18th March 2013

Land sighted! Boats, dolphins, and seabirds all appeared as if choreographed for our early breakfast at 7:45 am. By sheer good fortune, the captain had stumbled upon Santa Cruz de Tenerife just before we were forced to start gnawing on the table legs for sustenance. We had an excursion booked, hence the ungodly hour.

By 8:00 am, we were snugly docked, and by 9:30 am, we’d been herded onto one of the waiting coaches. As usual, there were dozens of them lined up, each bound for a different corner of the island. Having never been to Tenerife, and having heard a mixed bag of reports (ranging from “a gem” to “Blackpool with cacti”), we thought we’d better investigate and form our own opinion.

Predictably, we were lumped in with a group of German passengers. The guide conducted proceedings almost entirely in German, pausing now and then to throw a few English crumbs our way. Ironically, it wasn’t us Brits who complained, but the Japanese tourists. We, of course, sat in dignified silence, drawing on our traditional post-WW1 and WW2 smugness: fine, you may have the better economy, the more charismatic Chancellor, and a suspiciously efficient transport system, but in the great game without a ball, it’s still 2–0 to us.

Our first stop was the charming town of La Orotava, with its elegant houses and ornate wooden balconies. Cameras clicked, tourists scattered, and we dutifully admired the architecture. From there, we trundled off to Pueblo Chico, an open-air museum consisting of a meticulously constructed miniature town at the foot of the Teide Volcano. Yes, it was a bit touristy, but the detail was astonishing. We were plied with complimentary drinks and snacks, which most people wolfed down as if they hadn’t eaten since the war. Given that we’d had a hearty breakfast and were heading straight back to the ship’s buffet, I couldn’t fathom the urgency.

Our final stop was Puerto de la Cruz, the island’s main tourist hub. We were given a whole forty-five minutes to explore, which hardly seemed enough to get lost properly, but it was enough to gain an impression. Surprisingly peaceful for the height of the season, it had no garish billboards, no booming sound systems, and none of the bare-chested bulldogs clutching cans of lager that adorn so many European resorts. Instead, there was a neat, tasteful atmosphere, with streets that looked as if someone had swept them. There’s no real beach, but they’ve thoughtfully installed a vast outdoor pool complex to make up for it. Would I come back? Possibly, for a short break. But I’d definitely rent a car to escape the tourist bubble and see the rest of the island.

Back aboard, we tucked into lunch, the day’s speciality being Spanish cuisine. The paella was decent enough, though Sue declared mine at home to be superior (a statement I fully intend to quote at every opportunity). Sadly, shortly afterwards, she developed a migraine, which I maintain was down to the ship’s paella rather than my company. She slept through the afternoon, while I enjoyed some peaceful reading on deck, watching the boats in the harbour.

By dinner, Sue was still fragile, which was not helped when the waiters launched into a martial-arts-themed dance routine complete with blaring music. Rather than endure the spectacle, we made a tactical retreat to our cabin for some blessed silence, darkness, and an early night.