The Conquerors of Lanzarote

Something of a madeleine moment occurs when I take my first sip of Perlenbacher Pils, bought at Lidl, and let the pale, meaningless, almost tasteless drink trickle through me, carrying me back to a balcony on Lanzarote one December many years ago, when I was about to become a father and therefore needed, in the months beforehand, to roam around a little before everything presumably became static.

Back then, the pale lager was called San Miguel, renowned among connoisseurs for being perfectly acceptable even when lukewarm. Jeppe and I drank litres of it in our sun loungers while breathing in the slightly chilly Atlantic air, dressed in jumpers and jeans, and it was nothing like the spontaneous sun and swimming package holiday we had intended.

When we were not occupying the balcony and drinking beer, we sat indoors and drank beer, with the addition of the World Snooker Championship, to which Eurosport devoted all its airtime during those days. The routine had been there waiting to be discovered. We drifted into it without resistance.

To make the beer consumption easier still, we munched chilli marinated corn snacks, which gave me a rash, yet were so addictive, but they gave me a rash, but were so addictive. And this continued for five days at least, with equal parts beer, snacks and snooker, until one morning on the balcony Jeppe pointed towards the volcano on the farthest edge of the horizon and said:

Tomorrow we will be standing at the top.

He might just as well have pointed at the moon, so inconceivable was the prophecy in the warm alcoholic haze. So impossible that it nevertheless became something to yearn for, rather like Knausgård, after the anguish of the years with small children, forcing six novels into existence under the pressure within. And Jeppe’s voice was resolute. He was tired of this sluggish existence, which had admittedly lasted only a few days, but possessed a life-denying monotony equivalent to decades.

Early the next day, we began our determined march, heading directly towards our destination, up slopes, across property boundaries and over solidified lava. In the distance, across the magma, we spotted a guard dog charging towards us, and we raced in panic up and down the Martian landscape like soldiers fleeing through a hail of bullets. There was no right of public access here, we realised slightly too late.

Someone whistled the mutt back, and we were saved and able to continue upwards, and after many hours of wandering we stood at the summit of the volcano, beside a shabby mobile phone mast and heaps of old newspapers and advertising leaflets. My heart beat proudly in my chest. The feeling that nobody had ever been there before, which had of course already been disproved, but at least no package tourist. We were not like them. We were conquerors.

And so we strolled all the way back, eventually landing on the balcony with aching joints after what must have been thirty thousand uphill steps, cracked open a San Miguel of uncommon sweetness, munched the corn snacks and felt worthy of the moment, I think as I sit on the sofa drinking my Perlenbacher Pils, letting the meaningless drink run down my throat as I put on an episode of Rome I have not yet seen and allow the images to take over my thoughts.