Where the Road Runs Out
Really, I should have walked the last mile. This wasn’t the place to bring a Fiat Panda, which despite its wolfish looks was just a little city car designed for tarmac alone. But once I’d started inching my way over the bumpy track, it was difficult to stop and turn around. In some places the route became smoother, lulling me into a false sense of security, before we’d arrive at a small crest covered in jagged cobbles where we slowed down to a deathly crawl. In fact it might have been quicker if I’d walked too. After three increasingly lumpy inclines, we finally descended onto a smoother section, where the elderly bandana wearing man at the wheel of a rugged affair that was properly designed for these dirt roads watched and waited with undisguised amusement. In more than twenty-five years of driving on the right hand side of the road without issue on continental soil, this was the first time I’d reverted to British rules - but only because “my lane” looked more like a lava field than a road. Finally, the track was wide enough to turn around without disappearing into a drift of sand or puncturing all four tyres simultaneously on razor sharp stones. I need to hire a Land Rover next time. That eight kilometre stretch of dirt road from El Cotillo to Majanicho is begging to be explored, but you can’t do it in the wrong vehicle without seriously jeopardising your insurance package. Now was the third or fourth time I’d crept in at the edges of this kind of terrain now, and I knew I was pushing my luck. It would definitely be the last - assuming we made it back to where the tarmac runs out at the lighthouse.
Ah yes the lighthouse. Well you know I’m drawn to those don’t you? There’s one at home that regularly pops up in about fifty percent of my stories. The Faro de Toston hadn’t really grabbed me up until now. You see it’s very tall, quite narrow and there’s an awful lot of other distracting stuff going on around the base, not least the row of cars where more sensible explorers had ended their journeys. But having been at the edge of the sketchy trail a few days earlier, I realised that having the lighthouse as a distant speck and finding a good foreground to lead towards it might just work. And that preliminary outing had also suggested that if I wanted to capture a glowing sunset at the same time, then I needed to get to the opposite side of the choppy lagoon, where windsurfers were batting across the water at far greater speeds than even the beefy all terrain land cruisers were managing on terra infirma in these parts.
Once we were safely parked, I tried not to think too hard about the return journey, and focussed on the half hour or so in front of me. It’s always like this on holidays where photography is just a bolt-on accessory to the main business of lounging about on the beach. Each day, sometime just after six, I’ll announce that I’m heading over to the rocks to see what I can find. It’s a very slapdash, half-hearted business in comparison to dedicated photography trips. When I’m somewhere for photography alone, I can easily spend two or three hours carefully planning a shot before losing the plot and running around with my arms aloft in ever decreasing circles at sunset. But what Fuerteventura seascapes can lack in terms of focal points - don’t go looking for sea stacks here - they often make up for in foregrounds, and it’s no longer a surprise to find myself relying on the wide angle lens when I’m clambering about the sharp rocks. And one of the joys of a volcanic landscape can often be found in the form of delightfully hexagonal grooves in rockpools such as this.
Happily, I hopped around the rocks, the camera bag bouncing about on my back as I went. With rockpools everywhere, a handful of compositions quickly showed themselves. It would have been a better idea if I’d changed lenses in the boot of the car rather than here on the hard salt-worn basalt with sand flying in every direction, but you’d probably already made your own deductions about my thought processes - or the lack of them - from the fact that we were here at all. Lens changing bag? Well no, I haven't got one of those.
One thing I had got right was the position of the setting sun. Another was my hope that all the detritus around the lighthouse wouldn’t drag the eye too much, when it was merely a tiny anchor on the horizon. Despite the difficulties in getting here, it had been worth it. Or at least it would be if we could make it back to the asphalt in one piece. When we finally crept back onto the smooth road, I exhaled at last. Next time, I’d definitely walk. Or hire that Land Rover.
Where the Road Runs Out
Really, I should have walked the last mile. This wasn’t the place to bring a Fiat Panda, which despite its wolfish looks was just a little city car designed for tarmac alone. But once I’d started inching my way over the bumpy track, it was difficult to stop and turn around. In some places the route became smoother, lulling me into a false sense of security, before we’d arrive at a small crest covered in jagged cobbles where we slowed down to a deathly crawl. In fact it might have been quicker if I’d walked too. After three increasingly lumpy inclines, we finally descended onto a smoother section, where the elderly bandana wearing man at the wheel of a rugged affair that was properly designed for these dirt roads watched and waited with undisguised amusement. In more than twenty-five years of driving on the right hand side of the road without issue on continental soil, this was the first time I’d reverted to British rules - but only because “my lane” looked more like a lava field than a road. Finally, the track was wide enough to turn around without disappearing into a drift of sand or puncturing all four tyres simultaneously on razor sharp stones. I need to hire a Land Rover next time. That eight kilometre stretch of dirt road from El Cotillo to Majanicho is begging to be explored, but you can’t do it in the wrong vehicle without seriously jeopardising your insurance package. Now was the third or fourth time I’d crept in at the edges of this kind of terrain now, and I knew I was pushing my luck. It would definitely be the last - assuming we made it back to where the tarmac runs out at the lighthouse.
Ah yes the lighthouse. Well you know I’m drawn to those don’t you? There’s one at home that regularly pops up in about fifty percent of my stories. The Faro de Toston hadn’t really grabbed me up until now. You see it’s very tall, quite narrow and there’s an awful lot of other distracting stuff going on around the base, not least the row of cars where more sensible explorers had ended their journeys. But having been at the edge of the sketchy trail a few days earlier, I realised that having the lighthouse as a distant speck and finding a good foreground to lead towards it might just work. And that preliminary outing had also suggested that if I wanted to capture a glowing sunset at the same time, then I needed to get to the opposite side of the choppy lagoon, where windsurfers were batting across the water at far greater speeds than even the beefy all terrain land cruisers were managing on terra infirma in these parts.
Once we were safely parked, I tried not to think too hard about the return journey, and focussed on the half hour or so in front of me. It’s always like this on holidays where photography is just a bolt-on accessory to the main business of lounging about on the beach. Each day, sometime just after six, I’ll announce that I’m heading over to the rocks to see what I can find. It’s a very slapdash, half-hearted business in comparison to dedicated photography trips. When I’m somewhere for photography alone, I can easily spend two or three hours carefully planning a shot before losing the plot and running around with my arms aloft in ever decreasing circles at sunset. But what Fuerteventura seascapes can lack in terms of focal points - don’t go looking for sea stacks here - they often make up for in foregrounds, and it’s no longer a surprise to find myself relying on the wide angle lens when I’m clambering about the sharp rocks. And one of the joys of a volcanic landscape can often be found in the form of delightfully hexagonal grooves in rockpools such as this.
Happily, I hopped around the rocks, the camera bag bouncing about on my back as I went. With rockpools everywhere, a handful of compositions quickly showed themselves. It would have been a better idea if I’d changed lenses in the boot of the car rather than here on the hard salt-worn basalt with sand flying in every direction, but you’d probably already made your own deductions about my thought processes - or the lack of them - from the fact that we were here at all. Lens changing bag? Well no, I haven't got one of those.
One thing I had got right was the position of the setting sun. Another was my hope that all the detritus around the lighthouse wouldn’t drag the eye too much, when it was merely a tiny anchor on the horizon. Despite the difficulties in getting here, it had been worth it. Or at least it would be if we could make it back to the asphalt in one piece. When we finally crept back onto the smooth road, I exhaled at last. Next time, I’d definitely walk. Or hire that Land Rover.