Güímar

The pyramids aren't old. That's the first thing. Six stepped heaps of black stone sit behind a pay barrier on the southern edge of Guimar, fenced off like a provincial car park, and every guidebook still whispers "mystery". They're 19th-century farm terraces, probably built to clear the stony ground so vines could breathe. Accept that and the Ethnographic Park becomes an enjoyable half-hour: a smooth loop path through native shrubs, an exhibition on how the valley's farmers coaxed tomatoes from volcanic cinders, and a café with decent coffee where the Wi-Fi password is the same as the ticket number. Adult entry is €14; bring headphones and download the English track beforehand—the QR codes flake in the salt wind.

Guimar stretches eight kilometres from the TF-1 motorway down to the Atlantic, but the map doesn't show the drop in temperature. At 289 m above sea level the town centre sits in a bowl of banana plantations; drive ten minutes south and you're on a coastline of razor-sharp malpaís where the trade wind hits first. That split personality is the point. In the valley the air smells of compost and irrigation; on the coast it tastes of diesel and seaweed. Neither bit is picture-postcard, yet the contrast is oddly satisfying, especially if you've spent the previous night in the neon south-western resorts.

The Quiet Grid Behind the Church

Start in the plaza. The Iglesia de San Pedro Apóstol is a low, white-washed rectangle with a single tower; inside, the wood is dark from centuries of incense and the odd earthquake. The building locks at lunch unless there's a service, but the square outside stays open. Locals use the benches for midday gossip while the bells strike the quarter hours five minutes late. Wednesday is market morning: tarpaulin stalls sell thick-skinned tomatoes, bunches of coriander still gritty with soil, and socks three pairs for two euros. Arrive before ten or you'll circle the one-way grid for parking; the underground car park beneath the civic centre costs €1.20 an hour and actually works.

Side streets keep the original 18th-century width—just enough for a donkey and two arguments. Look up: wooden balconies are painted the traditional Taos blue, supposedly to ward off witches, though the DIY store now calls it "Pool Party". House numbers jump from 3 to 7; no one knows why. The tourist office (Mon-Fri 09:00-14:00) gives away a walking leaflet, but the route is intuitive: follow the smell of fresh churros until you hit the dry riverbed, then turn back.

Black Coast, Blue Pools

From the centre the TF-623 drops 6 km to the shore. The road is narrow but paved; walkers share it with lorries fetching gravel from the pier, so driving is saner. At the bottom you reach Puertito, a scatter of houses, a closed fish cannery, and a cement slipway where two brothers still launch a small red boat at dawn. There's no beach in the British sense—just fingers of lava shelving into deep water. At low tide the Atlantic leaves behind rock pools warm enough for a paddle; bring rubber shoes, not flip-flops, unless you fancy explaining volcanic glass splinters to A&E back home.

The Malpaís de Guimar Natural Reserve starts opposite the boat ramp. A 6.8 km loop, marked with white-and-yellow posts, threads through twisted malvasía and the odd euphoria that looks like a cactus but isn't. The path is level, but there is zero shade; set off by 08:30 and carry a litre of water per person. Halfway round you pass the Cueva Honda, a lava tube big enough to stand in—bring a phone torch. The reward comes at the mirador: a wooden platform cantilevered over cliffs where shearwaters skim the surface and, on clear days, Gran Canaria floats on the horizon like a mirage.

Lunch that Doesn't Involve All-Day Breakfast

Back in town the restaurants are low-key. Bar La Casona occupies the ground floor of a former convent; inside, the stone doorway is three centuries older than the menu. Rabbit stew appears on Saturdays—mild, tomato-rich, bones left in for flavour. Ask politely and they'll swap it for chicken breast, no fuss. Gofio escaldado is an acquired taste: toasted maize flour whisked into fish broth until it sets like savoury porridge. Locals add raw onion; visitors usually reach for the salt. House wine comes from the Valle de Guimar cooperative and tastes better than it should, partly because the altitude keeps the acidity bright.

If you need something child-friendly, Heladería Valeria on Plaza de las Flores labels every tub in English. The mojito sorbet is alcohol-free and bright green; adults tend to migrate to the almond-rich praliné. A double scoop costs €2.80; they accept contactless but the card reader crashes when the temperature tops 30 °C—carry a couple of coins.

When to Come, When to Leave

Spring—late February to mid-May—is the sweet spot. The valley smells of blossom, the coast path isn't yet oven-hot, and room rates stay low because northern Europeans haven't clocked off work. Autumn works too, though September can feel humid when the levante wind drags Sahara air across. Winter is mild (daytime 18-21 °C) but brings cloud that parks itself on the valley rim for days; the upside is empty paths and the chance of hearing shearwaters sing at dusk. Summer is honest: hot, breezy, occasionally suffocating. If you must come in July, do the malpaís walk at sunrise and retreat to the museum's air-conditioned exhibition hall by eleven.

Public transport exists but rewards planners. TITSA bus 120 links Santa Cruz with Guimar every thirty minutes at peak; journey time is 35 minutes and a Bono ticket knocks the fare down to €1.85. From the town centre to the coast, line 116 runs four times a day except Sundays (none). Miss the last return at 19:30 and a taxi to the capital is €40-50. Car hire remains the least stressful option; the TF-1 is a dual carriageway all the way, but watch your speed—Canary radar guns are fond of British number plates.

Half a Day, Properly Spent

Guimar doesn't do blockbuster sights. Think of it as a palate cleanser between the volcanic summit of Teide and the karaoke bars of Los Cristianos. Arrive at nine, walk the malpaís loop, rinse the dust off with a beer in the plaza, poke your head into the church, and buy tomatoes that actually taste of summer. You'll be back on the motorway by three, sun-kissed, salt-crusted, and wondering why the coach crowds bother queueing for cable cars when the east coast gives you lava, lettuce and lunch for under twenty quid.