffs on which
is perched the little village of Icod el Alto some 1700 ft. above,
and winds along the sea shore. Every turn of the road brings into
sight a fresh view of the deeply indented coast-line between the
storm-bent old tamarisk trees which edge the road for miles. The long
avenues of eucalyptus trees, with their ragged bark hanging in strips,
will always be associated in my mind with all the carriage roads in
Teneriffe. Early in March the vegetation reminds one that spring
has begun. The geraniums in the cottage gardens are showing promise
of their summer glory, fringing the walls or hanging in long trails
from the little flat roof tops. The winter rains have washed the dust
off the hedge-rows and banks, and in places where water is dripping
from the rocks they are draped with a thick coating of maiden-hair
fern, and the pale lilac blossoms of the wild coltsfoot, _Cineraria
tussilaginis_, stud the banks. I should imagine this to have been the
parent of the variety known in cultivation as _Cineraria stellata_, so
much grown of late years in English greenhouses. The rocks themselves
are studded with the curious flat _Sempervivum tabulæformæ_, looking
like great green nail heads, and _S. canariensis_ was just throwing up
flower-spikes from its rosettes of cabbage-like leaves. Here and there
a little waterfall gives welcome moisture to water-loving plants.
Common brambles, encouraged by the dampness, grow to vast dimensions
and hang in rich profusion, winding themselves into cords until they
look like the lianes of a tropical forest. Far down in the crevasse
below the stone bridges, the long fronds of ferns, the untorn leaves of
a seedling banana, with the large leaves of the common yam, suggest a
sub-tropical garden.

Between the road and the sea are great stretches of land cultivated
with bananas, a mine of wealth to their owners, who now no longer visit
their summer residences on these estates. Neglected gardens tell a tale
of departed glories, and many of the houses are left to fall to rack
and ruin, or are merely inhabited by the _medianero_ who has rented the
ground.

Near the outskirts of San Juan de la Rambla a stone arch crosses the
road, and just beyond, the deep Barranco Ruiz cuts into the mountain
sides. It is a grand rocky ravine, and by a steep narrow path which
winds up the side it is possible to reach Icod el Alto at the top of
the _barranco_.

The little town of San Juan de la Rambla is very picturesquely
situated, and every traveller is shown the beautifully carved latticed
balcony on an old house, as the carriage rattles through the little
narrow street. We are told that luckily the balcony is made of the
very hard and durable wood of the beautiful native pine, _Pinus
canariensis_, which is rapidly becoming a rare tree in the lower parts
of the island. The wood itself is locally called _tea_, and the trees
are called _teasolas_ by the country people, who know no other name for
them.

Once San Juan is passed the Peak becomes the centre of interest.
The luxuriant vegetation is left behind, the beauty of the coast is
forgotten, and the completely different aspect which the Peak presents
from this side absorbs one’s attention. The foreground is nothing
but rocky ground, but numbers of _Cistus Berthelotianus_ brighten up
the barren ground with their bushes of showy rose-coloured flowers.
In places they were interspersed with great quantities of asphodels,
whose branching spikes of starry white and brownish flowers seem hardly
worthy of their romantic name. In reality they have always sadly
shattered my mental picture of the asphodel--the chosen flower of the
ancients, the flower of blessed oblivion--this surely should have been
a superb lily, pure white, and “fields of asphodels” which we read
of should be rich green meadows full of moisture, where the lilies
should grow knee deep, not arid tufa slopes where erect rods of this
strange blossom rise from a cluster of half-starved narrow leaves. The
local name is _gamona_, and in Grand Canary where they abound, one
large tract of land is called _El llano de las gamonas_, the plain of
asphodels.

At a higher level begins the _Pinar_ or forest of that most beautiful
of all pines, the native _Pinus canariensis_. Here on the lower
cultivated ground the few specimens that remain, having escaped
complete destruction, are mostly mutilated, having had all their lower
branches cut for firewood or possibly for fear they should shade some
little patch of potatoes or onions, and the younger trees resemble a
mop more than a tree, with nothing left but a tuft of fluffy branches
at the top.

The little town of Icod de los Vinos is prettily situated, being
built on a great slope, intersected by many streams of lava. There is
a very picturesque Plaza with a little garden and fountain in front
of the old convent of San Augustin, whose façade has several carved
latticed balconies which are the great beauty of all the old houses in
Teneriffe.

Visitors to Icod are all taken to see their famous dragon tree,
_Dracæna Draco_, of which the inhabitants are justly proud, as it is
now the largest and oldest in the island since the destruction of its
rival in Villa Orotava. We were assured its age was over 3000 years, an
assertion I was not prepared to dispute, and hardly even ventured to
look incredulous, and so cast a slur on their almost sacred _El drago_.
There is no doubt the growth of these trees is almost incredibly slow;
they increase in height in the same way as a palm, putting out new
leaves in the heart of the tufted crowns and dropping an equal number
of old ones, which process leaves a curiously scarred marking on the
bark. No one seems to know how often a tuft flowers, but certainly
only once in many years, and it is only after flowering that the stem
forks, so in specimens which are centuries old the head of the tree
becomes a mass of short branches with tufted heads, which in their turn
become divided, and so it goes on until one begins to wonder whether
there is not some truth in the immense age attributed to them. The
curious aerial roots which descend from the branches gradually creep
down, and it is the layers upon layers of these that strengthen the
original stem sufficiently to enable it to bear the immense weight of
its tufted crown, as decay seems always to set in in the heart of the
stem, and by the time the trees attain to a venerable age they are
invariably hollow. An old document describing the tree says “it has no
heart within. The wood is very spongy and light, so that it serves for
the covering of hives or making shields. The gum which this tree exudes
is called dragon’s blood, and that which the tree sweats out without
cutting is the best, and is called ‘blood by the drop.’ It is very good
for medicine, for sealing letters, and for making the teeth red.”

Icod is a good centre for expeditions, and those who are brave enough
to face the dirt and discomfort of a Spanish _fonda_ can pass a week
or so very pleasantly. It is a matter of great regret that better
accommodation is not available in many of the smaller towns, and I own
that personally I could never bring myself to face the native inn. No
scenery is worth the discomfort of dirty beds, impossible food and
the noise of the _patio_ of a _fonda_, where as often as not, goats,
chickens, pigeons and a braying donkey all add to the concert of the
harsh loud voices of the women servants.

Now that motor-cars are available in Orotava it renders matters much
easier for making expeditions in the day. Formerly, the greater part
of the day was occupied by the drive to and from Icod, but if an early
start is made, on arrival at Icod there is still a long day before one,
and it is possible to make a visit to the old Guanche burial caves or
to continue the road to Garachico. This now unimportant little village
was once the chief port of the island, and the number of old churches
and convents still remaining speak for themselves of the former
importance of the place. In the days when Icod de los Vinos, as its
name implies, was celebrated for its vines, the wine which was made
there was shipped from the port of Garachico. The old sugar factory
which still stands was once the property of an English firm, but the
various booms in the wine, cochineal and sugar trade, are things of the
past, and Orotava is now the centre of the banana boom.

Possibly the pleasantest expeditions from Icod are those which lead
through the pine forest past the Ermita Sta. Barbara. Good walkers
will find magnificent walks along fairly level paths once they have
accomplished the first climb of about 3000 ft., and can make their way
along to the Corona and down the steep zig-zag path below Icod el Alto,
or there is a lower track which makes a good mule ride back to Orotava.




VII

TENERIFFE (_continued_)


Many visitors to Teneriffe find their way across the mountains from
Orotava to Guimar in the course of the winter or spring, which is the
best time for the expedition. Though the actual time required for the
journey from point to point may be only about seven hours, according
to the condition of the road, it is best to make an early start and to
have the whole day before one, so as to have plenty of time to rest on
the way and enjoy all there is to be seen.

Once the last steep streets of the Villa Orotava are left behind the
country at once changes its aspect. The banana fields, which have
become somewhat monotonous after a long stay in their midst, have
vanished, the air is cooler, and in the early morning the ground
is saturated with dew. In spring the young corn makes the country
intensely green, and the pear and other fruit blossoms lighten up
the landscape, while in the hedge-rows are clumps of the little red
_Fuchsia coccinea_, and great bushes of the common yellow broom. Here
and there the two Canary St. John’s worts, _Hypericum canariensis_ and
_H. floribundum_, are covered with berries, their flowers having fallen
some months before. Ferns and sweet violets grow on the damp and shady
banks, and occasionally fine bushes of _Cytisus prolifer_ were to be
seen smothered with their soft, silky-looking white flowers. Gradually
the region of the chestnut woods is reached, but these having only
dropped their leaves after the spell of cold weather early in January,
are still leafless, and it is sad to see how terribly the trees are
mutilated by the peasants. Though not allowed to fell whole trees, the
law does not appear to protect their branches, and often nothing but
the stump and a few straggling boughs remain, the rest having been
hacked off for firewood. Small bushes of the white-flowered _Erica
arborea_ soon appear, and the showy rose-coloured flowers of _Cistus
vaginatus_ were new to me.

At a height of about 3800 feet the level of the strong stream called
Agua Mansa is reached, and though it is not actually on the road to
Guimar many travellers make a short détour to visit the source of the
stream and the beautifully wooded valley. The absence of woods in the
lower country no doubt makes the vegetation on the steep slopes of
the little gorge doubly appreciated. Many narrow paths lead through
the laurel and heath, and on the shady side of the valley the extreme
moisture of the air has clothed the stems of the trees with grey
hoary lichens. The luxury of the sound of a running stream is rare
in Teneriffe and one is tempted to linger and enjoy the scene under
a giant chestnut tree, which has shaded many a picnic party from the
Puerto.

By retracing one’s steps for a short distance the track is regained;
Pedro Gil looms far ahead and the long steep ascent begins, up the
narrow mule path among thickets of the tree heaths. Here these heaths
are merely shrubby, not the splendid specimens which may be seen near
Agua Garcia, where they are protected from the charcoal-burners, but
the wide stretches covered with white flowers are very lovely appearing
through the mist, which even on the finest day is apt to sweep across
occasionally. The vegetation on these Cumbres is much the same as that
which is passed through on the way to the Cañadas, and in spring the
_Adenocarpus viscosus_ or _anagyrus_, its tiny yellow flowers growing
among the small leaves which crowd the branches, is about the last
sign of plant life. Above this region are merely occasional patches of
moss which live on the moisture of the mist which more often than not
enwraps these heights. In clear weather, the long and rather tedious
scramble of the last part of the road is soon forgotten in the delight
at the magnificent view at the end. The top of the pass, 6800 ft., is
like the back-bone of the island, and on the one side the whole valley
of Orotava lies stretched below, with the Peak standing grand and
majestic on the left, and on the other side lie the slopes down to the
pine woods above Arafo. It is hard to agree with a writer who describes
the scene as one of “immense desolation and ugliness, the silence
broken only by the croaking voice of a crow passing overhead.” It is
just this silence and stillness which appeals to so many in mountain
regions; there is something intensely restful yet awe-inspiring in the
complete peace which reigns in high altitudes in fair weather.

[Illustration: CONVENT OF SANT AUGUSTIN, ICOD DE LOS VINOS]

A long pause is necessary to rest both man and beast, as not only is
the path a long and trying one, but it is possible for the sun to
be so extremely hot even at that altitude that it seems to bake the
steep and arid slopes of lava and volcanic sand, and the loose cinders
near the end of the climb make bad going for the mules. The so-called
path becomes almost invisible except to the quick eye of the mules,
accustomed as they are to pick their way across these stretches of
loose scoriæ. Often the question “Which is the way?” is met by the
owner of the mule answering “_Il mulo sabe_” (the mule knows), instead
of saying, “To the right” or “To the left,” and I generally found he
was right.

Many people prefer the ascent to the descent, and certainly though
I have nothing but praise for mules as a means of locomotion going
uphill, there are moments when I preferred to trust to my own legs
going down the loose cindery track.

The fact that the eastern mountain slopes are warmer and drier, as the
rainfall is not so great, encourages the vegetation to rise to a much
higher altitude and the barren world of lava and cinders is sooner
left behind. Our old friend the _Adenocarpus_ soon greeted us, like
a pioneer of plant life, and gradually came the different regions of
pine, tree heaths, laurels, and then the grassy slopes.

The gorge known as the Valle is described as “one of the most
stupendous efforts of eruptive force to be seen in the world, the gap
appearing to have been absolutely thrown into space.” A network of what
might well be mistaken for dykes seems to cut up the surface, and the
whole formation of the Valle is of great interest to geologists. To
the ordinary observer it is certainly suggestive of a desolate waste,
and the black hill known as the Volcan of 1705 does not help to give
life to the scene. The white lichen, which is the true pioneer of plant
life, is only beginning to appear, though in crevices where deep cracks
in the lava have probably exposed soil below the sturdy Euphorbias are
getting a hold, and a few other robust plants, such as the feathery
_Sonchus leptocephalus_, which I have always noticed seems to revel
in lava. Possibly another century may make a great difference to the
scene, but certainly during the past two hundred years there has not
been much sign of returning vegetation, and the fiery stream has done
its work thoroughly. The relief is great at once more reaching the pine
woods above Arafo, and the fatigue, not peril, of the descent being
over it is pleasant to find the comfort of the well-named Buen Retiro
Hotel at Guimar.

Though over a thousand feet above the sea, the situation is so
sheltered that Guimar boasts of one of the best and sunniest climates
in Teneriffe, the little village lying as it were in a nest among the
hills. The flowery garden of the hotel tells its own tale, better than
any advertisement or guide-book, and a week may be spent exploring the
various _barrancos_ in the neighbourhood, especially by botanists,
or lovers of plants. The Barranco del Rio is renowned as being about
the best botanical collecting ground in the island. Dr. Morris says
he found there no fewer than a hundred different species of native
plants, many of which he had not seen elsewhere. The dripping rocks are
clothed with maiden-hair fern, and the giant buttercup, _Ranunculus
cortusæfolius_, appears to revel in the damp and the high air. The
Barranco Badajoz is perhaps wilder and more precipitous; in places the
rocky walls of these gorges rise to 200 ft., and appeal immensely to
those who enjoy wild scenery. The lack of a roaring river tumbling
down them I never quite got over, during all my stay in Teneriffe.
Perhaps in a bygone age they existed, and owing to some eruption cracks
were formed and the water vanished, as the bed of the stream seems to
be there, but, alas! no water or only a trickling stream. The tiniest
stream has to be utilised to provide water for a village below or for
irrigation purposes, and this, combined with the deforestation of the
island, no doubt has helped to drain the _barrancos_. There is more
water in the Guimar ravines than in most, and from the Barranco del Rio
or the Madre del Agua I should imagine the whole water-supply of the
village is derived.

Those who are interested in relics should visit Socorro, about an hour
distant from Guimar, the original home of the miraculous image of the
Virgin de Candelaria. So celebrated was this image that nearly a whole
book on the subject has been issued by the Hakluyt Society, edited and
translated from old documents by Sir Clement Markham. The image is
supposed to have been found in about the year 1400, by some shepherds,
standing upright on a stone in a dry deserted spot near the sandy
beach. A cross was afterwards erected by Christians when the Spaniards
occupied the island to mark the spot, and in front of it was built the
small hermitage called El Socorro. One shepherd saw what he supposed
to be a woman carrying a child standing in his path, and as the law in
those days forbad a man to speak to a woman alone in a solitary place,
on pain of death, he made signs to her to move away in order that he
and his sheep might pass. No notice being taken and no reply made, he
took up a stone in order to hurl it at the supposed woman, but his arm
became instantly stiff, and he could not move it. His companion, though
filled with fear, sought to ascertain whether she was a living woman,
and tried to cut one of her fingers, but only cut his own, and did not
even mark the finger of the image. These accordingly were the two first
miracles of the sacred figure.

These shepherds related their experiences to the Lord of Guimar, who
after being shown the stiff arm and cut fingers of the men, summoned
his councillors to consult as to what had best be done. Accompanied
by his followers and guided by the shepherds, he came to the spot and
ordered the shepherds to lift the figure, as it apparently was no
living thing, and to remove it to his house. On approaching the image
to carry out their Lord’s orders, the stiff arm of the one and the cut
fingers of the other instantly became cured. The Lord and his followers
were so struck with the strange and splendid dress of the woman, who
was now invested as well with supernatural powers, that they lost their
first terror. Determined to do honour to so strange a guest within
his dominions, the Lord of Guimar raised the image in his arms and
transported it to his own house.

Unbelievers say that the image was merely the figure-head of a ship
which was washed up on the beach, but the faithful maintain that so
beautiful was the image, so gorgeous its apparel and so brilliant the
gold with which it was gilded, that it was the work of no human hands,
and contact with the sea would have destroyed the brilliancy of its
colouring.

The Lord of Guimar sent the news of the wonderful discovery to the
other chiefs in the island, offering that the image, evidently endowed
with supernatural and healing powers, should spend half the year within
the territory of the Lord of Taoro. This offer was declined, but the
chief came with many followers to see the new wonder, which was set
up on the altar in a cave and guarded with great care. For some forty
years the image remained in the care of infidels, who regarded it
with great awe, and then it fell to the lot of a boy named Auton, who
had been converted to Christianity by the Spaniards, to enlighten the
natives as to the nature of their treasure. On being shown the figure
he instantly recognised it as being a representation of the Virgin,
and after having prayed before it, he instructed the natives in the
story of the Virgin Mary. The boy was in return made sacristan of the
image and it was guarded day and night. At certain intervals visions
of processions on the beach were seen and remains of wax candles were
found, and a shower of wax upon the beach was supposed to have been
sent to provide wax for candles to be burnt in honour of Our Lady of
Candelaria.

The neighbouring islands soon heard tales of the holy relic and the
inhabitants came to visit it. For several centuries wonderful miracles
were at different times ascribed to it, and it continued to be regarded
with the deepest reverence, though the housing and care of the image
was the cause of various feuds, and on one occasion it was stolen and
carried away to Fuerteventura, but was returned.

Unfortunately, during a great storm in 1826, the holy relic was swept
away into the sea, and thus was the original Virgin de Candelaria
lost, and though a new image was made and blessed by the Pope it has
never been regarded with quite the same awe and reverence, though many
pilgrims visit the church on August 15, the feast of Candelaria, and
again on February 2.




VIII

GRAND CANARY


I have noticed that there is always a certain amount of jealousy
existing between the inhabitants of a group of islands. In old days
they were of course absolutely unknown to each other, and even spoke
such a different language that they had some difficulty in making
themselves understood. Though such is naturally not the case to-day
when in a few hours the little Interinsular steamers cross from one
island to another, still in Teneriffe you are apt to be told there
is nothing to be seen in Grand Canary, or if you happen to visit Las
Palmas first you will probably be told you are wasting your time
in proposing to spend some weeks or months in Teneriffe or in even
contemplating a flying visit to the other islands.

It was with a feeling of great curiosity that I watched our approach
to Grand Canary, as one evening late in May our steamer crept round
the isthmus known as La Isleta and glided into the harbour of Puerto
de la Luz. Many towns look their best from the sea and this is perhaps
especially true of Las Palmas. The sun was setting behind the low hills
which rise above the long line of sand dunes, dotted with tamarisks,
running between the port and the isleta, and in the evening light the
town itself, some three miles away, looked far from unattractive, its
cathedral towers rising above the palm trees on the shore.

On landing the illusion is soon destroyed; the dust, which is the curse
of Las Palmas, was being blown gaily along by the north-east wind,
which seems to blow perpetually, and the steam tram which connects the
port and the town was grinding along, emitting showers of black smoke,
and I began to think the writer was not far wrong who said Las Palmas
was “a place of barbed wire and cinders.”

Most travellers’ destination is the hotel at Santa Catalina, lying
midway between the port and the town, and here many of them remain for
the rest of their stay, not being tempted ever to set foot outside the
pleasant grounds and comfortable hotel, except possibly to play a game
of golf on the links above, which are a great attraction and boon to
those who are spending the winter basking in the sunshine in search of
health.

The island appears to have altered its name from Canaria to Gran
Canaria because of the stout resistance offered by the natives, who
called themselves Canarios, to the Spanish invasion. The original
name is said to have had some connection with the breed of large dogs
peculiar to the island, though none appear to exist now. As regards the
shape of the island the following is a very good description: “The form
of the island is nearly circular, and greatly resembles a saucerful
of mud turned upside down, with the sides furrowed by long and deep
ravines. The highest point is a swelling upland known as Los Pechos,
6401 ft.” I own that as I approached the island there was a curious
sense of something lacking, something missing, and then I realised
that we were no longer to live under the shadow of the Peak, that an
occasional distant glimpse is all we should see of the great mountain
which we had grown to look on as a friend.

The nearest object of interest to the hotel is the Santa Catalina
fountain, where in August 1492, after praying in the chapel,
Christopher Columbus filled his water-barrels with a store of water
which was to last him until the New World was sighted. Columbus on each
of his expeditions touched at the Canaries; but at the very outset of
his first voyage, one of his ships having lost her rudder and suffered
other damage in storms encountered on the way, Columbus cruised for
three weeks among the islands in search of another vessel to replace
his _caravel_. Though he heard rumours of three Portuguese _caravels_
hovering off the coast of Ferro (now called Hierro) three days’ calm
detained him, and by the time he reached the neighbourhood where the
ships had been seen, they had vanished, and repairing his rudder as
best he could he started in search of an unknown land, eventually
reaching one of the Bahama group. Columbus’ next visit to the Canaries
was on his second voyage of discovery, when he again called at the
islands, this time taking wood, water, live stock, plants and seeds to
be propagated in Hispaniola, where he had already been so struck with
the beautiful and varied vegetation. In the town of Las Palmas an old
house is pointed out as the house where Christopher Columbus died;
but I am afraid, if we are to believe historians, this is merely a
flight of the imagination. In Washington Irving’s “Life of Columbus”
we are told that he died at Seville surrounded by devoted friends, and
a note says: “The body of Columbus was first deposited in the convent
of St. Francisco, and his obsequies were celebrated with funereal pomp
in the parochial church of Santa Maria de la Antigua, in Valladolid.
His remains were transported in 1513 to the Carthusian convent of Las
Cuevas, in Seville. In the year 1536 the bodies of Columbus and his son
Diego were removed to Hispaniola and interred by the side of the grand
altar of the cathedral of the city of San Domingo. But even here they
did not rest in quiet; for on the cession of Hispaniola to the French
in 1795 they were again disinterred, and conveyed by the Spaniards with
great pomp and ceremony to the cathedral of Havanna in Cuba, where they
remain at present.”

One of the easiest expeditions from Las Palmas is along the main road
to the south of the island, either driving or by motor. Long stretches
of banana fields provide the fruit for the English market, which finds
its way daily on to the mole: and in spring hundreds of carts, with
potato-boxes labelled “Covent Garden,” come from the same district.
A little way before reaching the village of Tinama, which is built
amid desolate surroundings of lava and black cinders, the road passes
through a tunnel, which must have been somewhat of an undertaking to
bore, and then a vast bed of lava crosses the road. Here some huge
clumps of _Euphorbia canariensis_ show that this plant is not peculiar
to any one island, but is equally at home on any bed of lava or cliff.

Telde, famous for its oranges--said to be the best in the world--is not
a very interesting town; but from a little distance, combined with the
almost adjoining village of Los Llanos, its Moorish dome amid groves
of palm trees, and scattered groups of white houses, make it unlike
most other Canary towns. The celebrated orange groves are some distance
off, and it is feared that so little care is taken of the trees that
the disease and blight which have ravaged nearly all the groves in the
archipelago will soon attack these. The disease could be kept at bay
by insecticides and combined effort, but it is no use for one grower
to wage war against the pest, if his neighbour calmly allows it to get
ahead in his groves, though the excellence of the oranges makes it
seem as if they deserved more care. If disaster overtakes the banana
trade--and already I heard whispers of grumbling at the absurd price
of land, and rumours of as good land and plenty of water to be had on
the West Coast of Africa, where labour is half the price--possibly
orange-growing may be taken up by men who have learnt their experience
in Florida, and by careful cultivation another golden harvest may be
reaped.

The ultimate destination of most travellers in this direction is the
Montaña de las Cuatro Puertas (the Mountain of the Four Doors), which
is a most curious and interesting example of a native place of worship.
The Canarios seem to have been especially fond of cave-dwellings, which
are very common in Grand Canary, though they are by no means unknown
in the other islands; and it is no unusual thing to find districts
where a scanty population is troglodytic in habit, living entirely in
cave-dwellings scooped out of the soft sandstone rock. Some families
have quite a good-sized though strange home, and besides rooms with
whitewashed walls are stables for goats or mules. One writer says: “The
hall-mark of gentility in troglodyte circles is the possession _of a
door_. This shows that the family pays house tax, which is not levied
upon those who live the simpler life, and are content with an old sack
hanging across the open doorway.”

Webb and Berthelot, in their “Histoire Naturelle,” seem to have been
much struck by these cave-dwellings, and the following account appears
in their description of the Ciudad de las Palmas: “The slopes above
the town on the west are pierced by grottoes inhabited by families of
artisans; narrow paths have been made in the face of the cliffs by
which to get to these excavations. After sunset, when the mountain
is in deep shadow, the troglodyte quarter begins to light up, and
all these aerial lights, which shine for a moment and then instantly
disappear, produce the most curious effect.” The “Mountain of the Four
Doors” is of much larger dimensions than any ordinary cave-dwelling, as
the whole mountain appears to have been excavated, and would certainly
have made a very draughty dwelling, as the four entrances which give
the mountain its name are only separated by columns, thus allowing
free entrance to the wind. The sacred hill is said to have been partly
occupied by embalmers of the dead, the mummies being eventually
removed to the burial cave on one side. Another side of the hill was
the residence of the _Faycans_, or priests, who conducted the funeral
ceremony; and there were the consecrated virgins, or _harimaguedas_,
who were here kept in the strictest seclusion for years, employed in
the gruesome occupation of sewing the goat-skins for wrapping up the
mummies. The Canarios appear to have regarded a shelf in the burial
cave running north and south as being the most honourable position,
and on these they placed the bodies of highest rank, judging from the
mummies found on them, as the leather is often richly embroidered, and
the greatest care was taken in embalming the bodies. The inferiors
were laid east and west. Any one who is interested in the study of the
Canary mummies will find much to interest them in the Museum in Las
Palmas, which is said to be richer in remains of aboriginals than any
other museum in the world. Here may be seen rows of mummies in glass
cases, some curious pottery, and the _Pintaderas_, or dyes, which were
used to stamp designs on the skin or leather.

[Illustration: AN OLD BALCONY]

In the same museum the sight of the fearsome “devil-fish,” in the
room devoted to local fishes, must, I think, have made many visitors
from Orotava shudder to think of the light-hearted way in which
they had gaily bathed on the Martianez beach--an amusement I often
considered dangerous from the strength of the breakers and the strong
undercurrent; but when added to this I was assured the monster, which
is said to embrace its victims and carry them away under water after
the manner of the octopus, was “not uncommon round the Canaries,” I was
thankful to think I had never indulged in bathing.




IX

GRAND CANARY (_continued_)


Many of the residents of Las Palmas move to the Monte for the summer,
but even in late spring most people are glad to get away from the town
and the white dust, which by then is lying ankle deep on the roads.
Monte is the only other place which the ordinary traveller will care to
stay in, as the native inns in Grand Canary bear a bad reputation for
discomfort and dirt, and the Monte makes a good centre for expeditions,
besides being an entire change of air and scene.

The last part of the drive up from the town which is only some six
or seven miles, affords good views of the lie of the land and makes
one realise the immense length of the _barrancos_ in this island. It
appears never to be safe to assert the name of a _barranco_, as it is
not uncommon for one ravine to have four or five different names in the
course of its wanderings towards the sea. The great _barranco_ one
looks down into from the road beyond Tafira is called at this point the
Barranco del Dragonal.

[Illustration: A BANANA CART]

A century ago this district was a mere expanse of cinders interspersed
with the usual Canary plants which find a home in the most desolate of
lava beds. Clumps of Euphorbias and its two inseparable companions, the
miniature dragon tree, _Senecio Kleinia_, and the graceful _Plocama
pendula_ broke the monotony of the grey lava. Now the scene has changed
and this once desolate region has been transformed into one of the most
fertile districts of the island. On the terraced slopes vines flourish,
whose grapes produce the best red Canary wine. Footpaths bordered with
flowers lead through these countless acres of vineyards, recalling the
fashion in Teneriffe of the flower borders, _passeios_, which lead
through many of the banana plantations, showing that the owner of the
land still had some soul for gardening and a love of flowers, as he
spared a strip of the precious soil for flowers. Many an alley in early
winter is gay with rows of poinsettias feeding and flourishing on the
water and guano which is given to the crop with a lavish hand, or rows
of scarlet and white geraniums flank rose trees, interspersed here
and there with great clumps of white lilies. The country in late
spring is fragrant and gay from the bushes of Spanish broom (_Spartium
junceum_) which edge the lanes; their yellow blossoms are in charming
contrast to the soft grey-green of the old agaves, which make such
excellent hedges.

Just behind the Monte lies the great basin of the Caldera. It is best
seen from the Pico de Bandama, a hill 1840 ft., which not only commands
an excellent view of the crater, but of all the country round. The
Gran Caldera de Bandama, a vast complete basin with no outlet, is over
a mile across and 1000 ft. deep, and consequently is one of the most
perfect craters in the world. The walls are formed of rocks and here
and there vivid bits of colouring speak for themselves of its origin,
and round the edge are layers of cinders. It is to be hoped that it
will not some day come to life again and throw up a peak, as the basin
of the Cañadas is supposed to have thrown up the great cone of the Peak
of Teneriffe. It looks peaceable enough to-day, a mule track leading
down into it. At the bottom of the crater vines are cultivated, and a
farmer calmly lives on what was once a boiling cauldron.

The vines seem to thrive in the volcanic soil, their roots go down
deep in search of damper loam below, and this possibly helps to keep
them free of disease, though in spring the effect of the tender green
shoots with their long twining tendrils is sadly spoilt when, just as
they are coming into flower, the mandate goes forth to dust the growth
with sulphur. The men and women, who for the past weeks have been busy
gathering in the potato crop, are now employed in sulphur dusting. For
two months or more whole families are engaged with the potato harvest;
the rows are either ploughed up with a primeval-looking plough, or hoed
with the broad native hoe, which does duty for spade or fork in this
country, and then the potatoes are collected with great rapidity, even
the smallest member of the family helping, sorted and packed in deal
boxes holding each some 60 or 70 lb., with a layer of palm fibre on the
top, and shipped to England. It is well known that Canary new potatoes
do not command a very good price in the English market, and I often
wondered whether it is not the kind which is at fault. Kidney potatoes,
which are regarded in England as the best for new potatoes, are hardly
ever grown, the Spaniards regarding them with horror and loathing, and
though English seed is imported annually, the result to my mind seemed
unsatisfactory, as I never came across any young potatoes worthy of the
name “new potatoes.” Possibly the soil and climate are unsuited, and
there is a tendency I was told in all varieties to excessive growth,
and no doubt the green peas and broad beans, which are most suited to
English soil, often here grow to mammoth proportions, giving a poor
result as a crop, and it is only experience which proves which are the
varieties best suited to the climate and soil. The peas which are grown
from seed ripened in the island degenerate to tasteless, colourless
specimens, producing tiny pods, with at the outside three peas in them,
and the French beans have the same lack of flavour when grown from
native seed.

Potatoes and tomatoes are both unfortunately liable to disease, and in
some seasons the whole crop is lost. The same disease appears to affect
both crops. Dr. Morris, when he visited the islands, thought seriously
of the outlook, unless systematic action was taken. He says: “There
is a remedy if carefully applied and the crop superintended, but the
islanders seem to regard the trouble with strange indifference, and go
on the plan of ‘If one crop fails, then plant another.’”

The volcanic soil appears to suit cultivated garden plants, as well
as vines, bananas and potatoes, and the gardens in the neighbourhood
of Telde are a blaze of colour and have a wonderful wealth of bloom
in May, which is essentially the “flower month” in all the islands.
Earlier in the winter it is true the creepers will have been at their
best, and by now the last trumpet-shaped blooms will have fallen from
that most gorgeous of all creepers, _Bignonia venusta_, and the colour
will have faded from the bougainvilleas, red, purple, or lilac, though
they seem to be in almost perpetual bloom. Allemandas flourish even
at this higher altitude, as does _Thumbergia grandiflora_, another
tropical plant. Though its bunches of grey-blue gloxinia-like blooms
are beautiful enough individually, it is sadly marred by the dead
blossoms which hang on to the bitter end and are singularly ugly
in death, not having the grace to drop and leave the newcomers to
deck the yards of trailing branches, with which the plant will in an
incredibly short time smother a garden wall or take possession of and
eventually kill a neighbouring tree. Roses seem to flourish and bloom
so profusely that the whole bush is covered with blossoms, and a garden
of roses would well repay the little care the plants seem to require.
The Spaniards prefer to prune their roses but once a year, in January,
but by pruning in rotation roses could be had all the year round, and
certainly half the trees should be cut in October, after the plants
have sent up long straggling summer growth, and by January a fresh
crop would be in flower. But the native gardener is nothing if not
obstinate, and if January is the month for pruning according to his
ideas, nothing will make him even make an experiment by cutting a few
trees at a different season, and in this month are cut creepers, trees
and shrubs, utterly regardless as to whether it is the best season or
not.

In most gardens the trees comprise several different Ficus, the Pride
of India (_Melia Azedarach_), many palms, oranges, mangos and guavas,
lagerstrœmias, pomegranates and daturas, while flower-beds are filled
with carnations, stocks, cinerarias, hollyhocks and longiflorum lilies,
all jostling each other in their struggle for room. The country people
struck me as having a much greater love of flowers here than in
Teneriffe, where a cared-for strip of cottage garden or row of pot
plants is almost a rare sight, and roof gardening is perhaps more the
fashion. Geraniums and other hanging plants tumble over the edge of
the flat roof tops, looking as though they lived on air, as the boxes
or tins they are grown in are out of sight. Here the humblest cottager
grew carnations, fuchsias, begonias, and pelargoniums with loving care
in every old tin box, or saucepan, that he could lay hands on. One
reason that pot plants are scarce is the enormous cost of flower-pots,
which are mostly imported, and often if I wished to buy a plant, the
price was more than doubled if the precious pot was to be included in
the bargain. In May, the month especially consecrated to the Virgin
Mary, all her chapels and way-side shrines are kept adorned with
flowers. In the larger churches the altar and steps are draped with
blue and white, and piled up with great white lilies whose heavy scent
mingling with the incense is almost overpowering, but in the humbler
shrines the offerings are merely the contributions of posies of mixed
flowers, placed there probably by many a woman who is called after Our
Lady. I was always struck by the number of way-side crosses and tiny
shrines in many of which a lamp shines nightly, and yet I cannot say
the people seemed to be either reverent or deeply religious, and I was
never able to obtain an explanation of the crosses one came across in
unexpected places, even in the branches of trees in the garden. At
first I thought they must be votive offerings in memory of an escape
from danger, possibly a child who had fallen from the tree and escaped
unhurt, but the gardener merely said it was _costumbre_, the custom of
the country, and offered no further information. On May 3, the Fiesta
de la Cruz, every cross, however humble, is decked with a garland of
flowers, which often hangs there until the feast comes round again, and
in front of many of the crosses a lamp is lighted on this one night in
the year.

On holidays and Sundays the women, especially those who are on their
way to Mass, wore their white cashmere mantillas, and I inquired
whether this also had any connection with “Our Lady’s” month of May,
but I was told in old days they were the almost universal head-dress,
a fashion which unfortunately is fast dying out. This appeared to
be the only distinctively local feature of their dress, and the
usual head-dress of the women and children, with bright-coloured
handkerchiefs folded closely round the forehead and knotted in the
nape of the neck, is common to all the islands. When the family is
in mourning even the smallest member of the household wears a black
handkerchief matching its bright black eyes, but the day I fear is fast
approaching when battered straw hats will take their place, not the
jaunty little round hats with black-bound brims, which every country
woman wears to act as a pad for the load she carries on her head. For
generations the women have carried water-pots and baskets which many
an English working man would consider a crushing load, and no one can
fail to admire their splendid carriage and upright bearing, as they
stride along never even steadying their load with one hand. The only
peculiarity of the men’s dress is their blanket cloaks; in some of the
islands they are made of _mantas_ woven from native wool, but as often
as not an imported blanket is used, gathered into a leather or black
velvet collar at the neck. On a chilly evening in a mountain village
every man and boy is closely wrapped in his _manta_, often it must be
owned in an indescribable state of filth. At night they do duty as a
blanket on the bed, and in the day are dragged through dust or mud, but
cleanliness is not regarded in Spanish cottages, where chickens, goats,
and sometimes a pig all seem to share the common living-room.

[Illustration: AN OLD GATEWAY]

I fear the few model dwellings which the tourist is invited to inspect
at Atalaya (the Watch Tower) are not true samples of the average
cottage or cave-dwelling. Atalaya was formerly a native stronghold,
and one can quite imagine what formidable resistance the invaders must
have met with from these primitive fortresses. The narrow ledges cut in
the face of the cliffs made the approach to them almost inaccessible
except to the Canarios, who appear to have been as agile as goats,
and from the narrow openings showers of missiles could be hurled at
the attackers. Atalaya at the present time is the home of the pottery
makers. They fashion the local clay into pots with a round stone in
just as primitive a way as did the ancient Canarios. They seem to live
a life apart, and are regarded with suspicion by their neighbours, who
rarely intermarry with them. The whole colony are inveterate beggars,
old and young alike, but as tourists invade their domain in order
to say they have seen “the most perfect collection of troglodyte
dwellings in the Archipelago,” and request them to mould pots for their
edification, it is perhaps not surprising that they expect some reward.




X

GRAND CANARY (_continued_)


Those who do not mind a long day and really early start can see a good
deal of the country and make some very beautiful expeditions without
facing the terrors of the native inn. When even our guide-book--and
the writer of a guide-book is surely bound to make the best of
things--warns the traveller that the “accommodation is poor,” or that
“arrangements can be made to secure beds,” every one knows what to
expect. So a long day, however tiring, is preferable, if it is possible
to return the same night.

A drive of two hours leads to San Mateo, where good accommodation would
be a great boon, as it is a great centre for expeditions, besides being
beautifully situated near chestnut and pine woods. A rough mule track
leads in something under three hours to the Cruz de Tejeda, which is
about the finest excursion in the island. Good walkers will probably
prefer to trust their own legs rather than the mule’s; but it is a
stiff climb, as the starting-point, San Mateo, is only some 2600 ft.
above the sea, while the Cruz is 5740 ft. Without descending into the
deep Barranco which leads down to Tejeda itself, in clear weather
the view is magnificent. That most curious isolated rock, the Roque
Nublo, stands like a great pillar or obelisk, pointing straight into
the heavens, rising 370 ft. above all its surroundings, and more than
6000 ft. above sea-level, and is often clearly visible from Teneriffe.
The great valley of Tejeda lies stretched before the traveller, who
is surely well rewarded for his climb by the splendid panorama. Deep
precipitous ravines full of blue shadows lie in vast succession in
front, and to the right the cultivated patches in the valley are a
bright emerald green from the young corn, and over the deep blue sea
beyond, towers the great Peak of Teneriffe, looking most majestic and
awe-inspiring rising above the chain of high mountains which are veiled
in a light, mysterious mist. Never, perhaps, is the great height of the
mountain so well realised, as it stands crowning a picture which our
guide-book tells us is “never to be forgotten, and second to none in
Switzerland or the Alps.”

[Illustration: THE CANARY PINE]

Another favourite expedition for the energetic is to the Cumbres,
particularly for those who are bent on reaching the highest land in the
island. The Pico de los Pechos is the highest point (6400 ft.), but the
Montaña de la Cruz Santa, on the left, is generally chosen, as here
parties of walkers and riders can meet, under the shadow of the Holy
Cross, where, on the festivals of St. Peter and St. John, a religious
_fiesta_ is held. Before the wholesale deforestation took place, this
district must certainly have been much more beautiful; now it is a
silent, shadowless world, a desolate region of stony ground, over which
run great _barrancos_ looking like deep rents in the mountain sides.
Probably no other island has suffered more cruelly from the axe of the
charcoal-burner, and in the neighbourhood of Las Palmas everything has
been cut which could be converted into charcoal, and nowadays that
necessary article of life to the Spaniard has to be imported.

One of the most beautiful of all their native forests, the forest of
Doramas, is hardly worthy of its name at the present time; scattered
trees on the mountain side are all that remains of one of the most
beautiful of primeval forests, which was so celebrated in the days of
the Canarios. Even in 1839, when Barker Webb and Berthelot visited the
forest, they lamented over the destruction of the trees, and whole
stretches of country which had formerly been pine and laurel woods were
only covered with native heath. The prince Doramas, who is said to
have lived in a grotto in the picturesque neighbourhood of Moya, gave
his name to the mountain and forest, and these travellers visited his
cave, which was still regarded with great veneration on account of the
tales of the heroic and brave deeds and almost superhuman strength of
the prince, which had been handed down from generation to generation.
They found the door, or rather entrance, to the grotto draped with
garlands of _Hibalbera_ (_Ruscus androgynus_) and the scarlet-flowered
_Bicacaro_ of the Guanches (_Canarina campanulata_), as the spot was
then solitary and deserted. Some years before the Spanish traveller
Viera had been charmed by the beauty of the forest, and a translation
of passages from his work on the “General History of the Canary
Islands” will show what a treasure the Spaniards have lost in allowing
the destruction of the woods.

“Nature,” he says, “is here seen in all her simplicity, nowhere is she
to be found in a more gay or laughing mood; the forest of Doramas is
one of the most beautiful of the world’s creations from the variety of
its immense straight trees, always green and scattering on all sides
the wealth of their foliage. The sun has never penetrated through
their dense branches, the ivy has never detached itself from their old
trunks; a hundred streams of crystal water join together in torrents
to water the soil which becomes richer and richer and more productive.
The most beautiful spot of all in the depth of this virgin forest is
called Madres de Moya; the singing of the birds is enchanting, and in
every direction run paths easy of access; one might believe them to be
the work of man, but they are all the more delightful because they are
not. By following one of these paths one comes to the spot called by
the Canarios, the Cathedral, an immense and complete dome of verdure
formed by the meeting of the branches of the magnificent trees. Laurels
raise their great trunks in colonnades, with their branches interlaced
and bent into gigantic arcades, which produce a most marvellous effect.
Advancing under their majestic shadow one discovers at every turn
fresh views, and one’s imagination, carried away by the tales of the
ancients, is filled with poetic impressions. These enchanted regions
are well worthy of the fictions of fables, and in the enthusiasm they
give birth to when wandering in their midst, the Canarios appear to
have lost nothing of their celebrity; these are still the Fortunate
Islands and their shady groves the Elysium of the Greeks, the wandering
place of happy souls.”

The poet Cayrasco de Figueroa, who was known as the “divin Poête,” and
whose tomb is to be seen in one of the side chapels of the cathedral in
Las Palmas, wrote verses in praise of the forest, which he must have
seen in all its glory in 1581, and some fifty years later the venerable
don Christobal de la Camara, Bishop of Grand Canary, travelled all
through it and wrote of “the mountain of d’Oramas as one of the marvels
of Spain: the different trees growing to such a height that it is
impossible to see their summit: the hand of God only could have planted
them, isolated among precipices and in the midst of masses of rock.
The forest is traversed by streams of water and so dense are its woods,
that even in the days of greatest heat the sun can never pierce them.
All I had been told beforehand of its beauties appeared fabulous, but
when I had visited it myself I was convinced that I had not been told
enough.”

Between 1820 and 1830 the forest seems to have suffered much. At the
former date some part of the woods remained in all their pristine
beauty on the Moya side and the great Til (_Laurus fœtens_) trees round
Las Madres were still standing, but ten years later, when Barker Webb
and his companion visited this spot again, these splendid trees were
shorn of their finest branches and the devastation of the woods had
begun.

Long before this date the mountain appears to have become an apple of
discord. Some influential landed proprietors demanded the division of
the forest, the _communes_ interfered, and eventually the question
became a political one. Just as a settlement was arrived at the party
in power fell and General Morales arrived on the scene, having been
granted a large part of the forest by Ferdinand VII. in recognition of
his services, and the deforestation of the district began in earnest,
in spite of local resistance to the royal decree.

In most of the islands some old pine has been given the name of the
Pino Santo, and protected by a legend of special sanctity, but perhaps
the Pino Santo of Teror was the most venerated of all. The tree, old
historians tell us, was of immense size and grew adjoining the Chapel
of Our Lady; so close, in fact, that one of its branches served as the
foundation of the belfry. The unsteadiness of this strange foundation
not unnaturally hastened the destruction of the little tower, and on
April 3, 1684, the sacred tree, which collapsed from its great age and
weight, threatened to crush the chapel beneath. The sacred image of Our
Lady of the Pine was so named because it was said to have been found
in the branches of the tree. This miraculous discovery was made after
the conquest in 1483. The Canarios had often observed a halo of light
round the tree which they did not even dare approach, but Don Juan de
Frias, bishop and conqueror, more courageous than the rest, climbed
into the branches of the tree and brought down a statue of the Virgin.
He is said to have found the image among thick branches and between
two dragon trees, nine feet high, which were growing out of a hollow
in the pine branches. The figure at once received the name of Nuestro
Señora del Pino, the church, which has been built on the site of the
old chapel, being dedicated to her. The spot on which stood the sacred
tree is now marked with a cross, and a pine tree close by is said to
be a descendant of the Pino Santo. Nor is this all the legend about
this wonderful tree. A spring of healing water issued from beneath it,
and here the faithful came to bathe and be healed of their ills. An
avaricious priest thinking he would collect fees or alms from those
who came to visit the spring, caused it to be enclosed by masonry and
a door, which he kept locked, upon which the sacred spring dried up,
and his schemes were defeated. Below the village to this day are some
mineral springs dedicated to Our Lady of Lourdes. Who knows, possibly
this is the same sacred spring which has reappeared to benefit the
sick.




XI

LA PALMA


Every one agrees that La Palma is almost the most beautiful of the
group of seven Fortunate Isles, so it is all the more deeply to be
deplored that there is not better communication between the little
port of Santa Cruz de la Palma and Teneriffe or Grand Canary. At rare
intervals during the winter, especially towards sunset, the island had
emerged from the clouds in which it is usually enveloped and lain dark
purple against a golden sunset sky, an omen which we had learnt to
dread in Orotava, finding there was great truth in the saying of the
country people, “When La Palma is to be seen, rain will come before two
days,” and sure enough the storm always came.

The little town of Santa Cruz, or La Ciudad as it is locally called, as
if it was the only town in the world, is most picturesquely situated
on steep slopes, very much resembling the situation of Funchal in
Madeira on a smaller scale. Possibly in days to come La Palma may
have a great future before it as a tourist resort, when the new mole
fulfils the hopes of natives and their port becomes a coaling-station
for larger steamers. An hotel among the pine woods would certainly be
very attractive, especially in spring, when the whole island is afoam
with fruit blossom. At present a bad _fonda_ is the only accommodation
in Santa Cruz, and most people curtail their stay in consequence, and
hurry away at the end of three days during which time the steamer
has been at the neighbouring islands of Hierro and Gomera, or else
they ride over to Los Llanos, spurred by the report of a very fairly
comfortable inn. The island affords almost endless expeditions,
especially to good walkers, as the tracks are bad and slippery for
mules. Near Santa Cruz the Barranco de la Madera is the home of the
Virgin de las Nieves, a very ancient and much venerated image of the
Virgin, to whom the church is dedicated. Every five years this sacred
figure is carried down to the sea in solemn procession, and the stone
ship at the mouth of the great _barranco_, which is called after Our
Lady of the Snows, is rigged and decked in gala fashion with bunting.
Not only from all parts of the island, but many devout Spaniards
congregate to do honour to her, and a great _fiesta_ takes place, which
must be a curious and most interesting ceremony.

The Barranco del Rio is the most beautiful of all the walks in the
neighbourhood. Like its namesake near Guimar in Teneriffe, it is a
happy hunting-ground for the botanist, and those who have a steady
head and do not mind narrow paths and precipices can wander far along
through the gorge, where the beautiful rocks are clad with innumerable
ferns and native plants.

In ancient days the Guanches gave the island the name of Benahoave,
meaning “my country,” which sounds as though they were so proud of
the island when they took possession of it, probably sailing across
from Teneriffe, that they meant to stick to it. The present name first
appears on the old Medici map in Florence (1351), which is said to be
the oldest chart of these waters. The name is supposed to have been
given to the island by an expedition composed of Florentines, Genoese
and Majorcans who had visited the Canaries some ten years before. It
was probably the last-named who christened the island La Palma, after
the capital of Majorca, so at the time of the conquest, though the
Spaniards introduced many changes in the way of laws, religion and
agriculture, they did not change the European name by which the island
had become known.

Webb and Berthelot when they visited the island in 1837 were loud in
praise of the wealth and luxury of the vegetation, which in their
opinion surpassed that of any other of the Canary group.

The island centres in the vast abyss of the Gran Caldera, which
centuries ago was the boiling cauldron of a great crater. The islanders
are immensely proud of their old crater, and always assert that the
Peak of Teneriffe was merely thrown up by _their_ volcano in one of its
most terrific upheavals. As in the other islands at a certain elevation
the region of laurels and other evergreen trees, in whose shade ferns
flourish, is succeeded by the mammoth heaths, and higher still come
the beautiful pine woods with their slippery carpet of pine needles on
which both man and beast find a difficulty in keeping a footing. On
the more arid slopes of parts of the Cumbre the scattered vegetation
is more suggestive of Alpine regions. The above-mentioned learned
travellers attribute the presence of the immense number of apparently
wild almond and other fruit trees to their having sown themselves
from the original trees introduced to the island by the conquerors,
who, determined to make the most of the climate and soil, set about
to change the face of the land. The natural vegetation receded to the
higher regions as the lower parts became more and more cultivated
with almonds, vines, oranges, lemons and bananas, which up to then
had been unknown in the island. In some districts woods of chestnut
trees, which were also introduced, have taken the place of the virgin
forest. To these two travellers also belongs the honour and glory of
having discovered the Echium peculiar to the Island, and they at once
gave it its local name, _Echium pininana_, though _nana_ does not seem
very appropriate to it, as it is anything but dwarf, growing to a
height of 15 ft. with a dense spike of deep blue flowers. Several of
the lovely Canary brooms appear to be indigenous to the island, and
Professor Engler of Berlin, who visited La Palma last year, found the
yellow-flowered _Cytisus stenopetalus_ in two varieties, _palmensis_
and _sericeus_, besides the graceful drooping and sweet-scented white
_Cytisus filipes_ and _Retama rhodorrhizoides_, and the _Cytisus
proliferus_ common to most of the islands.

Most people prefer to visit the great crater from Los Llanos, an
expedition occupying three days. The journey across the Cumbres _viâ_
El Paso to Los Llanos is one of extreme beauty, as the vegetation
begins very soon after leaving Santa Cruz, and at a height of only
1000 ft. the chestnut, laurel, and heath woods begin. The path winds
through these enchanting woods until at a higher elevation the giant
heaths alone are left. From the top of the Cumbre Nueva there is a
magnificent view over the whole island, Santa Cruz nestling among the
hills by the shore and in the far distance lie Teneriffe and Gomera. To
the south is the old Cumbre, called Vieja in contradistinction to its
newer neighbour; from one of its heights a stream of lava is said to
have descended in 1585, which is probably the last occasion on which
the volcano showed any activity. The dense vegetation covering some of
the streams of lava speaks for itself of their great age, as it is said
that not a particle of vegetation appears on lava until it has had four
centuries in which to grow cold, and then the first sign of returning
life is a peculiar lichen which appears on the heaps of lava. The great
mountain of Timé, whose black and forbidding precipice overhangs the
Barranco de las Augustias, makes many a traveller wonder who first had
the courage to make a path, steep and narrow though it is, down the
face of the rock. Possibly the goatherds, _pastors_, first learnt the
lie of the land, swinging themselves on their _lanzas_ or long spiked
poles from rock to rock with surprising agility, and then others not
trained to this strange mode of progression made the paved track.

On the western slopes the pine woods soon commence, the splendid trees
increasing in size until the sacred Pino de la Virgen is reached--a
giant whose trunk measures some 25 ft. round. Hardly a traveller passes
the shrine at its foot without dropping a coin, however humble, into
the money-box which is kept for its support. How long the pine has
been regarded as a holy tree, or for how many generations the lamp
has been lighted nightly, I know not; but in 1830 Berthelot wrote:
“This beautiful tree, said to be a contemporary of the Conquest,
shows no sign of age; a little statue of the Virgin has been placed
in the first fork of its branches; every evening the woodcutters of
the neighbourhood come silently and reverently to light the little
lamp which hangs above the sacred image. At dusk, if one passes near
the _Pino Santo_, this lamp, which shines alone in the depth of
the forest, casting shadows on the leafy bower which protects this
mysterious shrine, inspires one with a sense of deep feeling and dread.
The presence of this tree, which has been made sacred and endowed
with mysterious powers, caused me to feel for it the very greatest
veneration.”

Though the little village of El Paso is situated somewhat nearer to
the Gran Caldera, few travellers stop there, as it does not boast
of an inn, however humble, and to be taken as a “paying guest” does
not appeal to many people. It is better to push on to Los Llanos, a
pleasant village reached by a road from Tazaconte, which runs through
orange groves, where in spring the air is heavy and sickly with the
scent of the blossom, and then passing through almond groves and
orchards of every kind of fruit tree, so to the very last the beauty of
road is kept up, and the traveller is well repaid.

Though the expedition to the Gran Caldera is always described as a
tiring one, the natives would feel deeply hurt if any visitor to their
island did not go to see their mighty crater. It is indeed mighty--a
vast basin, measuring in places four to five miles across, and some
6500 to 7000 ft. deep; its very size makes it difficult to realise
that it is a crater, and it might easily be regarded as merely a deep
hollow among the mountains. Though its walls are great bare grey
crags, the pine woods which clothe the lower slopes of the hills which
rise from the bottom of the crater, in places the bottom itself being
clothed with trees, make it all the less like an ordinary crater.
Great deep ravines tear the base, and these in their turn have become
pine woods, carpeted with soft and slippery pine needles which for
centuries possibly have lain undisturbed. The Caldera is recommended as
a camping-ground, as water, which in Palma is scarce, is to be found;
in fact, innocent-looking dry stony beds may through rainy weather on
the higher land suddenly become a roaring stream. Some people might
think it too inaccessible a spot, but the solitude, and the sound of
the wind whispering among the pines, would appeal to many. That the
depth of the crater has altered since a bygone age is evident, as caves
of the Haouarythes, the aboriginal inhabitants of La Palma, are now
absolutely inaccessible; nothing but a bird could reach the entrance
to them. The action of water is said to account for this; possibly
underground streams broke loose after a plutonic effort and upheaval of
the volcano, and the upper crust subsided.

Peasants are still to be seen wearing the peculiar hood or _montera_
made of dark brown woollen cloth lined with red flannel, in shape like
a sou’wester, turned up in front fitting closely to the head, the flap
hanging behind lined with red, or sometimes if the flap is not required
as a protection against the weather the corners are buttoned over the
peak in front. The _mantas_, blanket cloaks, are all made of wool woven
in the island. These are both articles of men’s dress. The women’s
caps have no flaps, and are very ugly, and the picturesque dress which
survived for a time in Breña Baja is now extinct altogether, as are
also the tiny round hats made from the pith of the palm.




XII

GOMERA


Gomera is seldom visited by tourists, but a flying visit can be paid
to it during the stay of the inter-insular boat which plies between
the islands. In summer its higher land and woods would be an ideal
camping-ground for a traveller with tents, and the climate is said to
be very good. The soil appears to be extremely rich and well repays the
cultivator, but the Cumbres are still clad with beautiful woods, which
up to now have escaped from the destructive charcoal-burners. The soil
of the island is volcanic, but it is one of the few of the group which
cannot boast of an old crater, and the highest point is only about 4400
ft. A remarkable feature of the vegetation is the entire absence of
pines; there are none at the present time, and old historians always
comment on their absence. This in itself showed ancient writers the
approximate height of the island, as nowhere is the native _Pinus
canariensis_ found in its natural conditions under 4000 ft. above
sea level, while in the region below that altitude _Erica arborea_
flourishes. In Gomera the heaths attain larger dimensions than in any
other island, and grow into real trees, and on the beautiful expedition
from San Sebastian, the port, to Valle Hermoso (the Beautiful Valley),
which appears well to deserve its name, the traveller passes through
a succession of well-watered and wooded country and lovely forest
scenery, said to be unsurpassed in the Canaries. San Sebastian was
formerly of more importance than it is now, as in old days its
naturally sheltered harbour was much valued by navigators.

It was probably for this reason that it became the favourite anchorage
of Christopher Columbus on his voyages of discovery. He first called
at Puerto de la Luz, in Grand Canary, in order to repair the damage
done to one of his fleet, but leaving his lieutenant in charge of the
damaged ship, Columbus himself sailed to Gomera on August 12, 1492.
On this occasion he stayed for eleven days, returning to Grand Canary
to pick up La Pinta, but he again called at Gomera on September 1.
He appears to have spent a week in storing provisions, and several
sailors from Gomera joined his expedition. On his second voyage he
returned to his old anchorage, this time again picking up sailors, and
as he had a much larger fleet of vessels under his command, besides
plants and seeds he embarked cows, sheep, goats, pigs and chickens,
all of which he wished to introduce to the country he had already
discovered, a fact which has been of great interest to zoologists who
had been puzzled to determine the true race of many animals found in
the West Indies. Twice again he visited Gomera, so there is no doubt it
was his favourite port of call. Some old historians assert that for a
time he lived in Gomera. At San Sebastian an old house is still pointed
out as having belonged to him. After his marriage in Lisbon with a
daughter of the Portuguese navigator Perestrello, for some years little
seems to be known of the admiral’s doings. The inhabitants of Madeira
claim that he lived in a house in Funchal, while other writers affirm
that he lived in Gomera and speak of his return to “his old domicile”
after one of his voyages.

[Illustration: SAN SEBASTIAN]

In old days the inhabitants were called Ghomerythes, and after the
conquest of the island by the Spaniards, which did not prove a
difficult matter, as though the islanders were a brave little band they
knew little or nothing of the art of warfare, the conquerors enlisted
the services of the natives to help them in attacking the other
islands. The island was not left entirely undisturbed even after the
conquest, as Sir Francis Drake made several attempts to take the island
in 1585, and five years later a Dutch fleet under Vanderdoes invaded
the town. On the walls of the quaint old church in San Sebastian are
paintings showing the repulse of the Dutch fleet in the harbour in
1599. The Moors in the seventeenth century attacked and burnt a great
part of the town.

A peculiarity of the island is the strange whistling language, which
probably in ancient times was in universal practice, but is now more
or less confined to one district, the neighbourhood of the Montaña de
Chipude, being very rarely used by the natives in San Sebastian, who
have most of them lost the art. The best whistlers can make themselves
heard for three or four miles, and in the whistling district all
messages are sent in this way, which no doubt is of the greatest
convenience where telegrams are unknown and deep _barrancos_ separate
one village from another. The greatest adepts in the art do not use
their fingers at all, and by mere intonations and variations of two
or three notes a sufficiently elaborate language has been invented to
enable a conversation to be carried on. The following may possibly
be a traveller’s tale, but it shows the use which can be made of the
language: “A landed proprietor from San Sebastian with farms in the
south took lessons secretly. The next time he visited his tenants he
heard his approach heralded from hill to hill, instructions being
given to hide a cow here or a pig there, and so on, in order that he
should not claim his _medias_ or share of the same.” The writer of
the above himself heard the following short message given: “There is
a _caballero_ here who wants a letter taken to San Sebastian. Tell
Fulano to take this place on his way and fetch it.” This was at once
understood and acted upon. If any doubt is held as to the accuracy
of the message, the answer comes to repeat, and when understood the
receiver answers back, “Aye, aye.” It is to be hoped that the practice
will not entirely die out, as I believe the whistling language of
Gomera is unique.




XIII

FUERTEVENTURA, LANZAROTE AND HIERRO


The three islands of Fuerteventura, Lanzarote, and Hierro, complete the
group of seven Fortunate Isles, as the little satellites of Graciosa,
Alegranza, Montaña Clara, are hardly more than large rocks, uninhabited
and only visited occasionally by fishermen.

Fuerteventura, though by no means a very small island, being over 60
miles long and about 18 miles broad, has remained in a primitive and
unexploited condition, because in spite of the fertility of the soil,
which is said to be remarkable, the scarcity of water is great and the
inhabitants are entirely dependent on the rainfall. In a good year,
namely a rainy year, the island grows a very good wheat crop, almost
larger than that of any other island, but the absence of fresh-water
springs, or the apathy of the natives in not making use of what there
are, has prevented any agricultural development. The island has no pine
forest and trees are scarce: great parts of it are barren, sandy and
rocky plains, and the little vegetation there is, is said to resemble
that which is found in certain parts of the northern deserts of Africa.
Its highest point is only about 2700 ft. and is called Orejas de Asno
(Ass’s Ears), situated in the sandy peninsula at the extreme south of
the island. At the present time travellers are warned that drinking
water is scarce, nasty, and frequently has to be paid for. Whether
the island is even drier than it was at the beginning of last century
I know not, but Berthelot and his companion remark that there were
many good springs, which even in July, the driest month, were cool and
clear, but were allowed to waste themselves, no trouble being taken to
collect the water either for irrigation or domestic use.

Both Fuerteventura and the neighbouring island of Lanzarote are given a
distinctly African appearance by the extensive use of camels as beasts
of locomotion and burden, donkeys even being comparatively uncommon and
difficult to procure so communication between the villages is almost
entirely carried on by means of camels.

Lanzarote received its name from a corruption of the Christian name of
a Genoese, Captain Lancelot de Malvoisel, and in the old Medici map the
island is marked with the Genoese coat-of-arms to show that it belonged
to that town.

Though not as near the African coast as Fuerteventura, which is only
about 60 miles from Cape Juby, the island is very African in aspect in
places, the camels, the vast stretches of blown sand and the absence of
vegetation being suggestive of the Sahara.

The few springs in the north of the island are utilised for growing
crops of wheat and tomatoes, but are not of sufficient size to allow
of any extensive plan of irrigation, and in the south the inhabitants
depend entirely on rain water.

Lanzarote is almost the most volcanic of all the islands, and between
1730 and 1737 no fewer than twenty-five new craters opened, so it is
not to be wondered at that the inhabitants were much alarmed when
fresh disturbances were felt in the summer of 1824. In a series of
letters written by Don Augustin Cabrera, an inhabitant of the island
at the time, an excellent account is given of the eruptions. A slight
earthquake preceded the sudden appearance of a new crater in the early
morning of July 1, 1824, in the neighbourhood of Tao, in the centre
of a plain. The crater, which at first had the appearance of a great
crevasse, emitted showers of sand and red hot stones, and did great
damage to the surrounding country, destroying some most valuable
reservoirs, and it was even feared that Tiagua, though a long distance
away, would be destroyed, as a _montañeta_ in the district began to
smoke. On September 16, the writer says that after eighteen hours
the crater had ceased its shower of hot ashes, but a dense column of
smoke spouted forth, and the rumbling could be heard for miles round,
and from the _montañeta_, which at first had only smoked, came a
torrent of boiling water. “Yesterday,” says the writer, “after there
had been comparative quiet for some time, a loud noise was heard, and
the boiling water spouted forth in torrents. At times there is dense
smoke, which clears away, and then comes the water again.” Writing in
October he gives a most graphic and alarming account of an eruption
on September 29, when the volcano burst through the lava deposit of
1730, and flaming torrents flowed down to the sea. A noise like loud
thunder had continued unceasingly, and prevented the inhabitants from
sleeping, even many miles away. No wonder they dreaded a repetition of
the disasters of 1730-37, as in two months two new craters had opened.
On October 18 another letter says: “There is no doubt a furnace is
under our feet. For twelve days the volcano had appeared dead, though
frequent shocks of earthquake warned us such was not the case, and
true enough yesterday the volcano burst through a bed of lava in the
centre of a great plain, sending up into the air a column of boiling
water 150 ft. high.” It is also said that for several days the heat was
suffocating, and sailors could scarcely see the island because of the
dense mist.

The island has been a source of the deepest interest to geologists,
and both M. Buch and Webb and Berthelot visited it between 1820-38,
spending many weeks in the island. Few travellers seem to find their
way there now, as there is no port and no mole passengers have to be
carried ashore.

The little island of Graciosa, only five miles long and a mile broad,
separated from Lanzarote by the narrow strait of El Rio, is a broad
stretch of sand covered with shells, but the three principal cones in
the island are said to be volcanic, and show the origin of the island.
After autumn rains, the sand is covered with herbaceous plants, and in
old days the inhabitants of the north of Lanzarote used to transport
their cattle to feed there.

Montaña Clara, hardly more than a rock some 300 ft. high, lies to the
north of Graciosa, and Allegranza, the “Joy” of Bethencourt, as it was
the first soil on which he set foot, is to the north again, and is
really the first island of the Canary Archipelago, so it consequently
boasts of a lighthouse. The possession of the island in old days was
a matter of much dispute, as the feathers of a bird (_Larus Marinus_)
were very valuable, and nearly as profitable as the down of the eider;
also puffins, which existed here in vast numbers, were salted and sold,
and now a small amount of fish-curing is done on the island at certain
seasons. The greater part of the island is taken up by a crater of
considerable extent, so even this tiny island is not without its Gran
Caldera.

[Illustration: A SPANISH GARDEN]

Hierro, the Isle of Iron, is to the extreme south-west of the
Canary Archipelago, and for several centuries was probably regarded
by ancient navigators as the most western point in the world--beyond
lay the unknown. The name is a corruption by the Spaniards of the word
_heres_, which in the language of the original Ben-bachirs, whose name
was in its turn changed to Bembachos, meant a small reservoir or tank
for collecting rain water. As the island is almost entirely dependent
on the rainfall these tanks were of the greatest value to the natives,
and in old records it is stated that a _here_ was much more valued
in a marriage settlement than land. The theory that the island was
called _hierro_, meaning iron, because of the presence of the metal
in the island is not much regarded, as we are especially told by old
historians that when Bethencourt attacked the island the natives
were armed with lances which had _not_ iron heads, and the historian
adds, the only iron these natives knew was from the chains of their
oppressors, who appear to have treated them with great cruelty.

The excessive moisture of the air and the presence of a fair amount
of wooded country which attracts the moisture, enables the flocks of
sheep to live on the natural vegetation. The only water they get is
from eating leaves of plants when saturated with dew, their principal
fodder being the leaves and even roots of asphodel, also mulberry and
fig leaves. Hierro is especially celebrated for its figs, which are the
best grown in any of the islands, and extremely free fruiting. One tree
alone may bear 400 lb. of fruit.

The best-known springs are those of Los Llanillos, which furnishes
the best drinking water in the islands, being said to be always clear
and cold, and the spring of Sabinosa. The latter is warm, smells of
sulphur, and has a bitter taste and medicinal properties. One of
Bethencourt’s chaplains mentions that it has a great merit: “When you
have eaten till you can eat no more, you then drink a glass of this
water, and after an hour all the meat is digested, and you feel just as
hungry as you did before you began, and can begin all over again!”

There is no sea-port village, the landing-place consisting merely
of a small cove sheltered by masses of fallen rock, and the little
capital of Valverde lies two hours distant on foot. As practically no
accommodation is to be relied on, those who are bent on exploring
the island are recommended to provide themselves with a tent. The
vegetation is said to be of great interest to botanists, and they
appear to be the only travellers who ever visit the island.




XIV

HISTORICAL SKETCH


Few people, until they are proposing to pay a visit to the “Fortunate
Islands,” a name by which the group of seven Canary Islands seems to
have been known since very early days, ever trouble themselves to learn
anything of their history. Beyond the fact that they belong to Spain,
a piece of information probably surviving from their school-room days,
they have never troubled their heads about them, and I have known a
look of surprise come over the face of an Englishwoman on hearing a
Spaniard mention a fact which probably dated “from before the Conquest,
quite five centuries ago,” entirely forgetting that “the Conquest”
could mean anything but the English conquest, instead of the conquest
of the Canary Islands by the Spaniards at the latter end of the
fifteenth century.

Possibly the reason that so few authentic records remain of their
ancient history is that though the outlying islands of the group are
only some 80 or 100 miles from the African coast, still they were on
the extreme limit of the ancient world. The various theories that they
were really the home of the Hesperides, or the garden of Atlas, King
of Mauretania, where the golden apple was guarded by the dragon, the
Peak being the Mount Atlas of mythology, or again that they were merely
the remains of the sunken continent of Atlantis, can never really
be settled, but it seems almost certain that they were not entirely
unknown to the ancients. The fact that Homer mentions an island “beyond
the Pillars of Hercules,” as the Straits of Gibraltar were called, has
caused the adoption of the Pillars of Hercules, with a small island in
the distance surmounted with _Oce ano_, as one of the coats-of-arms of
the Islands, though the more correct one appears to be the two large
dogs (because of the two native dogs which were taken back to King
Juba about 50 B.C., when he sent ships from Mauretania to inspect
Canaria) supporting a shield on which is depicted the seven islands.
Herodotus in his description of the countries beyond Libya says that,
“the world ends where the sea is no longer navigable, in that place
where are the gardens of the Hesperides, where Atlas supports the sky
on a mountain as conical as a cylinder.” Hesiod says that “Jupiter sent
dead heroes to the end of the world, to the Fortunate Islands, which
are in the middle of the ocean.” There is no doubt that the Romans, on
re-discovering the Islands, christened them _Insulæ Fortunatæ_, which
name has clung to them ever since.

Pliny, in writing about the islands, quotes the statements of Juba, who
said the islands were placed at the extreme limit of the world, and
were perpetually clothed with fire.

It is unfortunate that the Spaniards, when they conquered the islands,
took no trouble to preserve any of their ancient records, and as the
natives could not write, any history which might have been handed
down from generation to generation was entirely lost. For this reason
very little is known for certain as to what happened to the islands
in the Middle Ages, though they appear to be mentioned by an Arabian
geographer in the early part of the twelfth century, who writes of “the
island of the two magician brothers, Cheram and Clerham, from which,
in clear weather, smoke could be seen issuing from the African coast.”
Various European countries, having heard tales of islands beyond the
seas, appear to have made efforts to conquer them. The fate of the
Genoese expedition in A.D. 1291 is not known, and though
the French are said to have “discovered” them in 1330, it was the
Portuguese who took advantage of this discovery, and a few years later
sent an expedition to conquer them. They met with no success, and were
repulsed by the inhabitants of Gomera, and though they made yet another
attempt after a few years, it appears to have been without result.

No doubt the comparative peace which reigned in the islands for so long
was owing to the fact that Europe was too much occupied with civil wars
and crusades, to explore and conquer far-off lands, but during the
fourteenth century a French nobleman of Spanish extraction was made
“King of the Fortunate Islands” by the Pope, and told to Christianise
them in the best way he could. Nothing much seems to have come of these
instructions, though some missionaries were no doubt sent to Grand
Canary.

The conquest of the islands seems to have occupied the Spaniards for
nearly a century, as in 1402 we read of Jean de Bethencourt (a name
still common in the islands), who fitted out a ship for the purpose of
conquering them and settling there. Lanzarote was peaceably occupied,
as its fighting population was small, but in the neighbouring island
of Fuerteventura he was repulsed. Henry King of Castille provided
reinforcements, and, on condition that the Archipelago should be
annexed in his name, Bethencourt was to be made “Lord of the Isles”
of four of the group. The four smaller islands were soon brought
under subjection--Fuerteventura, Lanzarote, Gomera, and Hierro; in
fact, in some of the islands the newcomers were welcomed. The three
larger islands--Canary, Teneriffe, and La Palma--proved a more serious
undertaking, and the invaders being stoutly resisted and lacking in
forces, their conquest was for a time abandoned, and Bethencourt did
not live to see them subjugated. His nephew sold his rights to the
Portuguese, which complicated matters. It was not until 1464 that any
determined attack was again made, though Spanish troops had made an
unsuccessful attempt to conquer La Palma some ten years previously.

The Lord of Gomera, Diego de Herrera, made most determined attacks
in 1464, beginning unsuccessfully in Canary; but in the same year he
again collected his forces and attacked Teneriffe, landing at Santa
Cruz. Don Diego, having been driven into a corner by the Canarios, sent
his son-in-law, Diego da Silva, to make a counter-attack. He fared no
better, and escape being cut off, offered to surrender, but quarter
was denied. By a stratagem a Canario leader was seized as a hostage,
and Silva demanded free passage to his ship, which was granted. Silva
had misgivings as to the sincerity of the Canarios, and apparently was
so glad to escape with his life, that when he arrived at his ship he
and all his men voluntarily gave up their arms, and vowed never again
to fight the Canarios--a vow which Silva, at any rate, kept, in spite
of the indignation of Diego. Some of the men broke their promise, and
joined Diego’s attacking forces again; and on being taken prisoners
by the natives, instead of being put to death were condemned to spend
their lives in brushing away flies, as execution was too high an honour
for such base creatures.

Some years after, the “fly-flappers” were set at liberty, as Diego
succeeded in making a treaty with the Canarios; but the island was far
from being conquered, and still offered stout resistance, though the
Spaniards seem by now to have determined not to let such a prize escape
them. Reinforcements came from Spain, and a small body of cavalry, we
are told, terrorised the natives, and though the Portuguese interfered
on behalf of the Canarios, the Spaniards now got a footing in the
island in the year 1478, during the reign of Ferdinand V. of Castille.

After many unsuccessful attacks from the other islands, it fell
to the lot of Don Alonso de Lugo to complete the work of Jean de
Bethencourt. “De Lugo el Conquistador, and afterwards Governor of the
Province of the Canaries, was a Galician nobleman, who had served with
distinction against the Moors in the conquest of Granada, and had
been presented with the valley of Ageste (Canary) in return for his
services. Whilst there he conceived the capture of Teneriffe and of La
Palma, reconnoitring their coasts and acquainting himself with their
geographical features.”

Helped by the inhabitants of Gomera, who by this time had become
accustomed to the rule of the conquerors, De Lugo made a desperate
though unsuccessful attempt in 1491 to conquer La Palma, which had
remained in comparative peace for over half a century. It was not till
1492, after months of desperate fighting, that he succeeded in subduing
the island and adding it as a prize to the dominions of Spain.

A year later he turned his attention to Teneriffe and landed at Añaza
(Santa Cruz). He hoped that quarrels among the Guanches might be in
his favour, but after a considerable number of his men had been cut to
pieces at Matanza (Place of Slaughter) he was forced to retire, and
after a year’s fighting evacuated the island, until reinforcements
were sent to him. Before the close of the same year he returned to the
attack, and desperate resistance was met with in the district of La
Laguna. The Guanches, though successful in keeping the invaders at bay,
were much discouraged by losing several of their leaders, and began to
quarrel among themselves; how long they might still have held out it is
impossible to know, but Providence seems at this moment to have come to
the help of the Spaniards.

The disease known as _Modorra_, possibly some form of typhus fever,
broke out among the Guanches. Old writings describe this disease as
being most malignant and mysterious, and its effects among the natives
were appalling. The Spaniards remained immune, but I should think it
was not without qualms that they watched the ghastly destruction of
their foes, who appear to have been seized with hopeless melancholia,
lost all wish to live, and wandered about listlessly in troops or laid
down in caves to die. One writer says: “Even at the present day such
retreats are occasionally discovered, little heaps of bones or seated
skeletons marking the spot where the despairing victims sank to rise no
more. It is said that some Spaniards, reconnoitring on the road to La
Laguna, met an old woman seated alone on the Montaña de Taco, who waved
them on, bidding them go in and occupy that charnel-house where none
were left to offer opposition.”

De Lugo seems to have passed through the district of the _modorra_,
but met with resistance in the valley of Orotava, where the Mencey
of Taoro (the old name of Villa Orotava) advanced to meet him with a
considerable force. Another sanguinary engagement took place at La
Victoria and the invaders again had to retreat. The _modorra_ still
raged, and in 1496 the site of the present villages of Realejo
Alto and Bajo, in the valley of Orotava, was the scene of the final
capitulation of the Guanches, worn out by illness and perpetual
fighting.

It is not altogether surprising that other countries looked rather
longingly at Spain’s new possession, and both their Portuguese
neighbours and the Moors made one or two feeble attempts to claim them.

England was not above making several attacks on the Islands. One
unsuccessful expedition commanded by Sir Francis Drake was repulsed
at Las Palmas in 1595, and about sixty years later Sir Robert Blake,
in command of 36 vessels, attacked Santa Cruz, in Teneriffe, but
beyond destroying forts, the shipping in the harbour, and sinking some
treasure galleons, he does not seem to have done much. The English
again disturbed the peace of the islanders in 1743, but Admiral
Nelson’s attack of Santa Cruz in 1797 is the one which is of principal
interest to the English, from the fact probably that it was Nelson’s
one defeat, and here also he lost his arm. To this day Nelson’s two
flags are carefully preserved in glass cases on the walls of the
Iglesia de la Concepcion and are an object of great interest to
many English travellers. The news that a galleon laden with treasure
had arrived in Santa Cruz reached Admiral Jervis during the blockade
of Cadiz, and he at once ordered Vice-Admiral Nelson, in command of
1500 men and 393 guns, to proceed to Teneriffe to secure the coveted
prize. The Spanish authorities were formally demanded to deliver up
the treasure on July 20, 1797, and not unnaturally refused. The town
seems to have been strongly garrisoned, and Nelson, hampered by an
unfavourable wind, made unavailing attempts to land and draw the
soldiers from their forts. Under cover of darkness 700 men succeeded
in getting close to the mole before the enemy discovered them, but
soon a deadly fire was opened upon them, and several of the boats
were sunk. Nelson had no sooner set foot on the jetty than his arm
was shattered by a cannon ball. Incapacitated though he was by pain
and loss of blood, directly he got back alongside his ship his first
thought was for the men who had been left behind, and orders were at
once given for the boat to go back to their assistance. The men who had
succeeded in landing on the mole, encouraged by repulsing the enemy
and spiking their guns, made a desperate attempt to attack the town.
Their opponents were too numerous for this brave little band, and the
guns from the Fort of San Christobal killed the greater number of
their officers and wounded the rest; the survivors retreated in good
order after holding their position on the mole nearly all night. In
consequence of the darkness a party under Captain Trowbridge became
separated and eventually landed at the other side of the town, and took
possession of the old Dominican Monastery. Taking it for granted that
Nelson’s party were in possession of the mole, and advancing to meet
them, Trowbridge demanded the surrender of the fort, only to find that
his enemy and not his friends were the victors. Eventually, seeing
that success was impossible, he asked for permission to leave the town
with all arms, and promised not to attack any part of the Canaries, or
in the event of these conditions being refused he threatened to burn
and sack the town. It is well known in history how courteously (once
the evacuation terms were agreed to) the Spaniards treated their foe.
The wounded were carefully tended, the invaders were allowed to buy
provisions, and presents were interchanged between the greatest of
England’s Admirals and Don Antonio Gutierrez, the Comandante-General of
the Canaries, and it is said that the first letter Nelson wrote with
his left hand was to thank the Spanish general for his care of his
wounded men. After Nelson’s attack the Canaries appear to have remained
in the undisputed possession of Spain, and were made a province of the
Mother Country, Santa Cruz, Teneriffe, being made the capital and seat
of government, somewhat to the annoyance of the other islands. Those
who are really interested in the history of the conquest of the Islands
will find that there are many histories written in Spanish, most of
which are to be seen in the great public library at La Laguna.




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[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF THE

CANARY ISLANDS

 Published by A. & C. Black, London, 1911
]



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