Less Ketchup than Salsa_Finding my Mojo in Travel Writing by Joe Cawley

Author:Joe Cawley [Cawley, Joe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-07-24T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘Trek training’ began in earnest a week after I received my join-up call – and ended the following day.

A certain amount of surprise accompanied Joy’s decision to be my hiking buddy in Teide National Park. Joy is the kind of person who believes that if God had intended us to walk, he wouldn’t have created air-conditioning for cars. But she was adamant that I needed to be able to keep up with Bill Bryson if I was to make the most of the experience.

Our first walk was going to be a gentle breaking in, so we chose the route around Los Roques, a protrusion of volcanic rocks extending from the desiccated plains of Tenerife’s central Las Cañadas crater next to Mount Teide volcano. It was also close to the visitors centre bar, the idea being that the promise of a celebratory Martini and Sprite would act as the proverbial carrot while we trudged through dust and cacti.

Armed with a day-pack stuffed full of the usual necessities – water, camera, jumper, snacks and map – plus a few last-minute essentials added by Joy – mobile phone, wet wipes and lipstick – we strode purposefully past a coach-load of Italian tourists. They’d just arrived and had immediately set about enlivening the mountain quiet with their raucous babble. They began to arrange themselves into a photo scrum. ‘Ahh, bella, bellissima…’ they continually exclaimed about the desert scenery, kissing each other and any woolly-hatted trekker that happened to venture too close.

The Los Roques route is a circular walk around a clutch of monoliths in the huge red and ochre Las Cañadas caldera, the kind of landscape you’d more associate with the Lone Ranger than a holiday resort. It was graded ‘easy’ by the map we were using and was supposed to take about two and a half hours.

After just twenty minutes of kicking up clouds of orange-red dust under the shadow of solitary fingers of rock, we had eaten 75 per cent of our snacks and finished off 50 per cent of our water. ‘These columns are volcanic plugs,’ I explained to Joy, reading from the guidebook. ‘They’re formed after an eruption leaves a hardened head of rock over the vent, a bit like a scab that forms over a squeezed spot.’

Joy looked at me, her face lacking any discernible emotion. ‘I think I’ll ring my mum,’ she said.

I marched on as she burst into animated conversation on speakerphone, discussing who had said what to who, giving suggestions on how to alleviate cousin Benjamin’s niggling bowel problems, and comparing what the two of them had eaten for the last three decades. Million-year-old rock formations passed by, plants that had struggled for centuries to eke out an existence continued to eke without a hint of sympathy or appreciation, and views unmatched anywhere on the planet were ignored. But at least Joy was happy and was there with me – in body at least.

An hour later, above the scrunch of volcanic gravel, I heard the

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