Puntagorda

The Saturday coach parties arrive just after three o'clock, engines ticking in the lay-by while their passengers shuffle towards the white market hall. By then, local farmers have already unloaded the first crates of avocados and the air carries the sharp-sweet scent of almond blossom that drifts down from the terraces above Puntagorda. It's a microscopic rush hour in a village that otherwise measures time by the trade winds and the slow ripening of fruit.

Puntagorda sits at the north-western lip of La Palma, 600 metres above the Atlantic and 90 minutes' drive from the island's airport. The road climbs through pine forest, then breaks suddenly onto open slopes stitched with stone-walled fields. Here, 2,300 residents occupy a thin strip of land that drops from cloud forest to volcanic coast in barely six kilometres. The arrangement is vertical rather than horizontal: bananas and avocados grow at 300 m, almonds higher up, and the remaining laurisilva woods cling to the ridge tops where moisture gathers.

Market Day and its Aftermath

The weekend market is the only time the village feels busy. Inside the single-storey hall, thirteen stalls sell what grew within sight of the building: soft-skinned tomatoes that actually taste of tomato, goat cheese wrapped in dried banana leaves, and paper cones of fried plantain chips that disappear within minutes. Prices hover around €3–4 for a small cheese, €2 for a bag of chips. Most vendors prefer cash; the nearest cash machine is twenty minutes away in Garafía, so fill your wallet before you arrive.

By six the coaches leave, and Puntagorda reverts to a quieter rhythm. Café Plaza 66 stays open long enough for the last market stragglers to finish their cortado, then pulls down its shutters. Night-time entertainment is limited to the astro-bar above the sports ground where amateur astronomers gather on clear evenings; the altitude and low light pollution reveal the Milky Way in cold detail.

Walking the Lava Ledge

The village's relationship with the sea is wary. Basalt cliffs drop almost sheer to the ocean, interrupted only by pockets of shingle where fishermen once hauled boats up volcanic ramps. A single paved lane, the LP-109, snakes down to Playa de la Madera, 7 km and twenty minutes of tight hairpins from the church square. At the bottom, the Atlantic has carved natural rock pools into the lava platform. They fill at high tide and warm in the sun, creating temporary lidos just deep enough to float in. When the swell is up – common from October to March – waves explode over the outer reef and the pools become undrainable bathtubs of churning seawater. On those days it's wiser to stay on the cliff-top mirador and watch rather than descend.

Back on the ridge, walking trails follow old water channels through terraces abandoned when irrigation became too labour-intensive. The GR-130 coast-to-coast path passes above the village, then plunges into the Barranco de Izcagua where dragon trees grow wild and the stone path is polished smooth by centuries of goat traffic. Allow an hour to descend to the valley floor; the return climb takes twice that if you're more used to canal towpaths than Canarian gradients. Walking poles help, and shoes with sticky rubber – the combination of volcanic grit and dew-slick rock can be treacherous even in summer.

Clouds, Cheese and Winter Colour

January brings the almond blossom, turning the upper terraces into a haze of white and rose that lasts barely three weeks. Tour operators market the event as a mini cherry-blossom season; photographers arrive at dawn hoping for the moment when low cloud threads between the trees. The spectacle is undeniably photogenic, but it coincides with the village's wettest weeks. Paths turn to clay, and the LP-1 highway can close when landslides slop across the carriageway. If you're driving, carry waterproofs even if the sky looks innocent in Santa Cruz.

Dairy farming underpins the local economy. Smallholdings of twenty or thirty goats supply raw milk to the cooperativa in nearby El Jesús, where it's turned into queso palmero, a mild, nutty cheese sold at the market while still young. Ask for semicurado if you want something firm enough for a sandwich; the fresher version crumbles like Wensleydale and needs eating within days. Farmers still move livestock along public lanes at dawn – expect to brake for a herd when the road narrows beyond Las Tricias.

Practicalities Without the Brochure Gloss

Accommodation is scattered across rural houses rather than concentrated in hotels. Expect stone cottages with wood-burning stoves and patchy Wi-Fi; nightly rates start around €70 for two, but book early for blossom weekends when British walkers fill the calendar. There is no petrol station in the municipality – fill up in Los Llanos or Barlovento before the final climb.

Mobile reception fades once you leave the village centre; download offline maps before setting off. Buses from Santa Cruz reach Puntagorda twice daily on weekdays, but the last service leaves at 14:30. A hire car is less a luxury than a necessity if you intend to walk the coast and return after lunch.

Evenings can be cool at any time of year; pack a fleece even in August when the summit of La Palma bakes in thirty-degree heat. Conversely, the sun burns through thin Atlantic air – SPF 30 is the minimum sensible protection if you plan to spend the day on exposed ridges.

When to Leave the Car Behind

The most enjoyable way to see the municipality is to combine short drives with footpaths. Park at the cemetery above Las Tricias, follow the signposted loop through abandoned hamlets to the sandstone arch of La Cumbrecita, then descend the stone steps to the cave paintings at Belmaco. The whole circuit takes two hours, delivers constant views of terraced slopes plunging to the sea, and ends at the Bar Belmaco where cold Dorada costs €2 a bottle and the owner will call you a taxi back to your car if the climb feels excessive after beer.

Come late afternoon, drive the last kilometre to the lighthouse at Punta de los Reyes. The road ends at a concrete platform where fishermen cast lines into 200 metres of empty air and the sunset turns the cliffs the colour of cooling iron. There's no café, no souvenir stall, just the wind and the smell of salt. Stay until the light goes – the drive back up the lane to Puntagorda takes ten minutes, and the village restaurants keep kitchens open until nine. Order the goat stew, drink the local red that tastes of volcanic minerals, and accept that tomorrow's walk will start with stiff legs. It's a small price for watching an island edge dissolve into darkness while the rest of Europe checks weather apps and wonders where the sun went.