Barlovento

The Atlantic slams into a black-lava shelf at La Fajana, shooting spray higher than the changing rooms. Ten minutes earlier you were sipping a barraquito in Barlovento’s solitary square, 550 m above the racket, wrapped in mist that smelled of wet pine. That is the village in miniature: mountain cool one moment, ocean fury the next, linked by a road so steep the hire-car engine fan kicks in like a hair-dryer.

A town that looks the other way

Barlovento sits on the north-eastern brow of La Palma, but it keeps its back to the sea. The houses cluster round the 16th-century Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Rosario, roof tiles mossy from the trade-wind drizzle. Most of the 2,200 inhabitants live scattered across barrancos planted with bananas and avocados; the municipal map is larger than Birmingham yet the centre is two streets and a school. Altitude knocks the temperature down four degrees compared with Santa Cruz, so even in August you’ll see locals in fleece gilets while sunburnt Britons stride about in shorts, wondering why their sunglasses keep fogging.

The economy never really left the 1950s: water channels called acequias still feed smallholdings, and the weekly market fits on one pavement. There is no cash machine; the last one stands 10 km back down the LP-1 in San Andrés y Sauces, so fill your pocket before the climb. What the village does offer is parking that’s both free and empty, plus a bakery that opens at six and sells doughnuts the size of cricket balls.

The coast, when you finally reach it

Drive north-east for fifteen minutes and the tarmac corkscrews to La Fajana, a platform of volcanic slag bulldozed into three seawater pools. Entry costs nothing, there are fresh-water showers, and a red-yellow-green flag on the railing tells you whether the Atlantic is playful or homicidal. On green days children leap from the outer lip while grandparents time the swell with stop-watch precision. On red days lifeguards whistle everyone out and the basalt turns into a natural cinema: waves explode through blow-holes, drenching the picnic benches and anyone silly enough to film without a rain cover. Reef shoes are not optional; the rock grips like broken crockery and the urchins have zero patience.

Above the pools a single café serves grilled cherne—wreckfish with the flaky whiteness of cod—drizzled with local olive oil. A plate is €9, chips included, but they shut at six sharp. If the sea is wild and you arrive after five you’ll get crisps and a can of beer from the honesty kiosk, then watch sunset alone while the Atlantic tries to demolish the lava wall.

Forests that drip

Back in the hills, the LP-1.1 wriggles towards Los Tilos but peels off at the sign for Nacientes de Marcos y Cordero. The name translates as “the springs”, which sounds gentle until you learn the water has carved a 1,000 m gorge. The full hike is 14 km, crosses four pitch-black irrigation tunnels and finishes with a knee-deep ford; the council insists on head-torch, waterproofs and mobile coverage checked at the trail-head. Most visitors from the UK do the first hour there-and-back, which still delivers dripping laurel, giant ferns and that cool, peat-earth smell you last noticed walking in Snowdonia. Temperatures can drop to 12 °C even in July, so the fleece you left on the back seat suddenly feels essential.

Shorter circuits exist. Sign-posted from the church, the Camino de Las Hoyas is a 5 km loop through pine and dragon-tree forest ending at Mirador de la Tosca. On clear days you look straight down 800 m of cliff to a black-sand inlet nobody has bothered to name; when the cloud rivers in you’ll photograph your boots instead. Either way, the path is graded moderate rather than strenuous, though the final 200 m are slippery enough that the council rope has knots every metre.

When the weather can’t decide

Barlovento’s climate is a coin-flip. Moist trade winds hit the Cumbre Nueva, condense, and dump fine drizzle locals call barraco. Five minutes later the cloud tears open and the same street steams under blue sky. The daily forecast is therefore less use than the live webcam the town hall tweets each morning: if you see grey, pack a jacket; if the picture is sharp enough to pick out Tenerife’s Pico del Teide, bring sun-cream. Winter is wetter—January averages seven days of rain—but also when the almond blossom snows across the terraces. Summer is drier yet never hot; 24 °C is a heat-wave and the pools close more often for big swell than for rain.

Eating slowly, paying cash

There are three restaurants, none ambitious enough for a Michelin inspector to leave the main road. What you get is cocina de pueblo: pork shoulder braised in bay leaf, potatoes wrinkled in sea salt, and gofio escaldado, a thick fish-stock porridge that Britons either love or compare with Ready Brek gone wrong. Heat-averse diners should request the sauce sin pimiento; even the mild mojo verde can make a Kentish palate hiccup. Pudding is usually quesillo—a wobbly caramel flan—followed by a glass of rón miel (honey rum) that costs €2 and tastes like liquid Crunchie.

Service is unhurried; the waiter may disappear to watch the village football match projected on a sheet in the adjoining bar. Cards are accepted in theory, but the terminal is often “broken tonight”; keep a €20 note handy.

Arriving and leaving

Car hire is almost compulsory. The LP-1 from the airport is fully paved but narrows to a single lane in places where the cliff has slipped into the sea. Allow 55 minutes; sat-navs add an optimistic 15. Buses 100 and 300 reach Santa Cruz twice on weekdays, once on Saturday, never on Sunday, so without wheels you’re hitching or walking the camino real. Petrol is 15 c cheaper than in the UK; fill up before you return the vehicle or the airport surcharge stings.

Accommodation is limited to a dozen rural houses scattered across the slopes. Expect stone walls, wood-burning stoves and Wi-Fi that flickers when the wind shifts the satellite dish. Prices hover round €70 a night for two, plus a cleaning fee that feels steep until you realise the owner drove 20 km to change your sheets.

The honest verdict

Barlovento will not hand you the Canaries brochure fantasy of eternal sunshine and banana-boat nightlife. It can be grey, slippery and faintly closed on a Tuesday. Yet if you arrive content to trade nightlife for starlight, and to measure a good day by whether the Atlantic let you swim, the village repays the effort. Come with reef shoes, a ten-euro note and enough flexibility to abandon the beach for a cloud forest. Do that, and the moment the trade winds part and you glimpse Tenerife floating on the horizon feels like winning a small, quiet lottery.