Exploring the Canary Islands, from ancient lava landscapes to hidden Jewish echoes - review

The Canary Islands are a world-renowned tourist destination, blessed with an eternal spring-like climate reminiscent of Hawaii. While Europe shivers through winter, here the temperature remains a steady 24°C. The Atlantic Ocean keeps a delicate balance between tropical coolness and warm Saharan breezes. An eternal springtime that never quite ripens into summer.

Spanish sailors once called them “Las islas afortunadas” (the fortunate isles). Perhaps they felt, as one does still, that to reach them is to step outside time. Twelve million tourists arrive each year in search of something they cannot name: warmth, light, or maybe that forgotten intimacy between human breath and the breathing earth. I joined them on a kosher cruise organized by Golden Tours, a floating congregation of seekers bound for islands born from volcanoes and legends.

From the deck, Tenerife appeared first. A jagged silhouette rising from the Atlantic like a myth retold by fire. The map of the island curiously mirrors that of Israel, with the Sinai Peninsula and the Golan Heights. Its central ridge and narrow flanks extend like arms into the sea, a resemblance that feels less cartographic than spiritual.

The ship docked in Santa Cruz, a city painted in the faded palette of dreams: mustard yellows, sea blues, and sun-washed pinks. Every balcony seemed to lean forward in curiosity, carved from wood the color of old honey.

Some say those narrow wooden balconies once served as sukkot for Jewish families who lived here centuries ago, now hidden symbols of faith in a place where faith could be fatal. Before the holiday, they would remove the roof tiles and replace them with palm branches, sitting under them with the table extending inside the house.

The story of the Jews of Tenerife is a quiet echo of 1492, the year of the Expulsion. Many fled here from Spain’s mainland, seeking refuge across a narrow strip of water. But even the ocean could not protect them from the Inquisition’s shadow. In La Laguna, not far from here, the tribunal built its fortress of fear. Those who refused conversion were burned in the main square, where now tourists eat ice cream under jacaranda trees. Only their silence remains. Soft, persistent, almost like prayer.

Today, a small Jewish community lives again in the Canaries. About 20 families in Las Palmas, the capital of Gran Canaria and home to the only synagogue in the Canary Islands, where weekly Shabbat prayers are held. Three years ago, a Chabad House opened in Tenerife, in the city of Puerto de la Cruz.

Along the Santa Cruz seafront stands the Auditorio de Tenerife, a magnificent cultural hall designed by architect Santiago Calatrava, who also designed Jerusalem’s Chords Bridge. It rises like a frozen wave, or perhaps a giant seashell that once carried the sound of creation itself. Its white curve seems to capture both wind and light, the eternal symbols of movement and stillness.

From there, the road climbs inland through pine forests until the air turns thin and the scent of resin gives way to volcanic dust. Suddenly, the world opens into the vastness of Mount Teide, Spain’s highest peak, 3,720 meters above the sea that cradles it. The mountain looks like the heart of the earth turned inside out.

As the bus climbs, colors change from emerald to rust, then to obsidian black. At the summit, the wind is so clean it feels like breathing for the first time. Below us stretch clouds like oceans, and above, the true ocean, endless, silver, alive. Adventurous hikers continue from the visitor center along a steep, challenging trail that takes about 45 minutes. Those who reach the very top stand above the clouds, gazing at the ocean stretched endlessly below.

Not far from the volcano lies San Cristóbal de La Laguna, a UNESCO World Heritage town that feels like the 18th century painted over with sunlight. The streets are cobbled, the houses wear coats of turquoise, saffron, and lime. In their walls linger the scent of wet earth and jasmine. Time here moves differently, slowly, deliberately, as if reluctant to disturb the quiet grace of its courtyards.

In 1730, a volcano erupted here continuously for six years in the longest eruption in recorded history.

Rivers of fire flowed, covering entire villages. At the heart of the island lies Timanfaya National Park, a must-see for every visitor.

Even today, volcanic activity still simmers beneath the surface. In parts of the park, the ground just half a meter deep below our feet reaches 200-400°C. I stand with a group encircling a local guide who plunges a regular shovel into the earth and pulls up a handful of pebbles. He passes them around. When I touch them, I have to drop them instantly; they are scorching hot. A few steps away, he throws a handful of dry straw into a hole and, within seconds, smoke rises, followed by a burst of flame.

Deeper in the park, thick metal pipes sink 10 meters into the ground. A worker pours a quarter bucket of water into one of them, then steps back quickly. Immediately, a geyser of steam explodes upward with a thunderous roar.

Yet Lanzarote is not all ash. In the Cactus Garden, the artist César Manrique transformed a quarry into a symphony of thorns and color. Thousands of cacti rise like living sculptures against whitewashed walls. Manrique, who persuaded the island to limit its buildings to the height of a palm tree and to paint them all white with green shutters, understood something profound – that harmony is not the absence of contrast, but the art of balance.

The Canary Islands fade, but their fire remains. Between lava and sea, past and present, they remind us that awe and peace can exist side by side – and sometimes, that is all we need.