The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
‘Riding camels on the lava slopes of the Fire Mountains was a highlight of Lanzarote’
From surreal volcanic landscapes to beaches reached only by boat, the sunny Spanish islands have it all – as your stories show
LAVA LOVE
Above the steep streets of Icod de los Vinos, in north-west Tenerife, lies a concealed wonder: the Cueva del Viento, Europe’s longest volcanic cave. A fascinating tour starts at the visitor centre with a talk about the formation of these tunnels: fast-flowing lava runs through outer layers of cooled rock, leaving an empty space, sometimes with multiple connected galleries. Visitors can descend into the depths.
This is no British cave, waterformed and drippy. Dry rock, tree roots, ropey twists of solidified lava, blocks and cracks make an exciting (and dangerous) geology. We emerge blinking, appreciating both the beauty of the island and its fiery history.
Liz Kolbeck, Manchester
GEOGRAPHY LESSON
At the age of 15, while at boarding school, I received a letter from my father telling me we were going on holiday to Mallorca for Easter. I had never heard of it and had to look it up in my atlas.
We flew with British European Airways (BEA) to Palma. Our hotel was the Playa, in Palma Nova – the only place to stay, back then – located right by the beach. There were two small bars, one at each end, both playing Multiplication by Bobby Darin.
A private bathroom at the hotel cost extra, and “en suite” had not yet entered our vocabulary. The hotel had clearly been briefed on British tastes. There were no Spanish dishes and “pudding rice” was a regular dessert. Sue Harris, Kent
WHAT LIES BENEATH
I helped my daughter Sarah, then 11, don her scuba gear and we slowly walked out to sea. We completed our safety checks and swam deeper.
I had chosen this two-week summer holiday in Lanzarote to undertake 10 dives together. As we swam along a reef, a half-ton tuna came into view, the sun’s rays bouncing off its scales. We dived to the seabed to be greeted by the only fish that swims vertically: the seahorse. Then, in startling visibility, we swam to an outcrop where an octopus had taken refuge in a crack. Miraculously, it changed its colour to match the rocks. I checked my air supply, and it was time to ascend. We returned exhilarated. Dave Craggs, Sunderland
TALC OF THE TOWN
We strolled into Santa Cruz de La Palma as the shops were closing for the day. Not only were the shopkeepers locking the doors, as expected, but they were also sealing the gaps around the doorways with tape. Lots of it.
The reason soon became clear: La Palma’s capital was about to celebrate its unique carnival, Los Indianos. Dressed in white costumes, 80,000 dancing participants paraded through the historic town centre, throwing talcum powder at everybody and everything. Onlookers reciprocated with their own talc. All this white powder was provided by the council, which appeared to have an unlimited supply. Everybody, young and old, was covered by the fragrant cloud. This was the highlight of our many holidays in the Canary Islands. Julia Shutlar, Dorset
THE SAME HYMN SHEET
In 2006 I visited Mallorca with other members of our community choir. We had been invited by choristers of the church at Campanet, in the north-east of the island. From our base there, we strolled through almond and olive groves, and orchards of lemon and orange trees. On market day, we perused the stalls in the town’s plaza and, from a pavement café, observed townspeople going about their tasks.
Besides singing with the resident choir for worshippers attending Mass on Palm Sunday, we bonded, danced and sang at informal get-togethers. We feasted on traditional fare from laden buffet tables, and drank cava and local wine. Unfortunately, at the start of our long weekend, I lost my voice due to laryngitis. Being unable to sing didn’t stop me appreciating Mallorcan hospitality and the beautiful setting. Margaret Reed, Wiltshire
TIME TRAVEL
“How do we get to Cala Bassa or Portinatx?” we asked. The answer was that these and other beaches in the north of Ibiza were reachable only by boat – and it took about 30 minutes.
This is what the idyllic island was like in 1957, when I was 11. There was no airport, and the only way to get there from the UK was to fly from Blackbushe Airport, in Hampshire, to Barcelona (4½ hours), then take the weekly boat.
On arrival at Ibiza Town, it seemed the entire population had turned up to greet us. We stayed in San Antonio, at one of only four hotels. Ibiza was very cosmopolitan, attracting people from all over Europe. My father, who only 12 years earlier had been a prisoner of war, conversed with German tourists, who helped me learn to swim. We returned home via another ship sailing to Palma, then flew back to Blackbushe.
Nick Hill, Somerset