Windmills – Breath of the Past
The sun hid behind the clouds as we arrived in Tiscamanita. Dust clung to our boots, and the wind swept dry leaves across the rocky paths. In front of us, it stood tall – a Molino, one of those masculine windmills that ground the grain and forced the miller to carry the heavy sacks of flour down through the building. Meanwhile, their female counterparts, the Molinas, did everything more efficiently on a single level. Women always find a way. Once, there were over a thousand of them on Fuerteventura. Now, only about forty remain, standing like monuments of a bygone era.
Inside, the air smelled of old wood and milled grain. Helmuth explained the mechanics, talking about the times when donkeys carried the heavy sacks while the wind relentlessly turned the sails. As if he had seen it with his own eyes. Well, reading, gathering knowledge, and then making grand speeches – that was his thing. Nice guy. Gofio, the roasted flour of the Canary Islands, was the result of hard labor and had been the islanders' staple food for centuries. We tried a small bite—it tasted like history. Bitter, nutty, different.
The narrow workspace under the wooden roof of the mill seemed more suited to short-statured Majoreros. The staircase was steep, the wooden steps creaked, and thick beams obstructed our view. A moment of carelessness, a thoughtless step – then a loud crash. Helmuth's curse echoed through the room as he hit his head and tumbled down the steps. He remained sitting at the bottom, rubbing his arm while I struggled to hold back my laughter. "I'm fine," he muttered, "just my dignity."
Outside, bougainvillea and winged senna bloomed, and a donkey lazily nibbled on dry grass. The small shop offered Gofio in all varieties, handmade soaps, ceramics, and other charming souvenirs. We made a few purchases and let time briefly stand still. The wind brushed against the old stone walls, carrying the stories of the mills into the distance. As we drove away, the decision was made. We would seek them all, the windmills of the island. Photograph each one, document them, preserve their stories. Forty mills, forty stories. A journey that had only just begun.
