A grand time in the Isles of Happiness

‘Name’s got nothing whatever to do with birds,’ says the only other englishman at the Grand Hotel Residencia, maspalomas. He is clearly an authority on the Canary Islands.

‘Theo darling, you don’t know for sure,’ replies his wife, annabel, busy FaceTiming her grandchildren back in Wiltshire. Her skin is the colour of teak.

‘Yes, I do. mistranslation of Pliny. He was writing about sea lions. Canis. Canaries. Dogs, d’you see?’ and Theo returns to his crossword puzzle.

The Isles of Happiness, the Romans called them. Dogs, sealions, whatever, the Canary Islands marked the end of their known world. a penal colony, yes, but a very long time ago.

some 60 miles off the coast of africa, this unlikely volcanic archipelago — there’s a volcano erupting on the island of Las Palmas right now — has remained one winter escape still legitimately accessible. a low Covid rate, and rigorous monitoring, have spared the worst. You can come here. You should. scraping at the unforgiving soil, antonio the hotel gardener conjures miracles from black gravel. ‘ah, but is absorbent. Releases water slow-slowly.’ He is proud to enjoy what meteorologists deem ‘the best climate in the world’. Tempered by the trade winds, the year-round sunshine keeps the thermometer in the constant, dry mid-20s (or mid-70s in old money).

The Grand Residencia is Gran Canaria’s only five-star seaside hotel that remained open during the pandemic. Owned by wealthy Germans, it stands discreetly in antonio’s dramatic garden of palm trees (symbol of the Canary Islands) and tall and spiky candelabra cactus.

Beautiful by day or night, it sets a gold standard in heedless luxury. Bedroom suites are generous, their private terraces overlooking the dazzling pool, and with