And it’s not just the price of wine. Although it behoves me to say that, having drunk twice my bodyweight of white, red, rosé and a wee slurp of Hendricks for good measure (the quinine in the accompanying Schweppes tonic protected me against mozzie bites, M’Lud) the price of wine in Lanzarote is very, very acceptable. As is the wine. And the gin.
Ooh and the honey flavoured stickies that I, just for a moment, forgot about.
No, it’s not about the alcohol.
It’s about the weather. It’s about the warmth, the sunshine, the sea, the sand.
And it’s something is about the landscape. Oh my, the landscape! Lanzarote’s landscape is amazing.
The something is also about César Manrique. What a man. What an architect. My hero.
There’s something about an island that in its entirety is is a world heritage site and biosphere reserve. Maybe it’s the 300 volcanoes that do it. Or the fossilised lava flows, into which houses are built. Maybe it’s the historic towns of Teguise and Haría, pure in white, green shutters, with crosses, from another world or at least another time.
Lanzarote, a Canary Island just off the coast of Africa and only three and a half hour’s flight away from Casa Carmichael, sometimes gets a bad, ‘kiss-me-quick’ rap and I’m sure, if we’d looked harder mis amigas y yo might have found the grotty in Lanzarote but we didn’t and therefore we didn’t. We got what we, the tapas lunching ladies, deserved on our week long, anti SAD, winter break away.
That isn’t to say it was all plain sailing. When is it ever for Mrs Carmichael?
Part Dos to follow.