By the time we emerged from the Treehouse this morning, the sun had all but vanished behind a thick, low-slung ceiling of cloud. Then came the rain — not gentle, poetic drizzle, but a torrential, relentless downpour that left no room for subtlety. Warm, wild, and biblical. Proper lluvia de puta madre.
Our plan had been a pilgrimage of sorts — to hike to Roque de los Muchachos, the highest point on La Palma, and the namesake of a punk band we (Spam Javelin) have shared stages and shouted choruses with more times than I can count. But with visibility reduced to zilch and the mountains swallowed by clouds, the idea of scrambling along cliff edges in soaked boots lost some of its appeal.
Instead, we pointed the Fiat 500 toward Los Tilos, a lush, fern-draped part of the island known for its waterfalls and laurel forests — a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, as it turns out, and technically part of Parque Natural de Las Nieves. The roads, slick with rain and eerily deserted, wound deeper into the forest. We swerved around rockfalls, some still fresh enough to leave clouds of dust in the air. The road to the falls was officially closed, of course — another victim of the storm — but with waterproofs zipped and curiosity piqued, we decided to go on foot.
It felt like entering another world. Thick vegetation, steaming under the rain, footpaths cutting through dripping forest and sheer cliff faces. On the way, we met two drenched girls who — in broken English but clear concern — warned us of falling rocks. We thanked them, and pushed on cautiously, sticking to the far edge of the road and avoiding anything that looked remotely unstable.
About three miles in, we reached a dramatic gorge — dry now, but clearly capable of hosting epic torrents when in full flow. But before we could reach the waterfall proper, our way was blocked by a padlocked gate. Beyond it, the path snaked along the side of a near-vertical cliff. Could we have jumped the gate? Easily. Should we have? Not in a million years. It looked stunning — and genuinely dangerous. We stood there in silence for a moment, soaking it all in. The sound of rain on the leaves, the mist rising off the valley, the sheer scale of the place. Even without reaching the falls, it was breathtaking.
Back at the car, soaked to the skin and still buzzing, we decided to head east to Charco Azul, a natural seawater pool in San Andrés. By the time we arrived, the rain had turned torrential again, and the place was utterly deserted. Shops shuttered, streets empty, waves pounding the seawall like a war drum.
Perfect.
We slipped into the lagoon — just the two of us — protected from the wrath of the Atlantic by high black volcanic walls. Waves smashed against the other side, occasionally surging over the barrier in huge salty bursts, while massive black crabs clung to the rock, seemingly unimpressed by our aquatic enthusiasm. It was exhilarating, slightly mad, and completely unforgettable.
Two soaked Welsh punks swimming alone in a rain-lashed volcanic pool as the Atlantic roared around us.
La Palma doesn’t make things easy — but that’s exactly what makes it worth it.
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