Arona

The church clock strikes twelve and the amplified bells carry six kilometres down to the Atlantic. From the stone bench outside the 18th-century Iglesia de San Antonio Abad you can watch the minute hand tick while the coast you left twenty minutes earlier still glints through the haze. That is Arona’s party trick: altitude without effort. The old village sits 630 m above the bungalow sprawl of Los Cristianos, close enough for a cheap bus ride, high enough to swap diesel fumes for pine-scented air.

Most British visitors know the name only from airport transfers. The coach sweeps off the TF-1, deposits them at a sea-level hotel and the word “Arona” vanishes from the itinerary. Stay an extra fifteen minutes on the 480 guagua and the municipality rewrites itself. Cobbled lanes no wider than a Ford Fiesta. Houses painted the colour of pale ale with tea-coloured timber balconies. Grandmothers gossiping under a dragon tree that predates the Spanish Civil War. The temperature drops five degrees; the soundtrack changes from Euro-pop to cooing collared doves.

Up in the cheap seats

The plaza in front of the church is barely the size of a tennis court, but it does the job of every Spanish square since the Romans: mass at ten, coffee at ten-thirty, market on Sunday. Stallholders lay out wheels of goat’s cheese flecked with pimentón, jars of honey that smell of chestnut blossom and bunches of bananas still carrying the field’s volcanic dust. Prices are written on cardboard and haggling is considered bad form; a fiver gets you a fat wedge of smoked almogrote spread and two loaves of bread baked with gofio flour. Eat it on the steps and someone will offer you a plastic fork before you’ve finished unpacking.

There is no checklist of must-see monuments. The church itself is sober to the point of stern: stone floor worn smooth by parishioners’ espadrilles, a single Baroque altar piece rescued from a pirate raid in 1705. What you come for is the vantage point. Walk twenty paces past the bell tower and Tenerife tilts open like a pop-up book. To the left, the biscuit-coloured stack of Playa de las Américas; straight ahead, the ferry lane to La Gomera; on a clear day the silhouette of La Palma hovers on the horizon like a broken shark’s tooth. Bring binoculars and you can identify the Thomson catamaran you probably took dolphin-watching last year.

Down where the boats leave

Descend the old royal pathway—part Roman paving, part modern concrete—and the temperature rises with every hairpin. Forty-five minutes later you reach the Los Cristianos promenade where British voices demand “two large breakfasts, extra black pudding”. The contrast is brutal, useful. Without the climb you never notice how the island’s two economies slot together: the hill village survives on local pensions, the coast on sterling and suncream. One supplies mojo, the other demands it.

The beaches themselves are municipal, cleaned daily and rammed from February half-term onward. Playa de las Vistas has the best disabled access in the Canaries—boardwalks extend wheelchair users into thigh-deep water—and showers that actually run cold, a mercy when the sand temperature nudges 45 °C. Los Cristianos beach is narrower, backed by fish-and-chip shops offering Tetley’s on tap. Neither is picturesque in the chocolate-box sense; both do what they say on the tin. If you need solitude, keep walking east past the last hotel until the promenade ends. There a lava breakwater creates a pocket-sized cove where local lads smoke roll-ups and ignore the no-swimming flag.

Walking off the all-inclusive

The signposted trail to Roque del Conde starts behind the village health centre. It is 3.5 km one way, climbs 450 m and exposes every extra pint of lager you drank the night before. Setting off before nine is non-negotiable; by eleven the path reflects heat like a pizza oven. The summit plateau is private farmland—ancient terraces still planted with almonds—but the owner doesn’t mind walkers who close the gate. From the top you can trace the TF-1 all the way to the salt pans of Santa Cruz while turkey vultures circle at eye level. Allow two hours up, one down, and carry more water than you think polite.

If that sounds too penitential, book a slot in the Barranco del Infierno instead. Only 200 people per day are let into the ravine and the ticket office closes without warning if rain is forecast—check online the evening before. Inside, waterfalls slide down basalt walls and dragonflies hover like blue neon. The trail ends at a 200 m waterfall that is usually a trickle by June; nevertheless the air temperature drops ten degrees and you’ll be grateful for the jumper you almost left in the hire car.

What to eat when you’re sick of chips

Back in the village, Bodegón Tamarco occupies a former coal store on Calle Grande. The menu is translated by someone who clearly owns a dictionary and a sense of humour—“wrinkly spuds with cheeky red sauce” turns out to be papas arrugadas with fiery mojo picón. Portions are sized for farm workers; ask for media ración if you want dessert. The house rabbit comes stewed in salmorejo, a vinegar-based gravy that tastes like Spanish brown sauce with a university education. Expect to pay €14 for a main, €2.20 for a caña of Dorada.

Down on the coast the choices multiply, but one rule holds: if the laminated menu is photographed, keep walking. Instead, follow the fishermen. At 13:00 they moor their boats beside the old pier and flog parrot-fish and cherne to whoever hovers with cash. Ten metres away a portable grill appears; for €8 you get a paper plate of fish, half a lemon and a plastic fork. No licence, no queueing system, no insurance—just the freshest lunch on the island.

When the village throws a party

January 17 is San Antonio Abad, patron of animals. The plaza fills with hay bales, and farmers lead goats, ponies and the occasional bemused camel to be blessed outside the church. A British visitor once tried to take a selfie with a bull terrier and lost a sausage roll; the priest carried on sprinkling holy water as if nothing had happened. Rooms in Los Cristianos triple in price that week—book early or stay in San Cristóbal de La Laguna and commute.

July brings the coastal Fiestas del Carmen. A statue of the Virgin is carried through Los Cristianos and loaded onto a flower-decked trawler. Fifty boats follow her out, horns blaring, while the RAF-red lifeboat circles like a sheepdog. When the procession returns, the harbourmaster lets off fireworks that rattle windows in Arona. You can watch the whole thing from the village square on a giant screen erected by the council, but it’s more fun to ride the bus down, stand on the breakwater and pretend you belong.

Getting there, getting out

TITSA bus 480 leaves Los Cristianos every thirty minutes; the climb takes eighteen, costs €1.45 with a Bono card and takes you within 100 m of the church. A taxi from the coast is €12–15 depending on how lost the driver pretends to be. If you hire a car, park on the ring road—lanes inside the village are single-track and locals park by ear.

The village itself can be walked end-to-end in fifteen minutes. Treat it as a breather between beach days rather than a destination in itself and you’ll strike the right balance. Ignore it completely and you’ll spend a week assuming Arona is nothing but hotel buffets and Irish pubs. The bells will still ring, but you’ll be too far below to hear them.