14
international point of reference at the beginning of the twentieth century. By
the time we arrived there, in the early sixties, it was a mere lumber room of
antiquated, abandoned measuring instruments, one example more of the state
of decay into which Spanish research centres had fallen after the Civil War.
Only a few observing instruments remained active that were essential for
meeting the Observatory’s obligation to broadcast, using a military transmitter, a handful of synoptic data a few times a day. This duty fell to a ‘meteorological observer’, who had been trained solely for that task. The observer was
employed by the National Meteorological Service, which was part of the Air
Ministry, the meteorologists and their assistants themselves being part of the
military. Many years were to pass until, at the close of the last century, Izaña
Observatory would be reopened for meteorological research. It is now once
again an thriving site for this branch of science.
Nevertheless, in the sixties the Observatory had a very large staff: the Chief,
a military adjutant, who resided in Puerto de la Cruz; two meteorological
observers, who did weekly shifts; Alejandro, a master carpenter who maintained the kites, which had not been used for years; Manuel the maintenance
man, who looked after the emergency generator; Maruca, the cook; Isabel, the
cleaner; three workmen (Pablo and Juan, who did odd jobs, and Santiago,
who lived in Orotava, did errands, and delivered the post). Requisitions were
recorded in a black oilskin-covered notebook and brought up by a muleteer—
yes, a muleteer, complete with mule and all—who climbed the old routes
twice a week. Incidentally, photographs of him, together with those of other
muleteers used by Mascart (Chapter 3) have given rise to the myth that I
brought telescopes up the mountain by mule. On Mondays a grey lorry from
Aviation came chugging up the mountain carrying a driver and two relief
soldiers to deliver heavy supplies, such as barrels of oil. Too many idle hands
with too little to do.
Seen in retrospect, the people who worked at the Observatory were a
rogues’ gallery of characters with patinas and profiles worthy of a Buñuel film
or Cela novel. Coarse, badly dressed, unoccupied and ill-temperedly milling
around those old, dilapidated, damp buildings, they had lived in isolation for
many years on the 2400-metre-high mountaintop, and their personalities had
been chiselled by that harsh environment and enforced daily contact with the
other inmates. To top it all, they had little work to do since their functions,
existing only on paper, had been defined when the Observatory had been a
busy research centre open to the world. Now that their only mission was to
read four instruments, take notes, and radio a synoptic report there was no
reason for so many buildings and so many staff.
F. Sánchez
international point of reference at the beginning of the twentieth century. By
the time we arrived there, in the early sixties, it was a mere lumber room of
antiquated, abandoned measuring instruments, one example more of the state
of decay into which Spanish research centres had fallen after the Civil War.
Only a few observing instruments remained active that were essential for
meeting the Observatory’s obligation to broadcast, using a military transmitter, a handful of synoptic data a few times a day. This duty fell to a ‘meteorological observer’, who had been trained solely for that task. The observer was
employed by the National Meteorological Service, which was part of the Air
Ministry, the meteorologists and their assistants themselves being part of the
military. Many years were to pass until, at the close of the last century, Izaña
Observatory would be reopened for meteorological research. It is now once
again an thriving site for this branch of science.
Nevertheless, in the sixties the Observatory had a very large staff: the Chief,
a military adjutant, who resided in Puerto de la Cruz; two meteorological
observers, who did weekly shifts; Alejandro, a master carpenter who maintained the kites, which had not been used for years; Manuel the maintenance
man, who looked after the emergency generator; Maruca, the cook; Isabel, the
cleaner; three workmen (Pablo and Juan, who did odd jobs, and Santiago,
who lived in Orotava, did errands, and delivered the post). Requisitions were
recorded in a black oilskin-covered notebook and brought up by a muleteer—
yes, a muleteer, complete with mule and all—who climbed the old routes
twice a week. Incidentally, photographs of him, together with those of other
muleteers used by Mascart (Chapter 3) have given rise to the myth that I
brought telescopes up the mountain by mule. On Mondays a grey lorry from
Aviation came chugging up the mountain carrying a driver and two relief
soldiers to deliver heavy supplies, such as barrels of oil. Too many idle hands
with too little to do.
Seen in retrospect, the people who worked at the Observatory were a
rogues’ gallery of characters with patinas and profiles worthy of a Buñuel film
or Cela novel. Coarse, badly dressed, unoccupied and ill-temperedly milling
around those old, dilapidated, damp buildings, they had lived in isolation for
many years on the 2400-metre-high mountaintop, and their personalities had
been chiselled by that harsh environment and enforced daily contact with the
other inmates. To top it all, they had little work to do since their functions,
existing only on paper, had been defined when the Observatory had been a
busy research centre open to the world. Now that their only mission was to
read four instruments, take notes, and radio a synoptic report there was no
reason for so many buildings and so many staff.
F. Sánchez