San Sebastián de La Gomera

The first thing you notice is the sound of rope against metal. Even before the ferry has tied up, the harbour is working: cranes swing, fishermen coil bright yellow line, and a single gull drops a mussel onto the concrete jetty with a crack that echoes off the lava-stone walls. San Sebastián de La Gomera doesn’t bother with a fanfare; it gets on with the business of being an Atlantic port that once supplied Columbus and now unloads bananas, rental cars and the weekly Tesco delivery for the island’s sole British expat.

A Capital You Can Cross in Ten Minutes—But Won’t

The town climbs one steep ridge, so every street ends either at the sea wall or in a flight of stone steps. Painted wooden balconies jut above doorways just wide enough for a donkey and a pannier; modern traffic has to edge around them. From the harbour to the red-and-cream Iglesia de la Asunción takes six minutes if you march; most visitors double that because the baker on Calle Real hands out warm bollos de pescado (fish-filled doughnuts) at eleven sharp, and the smell stalls even the fittest hiker.

Inside the church, Columbus’s crew allegedly queued for confession before sailing west. The interior is darker than the postcard suggests—baroque gilt glints through candle smoke and the odd electric bulb. Sunday Mass at 10 a.m. doubles as a social club: widows swap news in the pews, rucksacks are dumped by the font, and the priest announces the next bus timetable along with the psalm. Visitors are welcome, but shorts below the knee and shoulders covered; the sacristan keeps a stash of paper shawls for the unprepared.

Columbus Left, the Gomeros Stayed

Follow the yellow plaques set into the pavement and you tick off the Columbian circuit in under an hour. The Casa de Colón is more outhouse than palace—two rooms, an antique astrolabe and a video that still refers to “Indians” in Spanish subtitles. Entry is €2, exact coins preferred; the attendant will not break a twenty. Outside, the fifteenth-century Torre del Conde squats in a small park where office workers eat sandwiches at midday. The tower’s claim to fame is that it never fired a shot; local mothers use the lawn to teach toddlers to walk instead.

Round the corner, the Pozo de la Aguada is just a stone well with a modern tap, but the water is potable and cold enough to make a thermos hiss. Fill up—walkers heading into the Barranco de la Laja will need every drop. The path starts behind the fire station and climbs 400 m through terraced palms. Go early: by eleven the sun ricochets off the basalt and the only shade is a single kiosk that sells warm Coke and overripe bananas. The reward is a saddle called Degollada de Peraza where Tenerife’s Mt Teide floats on the horizon like a CGI backdrop.

A Beach for Strolling, Not for Sun-Lounging

Back in town, Playa de la Cueva is a scoop of black volcanic grit five minutes from the ferry ramp. The sand scorches in July; bring flip-flops and lower expectations. A concrete breakwater tames the swell just enough for a paddle, but the red flag often flies and there’s no lifeguard—just a noticeboard that lists prohibited activities in four languages, including “ball games that disturb tranquillity”. British families tend to use it as a picnic spot while waiting for the 16:00 sailing; locals jog the 800 m palm-lined promenade at sunset, windbreakers zipped against the Atlantic breeze.

If you need sandcastles, take the 09:15 guagua (bus) to Playa de Santiago, 25 minutes south. Drivers sell tickets on board—cash only, €2.40—and they leave from the port, not the market as the guidebooks claim. The timetable is printed on yellow card that disappears fast; photograph it when you see it.

What Turns Up in the Cooking Pot

Lunch starts at 13:00 and stalls after 15:30; arrive late and the chef has gone home. Menus hinge on whatever the lancha landed that dawn—look for vieja (parrotfish) or cherne (wreckfish) simply grilled with olive oil from Vallehermoso. Papas arrugadas come as standard, their skins wrinkled like walnut halves, dipped in two mojos: green (coriander and cumin) and red (mild pimentón). The red looks fiery but rarely bothers a British palate raised on Worcestershire sauce.

Almogrote, a pounded cheese spread sharpened with garlic and pepper, arrives in a clay dish with toasted pan de matalauva (aniseed bread). Spread thinly; it repeats. Vegetarians get potaje de berros, watercress stew thickened with chickpeas and corn—filling, cheap, and the fastest way to convince a server you are not a fussy vegan.

Most restaurants cluster on Calle Real and Plaza de las Américas. Expect to pay €12–€14 for a menú del día that includes wine poured from a plastic jug; credit cards work, but machines sometimes claim the satellite is “looking for Tenerife”. Carry a €20 note and no one sulks.

When the Town Closes Its Doors

San Sebastían still keeps Spanish hours with a Canarian twist: everything open Monday to Saturday 09:00–13:00, then 17:00–20:00. Sunday is semi-hibernation. Only the church, the Spar inside the Repsol garage (10:00–14:00) and a single harbourside bar serve the public. Arrive on the 11:00 ferry with no supplies and you will eat crisps for lunch while the owner watches Strictly reruns dubbed into Spanish.

Public holidays are taken seriously. During September’s Semana Colombina the town hall funds re-enactments: men in velvet robes read fifteenth-century logs aloud, amplifiers crackle, and every child is dressed as either a sailor or an “Indian” with feathers. Accommodation sells out months ahead; book early or stay elsewhere and visit on the 08:30 ferry.

Using the Capital as a Base

Hotels are small, mostly family-run, and clustered within 400 m of the port. The best have roof terraces where you can watch Fred Olsen’s ferry slide in at dawn, headlights blazing. Prices hover around €70 for a double in March, €110 over Christmas. Ask for a rear room—front ones catch the diesel rumble and the 06:30 loading beep.

Hire cars are cheaper here than in the hill villages: €35 a day for a Fiat Panda that can handle the vertiginous road to Valle Gran Rey. Petrol is the same price as the UK; fill up before the mountain road, the next station is 35 km away and closes for lunch. Parking is free but tight; the underground Mercado car park costs €1 an hour and always has space on level -3, even when the street looks impossible.

The Honest Exit

San Sebastián will not keep you busy for a week. Two relaxed days let you walk the Columbus loop, boat out to spot pilot whales (they appear on roughly three trips out of four), and stock up on palm honey and smoky almogrote to smuggle through Gatwick. After that, the island’s real drama—laurel cloud forest, knife-edge ridges, villages where elderly men still whistle messages across 2 km of ravine—lies further west. Use the capital for what it has always been: a supply stop, a place to stretch sea legs, and a quiet reminder that history here is measured not in centuries but in tides.