Canary Islands Diary: Beach Banter
By Joe Cawley
Although we get plenty of the hot yellow stuff all year round, it's only right about now when the beaches start to fill with a plethora of varying nationalities. And while seaside trips might still imply bucket and spade days for the Brits, for other cultures a day at the coast is not the same thing.
I noticed this last weekend, when Pickfords helped us move 75% of our household belongings (as required by our offspring) down to Compostela Beach in Playa de las Americas for the day.
We were late. As usual. By the time we eventually arrived, any elbow space - let alone towel room - was in woefully short supply. Finally, dripping with sweat, we trudged to a semi-vacant spot where to our left several generations of Spanish were sheltering under a marquee of overlapping beach brollies.
Huge efforts had been made to repel the conditions that you'd normally seek on a beach i.e. sand, the sunshine and a sea-view.
A carpet of remaining towels protected the delicate feet of the younger members of the family from the hot sand. If it wasn't for the fact that they were all in swimsuits - except the grandmother who was dressed all in black - you'd think that you were peering into someone's living room.
At the edge of the group a tanned teenager sat astride her boyfriend who lay on his front. Her face was contorted in fierce concentration as she nipped his flesh between her thumbs, minesweeping for spots then wiping the results on the back of his shorts. Her family looked proudly on.
A red-top newspaper protruding from the top of a straw shopping bag gave an obvious clue as to the nationality of our neighbours to our right. It was obvious they were here to revel in all three enemies of the Spanish tribe.
Mr Brit stood with one hand cupped over his eyes, desperately surveying the scene for a glimpse of the topless girls he'd heard about from workmates back home. His legs gleamed in the midday sun like whitewashed flagpoles on a tropical parade ground.
Mrs Brit sat upright, slowly cooking in a flood of coconut oil. The brim of a humongous straw hat shaded her Jackie Collins and her shoulders where both straps of a C&A one-piece had been pushed daringly off their perch.
The junior Brits were both lying comatose. The boy of about 14 lay on his back atop a Sheffield United beach towel. Pale skin and red hair hinted that this wasn't his natural environment. His sister was possibly a year older. She was on her front, bikini top unfastened, arms and legs spread wide to minimise the catastrophe of white bits. A teen mag lay discarded in the sand at the side of her head, its pages blowing back and forth from one Hollywood hunk to another. A tide of "This is soooo boring," gushed from her mouth at rhythmic intervals.
→ Next Page: Let's meet at the beach...
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