CANARY ISLANDS

White walls and black lava: Lanzarote beyond the beach

How we tried to see the island through the eyes of its most visionary designer and activist

© All photos by Slava Shestopalov.

Normal people go to Lanzarote to lie in the sun and swim in the ocean all day. Oksanka and I, however, came here for an express course in Canarian architecture and to climb volcanoes. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been us. Over the week, we’d find ourselves in corners that barely anyone visits — but let’s start at the very beginning.

A front-flash portrait of mine — as a tribute to Martin Parr, the legendary street photographer who passed away just a month before our trip. He loved that flash in the face!

We stayed in Costa Teguise, a “hotel bubble” that emerged in the 1970s. While it served us as a convenient base for food and sleep, we spent as little time as possible here.

The local version of a front lawn: instead of manicured grass — black volcanic sand.

After dropping our bags, we headed out for a walk along the waterfront boulevard, soon reaching the empty outskirts. With every step, lava pebbles crunched under our feet.

Not everything here is volcanic ash, but it’s certainly the dominant theme.

The rocky beach was teeming with Moorish crabs that scurried away as we approached. When I finally managed to crawl close enough to one for a picture, I realized why it hadn’t moved: it had recently died.

A living crab has pupils like sharp vertical slits; this one’s had softened into blurred, seed-like spots.

After a while, I finally saw the architecture Oksanka had told me about while booking the trip. She’d told me, “Oh, you’ll love it!” but I decided not to look up any details in advance as I didn’t want to create expectations and spoil the fun of discovery.

A lone villa on the shoreline.

One villa we saw here was enclosed by walls like a small, private fortress — or a habitable oasis in the volcanic desert.

These three decorative pyramids above the gate are a typical Lanzarote design. We would come across this pattern many more times over the following days.

I started getting the idea of this island! That evening, we sat on the beach overlooking the illuminated port and began mapping out what to do next.

The distant glow of Arrecife port.

Since it was January 31, many places were closed, so we went somewhere that didn’t require a ticket — Teguise, the island’s old capital. Its inland location was chosen centuries ago to protect locals from pirate raids. The real island dwellers rarely lived on the coast; it’s modern vacationers who prefer being close to the beach.

Shadows stretching across a quiet Teguise street.

It was our first time taking a local bus. They are incredibly cheap, but only run every hour or two. For now, though, we were lucky and quickly learned how to buy tickets from the driver: “Dos billetes para Teguise, por favor!”

The 15th-century Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe in the center of Teguise.

When we arrived, we found ourselves in a ghostly quiet town. A few locals were busy with chores in their yards, but otherwise, we didn’t see another soul on most of the streets.

The geometric simplicity of Teguise, looking like a collection of origami.

We crossed the town toward the Castle of St. Barbara, a compact fort perched on the hill overlooking Teguise. “Wow, let’s go there,” I suggested, and we began the walk up.

A temporary lake formed by the rain water from the slopes of Guanapay.

As we got higher, Teguise opened up below us, and we could see all the way to the coast on the opposite side of the island.

The path of water: gullies etched into soft slopes, leading all the way down to the town.

It was an easy climb thanks to the paved road, but we wouldn’t be us if we hadn’t found a shortcut through the rock arches.

Natural architecture of Guanapay’s volcanic arches.

And then I realized this wasn’t just an ordinary hill; it was a volcanic crater, and the castle was built right on its rim. The slopes were covered with shrubs and lichens that painted bright spots across the colorless rock. It felt strange not to see a single tree. There were only palms and huge cacti down in the town.

After the flatness of the Netherlands, I was so excited about the hills!

It turned out that St. Barbara Castle is the oldest on the archipelago! It began in the 14th century as a simple watchtower ordered by Lanzarotto Malocello, the Genoese navigator who discovered the Canary Islands and gave Lanzarote its name.

The fortress we see today was constructed only after the 1586 attack by Ottoman corsair Morato Arráez, which devastated Teguise and destroyed all documents of its early history.

In the 16th century, the tower evolved into a stronghold providing refuge for the people of Teguise in case of attack. Its strategic life, however, didn’t last. By the 1800s, the focus had shifted to the port city of Arrecife, the artillery was stripped away, and the pirates eventually stopped coming.

The crater of Guanapay.

We headed back to the town and took a quick walk around while waiting for our bus. This time, not a direct line back, but with a transfer in Arrecife. I noticed that just like in the Netherlands, there were plenty of windmills on Lanzarote. However, many of them looked like wooden or metal skeletons rather than thick, habitable towers.

The Teguise windmill in a rare moment of stillness, before the monthly fair fills the square with tents.

And then there was the aloe vera. Oksanka couldn’t believe it could grow so large. We were used to modest aloe plants on our parents’ windowsills, but not monsters taller than a person.

The first of many, but eventually the largest aloe vera we would find on the island.

I switched my camera to monochrome, intuitively sensing it would suit the landscape. Little did I know that the island’s most famous citizen was also obsessed with black-and-white photography of local architecture. But in that moment, I was simply trying to take all that beauty in.

In Teguise, you are never without a view of either the castle or the church tower as visual anchors.

We encountered the same pattern of three decorative pyramids throughout the town. Then, another peculiarity became apparent: the woodwork was green almost everywhere. I was stunned. One could argue that white island architecture is common — from Santorini to Ibiza — but here in Teguise, it felt genuine, less like a performance.

There was something so addictive — I just couldn’t stop snapping pictures.

Leaving the old capital of the island behind, we caught a bus to its modern successor, Arrecife.

It turned out to be pleasant as well, but felt more like a conventional city: the buildings were taller and the streets busier. We walked through the center to the fortified waterfront and St. Gabriel’s Castle, where flocks of grey pigeons circled above our heads.

I expected the typical seaside gulls, but Arrecife’s “city birds” were these sleek pigeons.

It wasn’t until that moment that we realized how sore our legs were from walking all day, so we decided to wrap up. As we made our way through Arrecife, we noticed people already starting to celebrate, with a stage being set up in the central square. I suggested, “Let’s come back here after our New Year’s dinner and celebrate with the crowd.” Oksanka loved the idea, and we caught the bus back to Costa Teguise.

This is the Arrecife you see on the postcards: the harbor with dozens of miniature boats drifting over their own reflections.

As planned, after a fancy dinner, we changed into more practical, warmer clothes and went back to Arrecife. Imagine our disappointment when we found the city empty. Not a soul stood near the stage — just plastic cups tumbling in the wind. Bizzare!

The New Year decorations are up, but where did all the people go?

It was another discovery after just two days on Lanzarote: locals are incredibly family-oriented. They party during the day but then retreat to their loved ones for the actual evening celebration at home.

I couldn’t get over how odd these festive Christmas trees looked in a place that has never seen a winter.

Then I remembered the harbor I’d photographed earlier. Perhaps we could grab some Cava from the nearest bar, find a spot on the stone wall, and welcome the New Year with a view? It turned out to be the best choice. Dozens of people had gathered at a row of cafes, listening to old pop hits playing on a big speaker. I got us wine, and around midnight we started counting down with the locals in Spanish. With every count, they ate a grape to summon luck for each month of the coming year. We weren’t equipped for this ritual, so we just watched it with the curiosity of ethnographic researchers.

Not our first time celebrating abroad, but as usual, we managed to sniff out exactly where the locals gather.

After such an intense day, we were barely pushing through. As we rushed to the bus stop, fireworks were exploding above us from every corner of the city, and the air grew thick with smoke. What a New Year!

Hazy fireworks smoke in the air.

January 1st seemed like the perfect day for a deep dive into one of Lanzarote’s defining features — volcanoes. I chose the most impressive one to climb. So, we were on our way to Arrecife again to catch a connection to the village of Mancha Blanca, the closest point to that volcano. Since the bus would come in more than an hour, we had plenty of time to enjoy a local “carb bomb” — barraquito. Yummy!

Coffee, condensed milk, Licor 43, and milk foam. Don’t forget to stir before drinking!

We arrived in Mancha Blanca well into the afternoon, and I checked the distance to the volcano. Only several kilometers — not that much on the map. But then we saw the path. We had to watch every step, so easy it was to twist an ankle or fall onto razor-sharp rocks.

A look back toward Mancha Blanca from the heart of the lava field.

There wasn’t just one volcano, but two: the smaller, more weathered Caldereta, literally meaning “small cauldron” or “small crater,” and the twice-taller Caldera Blanca, the “white cauldron” or “white crater,” named for its distinct crust of calcified minerals.

The craters of Caldereta and Caldera Blanca looked so close, yet we still had several deceptive kilometers to cross.

But first, we had to traverse the sea of lava, which took us… well, over an hour. Meanwhile, clouds moved in to cover the sky, making the Mars-like landscape around us look even more sci-fi.

Nothing but sharp volcanic rock in every direction.

Caldereta was unclimbable due to its extremely slippery clay slopes. So, we skirted its base and began our ascent of Caldera Blanca. When we reached the top, the sun peered out from beneath the clouds for a brief moment, gilding the hilltops and revealing the rugged texture of the lava field.

Our shadows cast onto the rim of Caldera Blanca as we looked back at the village we had come from.

The crater was massive. Oksanka took a photo of me sitting on the rim, but she didn’t feel comfortable approaching the edge herself.

The widest volcanic crater of the island.

I climbed a bit higher along the ridge to capture a few panoramas of Caldera Blanca in the last sunlight of the day, but even a wide-angle view wouldn’t properly convey the feeling of being there.

Golden hour on Caldera Blanca, just minutes before everything dipped into the evening gloom.

Caldera Blanca is a relatively small mountain of only 458 meters. But the sheer scale of the crater — a one-kilometer circle of void! — plus the surrounding lava field made it truly epic. Interestingly, the mountain in Teguise where the Castle of St. Barbara stands is just six meters lower than Caldera Blanca, but it has a much more modest crater, hence a totally different impression.

The closer I got to the top, the more the wind seemed to push me off the edge.

The sunset was our signal to turn back. By then, the wind had picked up, and we realized we’d forgotten to bring any extra layers.

We headed back to the bus stop across the same field of lava, but this time with the sunset.

It was an awesome hike, even though we were shivering in the biting wind by the time we reached the bus stop. To make matters worse, I realized I’d lost my camera flash somewhere on the mountain; not just an expensive piece of equipment, but also Oksanka’s birthday gift to me. Eventually, the bus arrived and carried us back to our hotel, where we spent a rightfully touristy evening with cocktails and live music — mourning the loss of my flash in style.

The next day was another deep dive — into the second defining feature of Lanzarote: César Manrique, his architecture, and his urban activism.

Arrecife port in the midday sun glare.

On that day, however, the buses betrayed us. After waiting for over an hour, we gave up and decided to walk toward our destination, Tahíche, along the bus route, still secretly hoping we might catch it along the way. We moved along the roadside, stopping from time to time to admire the massive cacti and look out over the coast.

One of Manrique’s many “wind toys” standing here and there on Lanzarote.

In Tahíche, we finally met César Manrique — or at least his legacy. His name is everywhere: it’s on the airport and countless streets and public spaces. The best part was that we actually felt ready for his ideas. We had spent days following in his footsteps: climbing volcanoes, contemplating sceneries, and admiring the “vernacular” — that simple, honest architecture built by the locals.

The former home of César Manrique, where every corner was designed to be a piece of art.

The César Manrique Foundation in Tahíche is essentially a spectacular “party house” where the artist lived from 1968 to 1988. The house had so many cozy corners! I could easily see myself sitting there with a book for hours.

An underground pool where raw lava stone meets the smooth, whitewashed man-made addition.

The house sat right in the path of a lava flow from the violent eruptions of the 18th century. It’s a massive, multi-level, 3000-square-meter structure, but it’s so organically blended with the landscape that you’d never guess its true size just by looking through the fence.

One of numerous “earthly” paintings by Manrique where he turned island’s geology into art.

Oksanka and I actually got a bit lost because it wasn’t always clear whether we were above or below ground. That feeling was even stronger because of Manrique’s paintings; they were like sculptures on canvas with incredible volume and texture.

I don’t think Manrique would mind me saying that the finest painting in the house was this window, framing the view as it opens onto waves of lava.

Manrique was obsessed with the way architecture could blend seamlessly into its surroundings without obstructing them. He drew inspiration from the islanders, who for centuries had built modest, white-walled homes that seemed to grow right out of the dark earth. He also fought against the indiscriminate urbanization of the island and successfully pressured the local authorities to ban any outdoor advertising.

This mosaic instantly reminded me of Picasso; I only found out later that he was one of the artists Manrique admired most.

In the Foundation’s shop, I bought a copy of “Lanzarote: Arquitectura Inédita,” a book of Manrique’s black-and-white photos documenting the island’s traditional, vernacular buildings.

A few bus stops away, we found another masterpiece called LagOmar. While Manrique came up with the initial concept of this lavish manor for the British developer Sam Benady, it was his collaborator, Jesús Soto, who really brought the design to life. If Manrique was the visionary, Soto became the technical genius behind this project.

The house was like a distillation of Manrique’s entire philosophy. Every one of his ideas concentrated into a single space.

The local legend is hard to beat: actor Omar Sharif supposedly fell in love with the house while filming “The Mysterious Island” in 1973. He bought it on the spot, only to lose it to Sam Benady in a high-stakes bridge game that very same day!

The interior was a blend of modern, minimalist design and tribal accessories.

If the Foundation in Tahíche felt like a “vacation cave” — a place to relax and chat with friends over a cocktail — Lagomar was an opulent labyrinth built to impress. It felt like a private mini-world carved in the cliffside, full of “secret” tunnels and gardens in every crevice.

The cafe area, where you can sip a barraquito while listening to the gentle sound of water.

Oksanka and I couldn’t help but notice a distinct oriental vibe of LagOmar. And it wasn’t just our imagination. This aesthetic was introduced when architects Beatriz van Hoff and Dominik von Boettinger bought the manor. They added the towers, the lake, and the restaurant — all while carefully respecting the original style.

A quiet, intimate passage over the surface of water; one of the house’s most peaceful corners.

A small but telling detail: the massive beams used throughout LagOmar were salvaged from old shipwrecks. Yeah, recycling before it became mainstream!

From this vantage point, we could see the whole village of Nazaret spread out down below.

As we explored LagOmar, we kept running into its furry residents: cats. They curled up in the sun and were patrolling the stone stairs. Historically, estates like this often encouraged cats to stay to keep the volcanic caves and crevices free of pests.

There is no reliable evidence that Manrique was a cat person, but cats really match this place.

We were so captivated that we didn’t notice the heavy clouds rolling over the village. In a minute, the hill where the manor is nestled disappeared behind the rain. Fortunately, the bus arrived shortly after, and we headed back to our base for dinner and sleep — and, of course, to start reading my new book of Manrique’s photos.

Luckily, we made it to the bus stop just in time and escaped the rain.

Although we had already hiked to volcanoes, we hadn’t yet seen Lanzarote’s real pearl: Timanfaya National Park. The day was perfect — alternating between sun and drizzle, with rainbows hanging in the sky from the very moment we left our hotel.

A rainbow greeting us as we set out on our adventure.

Unlike Caldera Blanca and other volcanic areas where you can roam freely, Timanfaya is strictly protected. You can only see it from a bus. Even if you arrive in your own car, you still have to wait for the official tour bus to take you through its famous 11-kilometer route.

Approaching Timanfaya. This could easily be a photo from another planet.

There is no walking outside and no stops longer than several seconds. It sounded exactly like the “hop-on-hop-off” style Oksanka and I usually hate, but we didn’t really have a choice. And since we had already touched the raw texture of Caldera Blanca, seeing Timanfaya through a window didn’t seem such a compromise.

A double rainbow in the sky and a car for scale on the road below.

Before the 1730s, this area was actually the island’s most fertile farmland. That changed when the earth literally opened up. Over the course of six years, a hundred volcanoes emerged and buried eleven villages under a sea of lava and ash.

Now we carry this iconic landscape with us — both in our memories and the travel archive.

Even though things have gone quiet since the last eruptions, Timanfaya’s landscape is far from “frozen” — a literal furnace roared just beneath our boots! If you dig just ten centimeters down in geothermal areas, the temperature hits 140°C. Go six meters deep, and it’s 400°C!

I was tempted to touch this incredible texture, but I knew its perfection existed only because it had remained untouched.

The volcanic soil here is so fragile that a single footprint can stay visible for years; there simply isn’t enough rain to wash it away, hence the “no walking” rule.

It’s easy to see how this served as one of Manrique’s many sources of inspiration.

Manrique and his team designed the route to be almost invisible. The narrow road follows the natural contours of the volcanoes, so from a distance, the landscape looks barely touched.

Peeking into the crater of a volcano.

Timanfaya looked dead, but life quietly thrives despite the odds. Colorful lichens are slowly splitting the rock into soil, and the park is home to insects found nowhere else on Earth, surviving solely on the moisture from the sea mist.

The road barely seemed to interrupt the landscape.

The tour came to an end far too soon — we could have watched this for hours more. That’s how we experienced “Mars” without a space journey — another world right here on our home planet.

The beauty of simplicity in Yaiza.

Meanwhile, our bus headed toward a lunch spot on the outskirts of Yaiza. It was one of those shady, middle-of-nowhere cafeterias you’re forced into because they pay the driver for the supply of tourists. So instead, we walked a kilometer back into the center of Yaiza, found a small local shop, grabbed some snacks, and slowly returned, enjoying the views along the way.

My favorite part of the island’s style is the way the dark volcanic stone is allowed to peek through the whitewashed walls.

After lunch, we headed to another nice spot on this side of the island: the village of El Golfo. It’s known for its rugged beach with dramatic waves and a picturesque lagoon, Lago Verde.

I found it so paradoxical that this “lifeless” scenery was incredibly colorful: green, orange, red, white, and blue.

Lago Verde is painted a vivid green by a unique type of algae. It was striking to see the lagoon so still and calm, despite the churning ocean just across a narrow dike of volcanic sand.

The boiling Atlantic at El Golfo.

The lagoon is actually what remains of a volcanic crater. Its other half was simply washed away by the sea over time.

Microscopic volcanic particles suspended in the water make the waves bright turquoise.

Was that it for the day? Not yet. We had one last stop to make: the famous vineyards of La Geria. And yes, I mean vineyards. You might think volcanoes and agriculture are incompatible, but grapes do grow here. To survive, each vine has to be planted in its own hollow and protected from the wind by a semi-circular wall of volcanic stone.

Fascinating how the desire for a good local wine can drive people to adapt to such an unforgiving landscape.

Another trick to make the vines grow is layering the soil. First comes a layer of red volcanic sand, followed by dromedary poo as fertilizer, and finally, a top layer of that “Martian” black ash. It helps catch the morning dew and keeps the plants well-moisturized — which sounded a bit ironic, given the rains we saw all day.

I expected the lack of rain to be the problem, but the real struggle is keeping moisture from escaping through this porous soil.

We were full to the brim with impressions and didn’t even notice the drive back. Oksanka even stopped being bothered by the passive-aggressive mumbling of our guide, who barely tried to mask his disdain for tourists behind a layer of humor.

Having seen the scorched earth of Timanfaya in the south of the island, now we turned our attention to the north, particularly the village of Haría. To get there, however, our route took us once again through the familiar streets of Teguise.

On Lanzarote, the line between nature and architecture is blurred — everywhere.

While waiting for our connection, I suggested exploring a small chapel just outside the town limits.

One of many hilltop chapels — hermitages — watching over the island.

On that day, Teguise was packed with visitors for the huge monthly fair, but the area around the chapel was just for the two of us.

I thought I’d already captured Teguise from every possible angle, but this view was too gorgeous to ignore.

Chapel of St. Rafael was likely built in the 15th century, though the exact year remains unknown. I remembered it from Manrique’s photo book and wanted to see for myself a place he considered truly authentic to Lanzarote.

It looked like it was beginning to rain, but the clouds were all drama and no storm.

Not far from the chapel were the homes of actual locals, not holiday rentals, and we spotted one more typical feature — outdoor ovens. They looked like large white mushrooms, sometimes standing alone and other times attached to the house walls.

What do you think they cook here: cochinillo asado or pescado al horno?

Soon our bus arrived, and we headed for Haría, “the town of a thousand palms” in the island’s northern highlands. César Manrique chose this place for the home where he lived until he passed away, while his house in Tahíche was kept for the Foundation.

Haría felt like a highland oasis, with a climate far more humid than the rest of Lanzarote.

Haría looked so candid, and the rain only emphasized its beauty. The low clouds and scarse sunlight made all colors juicier.

Haría’s own mini jungle.

When we reached Manrique’s house, it revealed a completely different side of his personality — not the iconic artist and designer, but a man seeking comfort and simplicity.

And of course, a turquoise pool. How can a house exist without one?

Unlike the carefully balanced, minimalist spaces of the Foundation and LagOmar, his Haría home was a restored and expanded village house, filled with a lifetime of belongings and memories.

Based on his bookshelf and posters on walls, he was a big fan of Picasso.

Manrique’s spacious workshop was in a separate building. A dedicated sanctuary for his work, separate from the living quarters and partially submerged in the ground.

Every walk to his workshop gave Manrique a view of this beauty.

Standing there, we finally understood why Manrique chose Haría. It embodied everything he loved about Lanzarote: its connection with nature and low-key mood.

It felt almost wrong to talk and break such a perfect stillness.

On our way back, we caught a glimpse of the island’s most famous windmill standing in the Cactus Garden. But we had already seen so many cacti in the wild that we had removed it from our list two days ago.

Rainy weather is quite nice. If you are watching it from a bus.

But the real gift of the day was an epic, fiery sunset that filled most of the sky. I was lucky enough to capture it with the “Telamon” silhouette in the foreground. This Scottish cargo ship sprang a leak in 1981 and was beached on Lanzarote until the next storm broke it in half.

Despite years of talk, the wreck hasn’t been dismantled and still sits there today.

Our seventh and final day on Lanzarote! We had saved something special for the end — a perfect blend of this island’s two defining themes. It was one of the most visited spots here, but a must-see nonetheless. And quite close to Haría, which we had explored a day before.

The cave

Jameos del Agua is a public space featuring a concert hall, restaurant, and museum built directly into a section of a six-kilometer-long volcanic tube. This tunnel was naturally formed by lava from the nearby Corona volcano, but Manrique transformed it into something extraordinary.

From here, the volcanic tube extends into the sea, becoming the Tunnel of Atlantis. It runs underwater for a kilometer and a half.

“Jameo” is the native Canarian name for a large opening in the lava tube, which forms when parts of the roof collapse, and the largest jameos near the shore were chosen for Manrique’s megaproject.

Red lava crumbles on the wall looked like giant chewing gum.

But before any of this could happen, the site was thoroughly cleared in the early sixties. The construction was never a straight line; Manrique had to pivot constantly as he uncovered the tube’s unpredictable geometry. Each adjustment was a response to the rock itself — and the space was finally completed in 1977.

90% the work of nature, and 10% human touch.

The natural lake at the bottom of the tube is home to unique blind squat lobsters — miniature, bone-white creatures. Each of them is hardly a centimeter long, but when you look at the water, it looks like a starry night sky because of the myriads of these lobsters.

This species, Munidopsis polymorpha, is endemic to Lanzarote, meaning it lives nowhere else on Earth.

We couldn’t test it ourselves in winter, but one of the smartest things about Jameos del Agua is how it handles heat. It doesn’t need air conditioning since the volcanic tube itself acts as a natural ventilation system, constantly pushing a cool, humid breeze up through the openings. Even on the hottest days, the air inside feels fresh.

Found a “secret” bar in a corner of the complex.

We made several circles around the complex, recharged with barraquitos, and then decided to wrap up. We missed the bus by just a few minutes, leaving us with a two-hour wait for the next one — but Oksanka found a coastal hiking path to the nearest village. What a timely discovery for a couple of overwhelmed humans seeking a way to spend the time!

A complete story in one frame: the upper part of Jameos del Agua, Manrique’s iconic lobster sculpture, and the Corona volcano on the horizon.

The path wound along the shore, offering a clear view of the 609-meter-high Corona volcano, from which that lava tube stretched to the ocean. Corona erupted 21,000 years ago, shaping the entire landscape, but unlike Timanfaya and its much younger eruptions, this area was full of greenery.

It felt strange to see so much greenery after the Martian vibes of Timanfaya.

The waves crashed against the rocks, and a lone windsurfer swung back and forth along the coast. The rain clouds drifted away, and it felt as if the sun had kissed us goodbye, knowing we would be flying home tomorrow.

Lava waves meeting ocean waves.

Finally, we entered Punta Mujeres, taking a slow wander through its streets. Watching the boats huddled on the slipway, I felt completely at peace. The whole place looked like a slow-motion conversation between the miniature houses and the deep blue of the Atlantic.

“The world is full of magical things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper” — William Butler Yeats.