Pining for the Future

Pining.

That summer the bulletins interrupted the kid's cartoons on the local television channel with alarming frequency. Across the screen flashed disturbing images of devastated forest. Trees stood, sad sentinels, scorched and blackened by the kiss of eight metre high flames into rows of towering charcoal effigies, toasted to crisp, carbonized symbols of Gran Canaria's biggest tragedy. Great clouds of black smoke hovered over the mountains and drifted down to smog the southern resorts. Along with them came the worry of a possible evacuation. Joined with the stress of teething fevers and Chicken Pox was the need to clean motes of fallen soot from the terrace to stop the kids getting covered in it.

Two and a half years have passed since the fire headlined the news and Christmas is almost here. It's a half hour drive to the local garden centre from home, but today it seems to be taking longer. The traffic on the motorway is nose to tail with festive shoppers. Like ants headng for the nest they're all trailing in single file, one after the other, in the same direction. Destined to spend time, if not money, under the twinkle of lights and theatre-size decorations in the main commercial centre, with the added attraction of a few piped carrols thrown in to try and lull them into a buying mood.

The rear-view mirror reflects five year old Jake, strapped into his child safety seat, drawing sticky-fudge chocolate pictures with his grubby fingers on the passenger door window. Emma's sitting beside him engrossed with her Nintendo. Her latest mascot yaps in an electronic Japanese fashion and she giggles at its antics. It's a poor substitute for the pet she wanted, but with no garden for it to play in, a real dog is not on the agenda. Still she seems happy enough and has settled for the digital kind without too much parental blackmailing.

'What's that Mum?' Jake asks as we pull into the almost empty car-park.

'It's a cow, stupid.' Em pipes in.

He's never seen one a real one and is fascinated by the life size black and white bovine statues of mother and calf. Freed from his harness, he clambers out of the open car door and darts over to them shouting, 'Red trees, red trees,' as he runs. His bright red Wellington boots, a mad 'homesick for green fields and rainy days' buy, scuffle the loose gravel. Em tuts in her adult, nine year old way at Jake's excited description of the poinsetta bushes displayed around the plaster beast's feet.

'Can I sit on it Mum?'

'I don't think so. Come on, let's go and look for the tree.'

Inside the nursery area the smell of stagnant, cut-flower water and hot plastic transports Jake into an imaginary, infantil jungle world. He skips between the neat rows of plants in pots growling like a tiger. Em spots it first. A spindly thing, it's roots have grown long and peep out of the black plastic container. After a close examination our budding botanist decides it's the right type, the three needled Canarian variety and the same as the ones she planted on a recent school trip into the mountains. She carries it to the cash desk and pays the small price with money her grandparents sent for her birthday.

Walking back across the parking, with the pine clutched to her chest, she struggles with the weight, but independent as ever won't accept any help. Once it's loaded on the seat next to her in the car's sun-warmed interior, we hit the road again and take the winding route which leads to the centre of the island. The road twists and turn, like trailng ivy it clings to the steep cliffside. The kids peer down onto the waving crowns of the palm trees growing in the bottom of the rocky ravine.

'Monkey, monkey.' Jake squeals.

'No chance, but keep looking and you might see a camel.' Anything to keep him occupied for a bit. We climb up and up until the coastline is left far behind and the spread of Maspalomas beach becomes just a shimmer of undulating gold against glinting Atlantic blue on the far horizon. The small oasis of the rural hotel El Molino and the sight of the long-necked ostriches in their timber fenced pens leaves Jake, for once, speechless.

In the distance on the peaks of the hills, like bristled feathers, tall pines form a staggered outline against the clear blue of the sky. We drive on and up, until we reach the small village of San Bartolome de Tirajana and just outside, park in a rock strewn lay-by next to the picnic area. From this high up the view is an artist's canvas. Here, blobs of blossom stand out in stark contrast to the bare branches of the almond trees. Down in the valley amongst dark green leaves are smudges of bright ochre where oranges nestle, half hidden, on the trees. The scent of pine hangs in the clean air like the dream of a damp Spring past, it lingers to tantalize, fresh and green.

Jake carries his beach spade and not quite understanding what we are doing, he asks if we will be building sandcastle. Easy to please, he settles for digging holes. He begins to fill his bucket with fallen pine cones the way he collects shells on the beach, scurrying around, a human squirrel picking up treasures.

Em has chosen the spot and we scrape away at the sparse rocky soil with trowels until the hole is deep enough to cover the roots of our small sapling. With the container removed, we place our tree in its new home, push the dry soil back around it and then cover the upturned earth with fallen needles to keep in the damp.

'Take a picture Mum,' she instructs me, 'so we can send it to El Hormiguero.' Em's been an avid watcher of her favourite program and their plant a tree project.

It's time to go. A billowing fog of grey mist swirls in and surrounds us. Jake's dancing in the clouds. He whirls round and round until he's dizzy and falls down. Clumps of brown pine needles stick like hairy caterpillars in his hair and to the fabric of his jacket. On the way back to the car Em picks up a branch from the ground. She waves it above her head and calls out, 'Mummy, look what I've found.' On the curved branch, between the still green fronds, are clusters of cones not much bigger than acorns. 'Can we take it home and paint it?' Em's always full of artistic bright ideas. She trails it along the ground after her, satisfied with her find and content that we'll have a tree in the house this year even if it isn't the traditional kind.

Ours we leave there, decked with a simple adornment of silver bell and red ribbon. Our christmas tree and our present to Gran Canaria.