“Prohibido el paso.” The notice on the sign was accompanied by a figure of a walker with an admonitory line across the body for anyone who was in doubt. In fact there were two signs at the base of Montana Negra, just at the point where we proposed to begin the ascent. The approach from the car park had been entertaining enough already, as the billions of beads of volcanic gravel gave way beneath our feet. I could be melodramatic and tell you it was like wading through treacle, but that would be an exaggeration. But it was a bit like battling through a modest layer of snow. Hot black snow at that. As we looked up at the two hundred metres above us, we noticed an already worn track that gradually headed out of sight along the western side of Montana Negra. With no further warning signs to ward us off, we breathed in and began to wade.
The climb itself was short but far from sweet, as each footstep found us sinking into the soft shifting ground beneath us. It seemed the entire mountain was made entirely of those tiny black beads. Progress was slow and steady, but the track we followed had been traced by our invisible guide to keep the gradient at a respectable but not too challenging angle. Gradually but gradually we made our way to the far side of the mountain, where the view for which we were putting ourselves through all of this discomfort was obscured by the gravelly mass, somewhere under which presumably lay a core of hard igneous rock. For a while it seemed that the summit that wasn’t so far away would remain forever aloof and unapproachable. Would we just end up spending the rest of the afternoon walking in circles around the highest quarter of the cone that seemed to shun our attentions, admiring the geraniums and aeoniums as we went, yet never getting any closer to the top? But then we saw where the people who’d gone before had clearly had enough of pussyfooting about and made a more direct line to the green crown that marked the end of the climb. A small flock of sparrows broke from their cover as we crunched the final steps to what must be one of the best viewpoints on Lanzarote. It had only taken half an hour to get here, but it had been a long half hour.
Much like the adventures in Madeira in the spring were supposed to be a holiday, the autumn trip to Lanzarote was one of those where the camera bag was on board for the occasional foray into Togland. We were here to take morning dips in the pool, outings to the island’s many attractions in the hire car, and regular afternoons lazing on the beach and lounging about in the surprisingly warm Atlantic Ocean. Photography would take place, but not centre stage. But there’s no denying the fact that Lanzarote is a rather splendid island to bring your camera to – in my opinion especially so for the earthy browns, reds, ochres and blacks that colour the twisted landscape of the Timanfaya National Park. If you’d been standing at this viewpoint pretty much any time of day or night between 1730 and 1736, the landscape in front of you would have resembled a collection of enormous pyres, lava flows spreading left right and centre. You’d probably have been glad you bought your goggles and a clothes peg to put on your nose too. Apparently, during this period where a number of villages were buried beneath the black lava fields forever, nobody died, although a number of goat herds were poisoned by noxious gases. I read this in the guide that Ali found in a local charity shop just days before were caught the plane. In every direction we could see the craters that told the story of this bruised and battered archipelago. Every one of them looked like an adventure in the making.
And here’s a lovely thing about being on an island chain that’s just a challenging pedalo ride from the beaches of north west Morocco. By the time we stood and grinned at the rich, unmistakably volcanic tones of the raw and empty landscape below, it was just before five in the afternoon. By now, our home two thousand miles away would already be almost in darkness, yet here the sun still shone strongly. Even on our lofty perch we were in tee shirts and shorts, basking in the warm light and enjoying the rewards of that difficult route march from the car park. Less than a mile to the north lay the stunning ruddy flamed flank of Montana Colorada, studded with patches of bright green scrub. And then to the west, centre stage among the peaks and calderas before the setting sun sat the Volcan El Cuervo, the most distinctive remnant of them all. It looked as if the demolition team had started work, but run out of funds and left what remained of the volcano standing.
As the light fell and the orange ball settled into the frame, I took my shots and hoped I’d made the most of our visit. Much as I’d have happily stood here and watched the day ebb away, it wasn’t lost on us that while sunset and dusk are no more than passing acquaintances in our northern latitudes, here they go hand in hand. No sooner has the orange ball disappeared beneath the horizon than the dark cloaked night coughs and reaches across the all too fleeting blue hour to announce its presence. For a few moments you might get a pink tuft of cirrus on a deepening blue sky, but very soon the land is reduced to dark silhouettes against a saturated orange glow on the horizon. Although I had my torch in the pack, it seemed sensible to get back to the car before the shadows arrived and the night crept in to surround us.
And it was at this point that Ali, who is practically blind without them, realised she’d left her glasses in the car. While I could now swap my shades for my varifocals, she would be making her way down the slope in the double dark. So like James Garner leading Donald Pleasance, I held her hand as we began the descent. The irony is that I look a little bit like Donald Pleasance. She doesn’t look anything like James Garner though – did I need to say that? She doesn’t even drive a 1974 Pontiac Firebird for goodness’ sake (depending upon your age you may need to look some of this up). The good news is that the beads that had made the upward trek so challenging were now our friends, and although neither of us had ever been skiing, we fancied ourselves as downhill Olympians on a black run as the soft terrain eased the way and allowed us to proceed at about five times the pace at which we’d climbed to the top just over an hour earlier. In record time James and Donald were back at road level, with their boots full of black gravel and the word “happy” written in bold type across their faces. The mountain that didn’t want to be climbed had been conquered and then left in peace once more. There would be more of them to wade to the summits of as the adventure continued.
