Puerto de la Estaca

Perched dramatically atop volcanic cliffs, La Pena Viewpoint (Mirador de La Pena) feels like a sleek, earthy hideout dreamed up by the brightest of madcap Bond villains and brought into reality by the legendary Cesar Manrique, the Canaries' master of elegant whimsy and volcanic chic. Here, Mother Nature and Cesar's artistic bravado collaborate shamelessly, offering absurdly picturesque vistas of El Hierro's untamed volcanic landscapes tumbling headlong into the Atlantic's cobalt fury. To dodge selfie-stick-wielding hordes, plan your pilgrimage for that cinematic hour just before sunset, when golden rays drape the lava-hewn coastline in flattering Instagram-filter perfection. Set aside about an hour to linger with a local wine in hand (bring cash, around €10-€15 covers your indulgence), savoring tapas while feigning deep reflection about life's fleeting beauty. And while yes, you'll need wheels and just enough planning-say, a day or two ahead-to snag prime table real estate, trust me, there's nothing quite as smugly satisfying as casually dropping into conversation later that you sipped Malvasia atop a volcanic lookout designed by Spain's architectural rebel himself. Even if you're secretly terrified of heights, go anyway-fear fades, stories last, and Manrique's marvelous madness is always, unequivocally worth the vertigo.

If you've ever fantasized about dropping off the map into one of those whimsically defiant villages where modernity hasn't yet fully infiltrated and wine is taken medicinally, Sabinosa is your jam. Perched stubbornly on the western edge of El Hierro-the wild child of the Canary Islands-Sabinosa feels like a village designed by a slightly tipsy architect given free rein with only volcanic stone, grapevines, and a vague memory of how buildings should look. Arrive mid-morning; villagers will greet you with bemused skepticism rather than outright hostility, and you'll have just enough time before siesta to sample the famously potent local vino-a beverage so robust and characterful it should probably come with a warning label. Plan your visit around one of their traditional fiestas, such as "La Bajada de la Virgen," an exuberantly anarchic celebration blending Catholic reverence with proudly pagan undertones; just book ahead by a month or two, because "planning" in Sabinosa is less an itinerary and more like letting fate drunkenly scribble on your calendar. Bring cash (cards here are viewed with suspicion reserved for black magic), sunscreen, sturdy shoes, and a sense of humor-€30 to €50 will buy you an unforgettable day of indelicate storytelling fodder. Just remember, even if you wake up tomorrow unable to recollect exactly how you wound up doing the grape-stomping dance at midnight alongside a nonagenarian who can outdrink Hemingway, your Sabinosa tales will forever guarantee your credibility at dinner tables worldwide.

If Jacques Cousteau ever decided to film a Bond movie on the moon-but on a budget-he would have chosen La Restinga Marine Reserve. Tucked away at Europe's southernmost tip on the volcanic dot of El Hierro, this submerged wonderland is a glorious mishmash of lunar-like lava formations and absurdly clear waters so pristine you'll find yourself unnecessarily sucking in your stomach, convinced the fish are judging your fitness routine. Historically favored by pirates hiding loot-and today by German tourists wielding waterproof GoPros-La Restinga offers dives best taken mid-morning, when sunlight slices through the waves, spotlighting moray eels that scowl like underpaid stage villains and playful parrotfish apparently vying for Most Outrageous Outfit awards. Book a dive a couple of days ahead, budget around €50-80 (unless you spring for the extra tank), and don't forget sunblock, snacks, and an appropriately ironic Hawaiian shirt post-dive. Sure, you might feel ridiculous fiddling with neoprene gear at 9 am, but trust me, plunging into this weirdly extraterrestrial marine playground will give you bragging rights long past your fourth round of beers, and a story worth twisting and retelling at dinner parties for years to come.

If spelunking through the insides of a giant stone artery carved by volcanic wrath isn't already on your bucket list, it bloody well should be. Beneath the sleepy, whitewashed charm of Valverde in El Hierro-a forgotten gem of the Canary Islands-the ancient lava tubes snake underground, created millennia ago when molten lava cooled and left behind empty tunnels whispering tales of the island's volcanic tantrums. Guided explorations offer the rare chance to channel your inner Jules Verne-minus the Victorian attire and certainly less dignified. Dress practically, leave your best shoes at home (lava rocks chew up designer soles faster than tourists devour tapas), and bring a flashlight powerful enough to scare off the imaginary beasts lurking in the dark. Early morning treks are your best bet, ideally booked at least a week ahead, to dodge tourists who've overslept their sangria hangovers. Budget roughly €40-€60, a fair investment for a glimpse into geological history that predates humans, smartphones, and probably most underwear drawers. Go, descend into the eerie quiet beneath the island, and surface hours later, dusty, sweaty, and ridiculously proud-because crawling through El Hierro's volcanic plumbing system is exactly the kind of adventure that will make you the most interesting storyteller at the dinner table.

Forget about the sanitized glow-in-the-dark ceiling stickers you slapped up as a kid-this overnight stargazing escapade plunges you into a cosmic show so grippingly clear, you'll swear you can see star dust clogging your pores. Deep in the wilds of a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, far beyond streetlights and Wi-Fi passwords, you'll crane your neck under skies so spectacularly dark they're practically prehistoric. Plan your celestial pilgrimage at least a month out (trust me, you'll need it); pack layers, a flask of something warming, binoculars, and-if only to spare your dignity-bug spray. Arrive around dusk, settle in as twilight fades, and watch with smug satisfaction as the Milky Way bursts forth, stealing breath and cellphone coverage alike. Budget around $100 per person to join a guide who actually knows Orion from Oprah, or at least pretends convincingly. Sure, you'll stumble groggily back to civilization at sunrise, sleep-deprived and mosquito-bitten, but you'll be smugly richer, armed with tales of galaxies glimmering fiercely enough to humble even your most insufferable astrophysics-quoting friend.

There's something uniquely satisfying-and faintly absurd-about willingly spending your vacation scrambling over jagged chunks of solidified lava to learn how kale and heirloom tomatoes manage to thrive against the odds. Yet here you are, on the ash-darkened earth of El Golfo, a hamlet valiantly perched at the wild western edge of Lanzarote, where locals pursue farming with the stubbornness of sailors clinging to driftwood after a shipwreck. A late-afternoon stroll through these moon-like fields of volcanic grit reveals the audacious secrets behind small-scale sustainable agriculture: grapevines curled protectively inside miniature stone craters, sprouting defiantly from obsidian-colored slopes, and rosemary bushes clustered together like gossiping neighbors, their survival techniques honed by centuries of trial and error. Book the tour at least a week in advance-quirky farming tours are suddenly all the rage-and expect to spend around 30 euros, roughly the price of a couple rounds of craft beers back home. Wear sturdy shoes, bring water, and for heaven's sake, don't forget a hat; volcanic sunshine is ruthlessly efficient at frying inattentive visitors to a crisp. But trust me-embracing agricultural adventure on the charred remains of ancient catastrophes is worth the sweat and blisters, if only to casually tell your friends that you've discovered the tastiest vegetables growing inside a volcanic apocalypse.