We are racing along the coast road, passing banana plantations, and whitewashed houses. To our right the ocean crashes against the black, rocky shore. Yesterday we trekked through a prehistoric forest; tomorrow we will climb a volcano.
I didn’t have a clue. The island, the largest of the Canaries, arches out of the sea, split by a spine of volcanic mountains. The symbol of Tenerife is the dragon tree, and the island itself is like a dragon, full of fire and dotted with volcanoes.
This is where the Spanish colonised Tenerife in the 15th century, building pretty towns, and taking advantage of the more temperate climate to grow food and make excellent wine. And it’s remarkably still under the tourist radar. For winter sun, Tenerife does offer genuine warmth.
We take refuge in a simple beachside restaurant, Estrella del Mar in the capital, Santa Cruz. It was the equivalent of a greasy spoon, except here the greasy spoons do freshly grilled seafood and good wine.
Garachico was the island’s main port until a volcanic eruption in 1706 destroyed the harbour. We wander out to enjoy vermouths at La Perla. It’s the sort of restaurant I dream of finding on holiday.
The best churros are found at Miguel Angel on Plaza del Cristo, which is a down-to-earth cafe run by a man with swept-back, greasy white hair and a medallion. A bag of 10 are crunchy on the outside and light as a cloud within.
We emerge on to a windswept summit and another strange sight: bulbous white towers, whipped by clouds that scud at ground level. This is the Teide Observatory. The next day back down on the coast it’s hot and sunny enough for a bit of sunbathing before we head home, feeling like we’ve been to five countries in four days.