This was the second part of my three part Portugal trip, the first can be read here.
The fantastic thing about a three part trip is that it feels like three separate holidays; after two and a bit weeks away I’ve felt like I’ve managed to squeeze in a whole years worth of travel. Three places, three very different experiences have become stand-alone events in my mind that I remember as distinctly as though they were years apart.
Speaking of remembering things distictly, I also remember a time gone by where my legs weren’t two long sticks of wobbly jelly that can barely climb a flight of stairs. Sadly when I went on this trip I still thought they were those pillars of steel that I must have had as a teenager, not the rubbery pins my desk-jockey self tried to drag up up a mountain on a Saturday afternoon…
The Portuguese Territories part 2: Madeira
As the rickedy second hand turbo-prop plane bounced its way down beneath the cloud level, Madeira came into view. Where Sao Miguel and the Azores are the new, young still bubbling and broiling volcanic islands, Madeira is the mature older brother, out of its tumultous teens and into the early twenties of island life. The mountains were higher, the tree cover more dense, the cities larger and better developed with even a dual carriageway or two snaking along the coastline as we looked out of the window and prayed the plane could make the last couple of miles to the airport.
Madeira is often referred to as Portugal’s retirement home for the rich, which is an unkind reflection. It’s also a place where they make really strong alcohol and long walks across mountain tops that cripple you for life. It’s also, of course, some of the most remarkable scenary I’ve ever seen. Where the Azores were indescribable beauty in variaty, Madeira is indomitable beauty in dramatic uniformity. The steepness of its mountains, the sheer unyielding black cliff faces that tower defiantly over the ocean, the dense woodland that covers every acre of land not made of rock or beaten back by human encroachment, it all leads to an adventure altogether more imposing.
The south side of the island, from what we could see, was the more developed. The capital city of Funchal sprawls out along the coast almost unbroken from town to town, east to west. The centre of the island is dominated by its sheer mountains, barely a house or hut able to cling to the sides of the brutal slopes. This range is broken only by a single valley carving up through the island, followed by newly cut road which runs like a vein through it’s channel, small villages lining either side as it snakes it’s way between the dormant peaks. The Northern side of the island is far more sparsely inhabited, and it was here that we made our base. We shacked up in a little villa which had possibly the most indescribably gorgeous view out to sea that I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching, let alone staying at.
Every night we would sit on our little terrace and stare out at the Atlantic Ocean watching the sun slowly, steadily make its way down out of the sky, grazing the mountains as it plunged into the ocean. We would sit quietly, sipping beer, talking about our plans for the next day, eyes fixed on the colourful horizon as it slowly sank to inky darkness. Subconciously we took this as a cue to slow things down a little; where the Azores had been a manic bounce from adventure to excapade, the delicious variety of the islands dragging us onto the next and the next, Madeira’s stoicism luls you down and invites you to take things a little slower.
That is of course, unless you’re four moronic British tourists still riding the adventure high from the Azores and decide it’s a good idea to climb from the third highest peak on the island to the highest peak on the island. I know, it doesn’t sound too hard right? I mean you’re already at Pico do Arieiro 1,818 m up, how hard can it be to get to Pico Ruivo 1,862m up, a mere 44m walk up?
The answer is REAL FUCKING HARD.
The problem of course is that you have to go down a deep valley and then back up again between the two mountains, all the while navigating treacherously narrow cliffside paths, falling rocks, overgrown brambles and of course the fact that whilst you should be watching where you put your feet, in actual fact all you can do is gawp at the sceneray all around you. Not only is the walk difficult and long you see, it is also disturbingly beautiful. Valleys carved by volcanic flows are now covered in flowers and intricate rock formations, trees ravaged by fires stand as blasted, ghostly statues as the new vegetation glows around their roots. Even as our legs began to fail us on the return journey (as there’s no way to get back to your car other than walk back the way you came) we couldn’t help but stop and look around, to gasp at the ever changing view as clouds unfurled or fled from the ripping winds, revealing then hiding new aspects of the view in a slideshow of majesty. In all it was only a 20 km walk, but it involved more than 400 stories of up and down (thank you my fitbit for proving I wasn’t just being pathetic)
It was entirely worth it, though perhaps not one to do again. Following that, three days languishing in the intermittent sunshine with beer and books in hand felt very well deserved, so languish we did. Madeira encouraged this too, the casual drama of its coastline was easy to watch for hours on end, waves crashing through broken cliff faces, natural pools carved out centuries ago inviting sunbathers to come and enjoy in comfort, it was all rather pleasant - and a good way to settle some sore bones. That’s not to say there isn’t plenty to do as well, quaint coastal villages provide endless enjoyment for the casual rambler, intricate volcanic cave systems are more than worth a visit and even the main city of Funchal is great for an explore and a drink if you fancy that sort of thing (I didn’t but my colleagues did and their collective headache the next day could have brought down an elephant - a fair testament to nightlife quality I would say).
In all my opinion of Madeira was a dichotomy, one of thrilling sights and views and also the need to sit in them quietly and absorb. It’s an island of hair raising beauty and discreet calm, soft afternoons and hard angular mornings. Most enduring for me though it was a little terrace overlooking a sunset, the quiet waves slowly slipping between the rocks, the sun painting the sky in rich vermillion and the warming ache of a days adventure well spent.
