Five Islands, three punctures, one ride: - My experience riding the GranGuanche gravel route

Summit of Pico de Malpaso, on the island of El Hierro

by Andrew Hatton

About GranGuanche

GranGuanche Gravel is an ultra-endurance bikepacking audax event that takes place in the Canary Islands. It’s part of a broader GranGuanche series of events, which include road and trail (MTB) versions, but the Gravel edition is designed specifically for riders on gravel bikes. The course crosses multiple Canary Islands (typically Lanzarote, Fuerteventura, Gran Canaria, Tenerife, and finally El Hierro), all linked together by ferry crossings. The total distance covered is usually around 650 to 700 km and 16,000 meters of climbing. The event is organised by the wonderfully calm presence of Daniela Kirchner and Matteo Minelli from Outer Detours, who as well as organising the GranGuanche series of events also run bespoke trips and tours around the Islands. 

Who were the Guanches? The event takes its name from the Guanches — the indigenous people who lived on the Canary Islands long before the Spanish conquest in the 15th century. When Spain invaded, the Guanches resisted fiercely but were eventually defeated. Many died in battle, fell victim to European diseases, or were enslaved. Although the Guanche people as a distinct group disappeared, their legacy lives on. Elements of their language, place names, and customs are still woven into Canarian culture today. Traditional sports like Canarian wrestling (lucha canaria) and the dramatic shepherd’s leap (salto del pastor) — once used to navigate the islands’ steep ravines — trace back to Guanche practices. As you ride across the islands, tackling those same rugged landscapes, you’re crossing through this layered history. The echoes of the Guanches are still there — in the names on your map, in the trails under your wheels, and in the wild, untamed beauty that makes this event so special. Another thing that sets this event apart is the challenge of connecting the islands themselves. A series of ferry hops links the route, and it’s these ferries that give the event its distinctive character. They add to the adventure — and the difficulty. The race becomes a dash to catch the next boat, meaning you’re never entirely in control of your own pace. In events like Badlands, you can always claw back time by sleeping less. In GranGuanche, that strategy only works if you also keep one eye on the ferry schedules.

Just what is an Audax

Back in the late 19th century, endurance cyclists set out on unassisted group rides that covered huge distances, racing against the clock to finish within a set time and earn the title "audax" — meaning bold or brave in Latin.

That spirit is very much alive in the GranGuanche Audax. Here, the clock is tied not just to your legs, but also to the fixed departure times. Catching the next boat becomes the challenge within the challenge.

Matteo, from Outer Detours explained the rules during the afternoon briefing. Like other ultra-distance events, the GranGuanche sticks to the rule of being completely unsupported — no outside help, he explained. But in keeping with the original Audax tradition, riders are encouraged to form groups and share the work, taking turns at the front and helping each other along. It creates a rare balance: a test of individual endurance, but with moments of shared effort and camaraderie, much like those early audax pioneers over a century ago. It sounded wonderful.

While I love cycling alone, I relished the chance to meet other riders and to hear their stories and motivations. This event, more than most, would present an opportunity to do that. 

Audax rider packs waiting to be collected at the briefing in Lanzarote

Getting there – three trains and a ferry

This was my second attempt at pulling off the logistical feat of getting to the Canary Islands without flying. I had first tried in 2024, but couldn’t quite make the logistics work with my work schedule and had to reluctantly admit defeat. I emailed Matteo to say I was sadly pulling out.  

Fast forward to 2025 and things were a little easier - my schedule more relaxed while getting to the Canary Islands from the UK without flying is not as hard as you might think, it does take a little bit of planning to align trains and ferries. Once you’ve worked it out, the journey itself takes four days. There is time on trains; time on ferries; time waiting around. A good book or two, or a well-stocked trove of movies, is possibly helpful.

The trains
After numerous European rail journeys with my trusty Evoc bike bag I was by now fairly confident with the Spanish train network (too confident, as it turns out), and knew that getting to Cadiz (one of the popular points for departures to the Canaries) wasn’t going to be an issue, so after some research and feeling more confident this time round I booked my trains and ferries.

As always, the Man in Seat 61 website provided invaluable advice and information on the best options. My journey consisted of a train from London to Paris, Paris to Barcelona (with the usual overnight stay), and then Barcelona to Cadiz (via a change in Madrid). I would then have an overnight stop in Cadiz before catching the morning ferry to Lanzarote.

A bike, a bag, some coffee and a bit of waiting around

Many coffees later

The journey started smoothly enough, speedy Eurostar from London to Paris and then Paris to Barcelona. So far so good.

It wasn’t until the painfully early 5:45am train from Barcelona to Madrid, that things promptly fell apart.

"Sorry sir, you can’t take that on the train," said the smartly dressed woman at the ticket gate, pointing at my large bike bag.

"But I always take this on your trains," I protested.
"Not on Iryo trains," came the dreaded reply.

That’s when the penny dropped: I’d booked a bargain ticket with Iryo, one of the private companies competing with Spain’s state-owned Renfe. Somewhere, deep in my brain, I knew they had stricter luggage rules. But I’d convinced myself that at stupid o’clock in the morning, nobody would care. Turns out: they did.

To be fair, the staff were kind — they marched me to the Iryo office and tried to sort a refund for me. "Your ticket is refundable," they explained brightly. But the Rail Europe app, in its infinite wisdom, refused to play ball. No refund today. I’ll try later, I thought.

At this point, my main concern was making my connection.

"Don’t worry," they reassured me, "there are plenty of other trains to Madrid — you’ll still catch your connection to Cádiz."

So I booked a Renfe train instead (Renfe will let you bring a grand piano if you smile nicely). The only snag? It didn’t leave until midday.

So there I was - up before dawn, hotel room vacated, now facing six long hours hanging around Barcelona Sants. I lugged my heavy bike bag to a café and began calculating how many coffees I could stretch out — maybe one an hour? Six hours… six coffees… I’d be a twitching, over-caffeinated mess by then - not to mention on first-name terms with the toilet attendant.

In the end, the time passed surprisingly quickly — a heady mix of doom-scrolling and people-watching seemed to accelerate the clock. Finally, it was time to board. This time, I even had a ticket with "Bicycle reservation" printed in bold, like a golden seal of approval. I stepped onto the gloriously spacious Renfe train and stored my bike bag in the dedicated luggage carriage — the only item in there. You could’ve fit five more bike bags and that grand piano.

Have bike bag will travel

The Ferry

The ferry to Lanzarote

The ferry from Cádiz to Tenerife is not exactly a quick hop — it takes around thirty hours to make the crossing across the stretch of Atlantic that separates the Islands from Spain. But once on board, time seems to slip into a different rhythm. The ship is comfortable, and your ticket comes with meals included, which quickly become the key markers of the day. Cabins are an optional extra, but well worth it if you want to catch proper sleep — and if you fancy a bit of fresh air, there’s even an outdoor swimming pool up on deck, though I didn’t see anyone brave enough to take a dip on this crossing.

Time at sea moves slowly, but not unpleasantly so. The quiet hum of the engines, the endless horizon, and the slow sway of the boat create a kind of enforced relaxation. Mealtimes punctuated the day like little ceremonies: breakfast, lunch, and dinner served up in the canteen, hearty and plentiful if not exactly gourmet.

The ferry was remarkably quiet, with only a scattering of fellow passengers. Some of them had their dogs in tow, tucked away in the special kennel area up on the main deck. It was quite a sight — a row of dogs at sea, some looking entirely unbothered, others pacing nervously, clearly not convinced by this floating kennel arrangement. I found myself checking in on them each time I passed by, silently rooting for the anxious ones to find their sea legs.

By the time we reached the port town of Arrecife, I was rested, well-fed, and itching to move again. After thirty hours of drifting through slow time, I was more than ready for adventure — to swap the steady roll of the ship for the solid ground of the islands and the thrill of the unknown ahead.

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Island 1. Lanzarote

110 km, 2,000 m of climbing

The spectacular volcanic landscape of Lanzarote

The ride set off from the oh-so-pretty fishing village of Órzola, tucked away in the northeastern tip of the island. Getting there from the capital, Arrecife, had presented a conundrum. Cycle the 40 kilometres (as some decided to do), take a taxi or take the bus. I decided to chance the bus and organised myself to catch the first bus of the day at 6.30 am that morning. In the end it was a sound choice with the driver happy to accept my bike in the luggage hold. 

By the time I reached Órzola, the seafront cafés were bustling with activity, serving up coffee and snacks to riders eager to take one last opportunity to fuel up. The air was thick with anticipation, a tangible buzz among the cyclists as the reality of what lay ahead started to settle in.

Somewhat unusually for a bikepacking event, the ride started at 1 p.m., meaning we were starting out in the fierce heat of the afternoon sun. The route out of Lanzarote immediately started with a long arduous climb, and it was not long before the field was split up with the faster riders out front.

At the top of the first climb, I was rewarded with the most incredible views of Isla de Graciosa, just 2.8 km off the coast of Lanzarote. Sitting like a jewel in the azure blue sea, this sparsely inhabited island, with its single small town, seemed to call out to be visited. I had read that you can (if you're brave and strong enough) swim the 2,600-metre crossing of the strait known as El Río. But my focus was on a different kind of adventure - one that was still waiting to unfold.

Sealant, sand and final surrender to a tube

The kilometres slowly ticked by as I made my way across Lanzarote’s dramatic, beautiful landscape. The trail itself wasn’t too technical — not especially rough or rocky — but the heat of the day and a steady headwind sapped my energy more than I’d expected. Progress felt slow and heavy. My plan was to try and catch the last ferry of the day at 4.30 p.m. from the southern tip of Lanzarote to the next island of Fuerteventura, but as the afternoon wore on, I knew it was going to be tight.  In the end, it wasn’t to be.

Things started to go slightly wrong about 45 km into the ride when I heard an ominous hissing sound and looked behind to see an eruption of sealant gushing out of a large hole in my rear tyre, covering my bike in pale goo.

My tyre deflated to almost flat within seconds. I hopped off my bike and reached for my plugs. I had never experienced a puncture since switching to a tubeless set-up two years before and I had to play through in my mind the correct procedure. I plugged the hole with a dart, which stopped the sealant oozing out, and then inflated my tyre. At first, it seemed like things were fixed. I jumped back on my bike and set off again.

I hadn’t gone more than a few hundred metres when the tyre started to leak sealant again and ran flat once more. I pulled over and examined the tyre more closely and could see that the hole was bigger than I had initially thought. I decided to plug it with another, slightly bigger plug so it had a better chance of sealing. This held for a few more kilometres, until the same thing happened again. Again, I stuck in another plug. Eventually, after a few hours, I had got through five plugs (my entire supply). It was no use. I had to admit defeat and finally decided to stick in a tube.

It was an extremely messy business. I was in a remote part of the island and there was no running water. I couldn’t have been in a worse place to undertake such a job.

The black volcanic sand and sealant formed a horrible paste that soon covered me and much of my bike. I eased in a tube and then did my best to clean myself up without wasting too much of my precious water, and set off back up the trail. This whole episode had easily cost me more than an hour, and I realised there was no chance of reaching that evening’s ferry to Fuerteventura. But far from being stressful, I actually felt some relief. It meant I could relax a bit, slow down, and just roll into Playa Blanca on the other side of Lanzarote in a relaxed manner.

Playa Blanca and the pristine hotel room

The road to Playa Blanca is long and fast and flat. There’s a wonderful setup in Lanzarote, where there are sometimes two roads running parallel to each other - a large, main road for cars, and an older road with priority for bikes. I saw hardly a single car on the more than 20 km stretch into Playa Blanca that evening. But what was meant to have been a tailwind all the way had turned into a headwind, so the going was a bit harder than I would have liked.

After a few hours, I finally rolled into the party town of Playa Blanca. Despite it being close to midnight, music rang out from the bars and cafés. There were people everywhere — some swaying to the beat, others simply swaying.

It was to become a familiar routine, emerging out of the rural hinterland of the Canaries and into the bright, brash tourist hotspots. But despite the initial culture shock, there are upsides to such places: big hotels with 24-hour receptions and plenty of accommodation options.

I somewhat randomly chose a hotel for the night - the large and far from modest Lanzarote Princess.

I found the hotel entrance and quickly wheeled my filthy bike across their white marble floor and tucked it into an out-of-the-way corner, then walked over to reception and gently enquired about where to put my bike. I kept my arms by my side so the receptionist couldn't see the state of my dirty hands.
‘Oh, you can put that in your room,’ said the woman processing my booking without looking up.

I collected my room pass, grabbed my bike and zig zagged my way to the lift, taking a route that I thought would present the least opportunity to be viewed by reception. It probably wasn’t necessary — she was probably fine with me storing my bike in the room no matter its state — but I did it anyway, just in case.

As I took the lift up to my landing I considered trying to fix my tyre more properly in my room, but as I swung the door open and was greeted by the palest, whitest hotel room I’ve ever stayed in, The bed linen was white. The furniture was white. The bathroom and towels were white. The floor was, you've guessed it - white.

I realised that any mechanical repairs would have been a disaster and landed me in trouble with a big cleaning bill.

Frankly, it was a relief. Here was the excuse I had been looking for. I could just focus on getting to sleep instead. As it was, I tried carefully to touch as little as possible, aware that every light switch or surface I touched left behind a sticky little smear of cycle grease and sealant.

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2. Fuerteventura

160 km, 2,300 m of elevation

The sweeping plains and ochre-coloured hills of Fuerteventura

After my tyre troubles on Day 1, I started Day 2 feeling a little more relaxed. I knew I was out of luck with the faster ferry hops, so my mindset had shifted. This was now more about enjoying the journey and completing within the eight day cut off.

A small group of us caught the very early morning ferry from Playa Blanca over to Corralejo, in Fuerteventura — a short crossing but just long enough to feel like a reset.
At first we rode together but over time the invisible elastic that held us together broke and I found myself alone once again. It was shortly after that I felt that dreaded sensation of a slowly deflating tyre.

At first I tried to pretend it wasn't happening, that it was just my imagination. But eventually I couldn't ignore the reality any more. I had another puncture. I gave myself a pep talk and put my mind into problem solving mode.

I pulled up by the side of the trail and took in my surroundings. I have fixed many punctures in my life and some of them in quite nice surroundings but I had to admit to myself this was probably the most beautiful spot I had ever broken down in. Before me lay a long, golden sandy beach and then the blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

A perfect spot for a breakdown - the coast of Fuerteventura

I set about fixing my latest mechanical. I had a nagging suspicion about the cause of this new puncture. The day before, in my haste, I’d left all five of the plugs I'd used to patch the tyre still embedded inside. Each plug has a little brass tip designed to hold it in place — but with a tube installed, those brass points had slowly rubbed their way through the rubber from the inside. I stripped off the tyre, fished out the old plugs, and carefully fitted a tyre boot — just a simple piece of plastic, but enough to shield the new tube I was about to install.

With the latest puncture fixed, I rolled on. I was struck by how different Fuerteventura felt to Lanzarote. Still volcanic, still arid, but the landscape here was broader, emptier, and somehow even more remote. Long stretches of piste and gravel roads stretched out in front of me with not a soul around.

The terrain rolled gently at first, but gradually the climbs became longer, and the sun climbed higher. The wind was constant — making progress feel very hard-earned.

I spotted a large bird of prey soaring high in the sky. Even from a distance, its pale, creamy-white body contrasted beautifully with the black flight feathers. I found out later it was a Canarian Egyptian vulture—a striking and distinctive bird, endemic to the Canary Islands, and especially prevalent in Fuerteventura. What a spectacular sight it was. And a lucky one. They are on the endangered list. I watched as it climbed higher into the sky, until it disappeared from view.

As the afternoon wore on, I realised there was no way I would make the last ferry to Gran Canaria. I was moving slower than I had hoped — a combination of heavy winds, tired legs and my lingering worries about my repaired rear tyre, perhaps holding me back - or at least that was my excuse.

So once again, I adjusted my plan. I decided to ride to Morro Jable, the port town at the southern tip of Fuerteventura, and call it a day there.

Rolling into Morro Jable at sunset, I felt dusty, tired, but quietly satisfied. I found a cheap apartment near the port and checked in.

I had assumed I was the only guest in the apartment, but within minutes of checking in, one rider arrived, then another, and soon there were four of us crammed into this small apartment.

Almost immediately our minds turned to food. The catering facilities were minimal—a tiny microwave and no open restaurants nearby.

Undeterred, we ventured to a local shop and pooled our resources. We came back with a couple of baked potatoes, a tin of sweetcorn, a tin of mushrooms, and a jar of pasta sauce. Simple, but nutritious enough—and crucially, packed with carbs and all microwaveable. Still, it desperately needed something extra to bring it to life, salt and pepper would be a start.

The forbidden kitchen

That’s when we spotted it—a door marked “Private.” It’s a fact of human nature that if you see a sign like that, curiosity gets the better of you. We tried the handle. Miraculously it opened. I flicked the light switch. Inside was a full kitchen, complete with salt, pepper, olive oil, and proper plates. It was too tempting to resist. We made a plan.
We would carefully use the condiments and plates, making sure to leave everything exactly as we’d found it. I snapped a quick photo for reference. So I knew how to put things back exactly as they were. If the owner of this apartment ever happens to read this (unlikely, I know), I’d like to sincerely apologize for breaking the rule, opening that door, and using your supplies. But I hope you understand.

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3. Gran Canaria

170 km, 4,100 m of elevation

The dramatic interior of Gran Canaria

With a group of about twenty others I caught the early ferry from Morro Jable to Las Palmas, Gran Canaria’s capital. The crossing took a few hours, giving me time to clean my drivetrain and quickly double-check my rear tyre repair — it was still holding, much to my relief.

A squad of soldiers were also making the crossing. They looked on with thinly disguised amusement as the scruffy, dust-caked band of riders clattered ashore.

The ferry crew had us offloaded with their usual military precision and we were soon rolling off the boat.

Bikes stowed on the ferry

Las Palmas was a real shock to the system after the emptiness of Fuerteventura: busy roads, honking taxis, and crowds of people. But within an hour, I was climbing out of the city, back into the island’s mountainous interior.

Gran Canaria is where the serious climbing begins on the Granguanche. The route took me up twisty roads and steep gravel tracks, gaining elevation quickly. The scenery changed too — greener, with pine forests and even small patches of cultivated land.

At one point, I paused at a viewpoint. In the distance, I could just make out the silhouette of Tenerife's Mount Teide rising above the clouds. It was moments like this that made all the ferry stress and tyre drama worth it.

A short love letter to the fruit shop of all fruit shops

Coming at the end of a long twenty kilometer climb, nestled on the edge of the mountain town of Santa Lucía de Tirajana lies one of the world’s most extraordinary fruit shops (yes, my bold assertion):

The shop is called Frutería La Candelaria and it deserves a mention.

If there were Oscars for fruit shops it would have one. Outside what looks like a Swiss chalet sit large trays holding bountiful displays of the ripest, juiciest oranges, apples, pears, nectarines and peaches you've ever seen.

Inside the fruit is displayed in sparkling glass cabinets, each piece artfully illuminated. What inspired the owners of this shop to create this masterpiece I don’t know. But I am pleased they did.

I made a small purchase of local oranges and sat by a wall in the sunlight and ate greedily, not caring as orange juice trickled down my hands and onto my dusty, dirty legs, leaving little pale orange streaks.

Frutería La Candelaria - Gran Canaria

The rest of that day’s riding was hard but rewarding — a series of tough climbs followed by hair-raising descents followed by yet more tough climbs and yet more hair-raising descents.

Christmas comes early

When I first saw him I thought I might be hallucinating. I wondered what was in those oranges.

About two hours outside Santa Lucía de Tirajana, along the GC-65 road, you’ll come across a surreal sight: a giant Santa Claus in a sleigh. Faded and silent, he sits by the roadside, baking in the Canarian sun, his doleful eyes watching everyone who passes. A slightly sinister grin on his face.

Where he came from, or how he ended up here, I have no idea. It must have taken some effort to haul this cloth-and-wire creation halfway up a mountain road. Yet, as I later learned, he’s become a kind of landmark — a strange but familiar marker on the long climb from Santa Lucía to the coast.

Christmas corner

Bivvying on the mountainside

Completing the Granguanche Gran Canaria route in a single day is a real achievement — one I couldn’t even imagine. With the sun starting to set, and with still many hours riding left I decided to rest. I was at about 1,000 metres of elevation. It was a beautiful, quiet spot, but cold and slightly damp. I stretched out my bivvy and climbed in. I slept fitfully - flitting between being too hot one moment and too cold the next — the eternal struggle of bivvy sleeping.

Bivvying in the damp on Gran Canaria at 1000 metres.

I was awoken at six am by approaching voices.

In the early morning darkness, I heard the sound of two riders approaching. I felt a pang of guilt as they rode past, completely unaware that I was just a few feet away. They were having a private conversation as they passed by. I considered calling out to let them know I was there but decided against it, turning up my headphones instead to give them back their privacy.
It felt like a sign to get moving. I packed up my bivvy, stretched my sore muscles, and got back on my bike and re-joined the trail. Not long after, a young Dutch woman powered past me, effortlessly climbing the mountain. She flew by like I was standing still, laughing and joking about the suffering we were enduring. I couldn’t help but laugh too, though I secretly wished for even a fraction of her energy just then. My energy levels were low.

Life feels better after an 'egg in a hole'

After a few kilometers, I caught up with two riders who informed me that there was a café just off the route. It was the best news I’d heard all morning. I joined them, and sure enough, after just ten minutes, there it was—an open café, in an out of the way spot on the side of the mountain road offering the all-important coffee and some hot food.

We were met with wonderful Canarian hospitality. Fires were lit, a table prepared and the coffee machine primed. We were each handed a menu to study.

We kept things simple for our host, and our tired minds.
Three riders. Three x coffees. Three x egg in a hole.
How is it that I’ve made it through decades of life without ever encountering 'Egg in a Hole" before? To make it, you simply:

• Take a slice of bread (round or square, your choice),

• Cut a small hole in the center,

• Fry an egg right into the hole, leaving the yolk visible and ideally just a little runny,

• Then toast the whole thing on a griddle or in a pan.

It was delicious, as was the weapons-grade espresso they served up from their wonderful coffee machine.

Whether it was the egg in the hole or the coffee or the companionship of my fellow riders the rest of the day flew by. The last section of the route on Gran Canaria had a wonderful, but sometimes tricky, fast downhill.  My arms and hands ached from gripping the bars so tightly, and I had a couple of near misses on loose, rocky corners.  But I made it to Agaete by late afternoon, a small town on the North west coast and the place to catch ferries to Tenerife.

Egg in the hole - Gran Canaria

4. Tenerife
170 km, 4,600 m of elevation*

The winding mountain roads of Tenerife in the early morning mist

The ferry from Gran Canaria to Tenerife was relatively smooth, and I used the crossing to stretch out my tired muscles. 

It was with delight to see other riders on the ferry. We eagerly shared stories of our adventures, mishaps and which parts of our bodies hurt the most.

Discussion soon started on the weather conditions. A large storm was heading our way and conditions were going to deteriorate rapidly over the next few hours. The Canary Islands Government declared a state of maximum Red Alert for wind on the islands of Tenerife and La Palma in response to the imminent arrival of Storm Nuria.

It was hard to imagine, given how calm the sea was at that moment. Shortly after we got the news the route up Mount Teide was closed.

This was a real blow. For many cyclists Teide is one of those bucket list climbs, a bit like Ventoux and Alpe D’Huez in France or the Stelvio in Italy. At over 40 km long and gaining nearly 2,000 meters of elevation Teide is a formidable climb and I had been looking forward to the challenge. Some riders decided to wait out the storm and to set out for the top once the authorities re-opened the summit.

I considered my options and felt that mentally it was more important for me to continue making forward progress. I decided to take the ‘Safe track’ that the organisers had created which took a detour around the mountain via a balcony road.
As the ferry docked at Santa Cruz I scanned my phone for suitable accommodation options and chose the cheapest accommodation option I could find - a small one-room apartment right in the city centre.

A mountain (of stairs) to climb

Arriving at the apartment building I was quietly devastated to find the small elevator broken with no option but to either leave my bike in the street, the small lobby or to carry my fully laden bike up four flights of narrow stairs. I summed up my options and chose the stairs. It’s no exaggeration to say this nearly broke me. I kept stopping on the way up for rests to clear the lactic acid from my arms and legs.  This was a hike a bike I could do without. And I was very mindful that the next morning I would need to carry my bike back down.
On my way up I was concerned to see the apartment door on the floor below me kicked in, with large ‘Crime scene’ tape strung across it. As I entered my apartment I double locked the door behind me.

CSI Tenerife

Despite the crime scene below, I slept well and the next day set off in the early hours of morning. I stopped at a very well organised petrol station and stocked up on essentials (bags of Haribo). As I climbed out of Santa Cruz the weather remained calm despite the forecast.

I caught up with another rider, and we chatted for a while about the options ahead. She planned to wait out the storm and hold on until the summit of Teide reopened. I admired her patience and resolve.

After a few hours I reached La Laguna, the old capital of Tenerife. Sitting up in the cooler, greener north, it's a place of faded colonial buildings, colorful streets, and a steady hum of student life from the university. It's not a tourist hot spot in the usual sense, but there's a real depth to it — history in the stones and a liveliness in the cafés and markets. I stopped for a coffee top-up before setting off again.

A few kilometres outside of La Laguna the route took me past the Las Raíces migrant camp, I saw groups of young men wandering the streets and fields, with little to occupy their time. It was a sobering sight—a stark reminder of the harsh inequalities in the world and the sheer privilege of my own position. Here I was, free to ride across islands for adventure and challenge, while they were stuck in limbo, far from home and with very uncertain futures. It was difficult to reconcile. 

When I reached the point where the route split toward the safe track, the weather started to turn. The wind was so strong at this point it felt genuinely dangerous. I got clipped on the head by a flying branch and nearly got knocked off my bike. But it was a fairly short lived squall. As I turned the mountain and began to descend, the winds started to ease. What then followed was an incredible descent from the town of Vilaflor, dropping from over 1,400 meters to sea level in a relatively short distance. It was fast, packed with switchbacks, and utterly exhilarating.

On my way down I was overtaken by the Bahrain Victorious pro cycling team out on a training ride. I was pushing close to 40 mph downhill, yet they glided past me like they were on a relaxed social spin—chatting, laughing (perhaps even at me!), completely at ease. This descent is a favorite among pro cyclists, often used to hone confidence on fast, technical descents and sharpen handling skills.

For a few moments, I tried to latch onto their pace, watching as they carved through corners like they were on rails. Then sanity prevailed—I remembered I was nursing a heavily patched tire and decided to dial it back. There was no way I could come close to matching their pace. Even so, the descent from Vilaflor was unforgettable—one of the best of my life so far. Smooth tarmac, flowing lines, and gentle curves made it pure joy. By the time I rolled into Los Cristianos for the late afternoon ferry, I was shattered but elated.

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5. El Hierro (the finish)
120km, 3,900m of elevation

Roadside flowers - El Hierro

Although storm Nuria had passed, the crossing to El Hierro was still rough. The sea was choppy, and for some riders, it proved too much — a few were violently seasick during the short passage. I managed to hold up fine, though I found that lying down made the motion a little easier to bear.

As we approached Valverde, the tiny capital of El Hierro, the island greeted us with a burst of color. Spring had just begun to take hold, and the landscape was lush and green, scattered with bright patches of yellow and blue wildflowers. Among them, the golden blooms of the Canary Island dandelion (Taraxacum canariense) stood out — a species found only in these islands, thriving in the mild air and rich volcanic soil. It was a beautiful welcome, nature’s quiet celebration as we stepped off the ferry.

Despite my fatigue, I felt relatively strong on the first few climbs. The knowledge that this was the last big push gave me a tiny bit of extra energy.

I passed old stone terraces, wind-bent trees, and dramatic cliffs plunging into the Atlantic. It felt remote, wild, and utterly beautiful. But soon things started to turn, the roads outside Valverde became steeper, until I had no option but to get off my bike and push. 

After a while, I entered a new, misty world — everything felt hushed and mysterious, the landscape shrouded in clouds.

The going was difficult and it soon became clear I wasn’t going to cover much more ground before nightfall. I weighed up bivvying somewhere quiet, but in the end, I decided I’d be better off finding a hotel. The challenge was where. A quick scan of Google Maps revealed how few options there are on El Hierro, but the Hotel Balneario Pozo de la Salud seemed to be my best option — perched right on the Atlantic coast, about 30 km from Valverde.
By the time I checked in, it was fully dark, but the crashing of waves outside my window left no doubt that the sea was close. The room itself was perfectly comfortable — though, oddly, it had two bathrooms — and the whole place had a distinctive atmosphere, somewhere between a hotel and an old sanatorium, with its focus on wellness and therapeutic treatments.
The hotel dinner that night was exactly what I needed. The standout was the local pineapple — probably the best I’ve ever tasted. Much smaller than the supermarket varieties back home, but bursting with sweetness and juice, and carrying a unique, intense flavour. I fell asleep to the rhythmic pounding of the Atlantic and woke at 4 a.m., collected my bike from the hotel garage, and set off in the dark, climbing back up from the coast.
The day’s riding was tough, packed with relentless climbs, including the long haul up to Pico de Malpaso — at 1,501 metres, the island’s highest point. The 24-kilometer ascent felt like a final, brutal exam for already weary legs, made even harder by a stretch of hike-a-bike over loose black volcanic cinders that sapped energy with every step. Another puncture didn’t help — this time the front tyre — but it hardly mattered. Well practiced by now, I quickly prised the tyre off the rim, slipped in a tube, and was soon on my way again.

The Finish line

The final descent into the tiny seaside hamlet of Timijiraque featured a stretch of insanely steep downhill. It’s the main reason the organisers wisely chose to set the official finish line at the top of the climb rather than at the bottom — there’s simply no need to rush this descent. To do so would be madness. At times, the gradient was so steep it felt like I was pointed straight down. 

The weight of my loaded bike combined with the sheer incline was nerve-wracking, demanding total focus with every inch of the ride. I wasn’t the only one gripped by fear during this last stage. It was the first time I’d genuinely worried about my brakes failing due to overheating. 

I found a small measure of comfort when I found myself behind a beat-up Toyota flatbed truck. At least, I reasoned, if I lost control, I'd probably end up crashing into the truck rather than off the side of the mountain. I didn’t even mind the fumes belching from its exhaust as it rattled down the hill like a tired, arthritic creature.

The relief when I finally reached the coastal road at the bottom — and cruised into Timijiraque, right by the tranquil beach — was immense. The organisers were waiting to cheer me over the line, clapping in welcome. It was a perfect, unforgettable moment.

With no ferries until 4 p.m. the next day, there was time to properly stop. A small family-run place, Restaurante Bahía Timijiraque, served fresh seafood and local dishes like papas arrugadas — those delicious, salty Canarian wrinkled potatoes.

Papas Arrugadas

There wasn’t much else — just a freshwater shower on the beach and the open sky — but it was enough. And thus came one of the loveliest parts of the whole trip.  About twenty of us finished that day, and while a few riders managed to find rooms in local homes, the rest of us simply camped by the beach. It was a wonderful ending to the adventure, drifting off to sleep with the sound of the ocean and the feeling of quiet camaraderie among tired but happy riders.

Sunrise over El Hierro, the morning after the night before

The small print

Logistics

Trains:

London to Paris Eurostar

Paris to Barcelona

Barcelona to Madrid (Renfe)

Madrid to Cadiz (Renfe)

Ferries:

Cadiz to Lanzarote

Audax ferries

• Lanzarote to Fuerteventura
• Fuerteventura to Gran Canaria
• Gran Canaria to Tenerife
• Tenerife to El Hierro

El Hierro to Tenerife

Tenerife to Huelva (Spain)

Route stats:

Total distance: 797.44k

Total elevation: 18220

Total time:  7 days

Equipment:

Bike: Gravel bike

Tyres: Maxis Rambler 45mm

Gearing: SRAM 11 speed with 10-50t cassette, 38t front chainring