An archipelago of volcanoes formed more than 20 million years ago lie just off the northwest coast of Africa, their landscapes unique and wonderful, with contrasting swathes of black basaltic beaches, blue skies and impossibly white dunes. They enjoy year-round sunshine, UNESCO-protected coastlines and famously clear night skies.

The Canary islands are Spanish, though they are a thousand miles from Spain. Of the seven islands, Gran Canaria, Lanzarote and Fuerteventura are the most popular. La Palma, one of the smallest, made global news last year when it spectacularly erupted, spewing magma and lobbing molten gobbets of rock the size of cars into the air.

Remote working is a reality for a significant number of us. It means we can embrace the opportunity to explore the world in a different way, far more intimately than before. Many employers have revised their expectations around working from home, including flexible policies for working abroad. Fully remote roles are far more common – with talent in short supply, companies realise they need to be flexible. With this has come an appetite among workers for combining work with a travel adventure.

Before the pandemic, I frequently travelled to the Canaries to manage an offshore software project. In October 2020, with the project leader stranded by Covid, I was asked to oversee its completion. Travelling thousands of miles in the middle of a pandemic seemed like a really bad idea. Leaving my family behind? Even worse.

However, as Ireland headed into its first Covid winter, I started to give the idea of a three-month trip some serious consideration. Could we go as a family? First, we looked at the legal, ethical and practical challenges. We considered our two sons, their mental health, our parents and our finances. We emailed teachers and put a call in to our GP. Would the schools object? Most people were supportive, though others raised their brows. I don’t blame them. We were escaping to a desert island while the rest of the world turned to shit. I’d hate me too.

We flew off loaded down with schoolbooks and musical instruments, office equipment and all the necessary tech to enable us to work remotely. We rented an AirBnB in a small village. The island was quiet, sorely missing the usual throngs of surfers, triathletes and holidaymakers. However the dearth of tourists made it feel wonderfully calm and safe. Very quickly we fell into a new routine.

Emily Ross.

The project, work, homeschool and the boys kept us busy. Though the weather was spectacular we didn’t get to appreciate it much during the week. However, we did slip out early each morning, my husband and I, for a morning swim – the cold sand pristine, ours the first feet to break its perfection. Then we’d stock up on pastries and coffee from a local bakery before settling, sandy-toed at our desks.

At the weekend, we’d drag the boys hiking, practise our Spanish and explore. At night, we’d climb up on the roof, wrap ourselves in blankets, and gaze at the vast, starry sky. There’s something remarkable about settling into the rhythm of another place, where the constellations are laid out in unfamiliar ways.

Covid upended our world and in so doing, let us redefine what is normal. In the pause between an old life and an unknown future, we found a way to stop waiting, and just live.

We worked, we ate, we slept. We surfed. We started to recover from the intense stresses of the past year. We cooked outside, played gin rummy, ate tapas. We drove across mountains and collected seashells. Even now, I can picture the sunlight glinting on water, the smell of salt, our barefoot children brown as berries, bursting with health.

We finally returned to Ireland in July 2021, nine months after our departure. Ireland began to reopen, our kids met their friends, and their teachers eased them back into regular school with a minimum of fuss. We mowed the lawn.

The average human lives four thousand weeks. So little of that time is spent doing what matters most, connecting with the ones you love. Our children have learned the bones of another language. They surfed almost every day. We studied goats and calderas. We learned about ocean restoration. The boys now know their way around a telescope and the phases of the moon. My eldest learned to drive, in the desert, where there was nothing to bump into! I suspect they will both remember this adventure for the rest of their lives.

When cartographers of old drew their maps, they would draw sea monsters and dragons on far away places to mark uncharted territory. We were gifted a once-in-a-lifetime chance for adventure, made possible by a series of events no-one could have foreseen. We may never have a chance like that again but our time immersed changed how we see the world and how we plan to travel in the future. The calendar is our first port of call. Where we used to mark off mid-term breaks and summer holidays, it just says “Here Be Dragons”.

@EmilyJaneRoss