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about El Paso
Inland municipality home to the Caldera de Taburiente; known for its silk tradition and Canary pine landscapes.
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A village that floats above the Atlantic
At 630 metres, El Paso sits high enough that the sea often disappears entirely. Morning clouds pool in the valley like milk in a saucer, leaving only the volcanic rim visible—black ridges that could be the outline of a sleeping dragon. This is the green heart of La Palma, 8,000 souls spread across pine-clad slopes, a place where the Canary Islands forget they’re supposed to be a beach destination.
The town centre stretches barely three streets. Houses are low, painted the colour of warm butter or left in raw stone, their balconies draped with geraniums that somehow survive the altitude. There’s no promenade, no marina, no karaoke bar. Instead you get the smell of woodsmoke drifting from chimneys, the clang of the church bell marking the hour, and locals who still greet the pharmacist by name.
Volcanoes you can walk to without a passport stamp
Start with the easy one: Volcán de San Antonio, ten minutes up the LP-207. A paved path spirals around the crater lip, 300 metres across, shallow enough to lob a stone into the centre. Panels in English explain the 1677 eruption that buried a chunk of coastline—an event so recent the rock still feels newborn under your boots. Entry is free; the kiosk sells cold cans of Tropical beer for €1.50 if you need justification for the detour.
From the same trailhead the Ruta de los Volcanes heads south along a saw-tooth ridge of cinder cones. The full traverse to Fuencaliente takes six hours and demands a car shuttle; most walkers dip in for the first two miles, far enough to stand on black glass frozen mid-flow with the Atlantic glittering 1,000 m below. Take water—more than you think. The trade wind dries throats faster than sun alone, and there is no café until you return.
Cloud build-up starts around eleven. By midday the caldera can vanish in grey fleece, turning an easy path into a navigation exercise. Locals set off at dawn, back in town for coffee by ten. Copy them.
Night skies cold enough to need that jumper you almost left at home
Drive the LP-3 switchbacks for 45 minutes and you climb another 1,700 m to the Roque de los Muchachos observatory. The air thins, temperature drops to single figures even in August, and the horizon widens to include Tenerife’s Teide floating like a shark fin 140 km away. Astrophysicists work inside white domes that resemble Bond-villain lairs; visitors are limited to scheduled tours (book online, €9) or the free sunset viewpoint 200 m short of the gate.
After dusk the Milky Way spills across the sky with an intensity that makes suburban Britons gasp. Bring a down jacket and a red-filter torch—the same kit you’d pack for a Cairngorms night in October. The petrol station at the base sells disposable gloves for €2; altitude-numbed fingers appreciate the gesture.
Eating what the goats and pirates left behind
El Paso’s restaurants close one weekday each—always a different one—so the high street never feels crowded. Casa Goyo keeps the longest hours: order the escaldón, a thick porridge of roasted maize flour and fish stock served in a wooden bowl. It looks like wallpaper paste, tastes like smoked ocean, and powers walkers for hours. Vegetarians get grilled goat cheese drizzled with green mojo, gentler than the red version and closer to a herby pesto.
Coffee comes from nearby farms, the only European plantation outside Madeira. A cortado costs €1.20 at Bar Central, where the owner still roasts beans in a 1950s drum that clanks like a tram. Pair it with a príncipe—a sugar-dusted pastry filled with custard and angel-hair pumpkin—best eaten before 11 a.m. while the icing holds its crunch.
Sunday shuts everything except the Chinese bazaar and the evangelical church. Stock up on bread, plasters and emergency chocolate on Saturday night or you’ll breakfast on crisps.
When the mountain weather forgets it’s the Canaries
Winter brings Atlantic fronts that smother the summit in wet snow; the LP-3 gets gritted but rental tyres rarely carry chains. Check @CarreterasLaPalma on X before setting out—road closures are posted by 07:00. Down in town the mercury hovers around 15 °C, perfect for walking if you pack a soft-shell. Summer reverses the gradient: 28 °C on the coast, a breezy 22 °C here, dropping to 12 °C after dark. That hoodie you considered ditching at Gatwick earns its baggage allowance.
Rain arrives horizontally on the caldera rim; waterproof trousers save more misery than an umbrella ever will. Paths turn slick as polished steel—if the forecast says “chubascos aislados” stay low and stick to the lava fields where drainage is instant.
Getting here without the coach crowd
No UK airline flies direct to La Palma. Connect through Madrid (Iberia), Tenerife (Binter) or, in summer, Manchester–Tenerife–La Palma on the same ticket via TUI. From the island’s tiny airport a pre-booked transfer costs €35–40 and drops you at your door in 30 minutes; buses exist but finish at 19:00 and require a change at Los Llanos.
Car hire is the pragmatic choice. A week’s rental from Cicar starts at €140 including second-driver insurance—cheaper than two organised excursions and the only way to reach trailheads before the sun. Petrol is €1.25 a litre; distances are short but climbs drink fuel. Park in the marked bays: local police ticket British-plated rentals with the enthusiasm of a provincial traffic warden.
A base, not a box-tick
El Paso will not dazzle Instagram followers seeking white sand and infinity pools. The centre takes twenty minutes to circumnavigate; souvenir choice extends to a single craft coop selling goat-milk soap and honey rum. What it offers instead is altitude without effort, trails that start at the bus stop, and a night sky you last saw on a school trip to Kielder.
Stay three nights and you can summit the island, swim in a lava-heated pool at Puerto Naos, and still catch the Stansted flight home. Stay a week and you’ll learn the bakery’s opening rhythm, recognise the old men who meet on the orange bench at ten, and feel the tug of oxygen-thin air when you pack your case. That’s when you realise El Paso isn’t a destination to conquer; it’s simply a higher version of normal life, lifted above the clouds and left there for anyone willing to climb.
