There are days when Gran Canaria feels like it’s glowing — like every colour has been turned up just a little brighter. This was one of those days. The sky was an endless, perfect blue, and the air shimmered with heat even before noon.
Auke and Miranda parked the car by a curve of the GC-200, the famous mountain road that twists through the island’s rugged southwest. Ahead of them, the cliffs of Los Azulejos rose like a wall of colour — bands of blue, green, yellow, orange, and red glowing under the sun.
Miranda shaded her eyes and grinned.
“It looks like the mountain’s been painted by hand,” she said.
Auke laughed. “Then let’s go see it up close.”
They started the climb. The trail wound its way between sharp rocks and small dry shrubs, the scent of warm stone and dust rising with every step. The sun pressed hard on their backs, but there was no wind — not even a whisper. Just the sound of their footsteps and the occasional buzz of an insect breaking the silence.
The higher they went, the more intense the colours became. From below, Los Azulejos looked like a painting. From up here, it felt alive — red rock glowing like embers, green streaks fading into golden sand tones. It was nature’s art gallery, and they had it all to themselves.
Halfway up, Miranda stopped to catch her breath.
“It’s so dry… even the air feels heavy.”
Auke nodded, glancing toward the ravine below. “After this summer, the whole island feels thirsty.”
They pushed on, following the narrow trail that curved toward the Charcos de Los Azulejos — the small natural pools hidden in the heart of the mountains.
But when they arrived, the scene was different from what they remembered from photos. The rocks still shimmered with colour, but the pools were almost empty. Only a few shallow patches of water remained, still and clear like tiny.
Without reflections or ripples, the dry rock faces seemed even more vivid — turquoise veins running through rusty orange, a thousand shades blending in the sunlight. The heat made the air waver, distorting the horizon, but the beauty of it all felt sharper somehow.
They found a flat rock to sit on, sharing a bottle of water and a quiet moment of rest. The silence was deep — only the faint hum of wind echoing through the ravine. Down below, the GC-200 twisted like a silver ribbon, tiny cars crawling along the edge of the cliffs.
Miranda took a slow breath. “It’s strange,” she said. “Even without water, it feels alive.”
Auke smiled. “That’s the island. Always changing, always surprising.”
For a while, they just sat there — watching the sunlight shift across the mountains, turning the colours warmer, softer. It was a view that didn’t need words. Just the sound of the dry earth and the warmth of the day wrapping around them.
When they finally started the walk back down, the path felt familiar but different — the same rocks, the same light, but now with that quiet satisfaction of having climbed all the way to the heart of Los Azulejos.
At the car, Miranda took one last look up at the cliffs.
“Next time after the rains,” she said, smiling. “Maybe the charcos will be full again.”
Auke nodded. “And when they are, we’ll be back.”
They drove off slowly, the bright cliffs of Los Azulejos glowing in the rear-view mirror — a mountain painted by fire, waiting for the next rain to bring its colours back to life.
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