Valleseco

At 1,000 metres, the air thins and the temperature drops. Valleseco’s main street, Calle Real, sometimes disappears inside a drifting cloud, and the only hint you’re still in the Canaries is the volcanic stone kerbing. The village name translates loosely as “dry valley”, yet locals joke the place is mis-named: winter drizzle can last for days and the surrounding barrancos run with water that feeds small orchards of apples, pears and chestnuts. It’s the antithesis of the island’s packaged southern coastline, and the climate shock is immediate—step out of a hire car in August and you may still need a jumper.

Green Geometry and Stone

Valleseco’s architecture is functional rather than pretty. Houses are rendered in pastel washes that show damp blotches after rain, roofs are tiled instead of flat, and every dwelling has a woodpile stacked against a gable wall. The 19th-century church of San Vicente Ferrer anchors the plaza; its bells mark the quarter hour from 07:00 to 22:00, a reminder that this remains a working parish, not a heritage set. Around the square, wrought-iron balconies hold geraniums and the occasional Union Jack flutters from a second-home shutter—British buyers began arriving in the 1990s, drawn by rock-bottom rural prices and the promise of cool summers.

Walk fifty paces downhill from the plaza and you hit the first allotment terraces. Farmers still hoe by hand; irrigation channels, built during the post-war Franco years, run parallel to the footpaths. In late March the almond trees flower, dusting the slopes with white petals that photograph beautifully against black soil. By October the same branches are bare and wood-smoke drifts across the lanes—families roast newly harvested chestnuts on open hearths, and the smell seeps into woollen coats.

What to Do When the Beach is 25 km Away

Valleseco has no coastline, so the village markets itself on lungsful of clean air and short way-marked trails. The easiest loop starts behind the fire station: a ninety-minute circle through Pinar de Valleseco, a Canarian pine plantation laced with picnic tables and resin-scented shade. The path is stone-surfaced, manageable in trainers, and climbs only 120 m—fine for children who’ve had enough of sand in their shoes. Serious walkers link this to the Camino de la Cumbria, a ridge route that eventually reaches Roque Nublo, but signposting is sporadic and OS-style maps don’t exist; download the free ViewRanger layer before you leave Wi-Fi.

If skies are clear, drive ten minutes up the GC-30 to the lip of Caldera de Los Marteles. This crater, shared with neighbouring Telde, resembles a lunar car park: pumice cliffs, ochre scree and a carpet of lichens that crunch like cornflakes underfoot. The viewpoint sits at 1,400 m; on hazy days you’ll look down on a cotton-wool sea with the southern hotel strips reduced to Lego blocks. The wind up here is unrelenting—jeans and a fleece are sensible even in July.

Sunday mornings the village hosts a small ecological market in the Casa de la Cultura courtyard. Stallholders sell chunky cooking apples for €2 a kilo, rough cider in plastic bottles, and cheese wrapped in the traditional “flor” of Guía—an edible thistle rennet that gives a gentle tang reminiscent of Caerphilly. There is no hard sell; most producers would rather chat about rainfall than shift volume, so come armed with school-level Spanish and a shopping bag.

Eating Above the Clouds

Forget tapas crawling: Valleseco has half a dozen cafés, two bakeries and one proper restaurant open in the evenings. The reliable choice is El Rincón de los Castaños, a stone barn opposite the church whose menu changes with the altitude calendar. Trout from the village tanks arrives simply grilled with almonds; the flesh is pale and delicate, closer to Dartford brown trout than anything Mediterranean. Starters might include potaje de berros (watercress stew), a peppery broth that tastes like liquid hedgerow after spring rain. Mains hover around €14, desserts are homemade, and the wine list is short but local—look for the dry white Valleseco listán blanco that rarely makes it to UK shelves.

For lighter bites, Cafetería Plaza opens at 07:30 and does a respectable full-English: Canarian eggs, British bacon flown in via a supplier in Las Palmas, and baked beans imported from Tesco in the capital. It is popular with expats swapping tips on heating-oil deliveries and reliable builders. Coffee is surprisingly good; beans are roasted in neighbouring Teror and the milk arrives daily from a dairy in Moya.

When the Umbrellas Come Out

Every April the council strings 1,500 multicoloured parasols across Calle Real as part of the San Vicente Ferrer fiestas. The installation lasts roughly six weeks, during which coach parties descend for selfies before hurrying on to Teror. If your heart is set on the photograph, check Instagram hashtag #paraguasvalleseco a week before travel; locals dismantle the display early if Atlantic storms are forecast. Arrive before 10:00 and you’ll have the street to yourself; after 11:30 the tour buses from Maspalomas clog the single roundabout and parking evaporates.

Getting There and Away

Valleseco lies 25 km south-west of Las Palmas, but the road is all curves. Take the GC-21 past Teror, then the GC-30; allow 45 minutes from the airport ring road and expect to drop a gear frequently. Car hire is almost obligatory—there is one ponderous Global bus each morning (line 216) that reaches the village at 11:15 after 80 minutes, but none back until 16:30, which kills a walking day. In winter mist the GC-30 can close temporarily; carry water and a jacket even for short drives, because being stuck on a mountain lane in flip-flops is miserable.

Petrol is cheaper at the coastal hypermarkets, so fill up before the climb. The village’s single Spar shuts for siesta 14:00-17:00 and all day Sunday; if you need gluten-free staples or decent wine for a self-catering night, stock up in Las Palmas.

The Honest Verdict

Valleseco will not suit everyone. Nights are cool, mobile reception is patchy and the nearest beach is a 35-minute downhill drive. What you get instead is a slice of upland Canarian life where waiters remember your coffee order on the second morning and farmers still transport cabbages by donkey. Come for two nights in late spring when the almond blossom is out, add a day-walk in the pines, and you’ll understand why some Brits swap retirement in Eastbourne for a stone cottage that sits, quite literally, in the clouds.