Garachico

The black rock pool fills with seawater every seven seconds. A British child in jelly shoes shrieks as a wave sloshes over the rim of El Caletón, then laughs when the water settles glass-clear and warm around her ankles. Behind her, the stone balustrade of San Miguel castle has seen this same theatre repeat for three centuries—ever since the volcano Chinyero swallowed the harbour and, in compensation, handed the town a new coastline.

Garachico never asked for a second chance. In 1706 it was Tenerife's wealthiest port, shipping sugar and wine to London and Veracruz; by morning it was choked in lava, its docks gone, its merchant houses glowing embers. What grew back is smaller, calmer, and—unlike much of the island's sun-and-sangria coast—determinedly local. Five thousand people live here, and every street still points to the sea that once paid the bills and then, overnight, presented the bill.

The morning shift

At 07:30 the fishing boats return under the old customs house. Catches are modest—cherne, sama, the odd pink parrotfish—yet the auction on the slipway is brisk. Elderly men in flat caps bid with flicked fingers; euros change hands without receipts. By 08:15 the catch is halfway up Calle Esteban de Ponte, where the first coffee of the day is served so strong it stains the cup. British visitors nursing hotel hangovers should ask for café con leche cortado—half milk, half coffee, civilised strength.

The plaza wakes next. Plaza de la Libertad is less a square than a living room: Indian laurel trees, wrought-iron benches, a bandstand that hasn't hosted a brass band since the last fiesta. House martins stitch between the balconies of dark tea-wood, a material imported two hundred years ago as ship ballast and now prized by cabinetmakers. Behind the church of Santa Ana, the cloister of San Francisco stands roofless, its stone arcades full of wild geraniums and the faint smell of damp plaster after night rain. There is no ticket office; you simply push the door and enter. Donations box by the pillar—drop a euro or don't, nobody watches.

Swimming on a volcano

El Caletón looks harmless in the postcards: turquoise water lapping rounded basalt. Reality is sharper. The lava is rasped into ridges that slice unprotected feet; the Atlantic charges through gaps with the chill of water that has crossed an ocean. Check the tide chart pinned outside the changing huts (free, spotless, but locked after 18:00). If the sea is rough—common October to March—stand back and enjoy the spray; the pools become soup bowls in a tumble-dryer. On calm mornings, especially May and late September, the water settles to chest depth and you float looking up at dragon trees clinging to the cliff. British school holidays coincide with the roughest seas; if children are desperate for a swim, head twenty minutes west to Playa San Juan's imported Saharan sand instead.

Parking is the day's tactical decision. The harbour-side spaces fill by 10:30 when the coaches nose down from the TF-42. Leave the car at the upper lot by the football pitch—five minutes on foot, free all day—and you avoid the single-file jam that turns departure into a 25-minute shuffle. The narrow streets were laid out for donkeys; they resent Ford Transits.

Lunch without the hard sell

Midday smells drift from kitchens that open straight onto the street: cumin, garlic, frying chickpea flour. Most visitors are herded to the waterside terrace where papas arrugadas arrive at tourist prices (£9 a plate). Walk two blocks inland to Calón Bar on Calle Jubay and the same potatoes—wrinkled, dusted with coarse salt, two mojo sauces—cost €3.50 and come with a glass of local Malvasía that tastes like dry sherry with a pineapple whisper. The Canarians lunch late; arrive before 13:00 and you beat the queue.

If you need something more substantial, grilled cherne is the safe introduction to Canarian fish: firm, not bony, served a la plancha with nothing but olive oil and lemon. Wreck-fish sounds alarming; the flavour is closer to monkfish. Ask for "sin cabeza, por favor" if you don't want the head staring while you eat. Vegetarians are stuck with escaldón—gofio (roast maize flour) whisk into vegetable stock until it reaches porridge consistency. It's an acquired texture; most Britons acquire it after the second glass of wine.

When the buses leave

By 17:00 the last coach wheezes up the hill and Garachico exhales. Shop shutters roll down for siesta—yes, really, even the cashpoint kiosk closes—and the plaza becomes a village again. Grandmothers wheel prams; teenagers practise skateboard tricks against the cathedral steps. Light softens, turning the volcanic stone amber, and photographers finally get the reflection shot they've queued for all day. This is the moment to climb the old pier wall: a stone causeway built from the same lava that destroyed the harbour, now a promenade. From the end you see the whole town laid out like an architect's model—red-tiled roofs stepping uphill, the castle toy-like, the pools glinting where streets once ran.

Evening options are limited, deliberately. There is no karaoke bar, no mini-golf. What you get is a seafront chiringuito serving ice-cold Dorada beer at €2.20 a caña and, on Fridays, a local trio murdering Beatles songs with Spanish accents. British visitors expecting Costa nightlife should base themselves in Puerto de la Cruz; Garachico is where you come to remember what eight hours of sleep feel like.

Getting there, getting out

The drive from Tenerife South airport takes 70 minutes on paper, 90 once you factor in the TF-42 switchbacks above Santiago del Teide. The road is wide but drops sharply; if heights trigger vertigo, approach from the north via Icod de los Vinos—longer, gentler. Buses (TITSA 363) run hourly from Puerto de la Cruz; the journey is 45 minutes of corkscrew bends and costs €3.65 exact change only. Car hire remains the pragmatic choice if you plan to stay past 20:00, when bus frequency halves.

Weather is simpler than the forecasts suggest. The village sits low enough (30 m above sea) to dodge the cloud belt that smothers the mountains 600 m up. January daytime hovers around 19 °C—Cardiff in April, but with UV that burns through cloud. August tops 28 °C; the lava rocks become griddles, so bring reef shoes or accept hopping like a cat on a hot tin roof. Rain is rare but dramatic: streets turn to streams for twenty minutes, then steam dry.

The honest verdict

Garachico will not change your life. It offers no postcard-perfect beach, no Michelin stars, no nightclub worth the name. What it does give is a working town that happens to be beautiful—where you can swim in a volcano before lunch, eat fish that was swimming that morning, and fall asleep to the sound of waves that once destroyed everything in their path. Stay one night and you'll leave relaxed; stay three and you start judging every other Canarian resort by its standards. Just remember to check the tide before you swim, and don't wear flip-flops on lava. Some lessons the town only teaches once.