El Tanque

At 600 metres, the Atlantic suddenly appears through a break in the pine trunks, a blue slate far below your boots. Thirty seconds later it's gone, wiped out by a drifting carpet of cloud that smells of wet laurel and woodsmoke. This is El Tanque's daily magic-lantern show: sea, forest, potato terraces, then nothing but grey moisture on your glasses.

The village straddles a saddle on Tenerife's north-western ridge, the part locals call Isla Baja. It was never built for postcards; it grew as a scatter of farmsteads around stone water tanks—tanques—that caught runoff from the laurel-cloud forest above. Those tanks still dictate the rhythm. When the panza de burro (donkey-belly cloud) rolls in from the north, farmers reach for a second jumper and carry on hoeing. Sunshine is treated as bonus, not guarantee.

A church, a bar, a view

There isn't a proper plaza, just a widening in the road outside the 18th-century church of San Antonio de Padua. Basalt walls, single tower, heavy wooden doors left ajar so the interior smells of candle wax and damp stone. Elderly men park themselves on the bench opposite at 11 sharp, swap lottery numbers and watch who is driving up the hill too fast. The nearest thing to a souvenir shop is the bakery two doors along, where you can buy a bocadillo filled with chorizo that was made three streets away and still has bits of rosemary in it.

Walk another hundred metres and the houses thin out. Stone walls start to terrace the slope, each one thick enough to sit on while you retie your boots. The camino real—an old drove road—heads west under pines towards Los Silos, its cobbles polished by centuries of wooden cartwheels and now by trail-runners' trainers. Signposts don't shout; they are small, green and aimed at people who already know how to read landscape.

Walking without a headline

Guidebooks like to brand Tenerife's interior as "hiking country", but that implies big mileage and gorp-fuelled ambition. El Tanque prefers the modest shuffle. From the church simply follow the road uphill past the last houses; within fifteen minutes the tarmac gives way to a stone track that tunnels through Canary pines. The needles muffle every sound except your own breathing. Blackbirds scratch in the undergrowth; occasionally a raven turns overhead like a creaking hinge.

Keep going and you reach the Erjos ponds, a chain of rainwater pools fringed with bracken and willow. On still days they mirror the sky so perfectly that clouds seem to swim underwater. The circuit takes forty minutes, less if you're British and march, more if you stop to watch the local lads fishing for lisa with homemade rods. There is no café, no ticket booth, no interpretive centre—just a bench someone built from pallet wood and painted orange.

Link two or three of these old paths and you can make a half-day loop that drops to the coast at Garachico, 12 km away and 600 m below. The descent is knee-jarring; the bus back costs €2.45 and leaves from outside the old monastery at 16:10 sharp. Miss it and you'll be cadging a lift from a goat farmer.

Weather that can't make up its mind

The ridge is a meteorological border. Drive up from the south coast in February and you leave 24 °C of postcard sunshine; by the time you park behind the church it's 12 °C, the windscreen is speckled with drizzle and your flip-flops look absurd. Locals dress in layers for a reason: vest, shirt, thick jumper, all carried in the car even when Puerto de la Cruz is sweltering. A light waterproof lives permanently in the glove box; if you forget, the Spar on the main road sells €3 ponchos that flap like supermarket bags and work just as well.

Summer is the inverse. When Playa de las Américas is inhaling 35 °C of Saharan air, El Tanque sits in a cool 22 °C bubble. The trade-wind cloud thickens through the morning, turning the sunlight milky—perfect for walking without sunstroke, disappointing if you wanted that cobalt-sky calendar shot. August evenings smell of wet earth and barbecued chicken; windows stay open for the silence, broken only by the church bell striking the half hour.

Eating what the field produced

There are no tasting menus, no sea-view terraces with linen napkins. What you get is a hand-written board listing whatever was picked or slaughtered this week. In late winter that means papas arrugadas the size of golf balls, their skins wrinkled like walnut shells, served with mojo verde sharp enough to make your temples tingle. Spring brings broad-bean stew bulked out with chunks of pork belly; summer is goat stew scented with thyme and bay. Portions are built for labourers who spent the morning digging; if you can't finish, ask for un taper—they'll cheerfully scrape the remainder into a plastic tub for tomorrow's lunch.

The only place open on Monday is La Tasca, halfway between the church and the ponds. Order the escaldón only if you like the idea of savoury porridge made from toasted maize flour and fish stock; otherwise the grilled chicken with chips costs €8 and arrives in fifteen minutes. House wine comes in a plain carafe, tastes of blackberries and costs less than the Coca-Cola.

A few honest warnings

El Tanque is not an all-day destination unless you intend to walk. An hour in the church, twenty minutes photographing stone houses, a coffee on the mirador and you're essentially done. The village works best as a pause on a wider circuit: breakfast in Garachico, morning walk here, lunch, then on to the lava pools at Los Silos or the cave village at Masca while the cloud is still high.

Public transport exists but obeys Spanish, not British, logic. The Titsa 363 bus runs to Puerto de la Cruz every hour except Sunday, when there isn't one at all. The last departure downhill is 19:45; miss it and a taxi to the coast costs €35 before tip. Car hire is simpler, but choose the smallest model you can fold yourself into—some lanes are single-track with 200-metre drops and no barrier wider than a house brick.

Cash is another snag. The village has no ATM; the nearest is in Los Silos, ten minutes by car. Many bars don't take cards for bills under €10, so stuff a couple of twenties in your pocket before you leave the airport.

Leaving without a souvenir

You won't find fridge magnets, or key-rings shaped like bananas wearing sombreros. What you can take away is the smell of wet pines on a hot afternoon, the memory of a pool so still that a dragonfly's touchdown sends rings across the sky, and the realisation that Tenerife's interior is still a working place where farmers check WhatsApp group messages about rainfall before they check Facebook. Drive back down the斜坡 and the cloud lifts like a theatre curtain, revealing the Atlantic 600 m below, improbably blue. Thirty seconds later the curtain drops again, and El Tanque retreats into its own weather, doing nothing much, perfectly content for you to leave the stage exactly as you found it.