The Parador hotel in Teide national park at Tenerife’s centre is spookily quiet and dreamlike isolated, fifteen miles from the closest village. It rides in a desert of coagulated igneous rock where evidently no farmer has presumed set a grazes a sheep or hoe.
High above grow the vast strobile as well as threatening black lava runs of a volcano which appears dormant rather than nonextant. The one path which passes done departs from nowhere, via a hostile wild where jerky winds whomp up dust storms which sting the eyes as well as burn the fistulas. There is no tumbleweed floating by the chapel outside the place but there must be.
4 hours flight – south of Britain, on the very same longitude like the Sahara, the hotel arranges 3 kinds of guests: astronomers who really want to have vantage of a deficiency of light pollution as well as watch the stars, weekenders who need to get away the stag parties of the Playa de las Américas in whole solitude, as well as professional cyclists like Bradley Wiggins and Team Sky cohorts.
The cyclists get in tiny groups but in decent numbers for hotel to feature a totally kitted bike way, where carbon fibre machines cling on hooks, and teams like Astana and Liquigas have imparted bike bags as well as boxes ready for the very next visit. Anyone can sense what draws these cyclists as 1 tries to nap in hotel. Breathing does not hit quite easy in thin and dry air at 2,100m from the sea level.