Chapter Thirteen — Betancuria’s Light and the Shadow of Villa Winter

Some places feel like home the moment you arrive.
Others feel like warnings whispered through your bones.

Fuerteventura gave me both.

🌄 Betancuria — The Heartbeat of the Ancestors

Betancuria was the first place on Fuerteventura where I felt the land “open” to me the way Gran Canaria once had.
A hotspot of energy — an old capital, a sacred valley, a quiet cradle of memory.

Driving toward Mirador Morro Velosa, the mountains curved like golden waves frozen in time. And the moment we parked the car, we were greeted by the unmistakable welcome of the ravens.

Not one.
Several.
Circling the air, gliding on warm currents, calling out with that deep, ancient sound that vibrates right into the chest.

It felt like a sign.
A blessing.
A reminder that the guardians of this island walk on wings.

Then we drove down to Mirador de Guise y Ayose, where the statues of the two last kings of Fuerteventura stand watch over the land they once ruled. Their presence is strong — regal, solemn, carved into eternity.

Their story is carved there, too:

Two kingdoms — Maxorata in the north and Jandía in the south.
Two kings — Guise and Ayose.
Two leaders who defended their people until the arrival of the Normans in 1402.

At first, they resisted.
Their warriors fought on the cliffs, in ravines, across volcanic plains.
But the conquerors had iron, cavalry, ships, and weapons the islanders had never seen.

And so, eventually, the kings surrendered.

They were baptised, renamed Luis and Alfonso, and their divided island was absorbed into a new rule.
But their story, their dignity, their legacy — it still stands there in the wind, in the statues, in the silence that surrounds that viewpoint.

The first time I saw their silhouettes against the mountains, I felt something lift inside me — a connection, not to their defeat, but to their courage.

And then came the village.

️ Betancuria — A Village Held in Time

Walking into Betancuria feels like stepping backward five centuries.

White stone houses.
Cobblestone streets.
Church bells echoing between hills.
Flowerpots on windowsills.
A soft, quiet hum of life that moves slowly, gently, intentionally.

There is peace there — not worldly peace, but ancestral peace.
A calm that sinks into the chest like warm water.

Of all the places on Fuerteventura, Betancuria is the one that feels like a sanctuary for the soul.

It’s one of the few places where I feel truly held.

🖤 **But Fuerteventura has shadows, too.

And some of them are still alive.**

There is one place on this island I will likely never step into again:
Villa Winter in Cofete.

Just writing the name makes my stomach tighten.

We drove up there once — once was more than enough.
The moment we arrived, I felt the energy shift in a way that was not spiritual, not ancestral, not natural.

It was wrong.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
Like the air itself was poisoned.

The villa sits in one of the most remote, beautiful locations on the island — yet it feels like an intrusion. A shadow carved into paradise.
A remnant of WWII Germany, built by Gustav Winter under Franco’s regime.

History says:

It was used as a military outpost.

A secret communications base.

A protected location for German personnel.

Myths say more:

hidden tunnels

submarine contacts

coded operations

whispered rumours about Hitler or Nazi officials visiting the island

Whether or not those stories are true doesn’t matter to me.

What matters is what I felt the moment I stepped on that ground.

An instant wave of nausea.
Pressure in my head.
A cold, dense energy that did not belong to the island —
like something imported, something forced, something that carried the weight of cruelty and fear.

And I am not someone who fears the shadow world.
Not ghosts, not spirits, not past lives, not ancestors.

But Villa Winter…

That place felt wrong on a level that bypassed logic entirely.

It wasn’t haunted by souls.
It was haunted by history.

Some places hold trauma so deeply that the land itself remembers.
And this one remembered in the walls, the floors, the silence.

I couldn’t stay.
My body reacted before my mind understood.
We left, and the nausea stayed with me for hours.

And I knew, even as we drove away:

I would never return.

🌟 Light and Shadow on the Same Island

Betancuria and Villa Winter sit on opposite sides of Fuerteventura,
not just geographically, but spiritually.

One is ancient, peaceful, rooted in heritage and resilience.
The other is modern, foreign, drenched in the remnants of a dark regime.

One opened my heart.
The other closed my throat.

One felt like home.
The other felt like a warning.

Together, they taught me something important:

This island carries both the light of the ancestors
and the shadows of more recent wounds.
And my intuition can feel both.

Fuerteventura didn’t call me because it was simple.
It called me because my soul was ready to walk through its light
and
recognise its darkness.

Both are part of the story.