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Volcanic eruptions are terrible for vineyards, but only briefly. Once the lava cools, the volcanic soil left behind creates delicious wine that is lean, racy, and mineral.
The trade winds blew everyone in, and then they blew them out again. What did take root in this porous volcanic soil, along with a few hardy settlers, were grapevines.
When Christopher Columbus sailed, supposedly for Asia, in 1492, he paused to restock in the Canary Islands, where the Spanish had just about finished wresting control from the native Guanche people (the islands were fully conquered four years later). He might have been tempted to linger in this beautiful archipelago at the edge of what was then the known world, but the islands’ location has always meant that most people move on. Captain James Cook stopped during his third and final voyage; Captain Horatio Nelson lost his arm here in battle, years before he fought the Battle of Trafalgar. The trade winds blew everyone in, and then they blew them out again. What did take root in this porous volcanic soil, along with a few hardy settlers, were grapevines.

Volcanic eruptions are terrible for vineyards, but only briefly. Once the lava cools, the volcanic soil left behind creates delicious wine that is lean, racy, and mineral: Santorini’s Assyrtiko, Nerello Mascalese from the slopes of Sicily’s Mount Etna, Northern Californian Cabernet Sauvignon. Vines planted by Spanish and Portuguese settlers made the Canaries famous: In Twelfth Night, Shakespeare’s Sir Toby Belch speaks of “a cup of canary.” Then their popularity waned, and for 200 years, the trade winds brought no trade.

“And a good thing, too,” says Jonatan García Lima of Suertes del Marqués on Tenerife, the Canaries’ largest island. No trade meant vines could grow and adapt in peace, and the result is a remarkable range of varieties that, if not precisely indigenous (Listán Blanco is also Palomino, the grape of sherry, while Listán Prieto is better known as Mission, the earliest European variety planted in the Americas), are so different from their other incarnations as to be almost unrecognizable.

An El Grifo worker harvests the grapes from their unique circular craters by hand.
An El Grifo worker harvests the grapes from their unique circular craters by hand. COURTESY OF EL GRIFO
The great eruption on the island of Lanzarote occurred in 1730, lasting nearly six years and transforming its terroir. The national park is a jumble of black rocks; although the volcano is now considered dormant, the ground is still warm. And not just the ground: We visited in January, the coolest month, on an island hop from Lanzarote to Tenerife, and still the sun shone. Inland, we shucked off light sweaters only to hurriedly pull them back on when the cool sea winds blew across the vineyards.

Those vineyards are starkly beautiful but surpassingly strange: covered in black volcanic ash, each vine planted in an individual depression, shielded from that chill wind by its own semi-circular wall of ink-dark rock. Driving through La Geria, the island’s principal wine region, is like crossing a giant muffin tray with vines where the muffins should be. “We can’t compete on quantity,” remarked Ana de León of Los Bermejos, one of the region’s best-known wineries, “but we can on quality.” She offered me a floral Malvasía Volcánica and an earthy, berryish Listán Negro that proved her point.

At Lanzarote’s oldest winery, El Grifo, founded in 1775, we toured the on-site museum (including a 100-liter 1930s wineskin made from a single goat), admired the sculptural cactus garden, and tasted a tropical, textured Malvasía de Lías as well as Canari, a glorious, sweet blend that’s their interpretation of Sir Toby’s suggested tipple. Hours later, we walked into La Bodega de Santiago, a terrific restaurant in tiny Yaiza, but the place was empty. The tomatoes, cheeses, roast goat, and papas arrugadas, the gorgeous local potatoes doused in mojo, a lightly spiced garlic sauce, were still being prepared. It was 7:30 p.m., but even 800 miles from the mainland, this was still Spain. We were invited to wait. We did.

The Teide volcano on Tenerife overlooks a vast national park and some of Europe’s highest vineyards.
The Teide volcano on Tenerife overlooks a vast national park and some of Europe’s highest vineyards. GETTY IMAGES / EYEEM PREMIUM
In that 200-year-old house, we drank only Lanzarote wines. But fine-dining restaurants have a different notion of “local,” and at Isla de Lobos the next night, we were able to crisscross the archipelago without leaving our table overlooking the ocean. A light, floral white from Tagalguén, on La Palma, was followed by a gorgeously complex and aromatic wine called Agal