Arico

The first thing you notice is the sound of stones shifting under the tyres. The TF-625 drops from the motorway, corkscrews through charcoal-coloured rock and deposits you at Playa de la Jaquita where the Atlantic slams against slabs of basalt. No promenade, no beach bar blasting Brit-pop, just a handful of locals fishing off the reef and a red-and-white warning flag snapping in the wind. Welcome to Arico: 45 minutes south of Santa Cruz, light-years away from the custard-coloured resorts of the south-west.

Between two lava flows

Arico is really two settlements forced into one municipality. Down on the shore, scattered hamlets survive on sunlight, salt spray and the odd holiday let carved from an old banana store. Up at 556 m, Arico el Nuevo sits on a shelf punched out of volcanic ash, looking south across a wrinkled carpet of terraces. The temperature drops five degrees on the drive up; the silence rises by about the same margin. Stone houses with teal shutters cluster around the 17th-century church of San Juan Bautista, and the only queue is for the bread van that honks its horn at 09:30 sharp.

The gap between the two Aricos is barely 10 km, but the road wriggles so violently that the hire-car counter in Santa Cruz will mark your contract with nervous highlighter. Pull over at the mirador above El Porís and you’ll see why: ancient lava tongues reach the sea, their edges frayed into cliffs where climbing bolts glint like metal barnacles. Over 260 routes, graded 4 to 8b, thread through the tuff. Bring a printed topo—phone coverage collapses in the gorges—and don’t forget a rack of layers: the cliff base can be 24 °C while the wind-ruffled summit is 15 °C.

A coast that refuses to be convenient

Forget gin-palace marinas. Arico’s shoreline is a black geology lesson. La Jaquita’s “sand” is mostly pulverised basalt that burns bare feet at midday and disappears entirely at high tide. When the swell is big, waves explode against a natural rock amphitheatre; red flags fly for days and the local fishermen retreat to the harbour at Porís de Abona, a tiny inlet where boats are winched up a slipway that looks like a discarded railway sleeper. There is one proper restaurant on the harbour wall, Casa Africa, where the menu hinges on whatever the owner’s cousin landed that morning. Grilled vieja (parrot fish) arrives plain, moist, almost sweet—good news for anyone who finds Spanish seafood still staring at them.

If you need a gentler entry, head five minutes east to Abades. The old leper colony has been repainted ice-cream colours and the beach break is learner-friendly, but you’ll share the water with surf-school vans from the airport. Arico keeps its distance, content to let Abados soak up the camper-van crowd.

Up on the shelf, the clock slips

Arico el Nuevo is small enough to circle in twenty minutes, interesting enough to detain you for hours. Narrow lanes weave between single-storey houses; volcanic stone walls are softened by geraniums in olive-oil tins. The church plaza doubles as car park, playground and gossip exchange. Inside, the altarpiece is pure Canarian Baroque—cedar wood painted the colour of Burnt Sienna—but the real artefact is the acoustic: whisper at the back and the verger will hear you by the pulpit.

Walk fifty metres uphill to the old laundry house, where spring water still trickles through stone channels. Local women once scrubbed here; today it’s where British expats fill 5-litre bottles for the week, insisting it halves the price of kettles. Continue on the dirt track signed “Icor” and you’re into a lost world of abandoned terraces, cactus fences and the occasional barking dog that sounds bigger than it looks. The path is part of the Camino de Candelaria, the island’s medieval trade artery; farmers once hauled cheese down to the coast and brought dried fish back up. You can follow it for ten minutes or ten kilometres—either way, carry water. The sun is sneaky at altitude.

Food at the speed of the countryside

Lunchtimes obey farm, not phone, clocks. Bars open at 13:00, shut when the last stewpot empties. Rabbit in salmorejo—think mild paprika casserole rather than the bread-thick Andalusian soup—appears most days. Papas arrugadas come with green mojo sharpened by coriander and cumin; the potatoes are so small they taste like buttered marbles. Vegetarians survive on grilled cheese from nearby Vilaflor, though EcoHotel El Agua in Arico Viejo runs a cave-restaurant that serves beetroot burgers and delivers to your terrace if the stars look too comfy to leave. Wine is local rosado from Cumbres de Abona, chilled until it matches the mountain air. Expect to pay €12–14 for a plate and a glass; cards are accepted exactly nowhere, so bring notes.

When to come, what to pack

April and late-October are sweet spots: 22 °C on the coast, 17 °C in the hills, almond blossom or migrating ospreys depending on the month. July and August fry the barrancos; walkers set off at dawn and retreat to sea-level by 11:00. Winter surprises newcomers—January can deliver 10 °C and drifting cloud in Arico Nuevo while sunbathers still burn on the coast. Pack a fleece and swimshorts the same day.

Climbers book October to May; cottages fill first, especially the off-grid yurts above El Porís where the only light pollution is the Milky Way. If you need a supermarket, the nearest is a 20-minute drive to San Miguel. Top up on oat milk and Jaffa-cake substitutes before you leave the airport—Arico’s village shops close for siesta and all day Sunday.

The catch (there always is)

Public buses exist—Titsa lines 111 and 711—but they stick to the motorway, leaving a 3-km uphill hike to the village. A car is essential, and a sturdy one at that: rural turn-offs are single-track, unlit and edged with cactus. Sat-nav likes to send vans down goat tracks; download offline maps and ignore the lady who insists “in 200 metres, turn left into a field.”

Mobile signal dies in pockets labelled “El Rio” or “Icor”; tell someone where you’re walking. The Atlantic can switch from playful to punitive in the time it takes to eat an ice-cream—check the lifeguard app before you swim. Finally, Arico is quiet. If you crave karaoke, Irish bars or foam parties, stay on the golf coast. Here, nightlife is a bottle of local rosé, a sky full of shooting stars and the occasional goat bell echoing across the barranco. For plenty of Brits, that’s exactly the point.