The sky is clear as I sit sipping coffee in the sunny courtyard of an 18th-century house – now a boutique hotel – in the small Lanzarote town of Teguise. But Óscar Cubillo, my host, sees something different. Looking up, he says: “The planes are always there. They never stop.”
Lanzarote, an island shaped by volcanoes, salt and wind, feels like an otherworldly outpost, but it has recently been wrestling with an influx of tourists that residents fear the island cannot handle.
Lanzaroteños are concerned that mass tourism, particularly on the south coast, has driven up house prices and caused environmental damage. Earlier this year, tens of thousands of protesters marched at rallies across the Canary Islands demanding a rethink of the mass tourism model that has been a mainstay of the archipelago for decades. Their slogan? Canarias tiene un límite – the Canaries have a limit.
The protesters were careful to point out that they aren’t against all tourism – they just want limits on its growth.
Cubillo, who hails from the neighbouring island of Tenerife, is committed to a smaller-scale, more sustainable approach. Several years ago, while living in Madrid, he and his partner, designer Gigi de Vidal, came looking for an apartment in Teguise, a village off the beaten track in north-central Lanzarote. Cubillo had fond memories of visiting his grandmother there when he was a child.
Instead of buying a getaway apartment, however, de Vidal and Cubillo found a grand old house in a state of disrepair, and fell in love with it. They spent the next four years renovating it, combining de Vidal’s design practice with Cubillo’s background in hospitality. In 2022, they opened their five-room hotel, Casa de las Flores.
“Lanzarote has something that you cannot explain,” says Cubillo. “The magnetism, the power of this island, it’s unique.”
Casa de las Flores’s stylish lounge and sunny courtyard are so inviting that I could have easily spent the day there curled up with a book, but just a few streets away in the main square, vendors are selling jewellery, clothing and books at Teguise’s Sunday market. A busker performs No Dudaría, the beloved 1980 peace anthem by Antonio Flores, and people are singing along. I order a tomato pesto sandwich and a coffee at Mura and admire the whitewashed houses with their bright green doorways. The 16th-century church of Our Lady of Guadalupe stands tall among the low-rise buildings. Teguise was the capital of Lanzarote until the mid-19th century, when it was moved to Arrecife.
This town and the village of Haría, further north, have in the past five years seen several new boutique hotels and residences, aiming to coax tourists further north and inland. Along with Casa de las Flores, Casa de los Naranjos in Haría and Hektor, a bit closer to Tequise, reflect a more authentic side of Lanzarote, emphasising design and sustainability, and offering a more intimate experience.
Away from the white sand beaches and large hotels in the south, the north of the island is wild and rugged, with ancient lunar-style landscapes. I drive 20 minutes north-east to the town of Punta Mujeres, and the Piscina Natural Las Rosas. It is one of several natural sea pools, barricaded from the Atlantic by rocks, that usually don’t feature on tourist itineraries, but are a natural and free resource, surrounded by outcrops on which locals sunbathe and chat. I climb down an iron ladder and plunge into the bracing bright turquoise water before spending the rest of the afternoon basking in the sun.
A drive through the grape-growing central region of La Geria reveals a rolling vista on either side of the lone highway, an expanse of lava-black soil specked with bright green vines each growing in a low, semicircular stone shelter. Volcanic eruptions in the 18th century covered about a quarter of the island in ash and lava, and the volcanic soil, arid climate and unusual winds – in particular, the hot Calima, carrying sand from the Sahara – have shaped the way grapes are grown on the island. The low stone walls act as barriers against the wind, while the vines are buried in hand-dug conical holes known as hoyos and are almost completely covered in ash-rich dirt that helps them retain moisture.
Amor López, a third-generation winemaker and the founder of Bodega Erupción, makes wine with grapes from La Geria. She is also the first, and so far only, woman on the island to run a winery. I take sips of her unoaked wines as she explains the increasing challenges of climate change, and the alarming drop in rainfall over the past three years. One criticism of the large, all-inclusive resorts in the south is the amount of water they consume. A century ago, water was brought to Lanzarote from Gran Canaria once a week by boat and households would use cisterns to store it. Now the island relies on desalination and conservation.
On the final day of my trip, I walk along Famara beach in the north-west, a showcase for the raw beauty of this part of the island. Famara is Lanzarote’s longest beach and famously featured in Pedro Almodóvar’s film Broken Embraces. Its wild seas draw serious surfers, several of whom are bobbing on the crests of the waves. Sand dunes line the beach and the Famara – the mountainous massif that dominates the north end of the island – rises up in the background, cutting the sky like the spine of a prehistoric beast.
Wanting to see more, I head to the Peñas del Chache, the highest peak on the island at 672 metres. Driving up along narrow, winding roads, I wonder if I haven’t made a mistake trying to navigate here. It is dusk, and the island’s wild beauty feels almost threatening. But I keep going, until abruptly, I find myself in front of an old observatory, unable to go any further. It feels like I have driven directly into a prehistoric era as I stand alone among the cliffs.
