So, I've never been entirely sure if I'd like the Canaries, and here we were last Wed, landing in Gran Canaria for a week in a resort hotel – also not our natural habitat.
But – the utter magic of winter sun on your bones can make anywhere a joy, and after far too much exposure to the London grey skies and boggy Common, it definitely worked on us. Rather liked the view from our initial room – the perfect mix of cactus, pool, sea and sun – but we then switched to another one with slightly less cheeky garden chums.
To be fair the weather was a bit mixed – of course we just HAD to arrive as some bloody wind thing also came across from the Sahara desert, bringing sandy grit in the air and wiping out the nice blue sky into a more UK version of greyness. But at least the warmth remained and we somehow got a wee bit of a tan, hanging out on the exceptionally comfy sunbeds at the hotel. Which Sarah T had recommended, saving us lots of time and faff, and we even had the pleasure of her favourite waitress, the aptly named Africa. Who was a total doll.
I, of course, managed to find myself a lonely and lovely old lady – the gorgeous Solange, who in her eighties, had made it to the hotel toute seule, and was eating every meal by herself. So I looked out for her each morning and evening and we had some rather loud chats in French as she was a bit deaf and didn't speak any Spanish – and she seemed delighted to hear my even more crap than usual French, as I was well into Spanish in my head by this point! What a sweetheart – she said 'I cannot see very well, so if we pass by and and I do not say hello, you must speak to me. And you must not change your face mask as I will remember you by it'. So there is a tiny upside to those bloody masks..
To try and work off a small bit of the eating excess (we never usually do half board for exactly the reason that we cannot be trusted not to eat everything in sight), we wandered up and down beaches. Trying to ignore the many, many naked men on the nudist beach with their tackle wobbling in the breeze, as we passed the lighthouse and headed down to the Mesapalomas sand dunes. Apparently quite a few naked men in there too, mostly at night, so we didn't stray too far off the beaten track!
And even tried Playa des Ingles – god help me – some bits ok, some bits pretty grim, but when the sun goes in on your last day, there's nowt to do but go out and about.. Mr H also headed off up some hideous rocky hills on a bike, hooking up with another mamil to keep each other going round the switchback curves..
Also managed to get in a rather swanky night in a Michelin starred gaff – certainly the best food we had all week – from which Mr H emerged full to the brim with the wine pairing and hefty brandies at the end. Rather sweet that one of the 11 (?) courses was some blue cheese grated in little cups and 2 sheep biscuity things to scoop it up with.. Plus two very good cocktails for me – marv.
Nicest trip out was to the little harbour town of Mogan – nailed my desire for some grilled sardines with a very nice lunch by the port there, after a cheeky little beer in the sun. Just out of earshot thank god of the bloody panpipe playing man – seemingly one of those in every town…
So – such a joy to be able to feel the warmth of the sun and to doze every afternoon by the pool (children-free, hurrah), while contemplating whether to join another tai chi class (had a crack, suspect I looked ridiculous next to the sleek french lady and other skinny folk but hey ho, have always wanted to try it) or to bob about doing the lunchtime Aquagym session.
Home tomorrow to see Scrumpy and Mojo – always terribly missed when we are away without them. Big thanks to Jules & Nicky for holding the pet fort admirably at Dora while we've been here.
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