If you haven't been to the Canaries the very thought of Tenerife might stick in your costadelsol. Santa Cruz de Tenerife though is a real town. Up north and away from the clatter. The boss of tapas too. I have eaten my way the length and breadth of the place, and oh the pizza, the manchego, the pulpo gallega. A fat slice of mushroom collapsed on a plate with the weight of the oil on it. Asparagus swaddled in proscuitto and mayonnaise. There was a Chinese place you'd be guaranteed to find half the Fillipino fitters in their Going Out Jeans. And perhaps a couple of stout engineers with saucy pursers who'd followed them there too. I have a penchant for octopus, Pulpo, Galician style. Once it arrived as two brave fellows plonked whole on a plate. Purple and bruised like a pair of bare-knuckle fighters clenched mitts chopped at the wrist and presented to me for lunch. As if I'd cried 'bring me the hands of Jimmy McGraw!'
There's a park at the top of the hill, a secret park if you like. A large sad lady in the middle of a faltering fountain and some broken swings. Look. How happy is she? we asked. In the park on a Sunday with her dad and her blue dress on and A Balloon.