There are a number of professions I’ve always thought Ali could have taken up. Not that she didn’t do a fine job of managing a fitness centre and teaching people to become personal trainers, but she might just as easily have been a nurse, a primary school teacher, a children’s entertainer, a zookeeper, a visual comedian or a podiatrist. It’s not lost on me that “Granny Ali” seems to be far more popular with our seventeen month old granddaughter than anyone else in the extended family. She just has a knack for this kind of thing you see. Little Sennen doesn’t always take to people well, but in her step grandmother she recognises a kindred spirit. She is universally loved by small children and animals. It’s just almost all of her fellow adults that she doesn’t really feel any urge to connect with. Meanwhile, she is quite comfortable at taking care of her eighty-nine year old father’s ancient yellow toenails while the rest of her relatives suddenly turn grey and announce urgent appointments in Ulaanbaatar or somewhere equally remote.
Now I’ve added another potential role to the portfolio. Physiotherapist. You see, while we’re on holiday I’m always reading - pointing my head downwards and straining neck muscles that don't need to be strained. I was struggling to turn my head in either direction, which isn’t much use when you’re about to drive halfway across the island. And so she fixed me. “Relax your shoulders. Head back. Head to the left. Head to the right. Keep doing those exercises.” She didn’t even make me lie on my front and start beating me with a mallet either. And gradually, the pain has receded.
So with a slightly loosened neck, we set off in the direction of Betancuria, the pretty white village in the mountainous interior. We’d come here eleven months earlier, blanched at the idea of paying to park, and moved on to Pajara. But this time we were going to swallow our pride and part with the entire three euros (I should add professional skinflint to that list while I’m thinking of it), and stop for a mooch and a feed at one of the local establishments. Each junction was negotiated with care as I slowed down on the approach, creaking my head to the right and left before changing course. A couple of hours later, after a tapas fuelled session in a nearby bar, we sat on the long stone bench directly before the church, basking in warm sunshine in one of the few places that was out of the unrelenting wind. That wind had been troubling us throughout the entire first week by now. I mean the name of the island means “strong wind,” but this was getting ridiculous.
Tearing oneself away from a warm sunny spot is never easy, but we had a plan for the last three hours of daylight, courtesy of a YouTube video we’d watched during our quest for new and interesting places on the island. And while we had seen the little white stone chapel nestling below the embalse in the valley below that winding narrow road before, little had we known that another delight lay close by, just out of sight. We’d find the car park on the map, and hike up to the chapel and then the arch. If everything went well, we could just about make it to the coast and the black sand beach at Ajuy in time for sunset.
Half an hour later, the little Fiat Panda carried us along a dusty track to a heavily cobbled car park, which we crawled over in first gear, one stone at a time. Even from here there was no sign of the arch. We knew it wasn’t too far away, but the terrain looked challenging. At least we had walking boots. We soon arrived at the tiny chapel, where I took a couple of shots before we went inside. And where the visitors’ book had run out of space, the walls had been completely obscured by a million graffiti artists. It had got to the point that it had become an interesting feature rather than mindless vandalism. Some AC Milan fans had been here. Inter too. Hope it wasn’t at the same time. And here, just last year, the noisy lot from behind the goal at Sevilla had paid a visit and wanted us to know about it. The Sankt Pauli fan from Hamburg had left a little card as an offering, which sat neatly alongside more conventional religious literature items.
With the chapel visit completed, it was only an hour until sunset. One thing we absolutely didn’t need to be doing was heading down that ravine behind the mountain in the dark. Not unless we wanted four broken ankles that was. “Maybe we should just go on to Ajuy,” I suggested doubtfully. I was sure she’d agree, but “it might not be that far” was the reply. So upwards we went, gradually winding around the side of the mountain towards an unseen destination. At one point, the way ahead seemed unclear, but a young German couple coming the opposite way showed us our route. “There’s a bit of climbing to do, but you have better shoes than us,” said the rather well furnished young man who was sweating profusely. “But it’s just up there. Not far at all. It’s really very nice indeed.”
Ten minutes later I thought we’d found it, but in truth I was only kidding myself. “This isn’t it,” insisted Ali. “We’re looking for an arch. This is a cave.” She was right. “It must be up here.” And before I could move, she’d vanished. I added “mountain goat” to the list and followed her. In the last few yards we passed another descending couple, who confirmed that it was indeed just there to the left. And for those of you who’ve been to the Arches National Park in the Midwest to do battle with a gazillion other togs at sunrise, we’d managed to time our arrival here in the Midwest of Fuerteventura perfectly. Nobody else was around, and soft yellow light was glowing against the wall behind the arch. Ten minutes later and we’d have missed it. Ali’s persistence in bringing us here had paid off. I pulled out the list, wrote down “motivational coach,” and put it away again before the shadows crept over the mountain and cloaked us in darkness.
