Salt: A.K.A Corpus Christi

The finale to The Cure story will be up tomorrow. You'll have to put up with this aside for the time being...

What it is to live in a Catholic country. Corpus Christi is celebrated in Spain - why Granny hasn't yet been able to find out - by making flower pictures on the road on the Saturday after the feast, a holy procession of priests etc trampling over and destroying it on the Sunday.

Beautiful ephemera; a bit like making a fabulous - and decorative - meal and seeing it disappear immediately down other people's gullets. On this island, at this point of the year, flowers always few and far between, floral picture-making was difficult if not impossible. On the other hand, what there was, a plenty, it's being a sea-girt island, was salt; altogether too much of it. Someone had a bright idea. Enough said.

The tradition of salt pictures was dying out at one point; the salt works had more or less closed down. But thanks to all the foodies' demand for sea salt in their
cooking, they've been partly reopened and the festival revived in its old form too. Good.

The road through the town was closed on Saturday; first heaps of salt appeared, then large cans of colour. On Saturday evening half the town came out and made their pictures - like all the celebrations here, things continue both alive and local, particularly in a municipio like this, one of the most traditional on the island, with only a smattering of in-comers. Whether or not the procession followed yesterday, Granny doesn't know. The pictures still looked to be there in the afternoon and she hasn't been back since. It's unlikely they'll keep the road closed for long; the bank, the cafe, the bread shop wouldn't like it.

Here are some pictures.

First some older ones at picture making





Here some younger




Here the youngest of all.



And here are some of the pictures they made: this large sun and three crosses was put out by the third agers; Granny includes this to show solidarity with her own generation, rather than religious fervour.




here a somewhat misshapen angel



She will spare you the very grim looking BVM. She has some regard for your feelings and for hers.

Back on the ranch the wind is blowing from the North again. Granny and Beloved have an odd taste in their mouths, somewhat dental. Beloved did not realise that Granny had filled up one of the old pepper grinders with cloves - he was using that to spice thing up things instead of pepper. Clove-flavoured prawns anyone? Cloves with your breakfast egg? Unusual gastronomic experiences. Granny doesn't think they'll be repeating them.

loving lizards

Lizards don't usually hang around here; one human footfall, they're off. But this time in a garden to the north, developed by the Demon Botanist, they seemed not the least worried; two of them, in mid path, one a beefy fellow, much bigger than the other; but both possessed of the blue pulsating panels along their sides which turn up in the breeding season. Big lizard on top of small one. No need to guess what they were up to. Afterwards they lay still, tails coiled round each other. Very loving, thought Granny; 'post coital bliss,' she suggested - the lizard equivalent of the celebratory cigarette. Beloved did not go for this flight of fancy. 'The male making sure his sperm gets in there,' he said - more or less - ' so that no other male gets his in the way'. (The same might be said of the human version of the event, Granny thinks. But does not say. Even Beloved might prefer the less scientific explanation while sweeter moments last.) Someone went off to fetch a camera. But by that time the male was off, heavy footed, almost hauling himself along, no sign of the usual flickering briskness. 'Sated,' suggested Granny. Never mind. It was all very beautiful and rare too - at least seeing such a thing is rare. It didn't need explanations whether scientific or poetic - it didn't need photos come to that. It was just THERE.

Up in this northern town they plant palms trees following a birth; two for a boy, and one for a girl... Oh dear. A piece of information from the Demon Botanist reinforces the point; that the first gay marriages in Spain were celebrated on this island where there was for many years a significant inbalance of the sexes, owing to female infanticide; (most likely not practised to save the cost of the palm tree.) Taking a partner of the same gender was therefore the only recourse for many men and accepted if not openly acknowledged.

Doubt if this nugget of island life will appear in any tourist brochure. Or have any impact on lizard copulation, come to that.

****

Demon Botanist unaware probably of just how exposed their land is sent Granny and Beloved home with a great box full of plant cuttings, most of them indigenous, to plant in their garden. What with Beloved's bad back, and Granny's tendency to neck problems and frozen shoulders, neither are much up for digging, especially in solid soil like this. The task has been passed on to Mr Handsome. He is not pleased. Why can't he plant them he complains, when told who they've come from. Beloved is teaching today, so Granny gets the brunt of this. 'I'll water them once they're in,' she promises. Mr Handsome doesn't actually say 'big deal,' out loud but his face does. The only plants he's into are the ones people or animals can eat. Re-greening the island is not on his agenda.

Fun and Games

Granny has had a friend staying, Beloved has a stinking cold - not passed on to her YET - and despite her new office she hasn't had either time to write yet, and not much in the way of inspiration either. Maybe peace and quiet isn't the answer. Or maybe lots more of it is. Let's wait and see.

Meantime the year turns as ever. On Saturday, she, friend and Beloved went out to dinner with Mr and Mrs Jonah; at the table next to them was a whole party of people looking very peculiar; men in drag, wigs, feather boas and all, and women got up to look like men in drag; a new one on Granny. Anyone in Spain will know what this is about: Carnival is here again. And don't men on this island just LOVE wearing drag? Not only is there a carnival queen, and a baby queen and a dog cat camel and donkey queen (work out for yourselves where she is exaggerating, just a bit) there is also a DRAG QUEEN; the saucy bitch. And between now and the final end to the festival you are liable at any time and anywhere to run over men in wigs and frocks -and possible inebriation -lurching across the road. In Granny's innocent view -and even more innocent experience -she thought foolish jollities enjoyed before the arrival of Lent were not only mainly of the pancake cooking and eating kind but that they began and ended on Shrove Tuesday; that thereafter all is supposed to be sackcloth, ashes and boiled cod till the mournfulness of Good Friday is well and truly over. Not so here. The carnival procession up in her own dear Municipio is not scheduled till March 10th. Though much smaller and shorter than the ones in the main town it will have the usual contingents of citizens of the third age dressed up in costumes which might have been designed for performances of Merry England pageants, of prancing devils - a local, probably pagan, variation probably dating from the days of the Guanches, the early inhabitants of the island - of shivering kids in fairy outfits, of would-be Brazilian lookalikes heavily choreographed and decidedly under-clad on their nether regions and over-clad up top - plumes - feathers - huge wire, spangled and tinseled creations over-balancing on their heads; oh and plaster versions of old shoes, castles, pirate ships, etc etc, which sit behind people's houses all year round waiting to be brought out, touched up, decorated, attached to trucks and filled with a variety of clowns, angels, devils, what you will, all shouting, calling, singing and waving beer cans to the music thumped out by pumped up sound systems. Not much in the way of boiled cod there. But plenty of noise. And plenty of alcohol. All night.

Who says Catholics don't have a lot more fun than Protestants?

There are the odd spoilsports around of course. Franco banned carnival altogether. And the more sober residents of Santa Cruz on Tenerife have this year contrived to have had a banning order placed on street celebrations - which are of course the point - because they were fed up with the twenty-four hour racket. Though it looks as though the local ayuntamiento and the overall Canarian government may get this rescinded on the behalf of tradition and the enjoyment of absolutely everyone else. Back on Granny's other island of course, people like Cromwell did for such things altogether, long ago. Is it the survival of Catholicism she wonders that had led Catholic countries to preserve their local traditions and festivities the way they have? No self-consciousness here, like revivals of Maypole Dancing in England. No playing to the tourists. This is for the people. AND HOW.

And yes, Granny will probably slope off to watch one or other of these. Beloved won't; you've seen one, you've seen them all, he says. He has a point. But Granny sneakingly likes them, just the same. They remind her of the village Gala of her childhood, around 1949, where she and her twin sister featured as Tweedledum and Tweedledee. And WON FIRST PRIZE!! But no, she will not be dressing-up, this time. THE VERY IDEA. ( It was, you see, so very long ago and in another country; and, besides, the wench - the other wench - is dead.)

Three Kings, four camels and a man in a hat

Well - here you have it; the man, flashing eyes and all - and the camel, circulating gently round him. But now Christmas - at last - is over. There were two men and a van up by the roundabout this morning dismantling them. Christmas does take a long time to go away here. No relief straight after New Year. You have to wait for the Kings to come and go with their presents and their sweets. All over Spain they come by different means: limousines, floats, Rolls Royces, boats, horses, helicopters. Here of course, camel island, guess what? They have a ritzy camel version down in the main town, glitter, floats, you name it. Up in Granny´s town, out in the sticks, is the plain version. Complete with a blacked-up Melchior; the sundry Moroccans, Senagalese etc arrived illegally by patera - open boat - now resident don't seem sufficiently resident to be drafted in. Also complete with drum band, stilt-walkers and mini Gigantes - people wearing large heads. All of them wearing all too visible jeans and trainers underneath their costumes, regal and otherwise.















None of the kings seemed used to camel riding. One was distinctly nervous. The camels were led by camel men from the breeding place, togged out in kaftans. They got themselves together at least half-an-hour after schedule. This is normal here.

















The children, all carrying plastic bags pick up the sweets the kings chucked at them. Here they are. The sweets are all boiled sweets. Granny - being a granny - sighs and thinks of their teeth.
















The Kings have now deposited their bikes, skate boards, barbie dolls etc etc to all the lucky children. Granny was not so lucky: she did not get so much as a telephone line. Oh yes, Telefonica came and went. The line came for a while. But it also went. Again. Granny has resorted to the local Internet Cafe. She suspects this post, photographs and all will not be as well-formatted as it should be. She has lost one picture for sure. Sorry. It was either that or wait for Telefonica - again. ¨24 or 48 hours.¨said Madrid when rung for the 5th time. Not good enough said Granny - to no avail. The Madrid operators vary from the helpful and clued-up to the unhelpful and unclued-up; this was - how DID you guess? - the latter.

The Kings didn´t bring any rain either. Meantime it has been warmer than usual- and sunnier - which has its merits, it must be said. On the other hand -island should be green now: it isn´t, Granny´s land should be covered in flowers: it isn´t. The rains might come - some are cautiously forecast for the end of the week, but only small ones. Not enough probably to allow the planting of the already long prepared fields. Granny won´t be there to see the rain, the planting/ not planting anyway. She is off back to the UK on Thursday, on family business as usual, and won´t be back on the island till February.

Next time she will be posting from London; assuming she has a working connection there. Hasta luego.

Update. Local Telefonica turned obliging, if in impenetrable local accents, which swallow every consonant into some inseparable soup of sound. Are baffled, despite, first (vainly) having attacked part of drive with a pickaxe, then, equally vainly, urging reluctant Beloved and still more reluctant Mr Handsome to shift very heavy bookcase, full of VERY heavy books (Beloved's) so that they could get at the entry point of phoneline. It turned out to be in perfect order. So now what? They leave promising to come back. They didn't. But phone currently working. Good. Granny uploads missing picture. Tomorrow, with or without a working phoneline, is a new day.

Produce

Gradually, back on her island, Granny's life returns to normal. The fig tree continues to produce over-abundantly, she continues to process its produce as best she can. She's trying to dry some of her figs this year, as the locals do, but the results so far have not been good. (Except for the fruit flies which love them. Geneticists may be fond of fruit flies - they make good experiments; granny is not a geneticist. She does not.) Apart from that - fig jam with cardomom and rosewater anyone? - or with balsamic vinegar? - or with thyme, honey and lavender? (this one was not a great success). Alternatively fig compote with star anis and bay? or with lemon and almonds? So on and so forth. Her labours are somewhat erratic this year as her Beloved succeeded in catching her jam thermometer in the drawer and breaking it ("Why did you put it there?" Where else do you put your jam thermometer? asks she.) As such things are not obtainable here, she has to guess at the temperature. She has several lots of undercooked jam in consequence and one that burnt and had to be thrown away.

Granny feels like her much more domestic mother. What has brought her to this pass, making jam, bottling fruit? No desire to join the WI for sure. (Not that her mother did either; she was not a joiner, any more than granny is) Anyway there are no such things here, as far as Granny knows; not for the likes of her at least. There are no jam-makers either, judging by the lack of available equipment. Short of a preserving pan, Granny is forced to use her Beloved's milking pail - designed for the goats which she is glad to say have not yet arrived. It serves well enough except it has a hump in the middle of its bottom and a groove all round the edge. This may be good for the milkman, but is less so for the jam-maker. The jam burns in the groove all too easily. (Hence her burnt batch.)

One good thing has happened. Years ago, as in Spain, Italy, France, there were markets here for local produce. With the arrival of the supermarkets all closed down. The markets left were for tourists, selling local handicrafts (not much cop, unless you want a local hat, a lace collar, a doll dressed in local costume) and any amount of tat brought in from everywhere. Granny and Beloved patronise one only, much smaller than the others and mostly without the tat. It has more upmarket jewelry, clothes etc made mostly by expat hippies, German, British, Canadian whatever. It also - and this is/was the chief reason for their interest - has a wonderful organic vegetable stall, the queues stretching from end of the market to the other, most weeks. It turned into a free for all at one point. "A battlefield" the dismayed stallholders complained. They've got a system now; you have take a number and wait your turn, sometimes for a long time. You are no longer allowed to fight with the mostly German punters behind and ahead of you for the last remaining strawberries, rocket, broadbeans or whatever, most of it picked that very morning. You have to wait for the stallholders to serve you.

Granny doesn't know whether it is the success of this stall that has led to further developments. A year ago the island was promised that the vegetable market in the main town was to re-open shortly. Typically here it didn't; the island is still waiting. (Where was it to be, the administrators asked themselves? The old market? Yes, they said; and then again, no. Then where? or where? or where where? As far as Granny knows the functionaries, the politicians are still busy arguing.) Meantime Granny's own municipality has seized its chance. Little stone alcoves were built opposite the local pilgrimage church, which has the widest and biggest tarmac space on the island. (As it's also in the windiest part of the island, the usual flimsy wooden stalls would not do.) Yesterday was the grand opening featuring above all the producers with their stalls full of home-grown vegetables and fruit - and - yippee, it's good here, every household with any land plants grapes and makes it - their own wine. And lots of the local cheese, which is good. There was odd lace-collar too, and hat and basket and kitschy doll but never mind that. There were also speeches from local worthies, patting themselves on the back ('we're offering the only non-tourist market on the island"..) free food, folk song and dancing in local costume. The songs and dances? - well - as with all Canarian songs and dances, once you've heard/seen one, you've heard/seen the lot; a bit like Scottish dancing really; does Granny dare say that? She does! (If not in her Scottish Beloved's hearing.) As for the local costume - it's thick and heavy up here and designed to protect its wearers from the cold and wind, appropriately so for the highest coldest borough in the island; the men in particular wear a rather fetching dark blue pixyish hat. But then everyone's ears, male or female, are covered up, possibly to the detriment of their hearing; which may indicate why this is also considered one of the least friendly towns on the island.

There was a demonstration of traditional threshing; consisting of about five mules tied together and turning in a circle on a pile of unthreshed grain; mostly willingly, except for the middle mule which having to turn on its own axis was not a happy mule and had to be dragged, head up, protesting jaw open, teeth rampant. When the grain was sufficiently trampled, the men with flails came out. Etc etc. All very picturesque, and only recently redundent. Such work was still done like this for real up till last year by an old man who lived next door to the friends whom Granny and Beloved had invited up for the occasion. When they first arrived on the island twenty years ago, the locals used camels as well as mules and donkeys on their village threshing floor. No longer in use, it has been turned, very conveniently, into the village car park. Pity. Except for the in-the-centre mule, perhaps.

Granny wonders how they thresh now - where they still grow grain. Some farmers still do, the bags of their grain sit, alongside the bags of locally grown beans and lentils in the supermarkets as well as here on the market stalls. Many more though grow the fruits and vegetables which will be on offer now every Sunday, just ten minutes walk away. Good good good.

She and Beloved and their friends did not stay for more dancing/singing, for the free food or the demonstration of Canarian wrestling, but went home with laden bags. They hope the market will be successful - it was yesterday, but then it would have been, what with all that free food, drink and entertainment, and that many more will follow. And even that, given better prices, more profit, people will be encouraged to come back into agriculture, just a bit. One reason for this market, she knows, is that the prices offered to the farmers by the local supermarkets were/are derisory, even if they don't, like English supermarkets, demand that each carrot, papaya, tomato, is the same size and shape as its fellows. Granny would much rather pay her money to the farmers than to the supermarkets. And it all still works out much cheaper for her and the other punters. So everyone is happy. Except the supermarkets possibly. But who cares about them.

Meantime, back home on the ranch, the female bantam, Amina is broody. The only way Rocky, her poor cockerel, gets to express his masculinity is by crowing, which he does, all the time, loudly. If he tries to fly up into the nest box to get at his sitting mate, she sees him off smartly; as she also sees off any (unamorous, naturally) intrusion by Beloved. Granny can understand now why men are less interested in the results of breeding - if not the process itself. The hen has two of her own eggs under her and two hens' eggs. In ten days or so the virility of the three cockerels will be demonstrated. Or not, as the case may be: in which case, coq au vin anyone? Everyone is invited.

Oh and this: a small addition. Her friend Clare has a new website. She is a very good writer. Do visit. When Granny gets round to a long overdue edit of her blogroll, you will find her there, too.