Lanzarote by Maxine Jones

The year-round warmth of Lanzarote - always about 22 degrees - coupled with cheap fares - £269 for a week's self catering in early December - overcame my prejudice about a place I imagined to be as tourist-blighted as Torremolinos. As Santas set themselves up in shopping centres I packed the sun-oil and, ignoring his protests about missing school play rehearsals, whisked off my seven-year-old to the balmy beaches of Puerto del Carmen.

The four-hour flight was just within his endurance threshold and the transfer to the apartments took less than 20 minutes. Down Avenida de las Playas we passed bar after bar - Irish, English, Scottish, Dutch - and cafe after cafe offering tourists a real taste of home. We reached the older, harbour part of town and were dropped at Costa Volcan apartments. The layout - rooms giving off to a communal walkway - was reminiscent of a state penitentiary. Our walkway on the fifth floor had bars to the ceiling, presumably to stop us jumping off into the roaring traffic below. Trucks, buses and motorbikes rumbled and screeched under our window all night long.

The pleasantness of the staff nearly made up for the noise. An hour after our arrival, my son Marcus was on his third sticky lolly offered by barmen and waitresses. Outside we joined the teeming ranks of English and Scandinavian holidaymakers, women in gold sandals and men with bellies bulging over shorts. At a supermarket stocked with Heinz baked bean, gravy granules and British tabloids, we bought our supplies.

Down at the harbour, ex-pat children and local kids were playing football on a large, tiled square under a reddening sky. Marcus rushed to join in and set the pattern of our evenings. He would kick a ball and make friends, while I sipped beer in one of the many nearby bars.

On the way back I enquired about car hire, thinking that I had already exhausted the delights of Puerto del Carmen. I could get one for as cheap as £40 for three days. The only other thing was to arrange a change of room. I hesitated over this - not liking to complain - and by the time I put in my request there were none to be had. As soon as one was available, however, we duly moved.

For those who stay in their resort, Lazarote can be very much like Torremolinos, with the welcome exception of high-rises. Concerned about conservation and influenced by native artist and architect Cesar Manrique, the authorities have kept development under control - just about. All houses must be painted the traditional white. All woodwork must be green, or blue if the property is near the sea. Only specified tourist towns are targets for development, leaving the rest of the island untouched, except, it seems, for the tourist attractions designed by Manrique himself. These are uplifting works of art uniquely designed to fit into Lanzarote's weird and wonderful landscape.

Short distances and a good road system make hiring a car a good bet, especially as many of the day-long bus tours cost nearly as much as three-days' car hire. While there is no getting away from the tourist trail in a country whose population of 100,000 is dwarfed by 1,400,000 visitors annually, there are welcome respites before you hit the next Manrique landmark - complete with large, landscaped car park.

To follow up his purchase of a Lanzarote Fire Mountains hat, Marcus was keen to see the famous volcanoes, a moonlike landscape where 'Planet of the Apes' was filmed. Setting out early we had the road to ourselves but queues of traffic had formed at the entrance of Timanfaya National Park by the time we made our descent. The volcanoes cover nearly a third of Lanzarote and driving through the charred landscape is eerily post-apocalyptic. Thirteen villages were buried under lava in the 1730s in eruptions which lasted for six years. Near the circular El Diabolo restaurant, designed by Manrique to echo the craters and moutain peaks, steam spurts from holes in the soil and the restaurant uses heat from the earth to barbecue chickens. Cars are not allowed past a certain point and a bus tour takes you into the depths of the volcanic wilderness.

Half-way back down the mountains we stopped for a camel ride. I cajoled my doubtful son into climbing aboard a pannier construction balanced on the camel's back, then suffered the indignity of seeing several heavy bags of volcanic rock tied on to his side to balance out my weight. When the camel lumbered to its feet it was me who was screaming with terror while my son smiled serenely.

Having regained my land legs I drove to the west side of the island and El Golfo, precipitous black rock on one side and tumultuous frothing white sea on the other, all contrasting with the deep blue of the sea further out and the sky above. This was Lanzarote pure and unadulterated.

Another spectacular drive was the road to Haria in the north of the island where we headed one day in search of performing parrots. A steep, narrow road twists and turns unnervingly to reveal palm-treed valleys and white villages. Guinate, home of the rather fly-blown Tropical Park is perched on a precipice above the sea with a stunning panorama across to Isla de la Graciosa off the northern tip of Lanzarote. Home to 400 people, with no school, hospital or paved roads, the island is reached by a 15-minute ferry ride from the fishing village of Orzola. A holiday there would be light years away from the atmosphere of Puerto del Carmen and I gazed across to it longingly.

A little further north, the Mirador del Rio is a cafe cut into the rock looking across to La Graciosa. Again, it is like walking through a work of art as Manrique surprises with his inventiveness. Marcus was keen to visit more of his buildings, where a right angle would look out of place, windows are circular openings in rock ceilings with trees growing through them, and stairs lead you on a labyrinth of discovery.

Manrique's house, which he gave to the state as a museum in 1986, is a series of rooms incredibly built out of lava bubbles in the rock. When Marcus dripped some of his ice lolly on the floor of one of the rooms it precipitated the only instance of rudeness I encountered from a Lanzaroteno, and justifiably, for it bordered on a desecration.

The most spectacular of the seven official Manrique tourist attractions on the island is Jameos del Agua, an underground lake and cave which doubles as a concert hall with bars and dance floors. Marcus was fascinated by the tiny white, blind albino crabs that flourish in the clear water. A picture postcard swimming pool with a solitary palm tree graces the exit.

The Museo del Campesino, designed by Manrique to honour Lanzarote's rural traditions, is marked by a tall white monument gleaming against the dark earth. In the museum's restaurant the male and female toilets are distinguished by earthy rustic carvings.

On Constitution Day, a bank holiday, we visited the ancient capital of Lanzarote, Teguise. A castle built on a 450-meter high crater edge overlooks the town, providing views over the central plain and the sea beyond. Usually a bustling market town, Teguise was deserted and Marcus had the park's swings and slides to himself. Just outside the town the Lagomar restaurant was open, dramatically built into the lava by, yet again, Cesar Manrique. Once owned by Omar Sharif it is rumoured he lost this dream home in a game of bridge to an Englishman who happened to be the European champion.

It seemed odd that a place just 60 miles from the Sahara should be celebrating a Spanish holiday. Back in Puerto del Carmen I asked Carlos, our barman, if Lanzarotenos really felt Spanish. 'Of course,' he said. 'Lanzarote IS Spain.' Later I discovered Carlos was from Malaga, having moved here to have year-round work. In a gift shop in Puerto del Carmen I overheard an Irish tourist ask if Lanzarote was in the EU. 'No,' the shopkeeper answered defiantly. 'Is Ireland part of England?'

There is little Lanzarotenos can do against the might of Spain or visiting hoardes. Patient and resigned, they only occasionally show signs of dissent. On the road to the so-called most beautiful beach in Spain, Playa Papagaya, there is graffiti protesting against development in the area. The beach itself is reached after a 15-minute drive along a rough track but ominously close are the package hotels of Playa Blanca, Lanzarote's second biggest tourist centre.

“We cannot complain, for tourists bring us 80 per cent of our employment,” said the father of one of the boys playing football with my son. “But only last year, all this,” he pointed to the concrete square, “was sand.”

The government of Lanzarote is committed to 'sustainable tourism' and admits they have reached saturation point in tourist numbers. They intend now to concentrate on quality rather than quantity, upgrading some of the older hotels and apartment complexes. Many Lanzarotenos fear, however, that with the death of Cesar Manrique in a car crash near his old home in 1992, the island has lost its guardian, and less altruistic forces will eventually prevail. In the meantime, outside the tourist towns, the old way of life persists and many parts of the island remain a tempting wilderness.