Las Palmas de Gran Canaria

The 07:05 Portsmouth ferry is still sliding past the Isle of Wight when the first EasyJet flight from Gatwick touches down on Gran Canaria, 1,250 miles south. Twenty-five kilometres later, passengers spill into Las Palmas de Gran Canaria: a working city of 378,000 where the harbour cranes share the skyline with sixteenth-century belfries and the smell of diesel mingles with salt and frying octopus. Expect a capital, not a village.

Two cores, one isthmus

Las Palmas sits on a knife-edge of land that joins the volcanic thumb of La Isleta to the rest of the island. Drive in from the airport and the motorway dips so low you can see both coasts at once: the container port on one side, surfers paddling at Las Canteras on the other. That geography explains the place. Trade winds blow steadily off the Atlantic, keeping summers surprisingly tame and winters warm enough for morning swims, but they also carry the cloud that can park over the city for days. July is often greyer than January; burnt shoulders happen under leaden skies, so pack cream whatever the forecast says.

The city divides neatly into two walkers’ patches. In the south, Vegueta and Triana form the historic grid. Cobbles are flat, distances short, shade plentiful—perfect for anyone who normally balks at Spanish hill towns. Start at the twin-towered Santa Ana cathedral; building began in 1497 and kept going for four centuries, so Gothic ribs sit beside Renaissance dressings and a neo-classical façade that looks almost bashful. The towers cost €1.50 to climb; from the top you can clock the old town’s chess-board layout and, beyond it, the container ships queuing for Puerto de la Luz.

Across the plaza, the Casa de Colón fills a courtyard mansion where, so the story goes, Columbus once watered his ships. The exhibits feel more maritime than New-World—astrolabes, faded portolan charts, a smell of old rope—but the building itself is the star: carved Canarian cedar, dripping bougainvillea, and cool tiles that make a welcome break when the mercury pushes past 30 °C. Budget an hour; longer if you like model galleons.

Five minutes north, the Mercado de Vegueta wakes up at dawn and shuts its metal shutters by 2 pm. Inside, stallholders still use the old brass weighing scales for papas negras and hands of tiny Canarian bananas. A coffee at the central bar costs €1.20 and comes with a paper-thin slice of jamón ibérico whether you ask or not.

Cross the Guiniguada ravine—now a dry concrete channel—and you’re in Triana, its pedestrian high street a mix of Modernista façades and the usual Zara. The grand theatre, Teatro Pérez Galdós, offers cheap day-of tickets for opera newbies; queues form from 10 am and retirees argue over seat numbers like football results.

Three kilometres of city sand

Las Canteras is the city’s other centre. The beach runs uninterrupted for 3.2 km, sheltered at the northern end by a sandstone reef locals call La Barra. At low tide the reef forms a natural lagoon: bathers float while snorkellers drift over parrotfish in barely three metres of water. When Atlantic swell picks up, the lagoon disappears and board-toting students cross the road from the university dorms for a lunchtime surf. Surf schools charge €35 for a two-hour class including board; cheaper if you book three sessions.

The promenade behind the sand is the city’s civic theatre. Early risers walk it in pairs, speaking rapid Venezuelan or slower Swedish. By 11 am the first beer taps click open; by midnight teenagers drum on dustbins around improvised fires for San-Juan-style mini fiestas that need no calendar. British visitors expecting Magaluf noise will be disappointed—licensing laws are tight, and the roar more likely comes from a passing fishing boat than a karaoke bar.

Food along the front ranges from the sublime to the soggy. Avoid laminated menus with photographs. Instead, duck into La Marinera near Playa Chica: order sancocho, a salt-cod stew thickened with sweet potato and sharp coriander mojo. It tastes like Portuguese fisher’s stew, looks like dishwater, cures hangovers. Lunch menus del día hover between €10 and €14; expect papas arrugadas, a hunk of grilled cherne (wreckfish) and a quarter-litre of sharp white wine from the north of the island. Vegetarians do better in the side streets: Café Vértice does a respectable lentil burger and chips for €8.50.

Inland heat and crater walks

When the cloud lid clamps down, head south. Bus 311 leaves from San Telmo every 30 minutes and climbs 600 m to the Jardín Botánico Viera y Clavijo. The garden is essentially a living textbook of plants that survive nowhere else—dragon trees that bleed red resin, candelabra-shaped euphorbias, bugloss taller than a London bus. Use the lower entrance by the restaurant to skip a calf-killing flight of steps; allow two hours and take water—the same Atlantic breeze that cools the coast barely stirs these ravines.

Four kilometres inland lies the Caldera de Bandama, a 1 km-wide volcanic pit you can walk around in two hours. The rim path is clear but narrow; trainers suffice, though the red dust will ruin white canvas. Vineyards carpet the crater floor, their vines planted in crescent-shaped hollows that trap dew. A bottle of dry white from the co-op at the car park costs €6 and tastes of gun-flint and sea.

When fiesta season hits

February brings Carnival, and the city swaps traffic noise for drum kits and euphoric drag queens. The main parade crawls along the maritime avenue; arrive an hour early or you’ll see only the backs of inflatable flamingos. Accommodation prices jump 40 per cent; book early or stay in nearby Telde and ride the bus in. If you prefer your fireworks without the crush, come for San Juan on 23 June. Locals haul old sofas onto Las Canteras, light modest bonfires and jump the flames at midnight. The council hoses everything down by 2 am; sand is raked clean before breakfast.

Getting about, getting out

Gran Canaria airport is 25 km south; the hourly Global bus costs €2.95 and drops you at Santa Catalina park in 25 minutes. A taxi runs about €35—worth it after an evening arrival. Once in town, buy a rechargeable TransGC card: rides on city guaguas cost €0.85 instead of €1.40, and the same card works on island routes if you decide to escape to the peaks. Car hire is pointless for a city stay; parking meters charge €1.20 an hour and attendants ticket with evangelical zeal. If you do rent, use the underground car park opposite the Poema del Mar aquarium—€12 for 24 h and a five-minute walk to the beach.

The honest verdict

Las Palmas is neither quaint fishing hamlet nor sleek resort. It is Spain’s ninth-largest city: traffic clogs the Avenida Marítima, cruise horns drown out cathedral bells, and that perfect Instagram sunset may be photobombed by a containership. Yet the blend is the charm. You can breakfast on squashed avocado toast in a hipster café, buy socks from an Chinese bazaar, and still be swimming in clear Atlantic water before the coffee wears off. Go for four days, not two; allow time for cloud, for getting lost in Triana’s shoe shops, for a second bowl of sancocho when the first turns out to be mostly bone. Pack a jumper for January, patience for August traffic, and you’ll understand why plenty of northern Europeans come for winter sun—and end up staying for the city.