Pájara

The goat stew arrives at 1.15 pm, just as the church bell tolls once. The waiter doesn't ask if you want it; he assumes you do. In Pájara's only square, lunch is a foregone conclusion, not a choice. The stew itself is dark, almost black, thickened with gofio toasted maize meal and tasting of sage and volcanic soil. It costs €9, comes with a quarter-litre of house red, and explains why nobody here bothers with dinner.

A village that refuses to rush

Pájara sits 196 m above the Atlantic, far enough from the coast to escape the buffet of trade winds yet low enough to keep the air soft. Whitewashed houses line two streets and a bit; the total walking circuit is 800 m, pavement included. A pair of elderly men play dominoes under a drago tree; the click of tiles is the loudest sound until a removed lorry growls up the FV-30. Population: roughly 1,800 in the village centre, 21,000 if you count the whole municipality that stretches 65 km south to the lighthouse at Punta de Jandía. In practice, that means goats still outnumber humans in the hills, and the humans like it that way.

The village makes a convenient escape when the resorts of Costa Calma feel too organised. From those beach hotels it's a 25-minute drive inland; the road climbs past aloe plantations and sudden barrancos where ravens wheel on thermals. Hire cars queue outside the Spar on Saturday morning while drivers work out how to ask for "loo roll" in Spanish. (It's papel higiénico, and the shop stocks two brands.)

Baroque meets Aztec in the middle of nowhere

The reason most day-trippers make the detour is the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de Regla. Its south doorway, carved in 1696, is pure Canarian baroque—until you notice the twin snakes, the plumed head-dress and the corn motifs that look lifted straight from Tenochtitlán. How Aztec symbols ended up 3,000 km east of Mexico is still debated; theories range from missionary woodcarvers who had sailed to the New World to pure coincidence. Whatever the truth, the portal stops even teenagers mid-scroll. Inside, the church is shadow-cool, scented with wax and old pine. Mass is sung at 11 am on Sunday; visitors are welcome but cameras are expected to rest.

Give yourself twenty minutes to circle the building, another ten for the small plaza's tile benches. Then you're done with sights—because Pájara itself is not a checklist place. Its charm is the absence of attractions: no souvenir market, no audio-guide, nobody pressing leaflets into your hand.

Between lava and ocean

The municipality unfurls south and west like a rough-edged fan. Ten minutes downhill lies Ajuy, a hamlet of black-sand coves where fishermen mend nets in front of a tavern that serves grilled vieja the colour of sunrise. A 20-minute footpath leads to sea caves carved out of 70-million-year-old marine basalt; the Atlantic thunders inside, spraying salt 20 m up the cliff. Trainers with decent grip are advisable—lava rock turns into a cheese-grater when wet—and hold onto hats; the wind here has stolen more than one Panama over the side.

Head east instead and you reach Sotavento, a 25-km tongue of pale sand split by tidal lagoons. This is freestyle-kite territory; August brings the Windsurf & Kiteboarding World Cup, when competitors loop overhead and parking resembles a bumper-car rink. On windless winter mornings the same beach is empty except for a lone German jogger and a surfer willing to hike for uncrowded waves. Water temperature hovers around 19 °C in February, 23 °C in September—fine in a 3 mm wetsuit, brisk if you insist on skin-only.

Roads that demand a deposit

Cofete, the poster-child beach, lies on the wild south-west coast. Reaching it means 12 km of unpaved track over the mountains of Jandía. The surface is graded gravel but narrow, with drops that make passengers claw imaginary brakes. Hire firms class it as "off-road"; check clause 8c before setting out or you could be liable for underside damage. The reward is 14 km of sand without a sun-lounger in sight, backed by the abandoned Villa Winter—an Art-deco mansion whose wartime past fuels every conspiracy from Nazi gold to secret radar. Bring everything: there are no loos, no kiosk, precious little phone signal. On blustery days the sandblasting effect is real; cheap sunglasses get etched in minutes.

If that sounds too committed, the Pico de la Zarza trek starts just above Cofete's access road and tops out at 807 m, the island's high point. The path is 7 km each way, unshaded, across loose lapilli that roll like ball-bearings underfoot. Start at dawn, carry three litres of water per person, and expect thighs to mutiny the next day. Views from the summit run from the dunes of Corralejo to the cliffs of Los Gigantes on Tenerife—assuming the trade-wind haze cooperates.

Starlight and goat cheese

Evenings in the village are quiet enough to hear your own pulse. Light pollution is negligible; walk 200 m beyond the last streetlamp and the Milky Way spills across the sky like split sugar. The Sicasumbre viewpoint, ten minutes by car, has a stone star chart laid flat on the ground—lie on your back, match constellations, feel pleasantly small. Night-time temperatures drop to 12 °C in January, so pack a fleece even if the coast felt balmy at sunset.

Food back in the plaza is dictated by what arrived that morning. Fresh fish means parrot-fish or sea bream, simply grilled and served with small wrinkled potatoes and two bowls of mojo—red (mild, paprika) and green (sharp with coriander and vinegar). Local goat cheese arrives fried in rounds, its skin blistered, interior melted, the whole thing drizzled with palm honey. A half-round costs about €6 and converts even those who swore off goat after a bad festival experience. Vegetarians can fall back on potaje de berros, a watercress-and-chickpea stew that tastes healthier than it sounds, and the ubiquitous papas arrugadas—order them "sin salsa" if you want to stay clear of the anchovy-laced red.

Wine is from La Geria on neighbouring Lanzarote; volcanic ash soil gives the malvasía a faint smoky note. A glass is €2.50, a bottle from the co-op shop €7. If you prefer beer, order a Dorada and you'll get the Canarian lager; ask for "una caña" and the pour stops at 200 ml, perfect for lunch without a siesta.

When to come, what to watch

Spring (March–May) and late autumn (late Oct–early Dec) offer the kindest balance: 24 °C by day, cool enough to sleep at night, wind toned down from summer's full blast. August is reliable for gales and crowds; hotel prices on the coast jump 40 per cent, and the village becomes a drive-through for tour coaches doing the church-and-caves circuit in 90 minutes flat. Winter is mild—T-shirt weather at midday—but sea temperatures dip and mountain paths can be greasy after rain. Car-hire rates also leap over Christmas; book early or use Puerto del Rosario port as an alternative arrival point if you're island-hopping by ferry.

Sunday lunch catches visitors out: kitchens close by 3 pm sharp, reopening isn't guaranteed. Arrive before 1 pm or be prepared to drive back to the coast where Morro Jable's marina restaurants stay open all afternoon, catering to ferry passengers bound for Gran Canaria.

Take it or leave it

Pájara won't suit everyone. If you need nightlife beyond the occasional village fiesta, stick to the coast. If you measure a destination by its tick-box count, you'll be back in the car within an hour. But for travellers who like their Spain undiluted, who judge a place by the quality of its silences and the honesty of its stews, the village works like a reset button. Come for the church doorway, stay for the goat-scented dusk, then decide whether to head for the beach or simply order another coffee and let the afternoon sink in.