Beware of the dogs?

By Elizabeth Johnstone

It’s Spain, Jim, but not as we know it… I visited the Canary Islands for the first time in February 2015. I booked a week’s all-inclusive package at the Clubhotel Riu Gran Canaria, Meloneras, through Thomson.

Are the islands named after the eponymous birds? It seems not. The root is canis, the Latin for dog. Apparently, they were islands from which the dogs came. The perro de presa canario or presa canario is a large, powerful dog which has the dubious distinction of being banned in Australia and New Zealand.

Although we live in Hertfordshire, Gatwick Airport is relatively convenient for us by train. We hop across the road from Kings Cross to St Pancras to pick up the Brighton train. Because of an early-morning departure, we spent the night at the Premier Inn, which I cannot recommend highly enough. Right outside the North Terminal, helpful and enthusiastic staff and very reasonably priced. I half expected to see Lenny Henry blissfully asleep in the bed. We’ve already booked for our next Gatwick overnight stay.

Security was well in evidence inside the airport. Heavily armed police officers stood at the corners of each check-in area as the explosives dogs sniffed our luggage. The buzzer went off as I passed through the metal detector arch. As the officer patted me down, I asked her if the underwiring in – ahem – a certain undergarment ever set it off. ‘Not usually,’ she said ‘Unless it’s Marks and Spencer.’ Who knew that St Michael produced weapons-grade lingerie?

The four hour flight to Gran Canaria was dull but uneventful. Las Palmas Airport is a huge operation, processing the hordes of tourists (over 10 million in 2014) desperate for some year-round sun. We were amalgamated with other Tui (Thomson parent company) customers on our transfer coach. The driver played a CD welcoming us in a variety of northern European languages. I was apprehensive at the lack of a rep on the coach but the operation proceeded seamlessly, also on the return.

We had had a taste of the all-inclusive experience, and of the Riu hotel brand, the year before in Morocco. All-inclusive is seductive, but there is a knack to enjoying yourself without overdoing it. Some time soon I will master this.

Many travellers return year after year, and you could see why. The hotel was spacious and immaculate. It had 500 bedrooms so, presumably, at least 1,000 guests. A range of outdoor pools (including a romantic infinity pool) was flanked by gardens, lounging areas, bars, restaurants and sports facilities. All dining was buffet-style, although there were specialist Chinese, grill and Canarian restaurants which required advance booking.

Alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks were available at all times. The back door of the complex led straight out on to the promenade. An eagle-eyed security guard checked for our official wristbands. The local resort, Meloneras, is small but perfectly formed, an upmarket offshoot of the larger Maspalomas. Its extensive sand dunes are a nature reserve, also featuring a nudist beach within which is a gay enclave. The ‘pink euro’ is an important source of revenue for LGBT-friendly Gran Canaria. We walked along the shoreline, as did countless others, without frequenting the nudist/gay sections as such. Suffice it say that I saw silver jewellery sported on body parts I did not know could be thus embellished. But maybe I have led a sheltered life.

We were not aiming for a high-powered cultural experience and spent most of the time pleasantly mooching around between pool, restaurant and promenade. It was simply heavenly to watch the sun set over the Atlantic, through the silhouettes of the palm trees, with a glass of something all-inclusive in one’s hand. However, I did want to see something of the interior of the island so I booked one of the Thomson excursions.

It was advertised as ‘Island Delight Premium’, in minibuses which could access the narrow mountain roads too difficult for a standard coach. Prone to travel sickness, I should have known what was in store. We were picked up from our hotels and rendezvoused with the other minibuses at Puerto Mogán whose charming flower-filled lanes and harbour location have given it the name of Little Venice. We got us a convoy! The three minibuses were linked by radio and our driver’s highly entertaining commentary was broadcast to all three. The excursion was filmed by a pro cameraman so that – surprise, surprise – we could buy our personal DVD memento of the day.

In fairness, the experience changed radically as we moved out of the heavily touristed coastal area. We wended along and up country roads, stopping for comfort breaks and photo opportunities at a series of impossibly picturesque locations. We were told about the agriculture of the island with its 63 reservoirs in an area which could be encompassed by the M25. If I say that tomatoes are a massive crop, I don’t mean that they are the size of footballs. Optimum growing conditions allow them to be
harvested three times a year. Bananas, oranges and potatoes are also important. Eventually, we reached the summit of this formerly volcanic island. Visibility was so good that we see all the way to Tenerife, over 40 miles away. You could make out the observatory on the summit of Mt Teide, the highest mountain on Spanish territory. Lunch was included, an average meal in a pleasant pine forest. Our last stop was the picturesque northern village of Teror – fortunately along straight roads – for a look at the basilica, the 15th century balconies and the Sunday market. An excellent day out, and one which we could not have done on our own.

These holidays are marketed as ‘winter sun’. We had mixed weather. The temperature was never below 18̊ and sometimes climbed into the low or mid-twenties. My husband, recently liberated from his business suit, cheerfully donned t-shirt and shorts. I was more circumspect, in jeans and cotton shirt. A sharp breeze sometimes cooled things down and, one day, the wind was so strong that all the parasols were taken down and you could taste sand in your mouth. And yet, it was a calm and sunny 25̊ on our last day. Typical!

I now ‘get’ why the Canaries are such a popular winter destination for the denizens of the cold, northern countries. I quite fancy going to Tenerife next year and looking back over to Gran Canaria from the top of Mt Teide.

Footnote: a bizarre incident on our way back at Las Palmas Airport. A Scandinavian couple ahead of me in the coffee-shop queue were buying various lunch items. As they counted out their euros, I put my drink and packet of sandwiches on the counter. The family gathered up their purchases. I paid for mine but, when I went to pick them up, the packet of sandwiches had gone. After a suitably Hispanic (i.e. over-the-top) altercation with the counter assistant – thank you, Open University Spanish Diploma – I was allowed to collect another packet of sandwiches from the display. Had they been swept up with the Scandinavians’ lunch? I fear we will never know. One for Sarah Lund to investigate!

First published in VISA 121 (June 2015)