Betancuria

The coach parties normally arrive at 11 sharp, cameras ready for a ten-minute circuit of the square. They miss the moment that matters: just after dawn, when the sun lifts over the barranco and the stone walls of the Iglesia de Santa María flush the same pink as the goat-cheese rind you’ll taste later. By the time the souvenir stalls un-shutter, the light has already flattened and Betancuria feels merely “pretty”. Stay an hour longer and you’ll see why islanders still make the detour.

At the Bottom of an Old Volcano

Betancuria sits in a natural bowl 395 m above sea level, scooped from a long-extinct crater. The road in – the FV-30 from Puerto del Rosario – corkscrews up through malpaís lava flows and suddenly drops into the dip where the village hides. It is the only place on Fuerteventura that ever succeeded in looking green without irrigation: palm groves survive in the riverbed shade, and the surrounding hills catch just enough mist to keep almond trees alive. The altitude knocks roughly 5 °C off the coast’s thermometer; British visitors who arrive in shorts often reappear ten minutes later wearing the fleece they thought would stay in the suitcase. Even in August you may want a light jacket after nine o’clock at night.

The founders chose the site for defensive reasons. Pirates from North Africa and later from England and France found the island’s southern bays easy pickings, so in 1404 Jean de Béthencourt moved the capital inland where look-outs on the rim could spot sails long before they beached. The capital status lasted only until 1834, but the town never bothered to grow beyond its walls; today the census hovers around 800 souls.

A Walkable Museum Without Labels

There is no ticketed “old town” zone – the whole place is the monument. Calle Principal, barely two metres wide, runs between whitewashed houses whose doorways sit a step above the road, a legacy of flash-flood engineering. Stop at number 14: the wooden balcony is original seventeenth-century Canarian pine, darkened by centuries of saharan dust. Further along, the Convento de San Buenaventura is now a ruin open to the sky; stone benches inside the cloister make a natural picnic spot if you have bought bread and cheese at the morning market.

The Iglesia de Santa María charges no entry fee before 10 a.m. and you will probably share the nave with a woman rearranging flowers rather than a tour group. Pink volcanic stone frames the south portal; inside, a Mudéjar ceiling and gilded baroque altarpiece illustrate what happens when Castilian budgets meet island craftsmen. Look for the sixteenth-century baptismal font – children still get christened here, so the water inside is real, not theatrical.

A steep five-minute lane leads to the Ermita de San Diego. The chapel itself is plain, but the platform outside delivers a 270-degree scan of the island: south to the white salt pans of Las Salinas, north to the saw-tooth ridge of Vallebrón. On blowy days you can watch ravens soaring at eye level; they use the thermals like glider pilots.

Cheese, Goats and a Sunday Rush

The Sunday craft market fills the main square from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. Stalls sell the usual woven palm-leaf baskets, but the queue you want is at the back of the white van run by the Sociedad Cooperativa de Ganaderos. Here you can taste queso majorero in three stages of maturity: fresh and lemony at 15 days, nutty at 90 days, almost caramel at six months. A 250 g wedge of the semi-curado costs about €6 and survives the flight home if packed in socks. Brits who claim not to like “goaty” flavours are routinely converted; the trick is that majorera goats graze on herbs that taste more of thyme than barnyard.

If you prefer your cheese indoors, Casa Santa María occupies a former bishop’s palace on the square. Their baifo – kid goat roasted with garlic and coriander – is fork-tender and not gamey; a plate feeds two comfortably at €18. Order a glass of local malvasía, the honey-coloured white that tastes faintly of apricot; it arrives chilled, welcome after salty air.

Tracks That Leave the Coaches Behind

Betancuria is the trail-head for the island’s two most civilised walks. The Malpaso circuit (5 km, 1½ hrs) starts 3 km south-west of the village at the Mirador de Guise y Ayose. A broad grit path follows the crater rim, then dips into the barranco and climbs back via an old stone water channel. You meet more lizards than people, and the view across the island’s spine explains why locals call Fuerteventura “the back of a fossilised dragon”.

The shorter Barranco de las Peñitas route (3 km return) begins beside the hermitage car park. It is essentially a palm-filled gorge with a tiny dam that creates a swim-hole deep enough for a refreshing plunge between basalt walls. Go early; by midday the rocks radiate heat and the walk out feels twice as long.

Neither path requires hiking boots, but trainers with decent grip are sensible: the volcanic grit is slippery and there is no mobile signal in the gorge. Carry more water than you think necessary – one litre per person is the minimum outside winter.

When to Come, When to Leave

October to May is the sweet spot. Daytime temperatures hover around 20 °C, ideal for wandering without burning, and almond blossom in late January turns the hills bridal-white. Summer is doable if you base yourself on the coast and drive up for breakfast; by 1 p.m. the stone walls radiate heat like storage heaters and even Canarians retreat indoors.

Mondays are dead: restaurants keep odd hours, churches shut, museums lock their doors. If a Monday is unavoidable, treat Betancuria as a coffee stop on the way to the western beaches rather than the day’s focus. Conversely, the weekend fiestas of Santa María (mid-August) and Nuestra Señora de la Peña (second Saturday in September) bring folk dancing and processions but also traffic jams back to the FV-20 junction. Arrive before 9 a.m. or you will queue for the €3 car park and again for the loo (€1, or free if you buy coffee at the kiosk).

The Honest Verdict

Betancuria is not a destination for a week, or even a full day if you are after adrenaline. What it offers is contrast: shade after lava fields, altitude after coastal flats, silence after resort playlists. Come for the cheese, stay for the early-morning light, and leave before the coaches block the single-lane exits. You will have seen the piece of Fuerteventura that the beach brochures leave out – and that, rather than any superlative adjective, is the real reason to climb 395 metres inland.