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Yahoo
18-05-2025
- Yahoo
Why now's the time to visit underrated Sierra Leone
This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK). The storm is clearing now, though the occasional bolt of lightning illuminates our passage. As my eyes slowly adapt, the world around me reveals itself in flickers and bursts: slender palms bent in prayer over the silent water; the villager to my left clutching a brace of pucker-mouthed catfish; fireflies darting like embers through the gloom. We're bound for Tiwai, a remote river island of 4sq miles situated in one of the last portions of ancient rainforest in West Africa. We set off from Freetown that morning, leaving the capital's blue-green shores to follow increasingly non-existent roads east into Sierra Leone's Southern Province. It hasn't been an easy journey to this point, but with the first stars glimmering on the water's surface, and the distant howls of primates all around, I feel sure I'd travel to the moon if it sounded even half as beautiful as nighttime on the Moa. It's a reminder that some of the most euphoric moments Sierra Leone has to offer can't truly be appreciated without first enduring a bit of discomfort — hardly surprising given this is a nation where prehistoric forests, former slaving stations, abolitionist utopias and world-class surf all coexist within an area that's around three times smaller than the UK. The plan is this: after searching for Tiwai's 11 primate species, my guide Peter Momoh Bassie and I will cross back over the river to Kambama village and return to Freetown. Occupying the seaward nib of a forested peninsula, the port city will serve as our base as we explore the islands of the Sierra Leone River and the coastal communities of the wider Western Area, visiting people and landscapes whose stories remain largely unknown to outsiders. 'I think it's just us,' says Peter when we reach our camp: a circle of netted huts set around a jungle clearing, each furnished with several frisbee-sized spiders. This is accommodation for wildlife-lovers who regard the term 'luxury safari' as an oxymoron. There'll be no sunset gin and tonics tonight. In fact, there may not even be any dinner, the freshly caught fish I had my eye on during our crossing currently bound for the wildlife research station downriver. Peter, furrowed brow framed by a military-grade crop, has gone in search of food, leaving me to quell my hunger with one of the sweet-scented oranges we were smart enough to buy from one of Freetown's wandering street hawkers. Sierra Leone is full of surprises. The first is that its oranges aren't orange at all — they're green, the peel so thick it takes a good 15 minutes to excavate the sweet flesh within. It's an apt symbol for a nation that, from the outside, can often seem impenetrable, its charms long overshadowed by the civil war that tore through the country between 1991 and 2002. When Peter finally returns, having convinced Tiwai's research scientists to part with a few portions of flame-charred river fish, we huddle around the camp's dining table to eat and talk long into the night. The guide was just 11 when he was captured by rebel soldiers in his hometown of Makeni, Northern Province. Tasked with carrying ammunition, he was fortunate enough never to fire a shot, though it took years of counselling to come to terms with the violence he witnessed. 'I was very angry at that time,' he says, spooning purple-flecked wild rice onto my plate. 'When I came home, even my brothers were afraid of me.' After the war, Peter began working as a guide for the NGO workers and missionaries who poured into the country in the early 2000s. But in a nation grappling with the transition to peace, the past had a way of haunting the present. While guiding some visitors around Makeni, he spotted his old army captain sitting by the side of the road. 'It's not easy seeing someone who's caused you suffering, but it's the future that matters,' Peter tells me. 'I have daughters at home. I want them to know my story, because, if they do, I know that angry boy will not live on in them.' The following morning, I find myself in the shadow of a giant. The skin around her trunk is barbed with spines, her upper reaches cloaked in wisps of cloud. Some 40 feet in height, she looms over the forest floor, dwarfing bamboo canes the height of church spires. She's a 200-year-old Piptadeniastrum africanum, a deciduous species that Tiwai forest guide Mohamed Koroma tells me is known to the local Mende — one of the largest ethnic groups in Sierra Leone — as the bélé tree. Mende is one of several Sierra Leonean languages spoken by Mohamed — ironic given he's a man of so few words. His reticence, it occurs to me, isn't shyness but the result of a lifetime listening to the language of the forest. It's left him able not only to identify — and occasionally imitate — Tiwai's every bird and primate, but also given him an encyclopaedic knowledge of its plant life. 'The bark of the bélé is a powerful medicine,' he tells me, reeling off a list of uses that includes everything from alleviating insanity to curing scabies — a reminder that traditional medicines remain a key line of defence in rural communities. 'The leaves provide food for red colobus monkeys and, if you're lost in the forest, you can hammer the wood and the sound will be heard in the closest village.' He gives the tree's cavernous roots a swift thump and the beat skims across the landscape like a pebble over still water. 'Tiwai is a gift.' Just a few centuries ago, the canopy formed by such giants would have been near continuous, covering much of West Africa in a tangle of red ironwood, lianas vines and yellow-lipped orchids. By 1975, 84% of the Upper Guinea Rainforest had been lost to deforestation, and today, Tiwai's 31-mile trail network winds through one of the ancient habitat's last remaining fragments. We walk in silence, hands brushing against ruby-red hyacinths wet with dew. Mohamed's elder brother, a senior forest guide, taught him to navigate these emerald corridors, and he seems to move without thinking, deep-set eyes drinking in the forest's every detail. 'Pygmy hippos,' he whispers, crouching low to inspect a trail of prints in the mud. 'They were grazing here last night.' Though we're unlikely to see one now, their mere presence on Tiwai is enough to make my skin prick. By 1993, widespread habitat loss meant there were fewer than 2,000 pygmy hippos left in West Africa, to which they are endemic. The civil war did nothing to aid their survival here either, with rebel soldiers relentlessly poaching the island's mammals for bushmeat, virtually eradicating its diana, red colobus and sooty mangabey monkeys. It's little wonder Mohamed seems so keen to savour the silence here. This forest once crackled with gunfire. Now, it's filled by the mellifluous cooing of hornbills. Protected by eight host communities from the locally governed Koya and Barri chiefdoms, it's one of the best places to spot pygmy hippos in the wild, and home to one of the highest concentrations of primates anywhere in the world. 'This isn't a zoo,' Mohamed assures me. 'The monkeys move quickly, so you must be quiet. Don't step on the twigs.' I keep my eyes fixed on his footfall, hyper-aware of the world at my feet: the fluid trickle of ants pouring in and out of their nests; foot-long black millipedes shimmering like onyx. Then, a rustle from above; pale leaves falling like jade confetti. Mohamed stabs a hole in the air with his machete, and there they are — the rust-red backs of a dozen red colobus monkeys leaping from tree to tree. Using his hands to form a cone around his mouth, he imitates their cry: a high-pitched 'chow' that flies like a boomerang into the highest branches. A moment later, the troop returns the call. As they leap and chatter, I turn to see Mohamed with his eyes closed, basking in their language. We cross back over the Moa River to find hearth smoke rising over Kambama. Everywhere I look, something is being reaped or readied, the red earth laden with piles of rice and cocoa beans. Kind-eyed farmer Lihias Lukalay spots me admiring the fruits of his labour and guides me down to a dappled grove where, between leaves as thick as elephant's ears, his cocoa pods are slowly ripening in the midday sun. 'Sometimes, you can get 150 from one tree,' he says proudly. 'They start off green then turn gold — that's when I know they're ready to open.' He brings his machete down and splits a pod into two mirrored halves, digging out a bean and offering it to me on his upturned palm. The flavour stays with me, bitterness dissolving into an earthy sweetness, as Peter and I bump our way back to Freetown in a battered people carrier. Such roads once made driving between the capital and the provinces a near impossible feat, but improvements in infrastructure over the past few years mean that this stretch is now the exception to the rule. 'They call this the African massage,' Peter says, his laughter rising and falling in pitch as we trundle from pothole to pothole. We watch rice paddies fade to cashew groves until the hills above Freetown come into view. When the Portuguese first saw this hilly peninsula in the 15th century, they thought its peaks resembled a lion. With the wind roaring, they named it Serra Lyoa, or 'Lion Mountains'. They didn't stay long, soon setting sail to chart the routes that would shape the Atlantic slave trade. The arrival of the capital's founding settlers in 1792, mostly formerly enslaved people from North America who had sided with the British during the American War of Independence, reversed the trade's flow of human cargo. Aided by British abolitionists looking to establish a free Black settlement in Sierra Leone, they laid the foundation for a 'Province of Freedom' that, following the abolition of slavery, would welcome peoples from across the African diaspora and come to be known as Freetown. But forging such a utopia wasn't easy when one of the largest British slaving forts in West Africa lay just 20 miles upriver, as I discover when we take a boat to Bunce Island the following morning. From a distance it seems a haven: a deep thicket of tamarind and baobab trees where fisherfolk from Freetown pause for shade. It's only when we trek to the ruin at its heart that I realise I'm on an island of ghosts. 'Bunce Island was the centre of slavery for the whole of West Africa,' Peter explains as we wander beneath shattered watchtowers and crumbling archways, occasionally finding rusted cannons and nameless graves in the hungry grass. 'Around 30,000 West Africans passed through here before they were taken to places like Georgia and South Carolina, and today many Americans come to Bunce as a sort of pilgrimage.' A sapphire-blue butterfly pauses to rest on Peter's arm and I'm struck by the dissonance in my surroundings, the landscape's tranquillity so at odds with the violence it's witnessed. But as Peter recounts the tale of Sengbe Pieh, a Mende farmer who won his right to return to Sierra Leone after leading a revolt aboard a Spanish slave ship in 1839, I begin to understand that reading such places only for their dark histories is to overlook the tales of strength that have emerged from them. That afternoon, Peter and I take a boat back to Freetown to meet Mary-Ann Kai Kai, a local fashion designer for whom Sierra Leone's heritage has long been a source of inspiration. We find the city thick with heat and life, its streets filled with market vendors dressed in cloth so vibrant they seem to leave a trail of colour as they wander kerb to kerb, great baskets of oysters, oranges and plantain balanced on their heads. 'You'll see a lot of Sierra Leonean women wearing their traditional fabrics on Fridays,' says Mary-Ann as we amble across town, her flowing, tie-dyed gown a beacon amid the city's sea of tin roofs and timber-framed colonial buildings. 'Sierra Leonean style is a blend of new ideas and old customs.' Descended from one of the country's few female paramount chiefs — a term used by the British in place of king or queen when referring to local rulers — Mary-Ann is the force behind fashion label Madam Wokie, which has helped to create jobs for some 3,000 young female tailors over the past three years. Its outfits are crafted using gara, a type of hand-dyed cloth historically coloured with indigo leaf or kola nuts. 'Gara patterns change as you go around the country,' Mary-Ann says, cowrie shell earrings glinting in the afternoon sun. 'But all Sierra Leoneans love bright colours,' she adds with a smile. 'The stress of living here means you need something to brighten your mood.' The mood could hardly be brighter at her studio, where some local musicians have gathered with slender wooden drums, their rippled beats and half-chanted vocals setting the pace as 100 busy hands craft fresh lengths of gara and batik. While the eldest workers thread needles through milk-white fabric, the youngest, many sporting their own designs, douse crumpled sheets with iridescent blue-green dye or use candlewax to decorate them with trippy galaxies of colour, their easy laughter filling any space the music doesn't. 'For me, Sierra Leone is one of the happiest places to be in the world, but it can also be unpredictable,' Mary-Ann shouts above the hubbub. 'When you live in a place like this, you have to find a way of empowering others — and that means working with what you find within your surroundings.' The following day, we drive south to Bureh Town to meet someone for whom that came instinctively: local surfer John Small. Born and raised here, the muscular 24-year-old is one of the founding members of Bureh Beach Surf Club, the wellspring of Sierra Leone's burgeoning surf scene. I meet him for a beginner's lesson on the club's thatch-roofed verandah, beyond which sage-green waves slide onto a crescent of ochre sand. 'As a child, I spent months watching expats surf here,' he recalls as we pad out onto the beach. 'When I finally got a board, I already knew how to stand up.' For me, it's not coming so easily. Thankfully, John's a safe pair of hands, though he does fail to contain his laughter when I attempt to push myself into a standing position only to faceplant the sand. 'You look like a professional,' he says. He may be a liar, but he's also something of a local legend, having taught almost all of Bureh's instructors. One of them joins us in the wash: steely-eyed Kadiatu Kamara, Sierra Leone's only professional female surfer. 'I'm trying to encourage other girls to take up surfing, but it's not easy,' she says as we follow John into the bay's waters. 'We have the beaches but not the resources to make it accessible. That's what we're trying to do with Bureh.' I carry that determination with me as I kick myself shoreward, managing to stand just long enough to glide, not so elegantly, into the wash. The ensuing buzz drives me straight back into the water. 'My dream is to have a surf shop here,' John tells me, gazing shoreward. 'All our boards, including the one you're using, were donated by friends from outside Sierra Leone. Every other professional surfer has their own board, so why not me? Why not us?' My trunks are still dripping when we say goodbye. Peter's anxious to make the 4pm ferry set to take me from Freetown back to the airport, though he still finds the time to make a pit stop for fruit and roasted corn on the way. We make it to the quay just in time, where my guide — all relieved smiles and weary eyes — presses a green-skinned orange into my hands just as I'm swept up by a shoal of boarding passengers. The clouds have been thickening all day, but a change in the wind soon rakes them threadbare, leaving swallows dogfighting in a cornflower sky, and me, never so content, eating sunny mouthfuls of honey-sweet fruit. Published in the May 2025 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK).To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
Yahoo
08-05-2025
- Yahoo
How Lanzarote's volcanic landscape has inspired generations of Canary Islanders
This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK). It's just an hour past sunrise when I reach the rim of Caldera Blanca, a steep-sided hulk of igneous rock on the western flank of Lanzarote. The sun casts a reddish wash over the land. Up here — some 1,500ft above the broiling swell of the Atlantic — the only sounds are the wind and the waves, but the whole island is spread out at my feet. In all directions are dozens of other peaks, silent mounds rising from the jagged flatlands. Three centuries ago, the summit I'm standing on didn't even exist. In 1730, the ground began belching a morass of ash and lava across the island in a series of cataclysmic eruptions, covering almost a quarter of its entire area. Many villages had to be abandoned for good. The seismic activity went on to last more than 2,000 days, spewing fury from a vent in the earth's crust and birthing countless new volcanoes, including Caldera Blanca. Today, the caldera's vast, craggy summit feels prehistoric, yet it's younger than St Paul's Cathedral. During the eruptions, a local parish priest named Andrés Lorenzo Curbelo kept a diary. He described gigantic mountains blooming like thunder from a fissure in the ground and 'fiery lava streams descending like rivers'. The island was left with one of the rawest and most elemental topographies in the world; its cracked geology, lunar starkness and strange succulent plants meaning it now regularly doubles on screen as an extraterrestrial planet. Magma has drawn me here. I've come to explore the island's volcanic terrain, to find out not only how it fires the imaginations of many Lanzaroteños — the residents who call the place home — but how, in many cases, its lava-formed landscapes also get used as a resource. What looks bare and inhospitable to some becomes a realm of beauty and possibility in the eyes of many more. Artists adore it, winemakers prosper from it, walkers and cyclists roam its dark hillsides. 'The island has something magnetic about it,' explains my young guide for the week, Rocío Romero, her hair a blaze of red curls. 'I grew up in Granada, but I came here eight years ago and realised I couldn't leave.' In the afternoon, we seek out the nearby El Cuervo volcano, which is partially collapsed. Black stones crunch underfoot as cacti stand silhouetted in the middle distance; the sky is hot and cloudless. El Cuervo is gnarled and huge, its top jagged like torn paper. Walking inside through an opening, we find its crater dotted with straggly shrubs. 'In Lanzarote,' says Rocío, 'the land gets a hold of you'. The island is a paradox. Sitting around four hours by air from the UK — and more than five times closer to the disputed territory of Western Sahara than it is to mainland Spain — it has a population of around 160,000 and draws more than three million tourists a year. But while hotel-filled hotspots like Puerto del Carmen and Playa Blanca in the south are made for fly-and-flop breaks in the sunshine, the rest of the island has a different feel. The 1730 eruption wasn't the last volcanic activity to take place here, and it was far from the first. Lanzarote — along with neighbouring Fuerteventura — is the oldest of the Canary Islands, an underwater upheaval forcing its landmass above the waves some 15 million years ago. Volcanism created the island and has shaped it ever since, raising its cliffs, muscling out its contours and covering much of its interior in petrified, ankle-snapping lava flows known as malpaís: literally, badlands. But humans have sculpted Lanzarote, too. This is a relatively small island, measuring 37 miles from tip to tectonic toe and 16 miles wide. The next day, as Rocío and I drive north past scattered hamlets — where palm trees and fat-branched euphorbia provide splashes of green — a uniformity in the architecture becomes apparent. Every house is either one or two stories high, flat-roofed and painted a dazzling white. Some have green trims around their doors and windows, others a cheery shade of blue. The overall impression is one of restraint, of perfect order among the geological chaos. Lanzarote's prevailing aesthetic isn't just happenstance, says Rocío — it's underpinned by the work of one person in particular. 'This is César Manrique,' she says, pointing at a large tattoo on her upper arm: a man balancing what appears to be a giant sculpture on his outstretched hand. 'You're going to be hearing his name a lot.' The clock has just passed 8am, and cafe-owner Juan-Carlos Hernandez Betancor is preparing strong coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice, as he has done most mornings since 1987. He is garrulous, jolly company, and well he might be. His establishment, Bar La Piscina, has a plum location overlooking a natural seawater swimming pool — loosely walled in by volcanic rocks and, I can report, enjoyably bracing — in the sleepy east coast fishing settlement of Punta Mujeres. 'This village,' he says, resting an espresso in front of me and raising a finger to emphasise his point, 'is a kind of treasure. The calmness is special.' On the street outside, a dog-walker passes by as the sun rises from the sea, spilling morning light onto flowered window-boxes. Juan-Carlos's customers are mainly villagers, he tells me, to the point where he closes his doors at weekends. His Canarian cooking is renowned: dishes like grilled octopus, fried goats' cheese with tomato marmalade, and spice-rich fish stews. As if to underline his credentials, he plays his Lanzarote trump card. 'You know,' he says, 'I was invited to prepare the food for the opening of the César Manrique Foundation.' Two men can claim to have made an indelible mark on the island's story. In 1312, Genoan navigator Lancelotto Malocello was the first recorded sailor from continental Europe to make landfall here. He encountered Indigenous islanders who used lava stones as mortars and crafted obsidian — a black volcanic glass — into hand tools. Sensing a chance to take power, he stayed for nearly 20 years, fleeing only when the locals rose up in anger. By then, however, he had named the island after his alias, Lanzarotus, which eventually evolved into Lanzarote. Providing a far more recent, and altogether more welcome, influence was César Manrique, an artist, architect, sculptor, environmentalist and activist. He was born here in 1912 and spent time living and working in Madrid and New York — where he hobnobbed with Andy Warhol — before returning for good in 1966. Lanzarote, at that time, had a poor self-image. Islanders saw the burgeoning tourism industries on Gran Canaria and Tenerife and bemoaned the barrenness of their own home. Seeing things differently, and determined to bolster the public outlook, Manrique set out to form a kind of paradise among the volcanoes. He did this primarily by using the landscape as a palette for his creativity, guided by the motto 'art into nature, nature into art'. Given freedom to develop his ideas by the island's government, he made underground worlds in lava tunnels and erected a spellbinding clifftop structure on the north coast: El Mirador del Río, a viewpoint over the humped islets of the Chinijo Archipelago, surrounded by twinkling blue seas. He also opened a series of panoramic restaurants specialising in local food, built monumental sculptures on roundabouts and turned a litter-filled quarry into a cactus garden. He even created a volcanic home of his own, complete with rooms in hardened lava bubbles. The house is now the César Manrique Foundation and has been open to the public since 1992, when the artist died. Among his myriad projects, Cueva de los Verdes, in the island's north, is the largest. A gargantuan tubular cave, it was created 3,000 years ago by a torrent of gushing lava, its top later solidifying into a waxy roof. Under Manrique's guidance, the cave — around a mile of which can be wandered on foot — has evolved into a discreetly lit wonderland, soundtracked by drifting chants and classical music. In some places, the tunnel is more than 150 foot high. Centuries ago, islanders used to hide in this deep grotto to avoid pirates. 'There's no life down here,' says Rocío, as we enter. Estafilitos, or lava stalactites, dangle above and mighty-walled chambers loom ahead. We're the first visitors to set foot in the cave all day. The air down here is cool and the mood of wonder profound. In the cavernous half-light, the island above is a foreign memory. 'No birds, no bats, no plants. Just us.' The nearby Jameos del Agua, meanwhile, was Manrique's chance to celebrate Lanzarote's volcanism even more extravagantly. Hollywood star Rita Hayworth called the site the world's eighth wonder. It occupies another section of the same giant lava tube, with Manrique here focusing his attention on a series of large open-air cavities, known as jameos, where the tunnel had long ago collapsed. These areas he filled with lush foliage, fishing paraphernalia, bars, palm trees and whitewashed pools, as well as turning an adjacent part of the cave into a giant musical amphitheatre. Adding to the otherworldly ambiance is a natural lake between two of the jameos containing thousands of tiny blind albino crabs, a species found nowhere else on the planet. Manrique's creative appetite was seemingly insatiable (he also designed LagOmar, a rock-built complex in the centre of the island that was briefly the home of Egyptian actor Omar Sharif, who reportedly lost it in a game of bridge) but he was driven by far more than inventiveness. Determined to turn Lanzarote into somewhere that attracted appreciative, curious visitors, he also railed against the perils of fast profits and overdevelopment. 'The island's landscape,' he once said, pointedly, 'is like a great symphony that requires time to be understood.' At El Diablo Restaurant in Timanfaya National Park, volcanoes take centre stage. Not only through wraparound windows — where ranks of scorched peaks rampage towards the coast, their iron-red sides streaked yellow with sulphur — but in the kitchen, which barbecues chicken using geothermal heat and serves volcano-shaped chocolate desserts sprinkled with popping candy. Outside, guides pour water into holes in the earth to stimulate the vertical steamy whoosh of a geyser. The park itself is home to the biggest cluster of volcanoes on the island and the scenery's widescreen, Martian sense of drama has undeniable appeal. However, as Timanfaya is inundated with visitors and can only be explored aboard a tour bus, I find myself craving the freer rhythms of the rest of the island, the quieter corners that Lanzarote offers in abundance. A half-hour drive north past undulating volcanic ridgelines is the hamlet of Teseguite: home to the workshop of ceramicist Eguzkine Zerain. Her pieces are as raw and individual as the landscape: all uneven edges and organic shapes. When she invites us in, sunlight pours through the door onto shelves of hand-formed plates and bowls, each one intentionally imperfect. She tells me why she moved here from the Basque region 26 years ago. 'The stones, the rocks, the wind, the space,' she explains, in soft tones. The front of her green T-shirt is streaked with clay. 'Living here, I can't control the impulse to create.' Not far away, in the similarly serene village of San Bartolomé, Rufina Santana makes paintings on a grand scale. Her works are vast and colour-splashed, her spirit erupting from the canvas. 'I am like a volcano!' she tells me, a grin playing on her lips. 'The power you find inside the mountain — that's my character. I feel the island. I feel its generosity. I feel the weather. When I paint, it all just comes out.' Her creative process is aided by spending an hour swimming in the ocean every morning. This seemingly works wonders, given that her paintings now decorate high-end hotels and galleries around Lanzarote. 'César Manrique came here once and bought one of my paintings,' she recalls happily, as her Jack Russell, Milo, scampers around the studio. 'He was an old man then, but he loved art.' Others make their living from the land via more practical means. On the east coast, a grid of salt flats laid out in 1895 still produces huge piles of salt, evaporated from a natural seawater lagoon that was formed by a lava eruption. In the north, Europe's largest organic aloe vera plantation sits among thorny argan trees. And in the La Geria region, in the island's heart, it's all about the wine. Nothing quite prepares you for the sight of a Lanzarote winery. Each vine sits in a separate, funnel-shaped hollow, dug into the dark volcanic ash and ringed on one side by a small stone barrier, to protect the plant from the northerly trade wind. The sight of hundreds of these rocky hollows studding the same hillside, some more than 10ft deep, gives the feel of a ruined Stone Age village. But there's more to the ash than meets the eye. 'It draws moisture from the air and traps it,' says Ana de León, who runs the Bodega Los Bermejos, one of more than 20 wineries on the island. Out among the vines, Ana picks up a handful of picón — the gritty volcanic ash that sits above the soil — and lets it fall through her fingers. 'This is what helps the wine.' The dominant grape is the white Malvasía Volcánica, with some vines on Lanzarote dating back more than 200 years. Canarian wine was a favourite even back in the Elizabethan era — it's mentioned in three Shakespeare plays — and still wins devotees. 'Only 10% of the island's wine gets exported these days,' explains Ana. 'After all, we have a lot of thirsty locals and visitors.' She pours me a glass of the bodega's white, which frosts the glass instantly. The land that grows Lanzarote's grapes looks hard and unforgiving, yet the wine itself gives off an almost floral scent. The taste is vibrant, aromatic and fresh, but there's something flinty and mineral about it, too. After our pre-emptive sundowner, Rocío drives us to beautiful Famara Beach in the island's northwest to watch the sunset. Some of the best-looking beaches in Lanzarote are lined with hotels and shops, but here there's just a row of campervans, some low dunes and a group of surfers in the ocean swell. Waves crash in from the Atlantic, unhindered, and above a row of dark pyroclastic peaks, the western sky is aflame with a lava-like palette of red and orange. Forged by the heat of the underworld, this island still knows how to put on a show. Published in the May 2025 issue of National Geographic Traveller (UK)To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
