Tejeda

The road to Tejeda unravels like a ball of string dropped from 1,400 metres. Thirty-seven hairpins after you leave the GC-60, the village appears – a scatter of white cubes clinging to the slope inside a volcanic bowl. On three sides the caldera walls rise, patched with Canary pines and the odd impossible rock tower. Two of those towers, Roque Nublo and Roque Bentayga, frame every view from the village as neatly as book-ends.

Up in the Amphitheatre

Altitude changes everything. At sea level the air feels thick and salted; up here it’s thin, dry and can drop ten degrees while you finish a coffee. Mornings often start clear, the rocks cut sharp against a cobalt sky. By midday a film of cloud – islanders call it the “panza de burro” – can slide in and wipe the stage clean. The weather app may promise sun all week, but in Tejeda you still pack a fleece and a hat in the same rucksack.

The village itself is small. You can walk from the 1950s church of Nuestra Señora del Socorro to the last bakery on Calle El Castillo in eight minutes. Houses are low, roofs are red, and every second doorway seems to sell almond biscuits. Population swells at weekends when Gran Canarians drive up for lunch, then thins again on Sunday evening, leaving the place pleasingly half-asleep.

Rocks You Can Walk To

Roque Nublo is the obvious excursion. Park at La Goleta (spaces run out by 11 a.m.) and follow the sign-posted track. The walk is 3 km return, mostly on loose volcanic grit; trainers are fine if they have grip. The final platform sits at 1,813 m – high enough for ears to pop on the way up and for the Atlantic to glimmer like molten lead to the west. Wind can be brutal; jackets get borrowed between strangers.

Bentayga feels wilder. A short but steep path leaves from the village edge, climbs past pre-Hispanic grain stores carved into the rock, and emerges on a knife-edge ridge. From the top you look straight down onto terraced fields that have changed little since before the Spanish arrived. Entry to the archaeological zone is free; the tiny visitor centre opens 10:30-15:30 and charges €3 if you want labels for the plants you’ll tread on later.

Both outcrops are doable in one day, but that makes for a lot of ascent. Most visitors pick one, then reward themselves with cake.

Sweets, Pork and Other Altitude Adjustments

Almonds dominate the local larder. The trees flower in late January or February – when they do, the caldera looks dusted with snow – and every part of the nut ends up in someone’s oven. Bienmesabe (“tastes-good-to-me”) is the star: a thick almond-honey-egg-yolk paste sold in screw-top jars at Dulcería Nublo on the square. Spread it on toast, dilute it with rum, or eat it by the spoonful; calorie counters should look away.

For something solid, try truchas – sweet pasties stuffed with sweet-potato or more almond. They look like Cornish pasties but behave like mince pies, and travel well in a walking rucksack. Savoury eaters get roast pork scented with mountain herbs, plus wrinkly Canarian potatoes and mojo sauce. The local red wine, listán negro grown on terraced slopes, tastes faintly of smoke and volcano; it improves above 1,000 m in ways the label never explains.

Cafés shut early, especially Sunday. Stock water and snacks before you set off anywhere; the nearest supermarket is 20 km of bends away.

When the Clouds Win

Tejeda’s biggest disappointment is also its biggest gamble: visibility. A thick white lid can sit for days, erasing both rocks and views. The village doesn’t fold up – you can still wander the medicinal-plant garden behind the church or browse souvenir stalls for overpriced almond soap – but the wow factor vanishes. If the forecast shows low cloud, plan Bentayga first thing; Nublo often clears for an hour at dawn, then disappears. Alternatively, drive down the GC-60 to Artenara where the ceiling is usually higher.

Summer brings the opposite problem. Mid-July to early-September the thermometer can touch 34 °C at midday. The altitude softens the blow, but there is no shade on either rock walk. Start early, carry more water than you think necessary, and accept that photographs will be harsh and contrasty.

Getting There, Staying Over

Public transport exists – one bus each morning from Las Palmas, one back at tea-time – but it is useless for hikers. Hire a small car; the GC-15 and GC-60 are well-surfaced but narrow, and British drivers will meet lorries on hairpins wide enough for only one vehicle. Count on 75 minutes from the airport if you don’t stop for photographs; add 30 if you do.

Accommodation splits between the Parador at Cruz de Tejeda (ten minutes up the road, pool, full restaurant, £130–£180 a night) and village houses let as self-catering studios. The latter start at £65 and allow you to sit on a rooftop while the Milky Way spills overhead – light pollution is almost zero. Bring slippers; stone floors get cold once the sun drops.

Leaving the Bowl

Drive out at dusk and the caldera glows orange, then drains to monochrome. Tejeda doesn’t shout; it simply shows you what an island looks like when the sea is removed and the bones are left bare. Some visitors find it “cute but not mesmerising”, others cancel their coastal hotel and stay the week. One day is enough to sample the rocks and the almond cake; three lets you hike to the lost village of El Hornillo, learn the difference between mojo rojo and mojo verde, and watch the fog pour in like a silent tide. After that, the descent to the coast feels almost too easy – like stepping off a stage and finding the real world slightly flat.