As is usual when we are away in Lanzarote, we do a little history. Not a lot of history, because as my partner accurately points out, I am a philistine. When in Greece, it’s a glass of any wine that isn’t Greek, when in Split it’s a roadside bar and not the Diocletian’s Palace, when in Lanzarote – well, there isn’t much history, really, but away from the traditional full English, the Karaoke bar and the bingo; and all these things are here – I finally appreciate a little culture. That of Cesar Manrique.
You will learn far more about the great man here because, frankly, it’s better for you, my loyal reader, to read something penned by an expert and not by an ill-educated fan boy, me. We’ve done most of his artworks except for his ex home and now museum. Until today.
You may already have noted that I am a rather typical British tourist. Unlike my partner, I am largely incurious and, probably because of my ADHD, have problems being interested in or concentrating on most things. That will never change but when I become that fan boy, that obsessive; everything changes. Cesar, I love you. I really do.
Normally, when bowing to pressure and visiting places I don’t want to be at, I just switch off and take nothing in. Today I did want to be at his home and while I did switch off at much of the content of the tour, I was taken in by – and I can’t believe I am saying this – the feel of the place.
On the face of it, Lanzarote is just your classic Canary Island. It’s cheap, it’s cheerful, it’s packed with mainly older Brits, like me, who want to go somewhere warm outside the summer months where it doesn’t feel too much like being abroad. And few of us Brits bother to leave the resorts we are staying in. But for my far more cultured and intelligent partner, I might not either. If I hadn’t today, I’d have missed out.
Manrique’s legacy – actually, legacies – are a reminder of what tourism can bring to an island like Lanzarote. He was not opposed to popular tourism, but he felt there was far more to the island than the more brash forms of it that brought people like me here. The more one sees of Manrique’s work, the more one gets to love the man and what he stood for and to love and enjoy everything he left behind.
The home/museum is a wonder to behold, in that it really is both. You are walking through recent history: he only died in 1992. All the books he read are still there, including, magnificently, one called British Piers and so is his music collection including King Crimson’s In The Court Of The Crimson King, which old prog rockers may have noticed at the top of this blog.
It was among the best tenner I’ve spend, touring the old boy’s home, when compared to the later trip to Omar Sharif’s house just down the road. I mean, the place is sensational, but the old movie star had only owned it for two days before losing it to the bloke he bought it from in a card game.
Me doing history, eh, and what’s more enjoying it? It can never happen again, can it? I wouldn’t bet on it, but old Cesar’s gaff was amazing. If you’re ever here, set aside the pub quiz (we went to ours yesterday and got hammered in all senses, by the way) and go and see Cesar. It’s so worth it.
