God's waiting room

FIRST-TIME REFLECTIONS ON A MISUNDERSTOOD ISLE.

- SHARPY

‘Oh, Las Americas is like Clacton or Southend. Watch out for the Zimmer frames, and the OAPs will run over your toes with their mobility scooters!’

So went the conversation as we descended into Canarian airspace. I’d admitted I was a Tenerife virgin to the couple sharing my row and they filled me in on its colourful delights. Apparently, my destination was just like Weston Super Mare … if WSM had consistent pleasing sunshine, only 11 days of rain a year and Tropicana had been thoroughly vajazzled into a banging wave pool like Siam Park. That and a massive ruddy volcano had suddenly appeared in the Somerset hinterland.

Seeing as it was a press junket, you know where the tourist board pay your flight and accommodation to say nice things about the joint, I was carefree. After all, I like a full English, especially while sweating.

The flight was a pleasant four hours but was already an hour late due to a gobby Welsh stag-do being booted from the flight pre-takeoff for doing a swear.

My sum knowledge of the island was limited. It’s got a big volcano. The waves are good but localised. And your oldies like going there to get their tan even more leathery and sup Watneys Red Barrel. (Apologies for ‘70s Python reference there. RIP Terry).

As press junkets go, and they’re a rare beast in these belt tightened times, two whole days in TF didn’t give me much time to peek under the hood of the most prominent Canary Isle, but I’ll try dear reader, I’ll try.