Fuerteventura – The wild beautiful

Each of the seven Canary Islands has its own formula to describe the essence that characterises it. In the case of Fuerteventura, it’s volcanoes, rugged mountain and coastal landscapes, deserts, sandy beaches and goats. My birding tour of the island also starts with the goats, at a small goat farm near Villaverde to be precise.

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On my first morning with the goats, I meet a group of birdwatchers from Germany, one of those coincidences that can’t possibly have anything to do with chance. For a few moments, I am allowed to follow them and get a little crash course on the birds to be found here: Great grey shrike, Berthelot’s pipit, Fuerteventura stonechat, Lesser short-toed lark and Black-bellied sandgrouse.
A good week later, I’ll be back here as the last stop on my birding tour. Between these two cornerstones of my trip, I will be able to get a first impression of the essence of Fuerteventura. And quite honestly, it’s one of the best things you can do in January to escape the unbearable winter of Central Europe.

Table Of Content

Tindaya

Despite their barrenness, the vast plains north-west of Tindaya are a real magnet for birdwatchers. In the morning and evening hours, they clatter at walking pace over the dusty tracks that make the landscape reasonably accessible. The scree desert is covered with Launaea arborescens, a thorny plant whose branches look like tangled wire and which is one of the most typical plants of Fuerteventura. Two thirds of the island’s surface is covered with this prickly bush. The few Canary Island date palms that protrude from the plain can be counted on one hand. At one point, I drive past an aloe plant whose inflorescence stretches metres high into the morning sky.

I start with the sunrise, as it quickly gets warm on the plains and the air begins to shimmer with the heat | Launaea arborescens is the most dominant plant species on Fuerteventura and can actually be found everywhere | Thanks to its masterful camouflage, the search for the African houbara (Chlamydotis undulata fuertaventurae) becomes a challenge

From Tindaya, the scree plains stretch over six kilometres to the west coast, and as far north again to a barranco. A huge area in which I set out about an hour after sunrise to find an African houbara. The ‘main track’ from Tindaya leads straight north-west towards the coast. It’s a potholed tarmac road where it’s a good idea to pay attention to every single pothole instead of looking around for incredibly well camouflaged bustards. So right at the start, I decide to follow a turn-off to the left towards the coast. The gravel track is in much better condition. I turn off once or twice and am finally right in the middle of the llanos. But I’m looking for a needle in a haystack, especially as I’ve never seen a houbara like this before. I know that the bird must be coming towards me a little. I let out a small sigh, followed by the not very sporting thought that it would be great if the bird happened to run in front of my car. After all, it happens all the time to some lucky person. Why not here and now?

I continue along the road towards the coast, scan the plain with my binoculars, get out and listen, but apart from the distant barking of dogs and the whistling of the wind over the land, it is silent.
After a kilometre and a half, the track ends in nothingness. Every now and then there is a crumbling building and terraced areas whose purpose is not clear to me. Somewhere off the road, the Google satellite image shows a pool of water. It reminds me a little of the small goat farm I saw the day before near Villaverde.
I turn the car around and decide to follow the potholed tarmac road after all, just like a few other people are doing this morning. I haven’t driven fifty metres when suddenly a brown shadow flits in front of the car along the small embankment left behind by the bulldozers when they scraped the track out of the ground.
‘This is it!’ I think triumphantly and pull over.

The bird also pauses, looks back over its shoulder at me and waits. I’m already armed with my camera and slowly slide the lens between the car and the rear-view mirror. It’s actually an African houbara that has just appeared in front of me as ordered. It now walks slowly past the car in a small arc. It really doesn’t get any better than this. The bird is beautiful! Its movements are a mixture of the head-jerking gait of a pigeon and the deliberate stride of an emu, its eyes bright and alert, almost piercing, were it not for her eyebrows, which are slightly arched downwards, lending its gaze something almost seductive. The plumage is scaled in marvellous shades of brown and I can’t help thinking of a parasol mushroom. Incidentally, a characteristic of the Fuerteventurian subspecies of houbara bustards (Chlamydotis undulata fuertaventurae) is that they are darker and more contrasting than their counterparts from the African continent.
That morning I spot two more individuals, further north on the tarmac road and at a similar distance from the car. Three needles in a haystack – I’m very pleased.

The Canarian subspecies of Kestrel (Falco tinnunculus canariensis) has darker back plumage, which is particularly evident in the females. The plumage of the males is more intense, colourful and contrasting | On a fence in Tindaya, Trumpeter finches (Bucanetes githagineus amantum, also a Canarian subspecies) have a chat in the morning sun. Their animated, melodic chirping simply draws attention to the splendid, pink-hued finches

Fuerta ventura – this means the risk, the uncertainty, the ever-present possibility of failure. But it also speaks of courage and defiance in the face of adversity, of the anticipation of success and the reward for the effort. Now I’m not stranded here like a circumnavigator, and even if a five-hour flight is no trifle, it’s a lot more comfortable than travelling by ship was a few hundred years ago. Nevertheless, a birding trip is always a journey into the unknown. As always on such trips, I made a list in advance of all the species I hope to see on the island. The probable and the less probable. Sometimes a place keeps its secrets. In my case, it’s the Cream-colored courser that Fuerteventura doesn’t reveal. Neither here in Tindaya, nor in the Jandía Nature Park, nor in the dunes of Corralejo. It happens to me again and again that I come home empty-handed with some things, even though I had hoped for them. I see this as a kind of tribute to nature, an acknowledgement that it is bigger, stronger and uncontrollable and yet so generous to anyone who takes a closer look.

El Cotillo and Cape Tostón

The small town in the north-west of Fuerteventura is no jewel compared to Tindaya or Betancuria. Nor can it compete with the large tourist towns of Morro Jable and Costa Calma in the south. It has more the charm of a last outpost, where everything comes together: the young, the old, those who set out, those who drop out, those who refuse. In general, the north of the island seems to belong more to those who want to break out of their familiar surroundings and routines for a while, who drive around in a camper van or minibus, who have their surfboard and dog with them, who sleep in the dunes under the stars if they have to. And El Cotillo seems to be something like the centre of this parallel world. At least in January.

To the south and north of the city, the coastline stretches from one sandy beach to the next. To the south, the coast becomes steeper and to the north it disappears into the ocean’s tidal zone.
There, at the Tostón lighthouse, the tide is low when I arrive for the first time. Powerful waves break in the rocky reefs around the cape. They seem to roll in from different directions, cross each other and form metre-high walls of water before breaking over the black, furrowed rocks and running out. More than once I see people watching this spectacle and talking shop about the movement of the water and the wind.

Whimbrel (Numenius phaeopus) | Little egret (Egretta garzetta) | Thanks to the excellent camouflage properties of its plumage, the whimbrel is almost unrecognisable on the dry rocks | The waves at Cape Tostón are impressive and offer wonderful photo opportunities – with or without the bird

Where the water has receded for a few hours, puddles and pools of water remain in the reefs. Little egrets take advantage of the hour, as do whimbrels. I see sandpipers and Ruddy turnstones foraging cautiously on the fringes of the waves. And of course Mediterranean gulls, which can be observed on the Canary Islands in their Atlantic subspecies Larus michahellis atlantis. They can look irritatingly similar to Lesser black-backed gulls. I have not yet discovered my soft spot for gulls, even though I always try to inform myself and learn something new. But gulls are a subject in themselves. I guess at some point you can’t avoid it any more, then you have to and want to deal with it.

Mediterranean gulls at Cape Tostón | For comparison: Lesser black-backed gull (Larus fuscus) on Heligoland | Mediterranean gulls in Morro Jable

A marvellous crustacean lives on the rocky coasts of the Canary Islands, in the intertidal zone to be precise. The East Atlantic red rock crab, Grapsus adscensionis, not only looks impressive with its finely dotted, blue-black and red nuanced carapace and legs, it also has an impressive size.
At low tide, you can easily spot them among the rocks. They are quite shy and retreat into crevices at the slightest disturbance. I spent almost an hour on a beach near Corralejo waiting at some distance from a magnificent specimen to see if it would venture out of its hiding place. I had caused its escape myself, as I had surprised it during my explorations. The crab hurried over the rock behind me with the fine clacking of her eight little feet. I could only just turn round to see it dart into the crevice.
There we both crouched. As the tide came in again and the waves lapped closer and closer to me, my chances dwindled. Because unlike me, the crab is in its element in the washed-over rocky reefs. In the end, I had to make do with two smaller, younger and therefore not so bright red-coloured ‚replacement specimens‘.

The East Atlantic red rock crab (Grapsus adscensionis) lives at depths of up to 200 metres. The diurnal, shy crustaceans feed omnivorously, mainly on algae and carcasses.

Morro Jable

For most visitors to the island, the name Stella Canaris is of no significance whatsoever. When the owners of this hotel resort went bankrupt in 2010 and the facilities were finally closed in 2013, the place became a lost place of a special kind. The resort was characterised by magnificent green areas and a large number of animals living there, especially birds. If you do just a little research into the history of Stella Canaris, you can guess that it must have been a kind of dream place for many of those who saw it. Although there have been repeated reports that the complex is to be renovated, revitalised and transformed into an eco-resort, none of this can be seen when you stand on the promenade today and look through the iron bars of the locked access gates.

This is what the former Stella Canaris hotel resort looks like today. Nothing remains of the former splendour that is sometimes reported. Nevertheless, passers-by crane their necks in front of the fences and gates to take a look inside. It is firmly on the to-do list of birdwatchers.

Nevertheless, Stella Canaris is a place that I visit quite deliberately – because of the birds that still live there. And I’m not the only one. In the neglected palm trees, Monk parakeets, Cattle egrets and Eurasian collared doves have created their own kingdom, building nests, breeding and feeding their offspring. Glossy ibisses roam the well-watered meadows of the main road and can even be seen on the wide grassy strip between the carriageways.
The stars in the palm leaves, however, are the Monk parakeets. The reason why they still feel so at home in the resort is because of the countless palm trees. Unlike all other parrots, Monk parakeets do not breed in caves, but build communal nests in palm crowns. These are not simply breeding sites, but real ‘housing complexes’ with bedrooms and living quarters.
The sociable parrots‘ talkativeness can be heard from afar. It is thought that each bird has a unique voice, which is how monk parakeets recognise each other.

The sight of Morro Jable’s feral zoo escapees may not quite ignite the sporting spirit of a life list birder. After all, Monk parakeets naturally occur in South America. Their number is declining in Morro Jable, presumably due to the lack of food after the hotel closed.
If you are looking for native bird species, you will certainly find them in the salt marshes in front of the main road.

The salt marshes stretch for a good two kilometres to the west and east of the Morro Jable lighthouse. For me, the rather large area is a uniform shrub plain, but even I, as a botanical philistine, have to admit that these meadows are very diverse. Plant lovers would probably be as happy here as I was when I came across the tiny Spectacled warbler at the Sperm whale skeleton. The little bird sat down in a bush less than three metres in front of me and once again provided me with one of those first observations for which you practically don’t have to do anything except be there. It is a gift to be able to experience this closeness.

Wooden plank paths lead through the salt marshes to the beach. Although the vegetation is spared as far as possible, a group of men collect the rubbish that has got caught between the bushes. A word about rubbish: I find Fuerteventura to be pretty tidy, even on the beaches I visit. The disposal system is organised in such a way that waste is thrown separately into publicly provided bins. This seems to work well, even if it took a bit of getting used to for me to bring all types of rubbish to the collection point.

The Barbary ground squirrel (Atlantoxerus getulus) has established itself almost everywhere on Fuerteventura. Whether as here in salt marshes or in dune landscapes as near El Cotillo, in the plains of Tindaya or between rock walls, as in the third picture near La Oliva. There was no place where I didn’t come across these cute rodents.

El Matorral beach in Morro Jable is perfect for long walks. If you look beyond the sea and the fine sand beneath your feet, your gaze follows the architecture that nestles into the mountainside. The hotel complexes look like boxes, a man-made cell construction that can be categorised as Brutalist architecture. Even if it may indeed appear brutal to some eyes, especially when viewed from close up, the term goes back to the concrete used, which was used unplastered as exposed concrete (béton brut in French). The name of the architectural style is also brutalist, not brutal, and at least the concrete façades here have been brightened up with a little colour. Brutalism divides opinion. For some, it stands for clear, simple forms, for unadorned, functional construction. For others, the sometimes enormous concrete colossi represent peculiar fortresses of hideousness. You have to see for yourself. There are still plenty of buildings from this era.

On 14 December 2004, the carcass of a Sperm whale over 14 metres long washed ashore in the south of the island. According to the necropsy, the male whale had died of natural causes. Its skeleton was prepared and placed in Morro Jable on the beach promenade at the transition to the salt marshes. | Along the Avenida del Saladar, hotels nestle close together up the hillside. Despite the construction boom in many places on Fuerteventura, a kind of status quo seems to prevail in Morro Jable. Accordingly, the brutalist hotel buildings also seem a little old-fashioned.

Embalse de Los Molinos – Puerto de Los Molinos

Halfway between Tindaya and Betancuria, south-west of Tefía, is Fuerteventura’s largest reservoir, the Embalse de Los Molinos. This is not without reason, as the only year-round watercourse on the island flows through the barranco of the same name and into the Atlantic a little further on in Puerto de Los Molinos.
The reservoir attracts many bird species and in the preparation for the trip, for example on ebird.org, there was talk of 134 species observed, many of them all year round or especially in the winter months and during migration periods. However, this figure spans decades of documentation. On the ground, things look a little different.

A flock of Black-bellied sandgrouse (Pterocles orientalis) makes its rounds over the barren landscape. The surroundings of the reservoir are not necessarily picturesque. A bent metal fence separates the lake area from the surrounding scree plains. Everything looks a bit like ‘no trespassing’, but the path above the northern shore of the lake is public and leads to an observation hut | The lake can be up to five metres deep if there is enough rainfall. In January 2025, the Ruddy shelduck (Tadorna ferruginea) was also more or less on dry land | Egyptian vulture (Neophron percnopterus) circling over the mountain slopes in the surrounding area. For me, this was a first observation and for this reason alone, the reservoir was worth a visit.

The birding group from the goat farm had told me days before that the lake had very little water and there was hardly anything for them to observe. So I’m a little sceptical about the reservoir. When I arrive, I meet two Germans who tell me that they have been on the site since 6am. After a brief exchange about our respective observations so far, they pack their things into the car and drive off. I follow the stony path along the northern shore to an observation hut. Two dozen Ruddy shelducks doze off in the last ankle-deep stretches of water. On the rocky slopes around me, there are Trumpeter finches and Berthelot’s pipits and every now and then sandgrouse appear, making their hurried rounds over the landscape. Their unmistakable bubbling calls are usually the first thing you notice about them. Later, a few Egyptian vultures make their rounds over the slopes on the south bank. A buzzard makes a brief appearance. I also see a single Black-winged stilt down on the lake shore, but overall the place falls far short of my expectations. It is probably one of those places that you have to visit again and again over a longer period of time in order to discover the true diversity that must undoubtedly be found in such a freshwater paradise. After all, the Los Molinos reservoir is the second most species-rich observation site in Fuerteventura on eBird.

If you follow the road further west at the junction to the reservoir, you will reach the small village of Puerto de Los Molinos at the exit of the Barranco after a few minutes. The road ends at a car park. When I arrive, there is quite a hustle and bustle. A few older men are scattering bread among the fat Muscovy ducks that live semi-wild in the Barranco. A few chickens have mingled with them. And if you believe the unofficial reports here and there, sooner or later most of these feathered creatures end up in the cooking pot or frying pan.

Here in the car park, they are a real nuisance, as they are extremely reluctant to give way to the cars coming and going. Even when the feeding show for the tourists is over, the ducks continue to loiter in the shade of the parked vehicles. Some of them fly all the way up to the reservoir. If I had spotted them there (and only there), they would certainly have ended up on my life list, especially as they also appear in the official sightings on eBird. But after realising that they actually seem to be semi-wild farm animals, I decide not to give the fat waddlers a place on the list.

There are a few beach cafés in Puerto de Los Molinos, and the place is generally wild and beautiful, especially on this sunny day. In the bay surrounded by steep cliffs, the waves roll in from the west – an endless spectacle of undulating water in shades of ochre, turquoise and blue, foaming crests and atomising spray that sometimes shimmers rainbow-coloured in the sunlight. I can hardly get enough of the moments when the wave builds up and then breaks, overturns and runs out in white foam.
Poseidon lets his horses run.

Some time later, there is no sign of the roaring sea as I follow the hiking trail into the barranco. The small stream flows playfully through the gorge, forming small rapids and steps, shallow pools which the muscovy ducks share with a few mallards. Dozens of Berthelot’s pipits hop around on the slopes. Their warning calls can be heard everywhere, as cawing ravens dance in the air above the stream. But nothing else disturbs the heavenly tranquillity of this place. The landscape is dry, the ground rocky and sandy and small lizards scurry around everywhere. On a black ledge just above the stream, a single spoonbill dozes in the midday sun, its head tucked under its wing. At first I think it’s a Little egret, but then I notice its black feet. As I get closer, it looks round and its magnificent beak with the ‘spoon tip’ becomes visible. It’s another beautiful moment of closeness, as we are only separated by a few metres by the stream. The spoonbill is completely relaxed and I am delighted to be able to take some wonderful photos of this species for the first time ever.

Incidentally, the hiking trail through the Barranco is closed from February until well into the summer so as not to disturb the breeding activity there.
Back at the car park, I have to shoo a dozen Muscovy ducks out from under my car. They are reluctant to give up their shady spot. Attentive eyes look at me from their bulging faces. They probably expect me to pay a tribute.

Cofete

Above the harbour of Morro Jable, there is a turn-off to a bumpy, winding coastal road that takes you to the southernmost tip of the island. A few kilometres later, I turn right into the mountains. The road winds up the steep slope to the pass, where there is a mirador but only a few parking spaces. I really want to take a look at the breathtaking coastline, the huge cliff that stretches in a crescent shape along the entire north coast of the Jandía peninsula and the endlessly long beach of Cofete. It’s a picture-book view. If only it weren’t for the strong wind, which makes it hard to stay on your feet!

From the pass, I head downhill, initially just as winding and with an encounter that I would have gladly done without because it briefly pushes my pulse to unpleasant heights. Behind a bend, the traffic comes to a standstill as a massive off-road bus, which travels from Morro Jable to Cofete and back several times a day, pushes its way up the road metre by metre. The smaller cars swerve into bays at the side of the road. Sometimes they have to back up a few metres. The rocky slope on the right, the precipice on the left and the winding road is not exactly wide. The bus driver is as stoic as an old donkey. For a moment, I imagine the curses and imprecations he must have already endured. The bus is some kind of converted Unimog, I don’t even look that closely. In the high season, this is certainly a lot more interesting. But the bus wrestles its way past the small traffic jam and after a few minutes I roll further down the slope.

Although Casa Winter on the mountainside immediately catches the eye, it is lost as a tiny dot in the vastness of the surrounding landscape. It was built by the German Gustav Winter in 1936; however, he himself later claimed to have built the house in 1958. His reasons for the inaccessible location fuelled several legends, such as that of a submarine harbour off the coast during World War II. Whatever was going on in Cofete, a certain aura definitely surrounds this place. | The same place, the same day, the same time – and yet many facets of an impressive landscape.

Cofete is nothing more than a small settlement of little houses. It is neither beautiful nor interesting. On this afternoon, everything seems deserted and the question of why on earth anyone lives here at all keeps buzzing through my head. There is even a cemetery on the beach, where the road ends in a car park. Any halfway decent travel guide would certainly have told me something about this beforehand. But my research was focused on the natural areas of the island and sometimes I realise that I’m missing out on one or two interesting things. This is probably not the case here in Cofete.

A little further away from the settlement, up the slope, lies a single, large estate – Casa Winter. A gleaming white building standing alone in the black mountain. The question of what prompts a person to build such a house here has been asked by many before me and there are also a number of possible explanations, but these probably only give rise to more speculation. It is a lonely, inaccessible and somehow gloomy place. A leaden grey carpet of clouds hangs over the beach, making everything look pale and even more desolate. Here and there, a ray of sunshine casts light onto the beach and provides a touch of yellow. But I don’t want to spend too long here, because I’m gripped by a strange melancholy. The beach is not beautiful when you stand on it like this. The beach is neither romantic nor picturesque, nor does it harbour anything you want to discover. Not even seagulls. It looked great from above at the Mirador, but down here everything is just so big and endless that I feel lost. I even doubt that I would have felt better if someone had been with me..

I walk up the beach towards the north-east. A couple with a baby and pram are braving the biting wind in a fluttering beach tent. Another tries to take photos of her in a thin summer dress and swirling hair. But most of them pull their jackets on tighter and feel the power of nature for a kilometre or two before turning back.
In fact, my mood only brightens a little when a flock of Kentish plovers swoops across the beach in front of me. Firstly because plovers can always put a smile on your face, but above all because they bring this place to life in an instant. That makes me think, because it’s not the people here who come driving down in their cars and off-road buses, nor the little houses or the Casa Winter, let alone the cemetery, but all the man-made things can’t breathe soul into the place the way these tiny birds can.

Kentish plovers (Charadrius alexandrinus) can be found on Fuerteventura all year round.

Parque Natural de Jandía und Costa Calma

The moon is still high in the sky as I set off on another day trip to the south of Fuerteventura. Having looked through my list, there’s not much left for me to do. But the Cream-colored courser is giving me a headache. This bird doesn’t make it as easy for me as the other candidates on my list. I decide to spend the morning in the Parque Natural de Jandía, knowing that I’m once again looking for a needle in a haystack.

This time I drive through the mountains via Antigua and experience a marvellous sunrise south of Betancuria. But there’s something in the air, even if I can’t quite put my finger on it yet. The sky in the east is cloudy and rosy, the clouds look somehow blurred and not as nice, blue-grey and fresh as on the previous days. But I don’t worry too much about it, because my windscreen hasn’t seen any water for days and is quite dusty and smeared. The wiper fluid is empty. I don’t think it was ever full. So maybe it’s all just an optical illusion.

The Jandía desert stretches from one coast to the other between Costa Calma and La Pared. In the south, near Jandía, it merges into the mountains, which form the second large natural area of the nature park. With the Pico de la Zarza (807 metres) there’s also the highest point on Fuerteventura here. If you look at the mountains on the satellite image, you will notice that the mountain massif is the remains of a huge crater, the northern part of which slipped away at some point and disappeared into the ocean. The rest of it is the beach of Cofete surrounded by unimaginably old mountains and I almost want to quote John Denver: Life is old there, older than the trees, younger than the mountains, growing like a breeze… but there are no trees here.

The tiny part of the Jandía desert that I’m looking at seems even more inhospitable than the plains of Tindaya. Not even thorny Launaea arborescens really wants to thrive here. I see a Berthelot’s pipit, two Great grey shrikes, a raven and a pigeon. At one point I think I hear sandgrouse, but they remain undiscovered. The little information I found about this place beforehand was basically just a rough guide to moving along the paths through the area and keeping my eyes open. I do this for about an hour, but somehow I lack patience on this day. While I’m waiting in the empty desert, I might miss something elsewhere. After all, the day is still quite young. I decide to drive to Costa Calma and try my luck with the Red-vented bulbul there.

El Palmeral, the official name of Costa Calma’s municipal park, is a green area unlike any other on Fuerteventura. It not only provides a habitat for birds, but also ensures a pleasant climate all year round. The treated waste water from the surrounding hotels is used to irrigate this oasis. | Although the Spanish sparrow (Passer hispaniolensis) is not common worldwide, it is the only species of sparrow found on Fuerteventura. And there are plenty of them. | The Red-vented bulbul (Pycnonotus cafer) is considered the third problematic invasive bird species on Fuerteventura alongside the Rose-ringed parakeet and the Monk parakeet. While the Rose-ringed parakeet has now disappeared and the number of Monk parakeets living in the wild is decreasing, the Red-vented bulbul remains a problem. Introduced from India as an exotic bird, this species is considered to be extremely adaptable. On Fuerteventura, the feeding behaviour of the bulbul is particularly problematic, as it deprives the native species of food. | In the park. Between tall palm trees and casuarina trees, there are occasionally impressive specimens of opuntia and spurges.

Costa Calma’s municipal park turns out to be completely different from what I had imagined. It stretches for two kilometres between the two main roads that run parallel through the town and looks more like a mixture of forest and scrubland. The chirping of Spanish sparrows from the thickets sometimes turns into a loud spectacle. In between, you can hear the pretty singing of the blackcaps that spend the winter here and the ‘tee-witt-tee-witt’ of the goldfinches. The park is an exceptionally lush habitat in the barrenness of the Jandía peninsula and is therefore a magnet for birds. And even if it’s not very popular on Fuerteventura, I want to see the Red-vented bulbul… now that it’s here..

Sotavento

Officially known as Playa de Sotavento de Jandía, this beach was one of the most beautiful and interesting places for me during my stay. I arrive here in the early afternoon rather uninitiated. I read something about a lagoon and lots of wading birds, but after the first few hundred metres I realise that there is no water at all. Instead, a wide expanse of sand, sometimes dry, sometimes sticky and damp, stretches out to a kind of sandbank or dune by the sea, and in what I assume is the rest of the dried-up beach lake, kite surfers are letting off steam. There’s no sign of waders for the time being. I spot a birder with his camera and typical outdoor clothing, a rather conspicuous sight among the bikinis and wetsuits. But I really like the beach and, after almost a week of birdwatching, I decide to take a relaxing break here. I take out my diary and squat down on the warm sand, where the steep cliffs behind me recede a little inland and a carpet of knee-high bushes has colonised the lagoon floor. After a short time, I notice birdsong coming from the vegetation. Spectacled warblers and Great grey shrikes look out for insects on the highest branch tips. Small flocks of whimbrels flit over the bushes and dive between them. A single spoonbill shines snow-white at the transition from the vegetation to the water’s edge. After a while, my curiosity gets the better of me. Who knows what else is perched there?

The Sotavento lagoon stretches for three kilometres along a seemingly endless sandy beach between Jandía and Costa Calma. If you have the time and inclination, you can walk the whole route. Sun protection is essential, as everywhere on Fuerteventura, because there is no shade. Further out, towards the sandbank that separates the ocean from the lagoon, the water gets a little deeper. Here I notice the first tideways that criss-cross the lagoon floor and I can now see how the water slowly and steadily creeps over the sandy bottom. Just like in the Wadden Sea, I think, and it’s only now that the penny drops: a tidal lagoon.

Whimbrels (Numenius phaeopus) stay on the coast outside the breeding season. They prefer rocky coasts, but can also be found on open coasts in the wintering areas, such as here in the south of Fuerteventura. The breeding areas of this long-distance migrant are mainly in Iceland and northern Scandinavia and occasionally in Russia. The population forecast for the whimbrel looks rather sobering due to global warming, as a severe loss of suitable habitat is expected.

This realisation is so gratifying for me and suddenly this place becomes almost magical. What a dynamic, water comes and goes all day, and with it the actors change the stage! I see a couple of whimbrels in front of me, less than twenty metres away. They are not shy at all, probably because people walk through the shallow water here all day long. I’ve never been able to get enough of the whimbrels and I realise that they are one of my favourite birds since I first saw them a year earlier on the Gulf of Morbihan in Brittany.

As the water comes in, the fish come back and that calls the spoonbills to the scene.
Never before have I seen these pretty white birds foraging for food. What they are now performing in the shallows is a fascinating mixture of turns, jumps and short flights. They sift through the water with their beaks in sabre-like movements. The whole thing is more reminiscent of a dance than a hunt. The dynamics of this scene mesmerise me for the rest of the day. It carries me through the Calima on the way back, that annoying sandstorm that blows Saharan dust towards the Canary Islands and makes the air so stuffy that you can’t even recognise the mountains. The sky is covered in a pinkish-yellowish haze, just as it had seemed to be at sunrise that morning. And now I understand why, two days after arriving on Fuerteventura, I had cold symptoms, a scratchy throat and a runny nose. The Calima seems to reach its unpleasant peak on this day. Just the sight of the ‘thick air’ made my breath catch in my throat. Fortunately, there was no sign of it by the sea and the situation calmed down again the next day.

Barranco de las Peñitas (Vega de Río Palmas)

My trip is coming to an end and after spending a lot of time on beaches, in deserts and scree plains, I would like to go back to the mountains, to a barranco. I want to fill the last gaps on the list, especially the African blue tit is still missing. In the mountains around Betancuria, it is said to be almost certain that you will see them. A hiking trail between the mountain village of Vega de Río Palmas down to Mezquez offers a beautiful and entertaining tour. The path follows the riverbed to a silted-up reservoir, behind which the barranco opens up into the valley and the path now leads steeply downhill.
Like all hiking trails that I have seen and walked on Fuerteventura, this one is also in excellent condition.

Common ravens are found on Fuerteventura in the subspecies Corvus corax tingitanus, which is one of the smallest subspecies of the Common raven | The African blue tit (Cyanistes teneriffa degener), which is native to the island, is one of the seven subspecies of this cyanistes species. Its distribution area is limited to the Canary Islands and northern Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia. Despite their typically ‘cheeky’ behaviour, I found it really difficult to get them ‚in the right light‘

During the last two days on the island, the sky is cloudy, but that doesn’t bother me. To get to the mountain villages of Betancuria and Vega de Río Palmas, I follow a winding, steep road from Tefía with breathtakingly beautiful views over the lowlands north of the mountain massif.

Betancuria awaits its visitors with a large sign stating that it is one of the hundred prettiest villages in Spain. The former capital of Fuerteventura is indeed spruced up, but the stillness of the morning cannot hide the fact that all the car parks and roadsides are full during the day and the tourists are brought here in buses. I wonder what is left of the charm of the mountain village?
Things are a little more tranquil in Vega de Río Palmas, the other village, which is located in the basin of the mountain massif. Here, the hiking trail through the Barranco and a small cultural centre are the main attractions for tourists.

The nature trail along the Río Palmas combines botany, ornithology and geology in its scenic beauty and is one of the most popular hiking routes for good reason. I spot Sardinian warblers and robins in a small belt of reeds near the village, later Trumpeter finches in the scree slopes, whose beautiful calls echo through the whole valley, Spectacled warblers, African blue tits and a circling buzzard high above the reservoir, which is overgrown with shrubs and provides a habitat for various small birds.
Behind the high dam wall, the previously flat terrain drops steeply down into a ravine into the lowlands. The view is magnificent and unexpected for me. The path now winds down along the rock face, past rock pools and impressive rock formations. From somewhere, the bleating of feral goats echoes. Pigeons fly rapidly from the dam down through the gorge, so fast that I can’t even identify them. The calls of the Trumpeter finches also accompany the hikers down into the valley.

As the morning progresses, it gets crowded on the hiking trail. So I turn back around midday and decide to take the short diversions via Villaverde on the way back.

Goat farm

I actually only drive the dusty track out of curiosity and because I still have some time before I have to pack my bags. It takes me over stony land past volcanic cones to the goat farm where I met the German birdwatchers on the first day and am now making a final stop. Plumes of dust in the distance reveal a buggy safari making its way across the plain. I park right at the turn-off that leads to the few ramshackle buildings that make up the small farm. To the left of the access road, two mounds of stones and old palm fronds are piled up. Today there is also some fresh greenery in front of them. The ground is littered with woody palm leaf remains, rubble and goat droppings – a paradise for insects. This in turn attracts Fuerteventura stonechats, Great grey shrikes, Lesser short-toed larks, Berthelot’s pipits, Eurasian collared doves, Hoopoes and Black-bellied sandgrouse and makes this place so interesting.

Great grey shrike (Lanius excubitor koenigi) in the Canary Islands subspecies. Sometimes, confusingly, it is said to be an ‘Iberian’ subspecies. The Southern grey shrike (Lanius meridionalis), which occurs on the Iberian Peninsula, is now recognised as a separate species and, despite external similarities, has genetic differences to the subspecies of the Great grey shrike | The Fuerteventura stonechat (Saxicola dacotiae) – here the male – is only found on Fuerteventura. I have mainly observed them in the north of the island, in the scree fields and gardens around Villaverde, La Oliva and the village of Caldereta (which is the Spanish name of the bird) | I have only seen Lesser shoert-toed larks (Calandrella rufescens) at the goat farm. Despite the poor quality of the two photos, the strong lineation of the breast area and the primary extension can be recognised

A tired dog keeps watch in this small kingdom. The still air is filled with the singing of the larks and the gentle whisper of the wind between the volcanic slopes. I roll down the right-hand window pane to get a better view of the farm with my binoculars when I spot a handful of brightly feathered birds on the ground right next to the car. My first thought is that they are Collared doves, but then they flutter up and their black bellies tell me without a doubt: they are sandgrouse. I’m surprised, I was that close! Then I’m annoyed that opening the window has chased them away. And then I remember my observations from the reservoir at Los Molinos. The sandgrouse fly in a wide arc over the terrain and return to their starting point. Sometimes they do one or two laps with no recognisable pattern, but they end up back where they came from. And that’s what I’m hoping for now, namely that they will come back.

The extremely vigilant Black-bellied sandgrouse (Pterocles orientalis) are masters of camouflage and it takes a good eye to spot them in the barren landscape. Much more conspicuous, however, is their unmistakable call, a throaty bubbling that can often be heard when the grouse fly in small groups over the terrain. The males have a grey head and rump, with a rusty-brown throat and a rather spotted back plumage, while the females are evenly streaked with black on their otherwise sand-coloured plumage. The unmistakable deep black belly is common to both

I don’t wait long at all. Shortly afterwards, someone arrives on the site in a pick-up truck and once again brings movement into the afternoon silence. I hear the grouse arriving with their rolling, soft calls and spot them in time before they land very close to me. I can approach them along the road up to about twenty metres and can also observe the difference between males and females. Their camouflage in the terrain is excellent and it is very fortunate that they are so keen to call. I stay until the birds fly up again and disappear with bubbling calls into the dusty afternoon sky.

Time is up. On the way back to the flat, I think about the places I haven’t yet been able to visit. The harbour of Corralejo, where I spotted numerous herons as I drove past, drawn to the black rocky reefs exposed by the low tide. The barrancos south of Caleta de Fuste and the mountainous landscape of Cuchillos de Vígan with the lighthouse on the coast, the place that marks the closest point to Africa on the island, indeed on the Canary Islands as a whole. The volcanoes in the north near Villaverde and La Oliva, which you can walk round and climb. The sandy desert near Corralejo, which I only explored a little along the coast, but which stretches further inland with marvellous dunes. A detour to the Isla de Lobos between Fuerteventura and Lanzarote, or a coastal hike east of Cape Tostón.
There are indeed many reasons to come back again, to experience the wild, beautiful island at another time of year, and then maybe I’ll be able to see the Cream-coloured courser.