Grape crushing

I can't believe it is time for wine-making again, a whole year since we were last enlisted for grape crushing - with feet.  But apparently it is and last Sunday, after serving breakfast to our guests, we ambled up the donkey track to the farm where it was all happening.  Or rather, it had all happened because we were late and the whole foot stamping process had finished.  Groan ... why is it that when we think there is no hurry we turn up late and when we turn up on time or early it's a case of nothing happening for literally hours. 
Take fiestas, for example.  We have been to some where, arriving at 9 or 10 o'clock at night we are way too early. We have actually come home again before the party has even got started.  And then at another fiesta, thinking ourselves quite 'cool' arriving at 11 pm, we are far too late.  All the food has gone and in order that we do not starve to death, a Palmeran friend rushes down to the sea to collect live limpets for our delectation.
Ah well, at least on Sunday there was the car jack 'thing' still to do.  This is when the remains of the grapes are formed into a round that they call a 'cheese.'  

A rope is then wrapped around it to help hold its form - which is vital because it is about to have the last dregs of life crushed out of it.  A board is placed over the cheese, held in place by the upright arms.  Then an exact amount of blocks of wood are piled on top until they reach the car jack.  Wind it up and literally watch it go.  The last drops of grape juice that is.

 After which it is time for lunch.  I comment that perhaps we won't stay for lunch on this occasion, after all we had hardly helped at all, it is mainly a family gathering ... and lunch time in anybody's book, is hours away.  'Good grief!  Am I mad!'  It's lunch then, just fish and potatoes, I am assured. 
In fact, it is a three course affair - chick pea soup, a choice of mains - salted fish, rabbit casserole and some other unidentified casserole - various whole goat cheeses, bbq'd potatoes, gofio, mojo sauce and a choice of desserts.  Plus wine of course.  
Well ..........

Figs galore

It's fig season.
I can't say that I had a lot to do with figs before I came to La Palma, except maybe when I might buy some dried figs from the supermarket at Christmas.  So no, I can't say that fresh figs had a starring role in my life before - but now, wow, I love them!

And that's a good thing because we have 32 fig trees on our west facing terraces. The terraces, seven of them, are all quite narrow due to the steepness of the land and it's good to have these trees growing with their network of fine roots holding the soil together.  The leaves have nearly all fallen off now we are approaching autumn but many of the trees still have plenty of fruit on.

Some of the figs are a bright green colour and others a deep purple, a mix on the same tree.  At first, we collected them and took them to the wholesaler about 40 minutes drive away.  He picked through them and informed us that only about half were any good - some were not ripe enough and they don't ripen once taken from the tree, and others were too ripe, so in fact there are only a couple of days difference.  Quite a delicate operation. 

We did return again with another batch and did much better with around eighty percent being accepted but after that we decided to dry them and then eat them. 

Nowadays, we eat them fresh from the tree while they are still warm from the sun.  Or we put them in the fridge so make a refreshing snack.  Of course, there are plenty for our friends and guests.

And then, there are our other friends, the chickens who are very partial to a fig and in fact their run incorporates a fig tree, although it never has any figs on it and its main benefit for them is the shade and for perching on. 

Canarian Proverb: Never fall asleep under the fig tree.  (Don't tell the chickens)

  

The micro

One of the things that I love most about Los Machines in Franceses is the width of the street because it is definitely of the single track variety.  If you time it right, you will spot the bus squeezing through.  The locals don't call it the 'bus' though, nor the 'guagua' but the 'micro.'  Of course, it was all built long before cars - and heaven forbid, buses - were even considered as a mode of transport in the north.  If a couple of fully-laden donkeys could pass each other, then there was enough room.

But the bus service here is surprisingly good with a two-hourly service throughout the day beginning at 6 am and finishing at 8.30 pm (weekdays).  This is vastly improved from the previous service of only three buses a day.   Nowadays, we use the bus service quite frequently to either take us to a start point for a walk or to take us back to the car or home.  

And whilst there are bus stops across the north, the micro will happily stop for you anywhere providing that you are standing in a place safe for it to stop and that he sees you.  Make sure you raise your hand and, if in doubt, jump up and down too!