Alajeró

The road from San Sebastián climbs past banana plantations before the GM-2 starts its serious business of switchbacks. Forty minutes later, at 810 metres above sea level, Alajero appears—not with a dramatic flourish, but as a scattering of white houses that seem to have slid down the mountainside and stopped where they could. The Atlantic glints far below, a reminder that this is very much a coastal village, just one that happens to live halfway up a cliff.

Between Mountain and Sea

Alajero's relationship with altitude defines everything here. Morning coffee on the plaza comes with a fleece; by lunchtime, the same spot might be warm enough for shirtsleeves. The village proper sits in a bowl of ancient terraces, their stone walls holding back soil that's been cultivated since before Columbus stocked up on La Gomera for his American voyages. Drop 600 metres to Playa de Santiago and the temperature rises by eight degrees. The same tomatoes that struggle at altitude flourish down there; the same hikers who pant their way up from the coast suddenly need jumpers.

The municipality stretches from these heights to raw volcanic coast, taking in a slice of island that feels much larger than its 50 square kilometres. It's not one village but a constellation: Imada with its restored threshing floors, El Draguillo where elderly residents still speak the whistled language Silbo, Antoncojo huddled against the slope like it's holding on. Each has its own microclimate, its own view of Tenerife's peak on clear days, its own version of what it means to live suspended between mountain and sea.

The Sound of Morning

British visitors expecting rural tranquillity often receive a rude awakening. The clock tower, built in 1956, chimes the hour with a melody lifted straight from Westminster. It starts at 6am and continues through the night, joined by cockerels that begin their own announcements around 5am. Dogs join the chorus, creating what one regular visitor described as "the most cacophonous place on La Gomera." Bring earplugs or embrace it as part of the experience—either way, silence is not on the menu.

The church of San Salvador anchors the village centre, its modest facade giving little away about the treasure inside: a 16th-century Flemish triptych that somehow found its way here from Antwerp. Around it, the streets follow topography rather than logic, winding past houses whose volcanic stone walls absorb the morning sun. There's no picturesque plaza with manicured palms, no tastefully restored merchant's house turned into a boutique hotel. Instead, Alajero offers something better: a place that functions first as home to its 2,000 residents, and only secondarily as a destination.

Walking the Terraces

The real magic happens on foot. Paths radiate from the village like veins, following contour lines that predate the roads. The GR-132 long-distance trail passes through, but dozens of local routes offer shorter loops. One favourite climbs from Imada through cloud forest where laurisilva trees drip moisture, then bursts onto open ridges with views west to El Hierro. Another drops 800 metres to Playa de la Guancha, where black sand meets water so clear you can watch parrot fish nibbling the rocks twenty metres out.

These aren't gentle strolls. The path down to the coast loses 600 metres in under four kilometres, a gradient that turns thighs to jelly. Going up takes twice as long as coming down, and that's assuming you're fit. The reward comes at sunset, when the terraces glow amber and Tenerife's peak turns pink across the water. On exceptional evenings, the smaller islands of La Palma and El Hierro appear as shadows on the horizon, and the whole archipelago seems close enough to touch.

Winter brings different challenges. When the trade clouds pile up against the mountains, Alajero can sit in sunshine while the paths below disappear into mist. Rain makes the volcanic clay lethal—one walker described it as "like trying to climb a greased bannister." Summer reverses the equation: pleasant warmth at altitude becomes furnace heat on the exposed coastal paths. The sweet spot comes in April and October, when temperatures hover around 22 degrees and the sea lies flat enough for safe swimming.

Practical Realities

Getting here requires commitment. Flights to Tenerife South, then the ferry from Los Cristianos to San Sebastián, followed by that winding drive. Car hire isn't optional—public transport exists but runs to island time, which bears no relation to published timetables. Once arrived, accommodation choices are limited. The Hotel Jardín Tecina down at Playa de Santiago offers golf-course luxury, but most visitors stay in village houses rented by the week. Towels aren't always provided; check before assuming. Mobile signal disappears in the barrancos, so download offline maps before setting out.

The village has two small supermarkets, a bakery that runs out of bread by 11am, and three bars serving basic tapas. Fresh fish appears at the weekend when boats return to Playa de Santiago, twenty minutes down the hill. The local cooperative sells wine made from grapes grown on impossible terraces—it's rough but improves after the second glass. Credit cards are treated with suspicion; cash remains king.

Last Light

As evening approaches, the terraces empty. Farmers pack tools into ancient Land Rovers and head home, stopping at Bar Central for a quick coffee and conversation in rapid Spanish that bears no resemblance to textbook Castilian. The clock tower strikes seven, eight, nine. Lights twinkle on across the slope, each one marking a house whose residents have probably lived here for generations. Down at the coast, fishing boats switch on their lamps and the sea turns black.

Alajero doesn't reveal itself immediately. It saves its stories for those who walk its paths, who sit long enough in its bars to be greeted by name, who understand that the real journey here is vertical as much as horizontal. Come for the walking, stay for the slow revelation of how island life adapts to extreme geography. Just pack earplugs, and don't trust the weather forecast—at this altitude, conditions change faster than you can say "whistled language."