A few years ago, I left my home in Athens and settled on the Greek island of Tínos. I had never lived on an island before—let alone spent any prolonged amount of time in a place without an airport—but I quickly adjusted. Islands are detached in all senses of the word: time moves differently, and communities are usually more self-sufficient. Surrounded by horizon and only able to leave by boat, I fell in love with the harmonious way islanders live, and became fascinated by the way nature and the elements rule everyday life.
And then I started learning about the Canary Islands.
A Spanish archipelago of seven main islands and several islets scattered off the northwestern coast of Africa, the Canaries are an expression of geological and biologic diversity: damp laurisilvas (laurel forests), rocky deserts, temperamental volcanoes, tropical beaches. Each island has its own microclimate (in some cases, several) and its own particular energy.
But rugged, elemental landscapes aren’t necessarily the first thing that spring to mind when thinking of the Canaries. Starting in the 1960s, the two largest islands, Gran Canaria and Tenerife, became popular holiday spots for sun-starved northern Europeans, and a reputation for mass tourism was born. These were places to go to for a Club Med–like experience, a mai tai by the pool, and not much else.
I’m drawn to stereotypes—to unravelling them, that is. So in late June of last year, I flew to Tenerife, the most populous of the Canaries. I picked up a rental car from the airport and dropped my bags at the Ritz-Carlton, Abama, a sprawling resort on the beachy western coast. Its design is a nod to the architecture of North Africa, with wood-trimmed balconies and exteriors painted the same red colour as the land around Pico de Teide, the island’s dormant volcano. The Ritz-Carlton is
