Next, we were on our way to visit the volcanoes. A very windy road took us to Timanfaya Visitor Centre. Our coach parked precariously, almost vertically, in the visitor centre car park. I couldn’t wait to get off, not wanting to see the whole bus, along with all of us, go toppling down the hill.
“Everyone off now please. Remember your belongings,” said our guide, her voice shaking a few tourists out of a snooze. I grabbed my handbag and quickly scooted down the steps. I finally got to see our guide as she stood smiling and counting us as we stepped off. She was younger than I had thought – maybe fortyish and was very tanned, with a mature attractiveness. Families were standing around waiting, sipping water bottles. I smiled at a little girl, clinging to her mother’s hip. The mum was preoccupied with a small baby, squirming restlessly in her arms. The little girl shot me a beaming smile. I then indulged in a spot of peek-a-boo and face pulling. I probably enjoyed it best. Soon enough, our guide was back from the reception with our tickets and brought us round to the first part of the ‘Fire Mountain’ tour.
Accompanied by a Park Ranger, our group was taken over a little slope, up to the left of the car park.
“It is only hay on the poles that the Rangers are using,” our guide informed us as the men pushed metal rods into a gorge that had been dug out, a few feet deep into the mountain. Suddenly the hay burst into flames, receiving a gasp and then applause from the tour party. We were then led down another hill a few more minutes away. There were very small holes speckled over it as if a family of Prairie dogs had been busy.
“These holes are deeper and you will see the effect the heat from underneath can have after just a few seconds. Please everyone, stand back.”
We all took a collective step backwards. I raised my eyebrows to my little friend. Her daddy was now cuddling her and pulling her into him. She looked wrapped up, happy. I felt a pang. I’m not sure for what – wanting a child or wanting a dad.
A ranger poured water into one of the holes and stepped briskly to the side.
Bang! Whoosh!
A split second later and a powerful shot of steam shot into the air. This time the gasp from the crowd was substantially louder. The effect had been very impressive.
Our tour guide grinned and gestured back towards the visitor centre, “This way please.”
The final demonstration was through a passageway inside the centre. It contained a very deep and wide pit. Above it was a giant open metal grill with pieces of chicken and beef sizzling on it. They actually barbequed food for the café over the top of a volcano.
Wow.
That was bloody cool. I took a photo to show Mike. He’d love one of his kebabs done like that.
After a wander around the visitor centre, we were taken back to the bus for a half hour ride through the volcano site. This was the aftermath of centuries of eruptions, through the actual gorges and ravines that had been created. It’s hard to describe the area – basically it’s like fucking Mars! It has been used as a backdrop for science fiction films. A one-way road had literally been dug out of mounds of solid lava – in places six feet high piles of lava, forming a kind of tunnel for buses to fit though. Only registered bus companies are permitted to travel anywhere in the volcano mountain park. The road weaves through the bizarre landscape, sometimes teetering on the edge of vomit-inducing cliffs, looking down on volcanic craters. I didn’t mind the volcanoes so much, but some of the sheer drops didn’t agree with me. It didn’t help that the bus played ‘atmospheric’ music at full tilt. At the summit they closed with Thus Spoke Zarathustra from 2001: A Space Odyssey. I’ve gotta say though – the whole ride was fascinating. But, I was also glad when we were a little lower down again. My tummy had flipped a good few times. I was also pleased because the stop before home was going to be at a local vineyard.
As we descended the mountainside, I thought back to that holiday again. I don’t know why that memory from my childhood stood out so much. Maybe it was because I could remember precious few good times with my mum. She wasn’t always a mess; I guess the addiction must have crept up on her.
“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.”
Mr. Larkin was most certainly right. I suppose in the poem he does go on to say that they were fucked up in their time too. Maybe that’s true enough. God knows my Mum didn’t have it easy as a child either. She grew up in a small village in County Antrim, a very Proddy little place. Her home had been a dilapidated old farmhouse, sitting right on where the village road was later built. It was opposite the local Presbyterian church too. It was very quiet. She lived there for most of her childhood with her parents and my Aunt. Her dad – my grandfather, was a local bus driver. I think he was probably a man of quite simple tastes, from what I gather, but a good man – principled.
My mum never talked to me much about her childhood. It was my dad who told me in later life what happened to her one day when she was about ten. My dad swore that he believed that day a little time bomb has been placed inside my mother and that one day it was inevitably going to go off.
It was the seventies and The Troubles were tearing the country apart. One Sunday afternoon, my Mum was helping her Dad tidy up some
