THE SNOWS OF TENERIFE

You’ve heard, I’m sure, of The Snows of Kilimanjaro, but let me tell you a tale of  the snows of Tenerife. Snow in Tenerife? Yes, it happens. This is the story of how we (my wife and I) together with Jimmy Barry Murphy (not his real name) and Hans and Heidi (not their real names either) along with sundry others, got stranded in the snow there one fine sunny morning a few Januaries ago.

The deckchairs around the pool were already filled with sunbathers, and on the nearby beach  the bronzed and the beautiful – and the rest – were lathering themselves with suntan lotions as we passed by on our way to catch the local bus to take us up Mount Teide, the island’s highest peak (and Spain’s highest too, at some 3,700 metres). We knew from a previous trip that the climate up there could be quite different from that of  Playa de Americas, so we had brought our light zippy jackets with us, just in case.

Nearing the bus stop we realised that the bus was already there and quickened our pace: there is only one bus up Mount Teide, and one down in the late afternoon. We arrived panting at front door of  the bus, to fnd it was being jammed open by a large Corkman wearing his county’s GAA strip of maroon and white. His face was of a similar colour to his jersey, and we realised that we had been laughing at him (to ourselves) a few days earlier when we saw him prostrate on the beach, his corpulent torso

bared to the hot sun and turning rapidly roaring red.

“I saw ye coming and told Pádraig here to hould his horses”, he beamed, ushering us on board. The driver, who clearly was not a Pádraig, scowled and took our money impatiently before gunning his engine and steering out into the morning traffic. We thanked our Corkonian ally and made our way down the aisle, to smiles from most of the motley band of passengers, many of whom, like ourselves, were prepared for the cooler climes aloft. There were no smiles from one couple who were attired as though for an assault on the North Face of the Eiger. Dressed identically in uniform dun-coloured heavy-duty trekking gear,  Hans and Heidi were like stage-Germans from a British war film. As we passed by their seat, he looked elaborately at his watch and made some aside to her in German about “the  lazy English”. I decided not to take umbrage on either score and sat down at the back of the bus.

The road up to the higher reaches of Teide winds steeply, almost vertical at times, and the landscape changes from bare rock and ribbon building to pine-clad slopes. We emerged at last on to the plateau-like moonscape near the summit, to view the spectacular cratered vista created here by volcanic activity over centuries.

At least that was the idea. But we could not see much of  anything. Because it was snowing. Not just a few picturesque snowflakes, but a mini-blizzard, sweeping across the road in front of us and covering the countryside in inches of the dreaded white stuff. The bus skidded as it pulled into the car park of the parador hotel and restaurant which is the main destination for day-trippers. We got out to be greeted by an icy blast that knifed through my pathetically light jacket. But at least we had full-length trousers on, unlike Jimmy from Cork, who been regaling us on the way up with detailed re-runs of the previous year’s achievements of  both Cork’s hurlers and footballers.

“Sure come on and we’ll get a brandy”, he said as we all huddled against the savage cold. All, that is, except Hans and Heidi, who stood to one side, snug  and smug in their mountaineering garb while they perused a map. They even had two pairs of those tall walking sticks you’d associate more with the Alps or the Himalayas.

We ignored them and followed Jimmy across the car park to the door of the restaurant. We were looking forward to some breakfast, having skipped it to catch the bus, as we knew this restaurant from our previous visit. Shock horror. It was closed. Surely some mistake. We tried pushing and pulling at the glass doors, to no avail. There was a dim light to be seen beyond the food counter. One of our party began to knock loudly on the door. Kicking it would have been next, but a small cross-looking woman appeared inside and began to shout and gesticulate at us. Someone who understood Spanish interpreted and then said. “They’ve no food delivered, and the staff can’t get up here from Puerto de la Cruz (on the north side of the island) because of icy roads. She wants us to go away.”

Petrified and hungry we turned to see our bus heading off. It would not be back until 4 pm. The departing bus was bad enough, but there was also the sight of Hans and Heidi, sheltered behind a rock and pouring themselves two steaming mugs of coffee from a large flask. Then from a rucksack they took out enough food to feed a small army. Did they offer us any? Nein! They finished their repast and then strode masterfully off into the swirling snow. Before they went, Hans smirked at us and waved goodbye, saying, “There is no such thing as bad weather. Only bad equipment”. He sounded like a parody of Dr Strangelove.

The rest of us bonded together and hid from the penetrating snow as best we could, either in the small porch of the restaurant or under the dramatic outcrops of rock that normally are such a scenic highlight. Swapping travellers’ tales, we made lots of new friends before we all froze to death. No, that didn’t happen. Instead, the snow began to stop and the sun began to shine … and a small bus appeared bearing the staff of the restaurant. Soon we were all inside, eating and drinking  and toasting our survival.

In no time after that, we were able to head off and explore as though the snow had never been.

That afternoon we assembled to await the bus. Jimmy and the rest of our new friends were there, but no sign of Hans and Heidi. We climbed aboard and the driver began to shut the doors. Just then two distant figures appeared, stumbling along a rocky track and waving at the bus. The driver didn’t seem aware of them as he prepared to drive off. Did Jimmy – or  any of us – jump up and call the driver’s attention to his missing passengers? Did we what?

Two days later on the beach, we noticed a familiar-looking couple, but couldn’t quite place them at first without their mountaineering clothes.

Then we noticed that the woman had her left foot encased in plaster from toe to ankle.

Did we feel guilty? To paraphrase a famous tribunal star: “Did we ….?”

ENDS

Copyright: Éanna Brophy (Published in Sunday Times September 2011)