Lopesan is willing to put all its knowledge into golf as a vehicle to consolidate the tourist experience. And that, in the south of Gran Canaria, happens at Anfi Tauro. Here, where the sun never sets, but beats down, where the rock never yields and the earth refuses to be tamed, one man, and then many, decided that that desert should give birth to a golf course. It wasn't easy. Nothing worthwhile ever is. The Anfi Tauro golf course was a ten-year war. Not a war with blood, but with sweat, frustration, broken plans, and stones that refused to budge. It was a war where the tool wasn't a rifle, but a sketch, an excavator, and a brutal conviction that the Norwegian Lyng's dreams could be nailed to the ground.
Bjorn Lyng wasn't seeking glory. He was seeking life. His heart—that traitorous muscle—told him to retire. He obeyed, but in his own way. He retreated to the south of a volcanic island, with fishing rods, but soon abandoned the sea bass for ideas. He looked at the coast and saw something else. Where others saw a cliff, he saw a resort. Where others saw a valley of dust, he saw 18 green holes, traced like scars on the stone. Robert von Hagge visited the island once. It was enough to set his vision in motion, but not to complete it. His student, his disciple, the man on the ground, was another. He carried the stone, the decisions, the weight of keeping the coherence of a design alive over a decade of changes. Because the bosses changed, the plans changed, even the owner changed. But the course—that course—had to be one.
Hole 1 was made three times. The rock wall, twice. Every pass was a battle. It wasn't grass on soft earth, it was grass on rock, on thirst. Water was scarce. Permits took time. The builders learned while they built. At times, it seemed the course was mocking them. And yet, they succeeded. It's not just a course. It's a story.
Anfi Tauro isn't kind. It's as beautiful as a wild horse. It demands respect. It's a course that looks more difficult than it is. Because, as von Hagge said, that's where elegance lies: in subtle deception, in intimidating beauty. Each hole is a painting. That's what a player said. A 19-handicap player who played it fearlessly. And he enjoyed it the way one enjoys a good story: with a quick pulse and a dry mouth.
Lyng didn't see it finished. He died before then. But he left the plan outlined, and others followed. Today it's managed by Lopean, and under the watchful eye of Javier Suárez, Anfi Tauro beats. It beats like a story that cost blood—not literally—but with determination. There's no other course in Europe that's more ambitious. There's no other that was born with more obstacles. There's no other that celebrates the landscape without trying to dominate it. Anfi doesn't impose itself on the environment; it blends with it. It leaves the green where it's needed, and the rest, it leaves to the earth. It leaves it to the rock. And that's not designed at a desk. Anfi Tauro wasn't a work of art. It was an obsession. A war won with conviction. A green scar on the hard underbelly of Gran Canaria. You don't have to be a golfer to understand that. It's enough to have loved something so much that it cost you everything.
