Crossing our fingers

The third of May on La Palma signifies a time to get your crosses out – well, in truth, they never actually go away – and adorn them with great finery. Pure white silk, costume jewelry and fresh flowers being the order of the day. Nice huh?
Well actually, yes.
For us, it is a time to head for the hills. Where better than the solitude of one of the furthest flung places on the island, Juan Adalid. It is a trip of nearly an hour, along the mountain roads of the north and to the nondescript hamlet of Llano Negro. Here we pause to support one of the few shops open on Sundays and Bank Holidays.
And then a U turn to San Antonio where two lonely flags fly high atop their masts to indicate that 'something interesting' just might be happening. We search out the near hidden road to Juan Adalid which is where our friends live. We almost always have to think which one of the single track roads, heavily bordered by tall greenery, will take us to their isolated house.
We drive cautiously along the road which is festooned with curves making it impossible to see ahead and the imminent arrival of a car hurtling towards us at full speed in the opposite direction. But now, we have joined a small convey of 4 x 4 vehicles all heading our way and at least we have some safety in numbers.
Where the impenetrable roadside greenery is not impeding our view of the road ahead, unguarded and impressive steep drop-offs are the norm with the road seemingly etched like a squiggly pencil line on the side of the hill. The view down to the sheer cliffs and the sea are, well, awesome, in every sense of the word.
There is a saying, in Yorkshire at least, 'it's a grand life if you don't weaken.' Similarly, it is a great drive if you don't crash or drop off the edge.
And so, after 20 minutes of rallying along with the other cars ever downward, having long passed the wind turbines, we arrive at a junction of other spindly roads. Here the other cars divert to a nearby hill as they are going to the annual fiesta of La Sentinela.
We continue on to our friends and their solitary outpost. Their hunting dogs alert them to our arrival long before we get anywhere near. Chickens which are dotted about here, there and everywhere continue to search the ground for any morsel of chicken-edible food, seemingly oblivious to our vehicle bumping along the now unsurfaced, uneven track. Near the house though, mother hens scurry away with their tiny babies into the safety of the cactus. Their goats are somewhere ... somewhere ... even our friends don't know exactly where, except that they will return in the evening.
We sip a welcome drink and chat about news in their part of the island. We are always surprised just how much news there is.
And then we set off on foot to join a couple of hundred other people at the fiesta on the opposite hill and yet again, marvel at how Palmerans have a happy knack for selecting such distant and logistically difficult places for a mass get-together.
But is is worth it. Not just for the mounds of free food – soup, paella, cheese, bread, potatoes, cake – and free wine, and live music of course. But also to see just how pretty their cross is.
And it is.