I did say 'fun' and not 'sun' advisedly. After all there wasn't much of it. We did actually go for 'sun' but in three weeks it was certainly illusive so we had to opt for 'fun' and 'food' instead. Actually, there's no reason for any of them to be mutally exclusive but in the absence of 'sun' we had little choice but to enjoy what was left. So I put on pounds. I suppose it didn't really matter as I couldn't begin to frighten the horses by taking off any clothes, well, not in public anyway.
We found this quirky little bar-restaurant that served only Canarian food and made no concessions to (erhem) menus in English (or German Dutch Scandanavian ....)
Vincent (above) was the waiter and general factotem. He spoke brilliant English. He used to work at a restaurant in Covent Garden but had come home to Tenefife because, as he said, he'd lost his mum. He was very funny and a really good waiter. Canarian food is Spanish of course but with a few twists. You can see the Canarian take on sea-food paella above, which we'd ordered the previous day for our 'last meal'. Well, hopefully not exactly that but still....
Our apartment was clean, good bed, hot shower - and two cooking rings inset in sink draining board. One small fridge underneath. One whistling kettle; two saucepans, one ancient frying pan. One blunt kitchen knife. Just the ticket for gourmet eating. But I do love a challenge.
Garlic 'Gambas' with chillies and coriander in white wine cream sauce? Pan-fried local fish with meltingly crisp chips and locally grown watercress side salad? Tender strips of beef stir-fried with finely sliced onions, peppers, garlic, mushrooms and Canarian spices? Mmm... not bad. Plus daily morning indulgence of coffee & cognac while watching the world go by. I could get used to it.
Home to old Blighty for Christmas, to freezing weather and overblown 'festive' shops and credit-crunching fiscal crashes. Christmas in London. New Year in Herefordshire.
Back home.
