Skinks catching the sun might be mistaken for dribbles of gold escaped from a smelter. Glossy black skins peppered with gold spots, they are strange creatures, neither lizard nor snake, somewhere in between.
It’s as if they want to be rid of their legs altogether and that is what evolution has in mind for them — to make life easier by breeding out troublesome lizard legs and lizard scales and polish the body to smooth, sinuous, seamless skin that will slide with snake-like smoothness over any surface and yet will have the sort of inherent traction that will allow its owner to climb using a mechanism not unlike the countless tiny hairs that allow geckos to stick to ceilings without falling.Today, as I write, lizards skitter about my feet and blackbirds serenade me. It is 2.30pm on a Canary Island day, mainly dull. The skink that comes to the dog’s water bowl hasn’t yet appeared: skinks love the sun and cannot activate until they’ve had their fill of it. This is Barbara’s garden, a magical place with a lexicon of flora and fauna and a cuarto de aperos (a tool shed) which she has kindly allowed me to turn into a makeshift workroom during my island stay.I come here because there’s nobody about: only me and the creatures, of which there are many, and of diverse varieties. It is deep in the banana plantations, a patch of ground she’s planted with flowers and fruit trees, and where she sometimes spends entire days pottering about with plants.
For More You Can Check: