In his writings, Plato left notes of Atlantis. He told of an idyllic paradise; a highly civilised society in a state of utopia, undiscovered and untouched, that sank into the ocean during a violent earthquake.

Dare I go against one of the great historical philosophers and claim that he of great wisdom was wrong?  Why indeed, yes I do.  Never did it sink and remain forever a paradise undiscovered.  Plato, I say, you are wrong!

The first time the Iberia flight tipped its wing, I snatched a glance of her high point. It was enough to make me curious, yet that glimpse confused me.  Dry desert landscapes filled the window, far from the image I’d conjured up of a spot of heaven. Stepping off the plane into a burst of arid heat, second guessing took over, I wondered about the lifestyle decision I’d made.  Had I lost my mind I wondered, giving up my beautiful Sydney? Why, oh why? Where were the coconut trees?  The waiters and their bowls of tropical fruit? The non-stop piña coladas by the pool?

Engulfed by a sense of jet lag induced dread, I set one foot in front of the other, unaware that by the end of the day, my initial perception and disappointment would dissipate and Nirvana would have found me.

Straddling the back of the motorbike that had made its way from Portugal via a long ferry trip to greet us, we set out leaving behind the dryness.  The dream of coconut trees was replaced with the more captivating sight of hillside after hillside covered in banana plantations. Beaches, magical sandy black ones with clear, pristine waters that tickled the skin, soon became a regular companion, filling afternoons with snorkelling and sunsets.  Winding roads that descended through the magical valley of Masca and out to the tip of Teno, would provide bursts of adrenaline, the only thing separating the road from the valley floor some 8-1500metres down being small squares of concrete.  It was just the beginning of the discovery of the garden of Eden. 

Hikes along donkey trails, over unspoilt mountains at the Punta de Anaga to the winter waking of a snow covered Teide both gave moments of serenity.  The madness of the Danza de las Libreas in El Palmar left aching muscles from the non-stop laughing.  Exploring the pyramids of Güímar and tracing the steps of the native Guanches bought a dose of unknown history.  All moments when I came to realise that Atlantis had never disappeared. 

Indeed, it lived on, a kingdom on the seabed, protected by the Canary Islands archipelago. A hideaway inhabited by schools of dolphins in a part of the world relatively unknown and uniquely unspoilt.  Like a rigid old tree at the time of her demise, Plato’s Atlantis left behind roots that have since shot up to form a new and beautiful paradise of islands, the most majestic and dominant being Tenerife.  The trepidation of living on a sun-kissed tourist island had been quashed by the constant discovery of a new little corner of heaven. 

Suddenly, when without warning after three years of living in her temperate climate and exploring her island beauty, word came that it was time to move.  I felt overwhelmed.  The dread that filled my stomach that first time I caught a peek at her landscape, was minor in comparison to the heartache I felt at having to leave.  I’d come to know her as a friend, and the friendship while young, was developing into something profoundly beautiful.

There was a time of change on the way and with it a sense of unfinished business. Last goodbyes to favourite cafes in Santa Cruz de Tenerife where I’d sit and they’d come to know my breakfast order of cafe con leche and tostado con queso tomate.  With a satisfied appetite, a stroll would follow to the Mercado de Neustra Señora for fruits, vegetables, azeitunas and alcaparas. There were only so many more of these mornings left. A limited number of Sundays dining on dorada in Los Abrigos remained.  What would a weekend be without a bottle of Monopole, papas arrugadas and a spicy mojo?

Knowing that an unattained goal would always return to haunt, there was one important adventure that needed to be crossed off the list before I could board any planes bound for Paris.  There was a hill to be climbed. More precisely, a volcano.

I’d climbed many mountains since that moment three years earlier when I’d set foot on the arid, volcanic surface. Yet the one I really wanted to get to the top of had remained out of reach.  Having set out once, I’d retreated, beaten back by cold, the wind burning every tip of my body.  I’d walked his plains, his 18kms of Las Cañadas and when I was too late for the bus, I had no choice but to walk the 18kms return to my car.  I’d walked from his base over the Paisaje Lunar and down to the coast, stopping to soak in the vistas of pristine blue skies, the aqua waters, the oddity of the Tajinaste plant that had me feeling like I was stepping out of a page of Wyndham’s ‘Day of the Triffids’.  I’d done it all, just not him.  I’d ridden the cable car up, yet Spain’s master, El Teide, the highest peak in Spain, had so far defeated me.  I knew I couldn’t leave without getting up there. Up to the very top.  By myself. On foot.

The determination ran through me as I set out and if there was a chill in the air that day, I never felt it.  Every inch of me felt like I was warmed by cockles.  I walked.  I passed people, they passed me back.  I passed them again.  A fellow hiker offered me energy food, “no thank you, I have no need”, I said, feeling like a pilgrim on a great mission.  I soldiered on, passing foolish tourists descending the rugged land in thongs. As I strode higher, the energy overtook.  Higher and higher, and finally, there it was, the peak, 12000 ft above sea level.  I’d made it as far as the authorities allow lay people to go.  The last 100 metres, out of reach without special permission.  From time to time, little bursts of sulphur could be seen steaming out of picón del teide crevasses.

Sitting there, I had no need for reassurance that Plato was correct, Atlantis had existed. And that was where he was so terribly wrong, it wasn’t something of the past.  It was there in front of me, still in existence, alive before my eyes. 

Sitting soaking in the silence, it was one of the most magical sounds ever.  Looking out over the clouds, the tops of sister islands peaked out.  I took photos with my eyes wanting that the browns, sands and yellow tones would live on, as they do when I close my eyes now and remember those moments. 

The need to descend was coming too fast. The distance back to the car, the diminishing daylight, the limited time on the island, it was all a brutal force against me.   I started the return down, dragging toes, knowing the day had been an embrace of everything that had been special about my time in Tenerife. In contrast to the energy I had earlier in the day, I shuffled slowly, not wanting it to be over, at the same time knowing it wouldn’t be over. It was just ‘a bientot’, never ‘au revoir’.

Click here to read version francaise

All photos copyright Carina Okula -  nimble-wit dot com

As the chill started to encircle us in typical September style, we headed out to pass a sunny visit to Normandy, dragging in tow an 86year old father in law, in town from Connecticut, and with the great importance on the agenda being a visit to St Mère Eglise.  He had a long standing wish to visit the town that became famous in the movie about the longest night, to see with his ageing eyes, the steeple of the church where the legendry paratrooper hung all night long, dodging German gunfire as a battle was fought during the second World War.

A car trip, an ageing but loving and generous grandpa, two ankle biters and a couple of hundred kilometres between us and home meant an overnight trip would serve us best.  I’m never one to enjoy a B and B.  It is something that causes endless friction between my husband and I when planning trips.  My idea of comfort doesn’t tie in with his.  To give credibility to his reasoning, he’ll add in the kid factor.   I stand my ground, kids and all, I want somewhere with at least a hint of lush.  With all requirements in mind,  I started to search the internet to see what I could find.  At least by taking it on myself, I had a sense of some control.  Mind you there was every chance the hole thing could backfire and we'd end up in some poo soggy dairy farm in the middle of nowhere, which indeed we did before the trip was over.

When I hit on their website, it seemed too good.  A large two bedroom suite, sleeps six plus a baby and under 120 euros for a night.  It looked a superior passable in the pictures, so I called.  Yes, there is a vacancy, yes we do tables d’hotes, ok, see you in three days.  Off we set, me squashed worse than a sardine in the middle of two children’s car seats, sucking in my shoulder blades to endure the next two hours of repetitive, “cow” “moo”, “cow”, “moo”.  Life with a two year old is great for killing off the brain cells.  In fact, I’d like to see a study done to see which kills more and quicker, a glass of red wine, or a week with a toddler!

Just when I thought my shoulders were permanently hunched and I would be sent to the towers of Notre Dame, we found an isolated road heading into nowhere.  Eventually it took us into the drive we were seeking.   The website photos did not do it justice.

From the moment of stepping through the front door, there were little pieces of history, knick knacks that come from someone’s past life.  Entering  the suite allowed for surprise, 90m2 of clean, pristine sleep space, filled with charm and everything you imagine a french room might be.  Two bedrooms connected by a bathroom meant we were able to keep an eye on all things fragile, children and grandfathers.  Photos on their website don’t even come close to portraying the reality of comfort, it was worthy of any four star hotel.

 Thinking we couldn’t ask for better, indeed it came.  It, or rather she, came in the form of  a big black lab, “Plume” who my daughter still sobs for on the odd occasion.  With Plume, the children chased, ran, cuddled in the large gardens at the rear of the house whilst we indulged in un aperitif as the evening arrived.

Dinner with our hosts was a delicious mix of company, local food and produce.  Being a non meat eater, neither the veal not the pork (having come from the farm next door)  appealed to me.  But, by all accounts, my “yeah it was OK”  husband declared it to be delicious.   Vegetables were local, dessert was scrumptious and the only thing that was better, was the absolutely divine home made jam that came with breakfast the following morning. 

Speaking of breakfast, once that was out of the way, our hostess collected our children and started off on a walk.  Not someone to let a virtual stranger walk off with my precious bundles, I tagged along and indeed,  I did find myself in a poo-soggy cow farm. 

As the four legged species were paraded across the road and into the stalls, the children were fixated, so much that they ignorant to the stench.  As the cows were hooked up be milked, we were warmly welcomed into the farmers domain and regionally dialect french until the machine kicked in and the noise indicated it was time to return, collect our bags and head off. 

As we loaded the car, and I resumed my squashed, hunched up position preparing for the inundation of monotonous three letter words, we promised the children to go back before they too are old and grey.  With their hankering for Plume, and my need for a fix of that jam, I think it will be sooner rather that later that we settle in for the journey again.

Our night in the two bedroom suite with three adults, two children, dinner for all and breakfast the following morning came in under 180 euros. Recommendation doesn't do it justice, it warrants a personalised visit indeed. 

 Contact

Manoir de Magneville

50310 Fresville

Tel 02 33 01 02 24

http://monsite.orange.fr/manoirdemagneville/