Open Writing

A sparkling island, Tenerife.

Beautiful bays and beaches. Towering cliffs. A 13,000ft mountain. Inviting hill villages.

A great place to watch Pilot whales, swimming in formation in a warm sea. Then to splash around in that same sea, while the cares of the Western world go floating away beyond the blue horizon.

A great place for a holiday, Tenerife. I’ve just spent eight happy days in the island paradise.

But I wouldn’t want to live there. Definitely not.

This for me is most unusual. I suppose I’m a chap with a hyperactive imagination. This, and a bad case if itchy-feetitis, means that after spending a couple of days in a place which I have never visited before, I begin to dream of what it would be like to live there.

I’ve lived and worked in Yorkshire, Northumberland, Texas, Indiana and Kenya.

And I’ve dreamed of living in at least another three dozen counties and countries.

Dorset - ah yes! Those divine country lanes with their high hedges. Glasgow - a city pulsing with life. Vancouver Island - salmon fishing, brilliant walking, a view of mountains. Perth, Australia - the world’s most isolated city, with enough space for a man to breath in…

And Tenerife?

While Europe shivers in bleak mid-winter, it’s sunny in Tenerife.

My theory is that the British Empire was founded not through a spirit of enterprise and adventure - but because of the dreary November drizzles in the British Isles.

Those early pioneers were venturing out in search of predictable sunshine. And there’s plenty of that in Tenerife. More than enough to persuade Spanish adventurers to take control of the island centuries ago.

But Tenerife is not for me.

Indications are that the island will one day burst apart at the seams as an ever-increasing tide of sun-seekers choose to live there.

Figures just released by Spain’s National Statistics Institute reveal that from January 1, 2000 to January 1, 2003 the number of foreigners living in Tenerife increased from 77,196 to 179,495.

The majority of the incomers are British and German.

Hundreds of thousand of Brits have also gone to live on the Spanish Costas. And many more have chosen new homes and lives in Portugal, France, Italy, Malta and Cyprus.

Wherever the sun regularly shines, you’ll hear a British accent.

Yesterday was a perfect spring day in England. A t-shirt and shorts day. The hedges are white with blossom, the birds are in fullest song, the rabbits are doing what rabbits so enthusiastically do.

Oh to be in England, when April’s there…!

But today there’s the blackest of black clouds. A threat of heavy showers.

No wonder Brits, particularly retired Brits, head off to live in lands with equable and reliable climates.

Me? Well, maybe the itch is finally leaving my feet.

I live in a village where my family is well-rooted. Hinchliffe forebears were here, according to the records, 280 years ago.

I look out on green, green hills. On grazing horses and cattle. As I sit and eat breakfast I look out on fields which are part of an estate which was established in the Thirteenth Century. Fields where I played as a boy.

So come on, black clouds. Hello drizzle. I’m staying put.

And definitely not moving to Tenerife, a place where I am wanted as a holiday maker but not as a permanent resident.