Wes Hobarth
Registered User
Or not the best Birding or indeed Hols we have ever had. Can anyone top this?
It was 17.00 hours and the sun was preparing to dip behind the mountain top across the valley as we sat outside a shack at about 1200 metres each enjoying a freshly crushed blend of Papaya, Mango, Orange and Banana in a litre glass. Dropping crumbs of Mango cake under our table surprisingly managed to tempt a very obliging Sardinian Warbler and Berthelot’s Pipit. Was this as good as the Birding would get?
We had flown out on Xmas Day in time to arrive for a walk around our resort before dressing up for the Gala dinner. Our resort was Taurito at the south western tip of the Island at the fag-end of the tourist strip and where the roads pretty well run-out. A custom built joke because of the climate. Four Hotels architected into the cliffs with three supporting beach bars and Jee-Jaw shops plus a Spar Mercado.
But it had the advantage of being close to an access route for the adventurous driver into the Central Highlands where we hoped for Trumpeter Finch and Blue Chaffinch. The morning after a stupendously crap Gala Dinner we tried to hire a car. Manyana we were told. Manyana came and the hire company told us the Police had taken some of their vehicles! So it was Manyana again. We found somewhere else and ended up with a Toyota Yaris.
Prior to this success, the previous day we had decided to get a Taxi to Puerto de Mogan, a sensitively developed fishing village in the next valley. After our failed attempt to hire a car it was now approaching lunchtime and I was a tad hungry because breakfast was equally devoid of much that I considered edible. We got in the Taxi. He seemed to understand the destination and we headed off. I asked him if he could recommend a reasonably priced Fish Restaurante.
“Pardon?” He said. The accent was French. What? We are on a Spanish Island and have ended up with a French Taxi Driver. I sighed. He didn’t deserve it, but he got it. “Your just doing this for badness aren’t you? I’ve read about you French b***** ds. You just pretend you can’t speak English to piss Englanders who can’t do languages off. You speak it like a Cockney, don’t you, but you just think you are so superior you expect everyone else to speak French. Okay, granted you won the World Cup but that was only because Ronaldo was pumped full of drugs, and, okay, Napoleon had a certain talent but excuse me if we didn’t save your sorry arse in the war, not once but twice, you Vichy b*****d.”
“Pardon monsieur? Je ne parle anglais.”
“I don’t believe it.” said I in Victor Meldrew mode
He shrugged and drove on. I wound down the window. It was beautiful weather.
Eventually I said, “Just drop us here, Johnny Foreigner,” and he looked at me and smiled and drove on, so I tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the roadside and pulled at the door handle. The Cent dropped. He pulled in. We were in one-way traffic and immediately there came a fusillade of horns from behind. He ignored them. So did I. I fished in my wallet and gave him a 10 Euro note despite the meter reading 6.50.
He said, “Thanks very much.”
I said, “Oh.”
He said, “Many of your criticisms of my country are valid, although I should point out that my father fought for the resistance. Have a nice day.”
I thanked him and closed the door.
****
…Which leaves us for the moment on the subject of driving. On the morning of day three we took possession of our little Yaris after much waiting around mixed with the frenetic behaviour of the local Spanish rep for Moron Motors. Or not so Moron maybe. After having tapped us for 20 Euros so we could bring the car back empty we discover the tank is only three parts full. Turning the ignition to engage forward motion I reconcile myself that you haven’t had a good holiday unless you have been ripped-off. This truism was to be more than fulfilled. So much so that my philosophy was to be reversed. Next time will be former Russian states and war zones where life and food is cheap. Food was twice the Euros for a sandwich than a decent curry costs in Blighty. But I divert from driving.
Having experienced numerous volcanic land spikes over the years I kind of “ken” what the roads are like and how to negotiate them. We are talking double helix corkscrews that change lateral platform direction without warning and send you on a new spiral without notice. The roads or tracks conspire to go up or down at a conspiratorial whim as does the interchange between perfect tarmac and absolute track, where first gear is the only option screaming away for an hour or so until a brief bit of plateau is reached.
By day two I could match the local four wheel drive types for elegant speed of passage taking out stupid tourist by bumpering them until they pulled over on a long bend to let me by. But the ******* Bus drivers I was never. to better. One evening a bit tired I T-Junctioned with some Tarmac from a track onto some Tarmac and nedded a right hand turn. A bus was coming my way. I thought, oh no, I don’t need you to slow me down on these roads. After a long day we were heading for the mountain shack and some fruit juice. Late afternoon and away from our Hotel. So I needed to make some pace. I pulled out in front of the Bus with fifty yards to spare.
Pace. Bloody Hell this Bus was up my arse for two mountains and two gorges like that Truck in Spielberg’s first movie success. I never knew I had this level of concentrated envelope driving inside me. All the while I ignored Norma’s screams about my speed. I could do nought else. I didn’t even have time to engender the thought I had wished I had let the Devil Driver pass the T-Junction first. Eventually he turned off for a Village stop and allowed me a more sedate climb for our fruit juice. We had barely sat down with it than this Mountain manoeuvre artist came past our static post with a roar of his air-horn on the 240 degree bend.
****
Monk Parakeet. We located a free-living community in a Palm strewn garden in the North-Western village of Agaete about half-way through the week. This was after two days of fruitless searching for Blue and Trumpeter’s finch amid the Pine forests of the Central Highlands. Singing Canary’s had long been multitudinously added to the paltry list. Yellow-legged and Lesser Black-Backed were the best we could make of the Gulls so far and this was not to improve. Feeding Rock Pigeons and Feral’s from snaffled breakfast bread on our balcony was now a regular pastime. It gave the cleaning lady a challenge to ensure she had mopped all their involuntary but I guess nonetheless pleasurable deposits of droppings from the tiled floor of our balcony.
Which brings me onto food. S**te in our Thompson PLATINUM Hotel and expensive and small-portioned in local restaurants. But despite having paid for half board we preferred to dine of an evening in a gemutlich( a German word that has no direct translation but cosy, homely and welcoming would be close) beach bar. European prices plus. From 20 to 35 Euros for two for a snack or a meal.. Our bill for New Years Eve here ran over 80 of these Euros (quite a bit on liquids, as opposed to solids, though). But we enjoyed the company of some most engaging ex-pats whose will to live there was enough to put you off the prospect forever. And then there was the Karaoke. No, I don’t like noise, especially the Frank Sinatra kind of “My effying Way”. But this was better than the Sty of the Hotel thousand seater restaurant.
****
It was our last full day. We had studiously avoided the Sun Reader area of Maspalomas and Playa del Ingles. Until now. We heard about a lagoon near the Lighthouse on the west side of Maspalomas that was a Nature Reserve and held breeding Waders. We took the plunge and headed there. A smooth Motorway with a speed limit of 120 kph took us there. Well nearby. The suburban roads were a bit of a daymare. Four wheel drives parked everywhere. No free spaces. We found a PAY car park. It was empty. We went in. 1.80 Euros for three hours. This was cheap. We parked and walked. Ten minutes later Kentish Plover were displaying before us.. In the space of two hours we doubled our species count for the Island while hundreds of tourists walked past us without knowing what was beyond their eyes a few yards away. Never mind Osprey, Shanks and Egrets around the water Chiff’s and Sardie W’s a foot from your nose in a bush along the promenade was rather special. It was time for a bit of a drive into the Montane region for a fruit juice to celebrate. Total species count 36 after final verification check.
Won’t be coming here again EVER.
Wes :loveme:
It was 17.00 hours and the sun was preparing to dip behind the mountain top across the valley as we sat outside a shack at about 1200 metres each enjoying a freshly crushed blend of Papaya, Mango, Orange and Banana in a litre glass. Dropping crumbs of Mango cake under our table surprisingly managed to tempt a very obliging Sardinian Warbler and Berthelot’s Pipit. Was this as good as the Birding would get?
We had flown out on Xmas Day in time to arrive for a walk around our resort before dressing up for the Gala dinner. Our resort was Taurito at the south western tip of the Island at the fag-end of the tourist strip and where the roads pretty well run-out. A custom built joke because of the climate. Four Hotels architected into the cliffs with three supporting beach bars and Jee-Jaw shops plus a Spar Mercado.
But it had the advantage of being close to an access route for the adventurous driver into the Central Highlands where we hoped for Trumpeter Finch and Blue Chaffinch. The morning after a stupendously crap Gala Dinner we tried to hire a car. Manyana we were told. Manyana came and the hire company told us the Police had taken some of their vehicles! So it was Manyana again. We found somewhere else and ended up with a Toyota Yaris.
Prior to this success, the previous day we had decided to get a Taxi to Puerto de Mogan, a sensitively developed fishing village in the next valley. After our failed attempt to hire a car it was now approaching lunchtime and I was a tad hungry because breakfast was equally devoid of much that I considered edible. We got in the Taxi. He seemed to understand the destination and we headed off. I asked him if he could recommend a reasonably priced Fish Restaurante.
“Pardon?” He said. The accent was French. What? We are on a Spanish Island and have ended up with a French Taxi Driver. I sighed. He didn’t deserve it, but he got it. “Your just doing this for badness aren’t you? I’ve read about you French b***** ds. You just pretend you can’t speak English to piss Englanders who can’t do languages off. You speak it like a Cockney, don’t you, but you just think you are so superior you expect everyone else to speak French. Okay, granted you won the World Cup but that was only because Ronaldo was pumped full of drugs, and, okay, Napoleon had a certain talent but excuse me if we didn’t save your sorry arse in the war, not once but twice, you Vichy b*****d.”
“Pardon monsieur? Je ne parle anglais.”
“I don’t believe it.” said I in Victor Meldrew mode
He shrugged and drove on. I wound down the window. It was beautiful weather.
Eventually I said, “Just drop us here, Johnny Foreigner,” and he looked at me and smiled and drove on, so I tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the roadside and pulled at the door handle. The Cent dropped. He pulled in. We were in one-way traffic and immediately there came a fusillade of horns from behind. He ignored them. So did I. I fished in my wallet and gave him a 10 Euro note despite the meter reading 6.50.
He said, “Thanks very much.”
I said, “Oh.”
He said, “Many of your criticisms of my country are valid, although I should point out that my father fought for the resistance. Have a nice day.”
I thanked him and closed the door.
****
…Which leaves us for the moment on the subject of driving. On the morning of day three we took possession of our little Yaris after much waiting around mixed with the frenetic behaviour of the local Spanish rep for Moron Motors. Or not so Moron maybe. After having tapped us for 20 Euros so we could bring the car back empty we discover the tank is only three parts full. Turning the ignition to engage forward motion I reconcile myself that you haven’t had a good holiday unless you have been ripped-off. This truism was to be more than fulfilled. So much so that my philosophy was to be reversed. Next time will be former Russian states and war zones where life and food is cheap. Food was twice the Euros for a sandwich than a decent curry costs in Blighty. But I divert from driving.
Having experienced numerous volcanic land spikes over the years I kind of “ken” what the roads are like and how to negotiate them. We are talking double helix corkscrews that change lateral platform direction without warning and send you on a new spiral without notice. The roads or tracks conspire to go up or down at a conspiratorial whim as does the interchange between perfect tarmac and absolute track, where first gear is the only option screaming away for an hour or so until a brief bit of plateau is reached.
By day two I could match the local four wheel drive types for elegant speed of passage taking out stupid tourist by bumpering them until they pulled over on a long bend to let me by. But the ******* Bus drivers I was never. to better. One evening a bit tired I T-Junctioned with some Tarmac from a track onto some Tarmac and nedded a right hand turn. A bus was coming my way. I thought, oh no, I don’t need you to slow me down on these roads. After a long day we were heading for the mountain shack and some fruit juice. Late afternoon and away from our Hotel. So I needed to make some pace. I pulled out in front of the Bus with fifty yards to spare.
Pace. Bloody Hell this Bus was up my arse for two mountains and two gorges like that Truck in Spielberg’s first movie success. I never knew I had this level of concentrated envelope driving inside me. All the while I ignored Norma’s screams about my speed. I could do nought else. I didn’t even have time to engender the thought I had wished I had let the Devil Driver pass the T-Junction first. Eventually he turned off for a Village stop and allowed me a more sedate climb for our fruit juice. We had barely sat down with it than this Mountain manoeuvre artist came past our static post with a roar of his air-horn on the 240 degree bend.
****
Monk Parakeet. We located a free-living community in a Palm strewn garden in the North-Western village of Agaete about half-way through the week. This was after two days of fruitless searching for Blue and Trumpeter’s finch amid the Pine forests of the Central Highlands. Singing Canary’s had long been multitudinously added to the paltry list. Yellow-legged and Lesser Black-Backed were the best we could make of the Gulls so far and this was not to improve. Feeding Rock Pigeons and Feral’s from snaffled breakfast bread on our balcony was now a regular pastime. It gave the cleaning lady a challenge to ensure she had mopped all their involuntary but I guess nonetheless pleasurable deposits of droppings from the tiled floor of our balcony.
Which brings me onto food. S**te in our Thompson PLATINUM Hotel and expensive and small-portioned in local restaurants. But despite having paid for half board we preferred to dine of an evening in a gemutlich( a German word that has no direct translation but cosy, homely and welcoming would be close) beach bar. European prices plus. From 20 to 35 Euros for two for a snack or a meal.. Our bill for New Years Eve here ran over 80 of these Euros (quite a bit on liquids, as opposed to solids, though). But we enjoyed the company of some most engaging ex-pats whose will to live there was enough to put you off the prospect forever. And then there was the Karaoke. No, I don’t like noise, especially the Frank Sinatra kind of “My effying Way”. But this was better than the Sty of the Hotel thousand seater restaurant.
****
It was our last full day. We had studiously avoided the Sun Reader area of Maspalomas and Playa del Ingles. Until now. We heard about a lagoon near the Lighthouse on the west side of Maspalomas that was a Nature Reserve and held breeding Waders. We took the plunge and headed there. A smooth Motorway with a speed limit of 120 kph took us there. Well nearby. The suburban roads were a bit of a daymare. Four wheel drives parked everywhere. No free spaces. We found a PAY car park. It was empty. We went in. 1.80 Euros for three hours. This was cheap. We parked and walked. Ten minutes later Kentish Plover were displaying before us.. In the space of two hours we doubled our species count for the Island while hundreds of tourists walked past us without knowing what was beyond their eyes a few yards away. Never mind Osprey, Shanks and Egrets around the water Chiff’s and Sardie W’s a foot from your nose in a bush along the promenade was rather special. It was time for a bit of a drive into the Montane region for a fruit juice to celebrate. Total species count 36 after final verification check.
Won’t be coming here again EVER.
Wes :loveme:
