La Palma → Tenerife → Manchester
The night was long, loud, and wet — not in the fun way. Rain hammered the roof with the sort of aggression usually reserved for angry drummers, and at some point, the power gave up entirely. A blackout in the jungle. Perfect.
We were up before dawn, stumbling around the Treehouse in phone-torchlight, stuffing wet clothes into wet bags, trying not to trip over buckets catching leaks. By 6am, we were on the road — or, at least, trying to be. Halfway to the airport, the road simply… ended. No sign, no warning — just a giant wall of mud and rock where tarmac used to be. A landslide. Proper movie-scene stuff.
A winding detour got us to La Palma Airport (SPC) just in time to find everyone was there. We hadn’t seen this many people since we landed. Clearly, the cancelled flights were starting to catch up with the island.
Announcements echoed through the terminal — all in Spanish, naturally. The only thing we understood was the rising tension. A large queue was forming, and after a few confused conversations and several blank stares, we realised: that was our queue. To find out what the hell was happening with our £11 flight to Madrid.
Three hours later — three hours of fluorescent lights, snaking lines, and low-level existential dread — we finally reached the Ryanair desk, where we were politely but unceremoniously told: flights cancelled. Find your own hotel. Claim it back. Come back on Thursday.
Thursday!?
It was Monday. We were done. Wet, wired, and running out of dry pants.
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| Room with a ceiling view |
Regrouping was essential. We found a last-minute room in Santa Cruz de La Palma — pure luck, as most other travellers were now scrambling for accommodation like musical chairs in a monsoon. Beer was required. We hit the town.
Over drinks and damp tapas menus, I scoured the internet (thank god for 4G) and found a flight still running to Tenerife South the next day — one corner of the Canaries seemingly untouched by Hermine’s wrath. It would mean a transfer on to Manchester, so no Madrid unfortunately. Two tickets: £398 (thank you Mastercard). Not quite the £11 steal we’d booked originally, but it was a way off the island. We’d fight Ryanair for the refund another day. Tonight, we drank.
Tuesday morning. Still raining. Still pitch dark. Our taxi rolled up like something out of Blade Runner: Island Edition, headlights cutting through the mist as we threw bags into the boot.
Back at the airport, the flight was — of course — delayed. Just 30 minutes, though. But with only a narrow window to make our connection in Tenerife South (a big, chaotic, shouty airport), tension was creeping back in.
Fortunately, our pilot had apparently had enough of La Palma. He floored it. Shaved twenty minutes off the flight. Legend.
We landed, legged it through the terminal like wet rats with a mission, and made our Manchester flight with a few minutes to spare.
By 9pm that evening, we were back on home turf. Damp, dishevelled, knackered — but victorious.
Final thoughts?
La Palma: raw, surreal, unforgettable. A place that throws beauty, chaos, silence, and storms at you in equal measure. We came for volcanoes and red wine; we got rockslides, floods, cancelled flights, and some of the wildest swimming conditions known to man. And I’d do it again.
Though maybe next time I’ll check the weather first. Or at least turn my phone on.
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