While people are enjoying their well-earned holidays by the beach in Tazacorte or at the various rural houses around the island, for the most part things tend to keep us pretty busy at home on the finca (small-holding) here in Franceses. Not only is it home to us but also the location of the casa rural La Casita and the bed and breakfast accommodation. One of things we are less busy doing these days however is restoration works.
But of course it wasn't always like this and I remember when we first came to look at the house 'as if it were yesterday.' What would we find we wondered as we drove to the very north of the island, far from the capital of Santa Cruz. One thing we had been assured of was that we would be the only English speakers there in the sleepy hamlet of Las Tierras which sits at the edge of an only marginally less sleepy Franceses in Garafia (the second largest municipality with less inhabitants than even the smallest municipality).
Our recently acquired and still shaky grasp of Spanish was certainly going to be tested to the full. I could only hope that what we had learned from our scarily slim paperback, 'Learn Spanish in 6 Weeks,' with its worn pages and peeling spine from having been read and re-read at every available moment was going to be get us through.
And then of course, there was the little matter of location to consider.
We had always felt that the north was the most beautiful part of the island with its dramatic scenery of swooping green-clad ravines and mountain ridges, seemingly only held in place by the mighty Atlantic. But in an area where there are more goats than people, it was probably safe to assume that a property being sold by Palmeran farmers might be a bit of a project. Whether this was one step too far was another question.
The property, we were told, was down a track that only a 4 x 4 could negotiate and so we would have to walk down the adjacent donkey path to it. This was probably not a good start. However, we had already spent 5 whole months in the Canaries searching for the right place to live. La Palma had stolen our hearts above all the islands (hands down actually) and we had rented an apartment in Tazacorte for two of those months, but whilst we had really enjoyed staying in a beach-side location, it had always felt more of a holiday than a home. Being country lovers and having been brought up on a farm in Yorkshire myself, the call of the wild was, well, calling.
As it transpired the owners of the property had already started the restoration with the intention that they would live in it happily ever after. I have to confess it was probably a good thing that we didn't see it in its original dilapidated condition as the photo below was taken only after some considerable works.
The oldest part, the Casita, had already been part-restored and was exactly the sort of house we love - old and with many original features such as wooden floors, ceilings and window seats. And two foot thick walls of course. However, the other house had been left empty and untouched for years. Broken and missing glass in the windows allowed the elements to drift in at will and the whole house was wrapped up in a metal tube, these being water pipes that made it look like a present tied with galvanized string. Even though plenty of work had already been done, there was still plenty to be done, that's for sure.
Then there was the land, all 2 acres of it. The weeds were waist height and the suggestion to the owner that we might walk the land to see where the boundaries lie, which were of the 'over there' variety, surprised him to say the least. We could try it he said, with a look of disbelief that we might actually attempt to fight our way through a jungle over unknown and precipitous land. Well, that's foreigners for you, his face said. Apart from flat land at the front and side of the house, a lot of the land was west facing and cascading steeply downwards in a series of fig-tree filled terraces. Clearly, if we were not to slide off down into the ravine ourselves, then we had better confine any exploring until we were wearing a harness and rope. Or until we knew the land.
We were shown the view however. I won't even try to put it into words. Just to say that it takes in the whole of the north coast, the isolated and iconic hamlet of El Tablado to the west (from where you can actually hear a rare vehicle on the move or the tinkling of a goat bell despite it being a two-hour walk away), the other hamlets far, far away and up to the ridge of the mighty Caldera at over 2000m above sea level.
If there had been any doubt before, we knew this was the place for us and two weeks later, we moved in. After all, the old farmstead just required a few tweaks here and there. And it's amazing what a few years of tweaking can do.
But of course it wasn't always like this and I remember when we first came to look at the house 'as if it were yesterday.' What would we find we wondered as we drove to the very north of the island, far from the capital of Santa Cruz. One thing we had been assured of was that we would be the only English speakers there in the sleepy hamlet of Las Tierras which sits at the edge of an only marginally less sleepy Franceses in Garafia (the second largest municipality with less inhabitants than even the smallest municipality).
Our recently acquired and still shaky grasp of Spanish was certainly going to be tested to the full. I could only hope that what we had learned from our scarily slim paperback, 'Learn Spanish in 6 Weeks,' with its worn pages and peeling spine from having been read and re-read at every available moment was going to be get us through.And then of course, there was the little matter of location to consider.
We had always felt that the north was the most beautiful part of the island with its dramatic scenery of swooping green-clad ravines and mountain ridges, seemingly only held in place by the mighty Atlantic. But in an area where there are more goats than people, it was probably safe to assume that a property being sold by Palmeran farmers might be a bit of a project. Whether this was one step too far was another question.
The property, we were told, was down a track that only a 4 x 4 could negotiate and so we would have to walk down the adjacent donkey path to it. This was probably not a good start. However, we had already spent 5 whole months in the Canaries searching for the right place to live. La Palma had stolen our hearts above all the islands (hands down actually) and we had rented an apartment in Tazacorte for two of those months, but whilst we had really enjoyed staying in a beach-side location, it had always felt more of a holiday than a home. Being country lovers and having been brought up on a farm in Yorkshire myself, the call of the wild was, well, calling.As it transpired the owners of the property had already started the restoration with the intention that they would live in it happily ever after. I have to confess it was probably a good thing that we didn't see it in its original dilapidated condition as the photo below was taken only after some considerable works.
The oldest part, the Casita, had already been part-restored and was exactly the sort of house we love - old and with many original features such as wooden floors, ceilings and window seats. And two foot thick walls of course. However, the other house had been left empty and untouched for years. Broken and missing glass in the windows allowed the elements to drift in at will and the whole house was wrapped up in a metal tube, these being water pipes that made it look like a present tied with galvanized string. Even though plenty of work had already been done, there was still plenty to be done, that's for sure.
Then there was the land, all 2 acres of it. The weeds were waist height and the suggestion to the owner that we might walk the land to see where the boundaries lie, which were of the 'over there' variety, surprised him to say the least. We could try it he said, with a look of disbelief that we might actually attempt to fight our way through a jungle over unknown and precipitous land. Well, that's foreigners for you, his face said. Apart from flat land at the front and side of the house, a lot of the land was west facing and cascading steeply downwards in a series of fig-tree filled terraces. Clearly, if we were not to slide off down into the ravine ourselves, then we had better confine any exploring until we were wearing a harness and rope. Or until we knew the land.We were shown the view however. I won't even try to put it into words. Just to say that it takes in the whole of the north coast, the isolated and iconic hamlet of El Tablado to the west (from where you can actually hear a rare vehicle on the move or the tinkling of a goat bell despite it being a two-hour walk away), the other hamlets far, far away and up to the ridge of the mighty Caldera at over 2000m above sea level.
If there had been any doubt before, we knew this was the place for us and two weeks later, we moved in. After all, the old farmstead just required a few tweaks here and there. And it's amazing what a few years of tweaking can do.
