As we went up the coast, we passed rolling white dunes, barren volcanic mountains and emerald green seas. The bumpy roads tossed us about and an afternoon rainstorm kicked up the waves to our right. Then, just as quickly as they arrived, the clouds went off to hassle Africa and we were bathed in sunshine again. After three years in London without a surf, this was more than a trip up the coast — it was a drive down memory lane. I’d come to Fuertaventure, the second largest island in the Canaries, to recapture my love of surfing. During summer I’d been to Cornwall, but on both occasions I was disappointed. With a trip to Oz looming I needed waves to avoid looking like a kook on Merewether beach.

Fuertaventure is one of the best places in Europe to surf heavy and uncrowded waves, and offers a combination of warm weather, consistent swells and cheap prices. It’s not as developed as the nearby islands of Gran Canaria and Tenerife, but has a good range of restaurants and nightclubs where you can eat and drink yourself stupid.

The only problem was me. Could I remember how to surf? I’d heard about the island’s famous North Shore breaks called “Spew Pits”, “Suicides” and “Shooting Gallery”, and it didn’t fill me with confidence. On the advice of the surf and snow addicted owners of Low Pressure surf shop in Notting Hill I bought a package that included accommodation, guided tours to the best breaks, and a bit of technical advice if I needed it. I stayed as a guest of the Inekia Funcenter Surf School in Corralejo. Sigi was my guide.

I hadn’t considered the full teaching and training option, but after my first session at Rocky Point I wasn’t so sure. I fell off a lot, was dumped heavily and I swore to give up cigarettes. In the evening I met the other guests and we swapped stories of waves and wipeouts until the morning. Happily some of them were struggling.

The serious surfing began the next day. We walked to the harbour, and jumped into Sigi’s twin-engined inflatable dingy. The swell had picked up overnight, and before long we were zooming up and down rolling eight-foot Atlantic swells. Fifteen minutes later we reached our destination. It was a secret point-break with a nice four foot wave rolling through. We anchored just beyond the breaking waves and dived over the edge. It was a simple paddle into the take-off zone, and there were only four of us out. My form returned quickly and I enjoyed two hours of right handers before paddling to the boat and returning to the harbour.

The next morning there was a fresh north-easterly breeze and the breaks we’d been surfing had blown out. We took the Land Rover and drove along the dirt track that hugs the northern shoreline, looking for clean waves. The track was also being used for the island’s annual car rally, which we discovered when we came across the world’s most laid back checkpoint stewards. They waved us down and told us we could continue if we watched out for the cars. Three corners later we narrowly missed a bread van doing about 100 miles an hour as it hurtled past on three wheels. On Fuertaventura, adrenaline comes from many sources — and the bread is very fresh.

We cruised the post-apocalyptic landscape of the north shore until we came to “The Bubble”, one of the most consistent waves in the area. A right of exceptional quality, “The Bubble” has a reputation for flinging people mercilessly onto its sharp, shallow volcanic reef. It’s not an ideal wave for beginners, but my friend Lewis, a learner, managed to get amongst it and lived to tell the tale. Meanwhile Sigi caught all the action on video. It’s all part of the school’s training, as is the embarrassment of watching yourself on television in front of everyone at the hotel.

For the last few days of the week the rising wind meant we had to look further afield for clean waves. We drove to the west coast town of Cotillo, then south into the desert, along unmarked roads and turn-offs. We passed rusted cars and wiry old cactuses until we came to Esquinzo, a peaky beach break at the foot of a pair of soaring rocky bluffs. Getting there was as big an adventure as riding the waves. We surfed until the light was almost gone, pushing hard bottom turns into fast off the lips, and then exhausted, sat and watched the sun set in a blaze of golden tranquillity.

After seven days of cruising, chilling, carving and catching up on everything there is about being a surfer, I had to return. After takeoff I looked out my plane window and saw the healthy swells rolling in, and there was Sigi, chasing the new day’s waves. Cool.