A sharp snap above me is followed by a rush of rustling leaves as something crashes through the canopy. I crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse, but the dense laurel forest – its imposing branches and moss-draped vines knitted together – swallows whatever broke the silence. My guide, Rafael Martinez, straightens up from beneath the ravine’s overhang. “Probably just a branch,” he says, half-relieved.
Giant, prehistoric ferns brush my ankles and bring me back to earth, though this subtropical forest feels unlike anywhere I’ve walked before. Towering laurels cling to the 80-metre-high cliffs, whose lichen-coated volcanic walls cast the ravine into a cool, musty shade, prompting me to quietly curse that I dressed for the summer on an island full of surprises.
