The festive season had arrived, and the winter was stubbornly refusing to depart. I swear SAD gets more and more a ‘thing’ every year, and whilst climate change probably doesn’t really impact on daylight, this year has seemed far more Scandinavian than most, featuring a fleeting few hours of daylight nestled within the eternal gloom.
I eagerly eyed a four-day break in mid January, by far the most depressing month of the year. Mark was due to be away for family stuff and I suspected it still wouldn’t be prime van outing weather. A case of ‘why not’ rather than ‘why’.
So, off to Google I went. Whilst others disagree, I find this by far the most powerful and flexible search engine for flights, and you can find some surprising bargains within the “Bristol to anywhere” filter. Once you get familiar with it and the filters, it’s much better than Kayak or Momondo.
The first brilliant suggestion this threw up was Kaunas, an apparently beautiful city in Lithuania close to Vilnius, with a really good £60 return fare, leading to me hovering over the book button more than a few times. In fact, I am definitely going to line up a trip there later in the year, but a casual enquiry of January weather led to the conclusion that I’d probably wouldn’t be much of a fun weekend, more than likely even more gloomy than dear old Blighty and much colder. Next up came my usual favourites in southern Spain, as well as a Budapest flight, all under £60, incredible value but the times didn’t really line up. Porto was suspiciously cheap, explained by a little bit of light searching to reveal that it’s like a cold rainforest in January.
When you really look hard the intriguing suggestions keep popping up, such as Enfidha in Tunisia for under £90rtn, sadly again the flight times didn’t really line up and North Africa felt a little too brave of a stretch for a long weekend.
And there it was, by a bit of scrolling south and zooming in I came across the Canary Islands. Spanish speaking and on the same latitude as Morocco? I should coco. And best of all, decent prices. The best of the lot in terms of both times and price was Fuerteventura, for a scarcely believable £50 return and at very civilised times, unlike the normal RyanJet 6am bleary stumbles.
So, there we were. Flights sorted. I was determined to keep this a cheap and cheerful weekend, so sought out modest lodgings. Fuerteventura is not an especially cheap place for digs, but by filtering from ‘lowest price first’ and ruling out all dorm beds, because I’m now of an age whereby it’s just weird, I happened upon Greentree House.
The Goods? £90 for 3 nights, slap bang in the middle of Corralejo.
The Bads? Shared bathroom, and…yeah, bunk beds. Undignified at the age of 46.
This actually turned out to be a pretty decent option, location was excellent and bunk beds manageable to a point. I don’t think Mark would have fitted though. The strange aspect of this place was that it was basically a small apartment you were sharing with a complete randomer, which is an odd vibe. Also a number of entirely usual Latin ‘attention to detail’ things like the light switch being outside the bedroom. This was vastly preferable to my initial ‘bargain’ booking of a Riu all inclusive hotel close to Corralejo, until I realised that it was miles out and would be a horrible experience.
The trip out turned out to be incredibly smooth sailing (driving/flying), finishing work an hour early got me ahead of the rush hour, and straight to the “park and walk” car park at Bristol Airport, a brilliant value option. I’d booked this from 7am, and had planned ahead bringing a duvet for a much needed and surprisingly successful 3hr nap prior to departure. Bristol Airport is moderately more civilised at lunchtime than with the 5am gaggle of hen parties downing pints.
As we boarded the plane I realised I was right at the back, with mercifully small of stature seatmates. Middle seat naturally, since I hadn’t folded to Mr. O’Leary’s bullying. After an exceptionally hard landing, even by Ryanair standards, I replaced my false teeth and waited for literally everyone else to get off the plane before leaving, joining the back of the passport queue to realise I’d been sat two seats over from a major crime Detective I used to work with. To his wife’s delight, we immediately began discussing the recent flurry of murder in our area. Yeah, we’re not right, are we?
I made my way straight to the hire car desk. This was definitely not in the spirit of a super cheap weekend, but hire cars are as cheap as chips this time of year and the bus to Corralejo is…lengthy, so car it was.
This was suspiciously easy/cheap, even with the “super cover” and zero excess it came to £60 for the whole weekend. Card in, keys given, car’s outside. Even by my standards this was a quick airport transit. Tarmac to tarmac, runway to road, leaving the airport in about 20 minutes.
Straight to my digs for the weekend, and exactly how I like it, with minimal interaction and keys in the lockbox. This was exactly what I’d hoped for, a nice little place bang in the centre, and only about 4 blocks from the beach. Strongly resisting the urge for a nap, I grabbed a shower and then headed into town for a wander.
I liked the centre of Corralejo. Undeniably a little bit touristy, with the usual places with trilingual menus outside, but after a bit of wandering and deliberation as well as the usual ADHD “Have to find the best possible option anywhere” I settled for a big fish restaurant, ending up with a very decent octopus and squid starter and a terrifying looking main course, with fried parrotfish and gurnard, as well as Canarian potatoes. Simple but hit the spot. Along with a few glasses of wine and a cracking dessert this was my most expensive meal of the weekend, €46. Decent tip left and a handshake from the waiter on departure. Muy amable. I do love the way waitering is a proper family profession over here.
Sleep after night shifts is always a bit of a lottery, however waking up at 7 on the dot in my little bunk bed a real bonus. Ready to explore, I set out round town, ending up at a buzzy little bakery on the seafront. I’m determined to conduct business in Spanish whenever I can, however it slightly failed on this occasion as the word for “yoghurt” seems to be the exact same as for “weird little pastry” that I definitely didn’t want, even with pointing. But we got there in the end, with a magnificent Cortado to wash it down with. Five bucks, more or less.
I enjoyed being near the main ferry port here. There’s something quite evocative about being on the edge of somewhere else entirely, a short-ish voyage and you’re washing up on the dusty shores of Morocco. My reverie was cut short somewhat by the scouring Atlantic wind which I gather is pretty much a permanent feature of the Canaries.
In hindsight, I was extremely glad to have a car by this point, around 11am on day one. I think I’d have been bored mooching round town for the whole weekend. Suitably armed, I set out to look at some volcanos for the afternoon.
I’m probably a bit odd for this, but I don’t find rocky landscapes particularly inspiring, so it was somewhat of an anticlimax as I gazed over the…crater after a very decent walk uphill with the hordes of other similarly uninspired punters.
From, there, I entrusted myself to whatever Google Maps considers a “road”, but at this point it was pretty decent, setting off around the Northern coast towards El Cotillo.
By this point the weather was defiantly not cooperating with my holiday plans, with frequent heavy showers melding into one big monsoon, so I stopped off at an Argentinian cafe for a spectacular and huge steak, just to set up the day’s heartburn.
From there, I continued my vehicular wanders around a couple of fairly uninspiring Urbanizaciones, basically gated communities without the gates, plonked in the midst of the rocky wilds. Most have their own supermarkets and the like, but it’s not really my thing. Each to their own.
We continued to a spectacular lighthouse on a coastal outcrop, where the wind and waves were even more spiky, to blow away the Argentine fog from lunch. I then continued to trust Google Maps, which at this point was a WRONG DECISION, despite my manly SUV, since I wasn’t entirely sure by now what was road and what was just…boulder field.
Suitably defeated, despite the LINE on the map, I returned back to the main road, determined to return to my coastal circumnavigation as early as possible, which was actually the next village over.
This was far more successful, and although it was still a track, and in some places that really unpleasant washboard, but clearly identifiable as a byway suitable for my truck, nonetheless.
Corralejo was distinctly lively on my return, being a Saturday night as it was, and I indulged on my usual “must find the best option” lengthy wander, being heartily disappointed when I went into Restaurante Casa Cecilia, waiting for a table and then being promptly forgotten/ignored, standing like a lost lamb in the middle of the bar.
I quickly forgot my disappointment, exited stage right and pitched up at the first restaurant without a trilingual picture menu and with a few Spanish punters. This turned out to be a great shout, with a friendly young waiter and a magnificent couple of dishes and a dessert, along with wine and a cheeky chupito for way less than you’d expect. Triumph from disaster.
The next morning I popped into a nearby Uruguayan bakery for a Cortado and some sugar input. Yet another nice interaction with the bubbly owner about the relative merits of Argentine Mate and just to pass the time of day. The kind of place that really appeals, regulars popping in for bread and sweet treats, perching on a high stool and watching the world go by.
My next mission of the day was to get to the gym. I don’t feel right if I haven’t lifted weights in a while, and being away and relaxed is the best time to do it. Google suggested that Fuerteventura was a bit of a black spot for gyms, and definitely on a Sunday, so I got in the car and headed to the outskirts of town to find an extremely closed and probably bust premise.
Further searching revealed the gym three blocks from my digs which probably would have made sense in the first place. This was not to be an easy ride however. After parking the car far further away than when I started, I entered.
Regular viewers may have noted my ongoing bemusement at the Latin obsession with towels, and the use/hire of such items, frequently involving arcane card exchanges, hurried room checks on departing hotels und so weiter…
Yep. The bloke behind the counter was friendly enough, but towels were mandatory. And you couldn’t just pay for the day, he had to create an account for you, you had to download an app… Suitably chastened, I went the 6 blocks back to my gaff, grabbed a towel and came back, now we were good to go.
Or not. I think had to pay for my visit, and get a QR code, and then scan that at the barrier. Which obviously didn’t want to work. Did I mention the flakey internet? Nonetheless, I was eventually successful and had a good workout amongst the somewhat fierce local clientele. On the flipside, this was probably the most positive male attention I’ve ever received in a gym- And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t one of those gyms so maybe they just really love an elderly gringo here?
I was pleased to see that a local was also a bit stumped by the QR barriers holding him hostage, so scanned my code and we both escaped.
Suitably refreshed, I grabbed the car again and set off down the island for a bit of inland exploration. It was lovely to see a bit of green, and thankfully today’s volcanos didn’t involve any vertiginous rubble tracks. I pitched up in La Oliva, which, although small, had some lovely views and a great church.
There was also a brilliant little Chiringuito on the main square, packed with locals enjoying a beer and tapa, sadly though the weather had gone a bit biblical again and this wasn’t an outside day, so I filed that for next return trip on a sunny day, and headed for a faintly scary locals bar.
Having stood at the bar for nearly 10 minutes, nobody seemed interested in actually coming out and providing service so I gave up and rolled the dice with La Oliva’s final eatery “Bar el Gordo”. In fairness, a local guy was similarly ignored at the last place so maybe it’s just a feature.
Bar El Gordo- the fat one- never trust a thin chef. The barman was an utter master in that peculiar brand of young, disinterested staff member. I asked the menu, which he verbally relayed. I was mentally picking it out, however he got bored and just typed it into Google Translate whilst rolling his eyes so far into his head I’m surprised they didn’t do a 360.
OK, so we have chicken. What format? With sauce and potatoes. OK, why not. “Racion or medio?” another great little local feature whereby you choose the size.
There was no sauce, readers, and the potatoes were chips, but it filled the gap, along with a cana of Turia, a very nice brew. I handed my 14 Euros to the bored youth and bid farewell. This was not reciprocated.
My final safari of the weekend took me back to the coast, for a check in on the Tui hotel that I definitely wouldn’t have enjoyed, past the hordes of kitesurfers taking advantage of the strong consistent winds and, by now, delicious sunshine.
My evening drew me back to the fleshpots of Corralejo, this time very successful on my first try at Goodfellas, a buzzy Italian place which provided me with a very decent wood-fired Margherita, a glass of lovely white and a Tiramisu for 20 bucks, undoubtedly bargain of the weekend. After a bit more of a wander, I ended up in an extravagantly decorated bar for a few ill-advised cocktails and a bit of people watching. A decent end to the business part of the weekend.
The next day I rose early to sort breakfast before a dash to the airport, thankfully a civilised departure time but the car had to be back by 10. I wandered down to the harbour for a final Cortado and Tostada, enjoying probably the best morning of sunshine so far. A shame to leave
I like wandering around sleepy Spanish towns, shuttered up and with the street cleaners going about their business. There’s a lot of life hidden behind the shutters on these small streets. Later in the day, they spring to life, and stay open well into the evenings- Beside my lodgings a Moroccan barber’s shop, then next door a Christian fellowship full of people singing their heart out, down the road a family fabric store. I love seeing how places like this evolve with a mix of African culture and virtually every corner of the Latin world staking a claim, such as my Uruguayan coffee shop or the Colombian bar down the street. All rubbing shoulders.
Ready to go, I stuffed the keys into the lockbox and went to the car, before experiencing that immediate cold icy blast that you get when “phone, wallet, keys” is missing a member. Where the bloody hell did I put the car? in this little neighbourhood of block after similar block, I was genuinely at a loss. Thankfully, this was resolved after a couple of circuits.
And there we were, back at the airport in good time, with the kind of suspiciously easy hire car handback that you only get with zero-excess, non scammy places. I’d played a blinder with the fuel, scraping it back on the exact same amount as I picked it up. 20 Euros not bad at all for a weekend of exploration.
Sure enough, Ryanair was bang on time out and early back, with the slight bonys of a free window seat next to me. I think I’d done well on this weekend’s basic fare lottery.
Where’s next? Madeira, next month, to complete the theme of sunny European colonial enclaves.
By way of a postscript, my bargain £15 under seat bag, despite my paranoia, fitted perfectly and was plenty big enough for 3 nights. Even managed to sneak in a bottle of honey rum for my mate on the return, perfick!
loquitohermoso 
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