Of all islands.....

Mad about Madeira

Sitting, slightly cramped, on an Airbus about to take off on the runway at Cristiano Ronaldo Airport in Madeira, we are told to shut our eyes and cover our mouths as it apparently is the law in Madeira that planes have to be disinfected to avoid the possibility that disease-carrying insects could be stowaways aboard.  I am struck by two things: the crew seem to spray the cabin without covering their eyes or mouths, and that we didn’t do this when we left Birmingham a week ago.  So, planes coming in can carry whatever, but those going out have to be fumigated.

 
Yes, there is a certain madness about Madeira, which ironically may derive from the name. When a ship full of jolly sailors from Portugal, pupils of Harry the Navvy, first set foot on this archipelago in 1419/20 they found it was covered in wood – Laurasilva (subtropical forest characterised by broadleaf trees with elongated, evergreen leaves, which may, or may not, include laurel).  In Portuguese the word for wood is madeira (from the Latin materia – material/timber/wood) so I guess it was a no-brainer to call this island Wood......  However, if you will forgive a stretch of etymological fun, wood in English at the time of this discovery also meant mad, or crazy.....  So it’s not hard to be (slightly) crazy about Madeira.....

 
This is my first visit.  My parents had visited many years ago and sang its praises.  I had long thought about making the journey, based on my received knowledge:  it was warm, floral and scenic.....  Research showed, however, that it was a long way away (it is about 500 miles south of Portugal, 300 miles west of Africa and 250 miles north of the Canaries) and also that getting around the island, despite its relatively small proportions (it is 35 miles long and 14 miles wide, with an area of 286 square miles) it is very mountainous, with ten peaks all taller than Ben Nevis, of which three are about 6,000 feet high.

The Angel of Madeira - Pico do Arieiro, 1,818 m

 
When Winston Churchill came here in January 1950, invited to stay at Reid’s Hotel as a marketing freebie, the island was struggling in the post-war doldrums.  In many ways he is still here, as his brief visit put the place on the tourist map, even though he had to rush back for a snap general election (on an Aquila Airways seaplane, 19 hours at an equivalent cost of £27K – I wonder who picked up that tab?)

 
When my parents visited, probably about the same time that Margaret Thatcher was unravelling here, people were still living in caves on the hillside above the capital Funchal (which, by the way, means Fennel) and the road system was a tortuous network of steep and winding narrow roads.  It is now a much-increased tortuous network of 125 miles of steep and winding slightly wider Vias Rápidas, with over 100 tunnels boring through some 50 miles of rock.  In the 20th century it would take 3 hours to drive from Funchal to Porto Moniz – it can now be done in 45 minutes.  

 
My visit is with a group of ‘solo’ travellers (generally speaking older people, quite a few of whom being solo through the same sad route that brought me here) organised by Riviera Travel.  We were very well, and kindly, looked after by Meryl, with a wonderful, knowledgeable local guide in Cristina, and the superb driving of Carlos.  If ever I return, I shall personally seek out Carlos again, as I wouldn’t dream of trying to pilot myself around the bends here, even though I have driven the Amalfi coast road, navigated Sicilian towns, and raced through the Dolomites....  Madeira is mad in many ways, and the roads contribute to this!

 

Prior to a trip I build up an image of wherever I am going from an assortment of sources – people who have already visited, guide books, the internet and sometimes TV. Very often I find that this image is fundamentally incorrect, or at least out of date. In the case of Madeira, my preconception was vague, but not entirely mistaken. It is warm, and mountainous, and has lots of gardens, with greenery, flowers and shrubs. Bananas and palm trees abound on the lower slopes. Sugar cane (once the main crop) grows here, and vineyards cling to the hillsides. The Laurasilva is much depleted, but it still gained UNESCO World Heritage Site status. In addition my visit is conveniently timed to coincide with extensive snowfalls, and Storm Bert, in the UK and it is great to find that the sea (which is the Atlantic Ocean) is warm enough to swim in, and that I generally only need to wear shorts and a T shirt.

 
I am, however, surprised at how sprawling Funchal is - I imagined something much more mature and contained.  The island population is just over 250K, with an average density of around 800 per square mile.  Just for comparison, the English Lake District (at 912 square miles, over three times the size of Madeira) has a population of around 40K and a density of 5.4 people per square mile.  However, the Lake District had about 18 million visitors in 2023 and Madeira had only about 2 million (half a million from Portugal, 340K from the UK and 325K from Germany all by air, and c600K who came in on cruise ships).  I don’t quite know why this makes Madeira seem so busy, but it is probably to do with the fact that so much of the island is uninhabitable.

 
It isn’t just the sprawl: there seems to be little in the way of characteristic, old-fashioned domestic building.  Elsewhere in Europe (Portugal and Italy being examples, but the Canaries another) you can come across villages with a nucleus of old houses around a church and a square, ancient and quaint, despite the inevitable spreads of concrete, hotels and such that also exist everywhere.  But here, although my visit is of course limited, parishes seem, generally, to be less concentrated and essentially more modern.  

Yes, I know the island was only settled in 1425, but that is six hundred years ago!  Somethings must be old?

One of a few wheat straw thatched houses in Santana

 
As for cruise ships, the least environmentally friendly way to see the world, while strolling in the Parque de Santa Catarina, overlooking the Port of Funchal, I am reminded of a picture one of my pupils once drew.  This was a long time ago, but I can see it now.  The young boy, who, I believe, had suffered some brain damage at birth, but who was charming and always keen, took a large piece of sugar paper and some chalks and was busy for a while.  Then, with great pride, he showed me his work.  On the paper was a circle, filled with white chalk, and around it was all grey.  ‘That’s great,’ I said.  ‘But what is it?’  He beamed, and told me in an excited voice that it was the QE2.  Trying not to dampen his enthusiasm, I suggested that he could have drawn a bit more of the ship.  ‘Oh no!’ he exclaimed, and stretching his arms out as wide as possible, he almost shouted, ‘The QE2 is that big!’ 

In 2023 a total of 624,400 cruise passengers and more than 241,042 crew members, on 279 ships, registered in the Port of Funchal, with eight ships here for the fireworks display on New Year’s Eve.

 

So, anyway, what do we do?  In a nutshell we explore Funchal, which includes sampling excellent Madeira wine, and some interesting food – Espada (Black Scabbard fish) 

and Lapas (limpets); swim in the sea and in specially constructed sea pools; climb the heights, including Cabo Girão 

Don't look down: Cabo Girão, 580m

and Pico do Arieiro:

 go to Porto Moniz in the west:

 and Machico and Santana in the east:

visit the gardens at Quinta do Palheiro (the home of the Blandy family, English wine merchants since 1808 and majority shareholder of Madeira Wine Company) 

and the Monte Palace Tropical Garden (as well as the nearby Church of Our Lady of the Mount, where Emperor Karl I of Austria – Beato Carlos de Habsburg -  who had secretly tried to negotiate an end to WWI in 1916, is buried) 

and finally spend time in Curral das Freiras (Nun’s Valley) 

Where I am struck by how very Madeiran Santa Chiara (St Francis's sister)

actually looked (if only she wore the habit):

and Câmara de Lobos (which was Churchill’s favourite spot). 

 
The scenery is spectacular.  Parts of the island are not unlike Teide, on Tenerife, with sharp formations of reddish lava (the archipelago is entirely of volcanic origin) eroded into deep ravines.  But it isn’t all dry – we arrived just after a storm and our last day was very windy and wet.  The island is criss-crossed with levadas – man-made channels that conduct water from the wettest parts to irrigate crops, power hydro-electric plants and to provide domestic drinking water.  

The mountains are frequently obscured by clouds, even though the south and west may be bathed in glorious sunshine.  There are no long stretches of sandy beaches (the best is at the neighbouring island of Porto Santo) though there are bays with black pebble or sand.  The sea can be fearfully rough, smashing against the piers and rocks with massive force, 

though when it is calm it is wonderful to swim in deep (it gets to 10,000 feet deep near the island), clear water.  Just watch out for jellyfish......

 

The light is great - rain or shine.  Whether at the coast:

Or in the gardens:

In the morning:

Or later in the day:

Our hotel is full of character (Are you sure? Ed):

As is our bus (Shome mistake?  Ed):

The natural world, as ever, is fascinating.  Here, clinging to a brittle cliff, is a Francelho, or Canarian Kestrel:

And the human world is full of character too, whether formal:

Informal:

Or professional:

All the people we meet are very friendly and most speak English, which is a real bonus as Portuguese is not an easy language to pick up (I know – I have tried.  Ed).  Listening in to a conversation is like hearing several languages scrambled into one, with the majority of words sounding a little like rhubarbo cushstarda neow said very fast.  

An interesting fact is that the average age of the population of Madeira is just over 45 years.  According to CRAP (the Centre for Reasonably Approximate Percentages) the average age of visitors to Madeira is 72 – which makes me, I am proud to say, just above average (For once. Ed).

 

On my last morning, I am shown round Blandy’s Wine Lodge by Daniela, 

who kindly teaches me Madeiran etiquette (and into the bargain furnishes me with me two glasses of joy) .....  And then I pay my respects to Cristiano Ronaldo, Madeira’s most famous son. 

I have never really forgiven Ronald (he was named after Ronald Reagan.... It is true!) for his brilliant free kick goal against Portsmouth (my home town) during the 2007/08 Premier League season, but he is decent enough to invite me for a poncha tradicional in his favourite bar in Câmara de Lobos 

(even though he doesn’t drink himself) ..... But, unfortunately, I am a bit late, and he had to jet back to his family in Saudi, so......  Next time.... Siiuuu!  [Is that ‘See you!’ Ed?]

 
So, having been fumigated on the tarmac, our flight back is insect free.   A farewell touch of Madeira madness came with us, however, as in row 39 a young man is celebrating having made the Guinness Book of Records by circumnavigating Madeira, in a pedalo!  Surely one of the crazier ways to travel 100 miles in the middle of the Atlantic!  [As it happens this turns out to be a merry jest.....  Which just goes to add to the madness that surrounds Madeira! Ed]

 
And then we land.  Birmingham is dark and cold, and the two-and-a-half-hour drive home is cold and dark.  My house is cold.  And dark.  I feel a (dark) cold coming on and crawl into bed. It is cold.  It is dark.  I miss having a Coral beer watching the sun sink towards Brazil.

 
I need a holiday.....  
 
Now where is nice and warm?

Madeira, Das ilhas, as mais belas e livres

*****

With very many thanks to Meryl, Cristina and Carlos (and the rest of the gang) 

Without whom I would be very lost.....

 

 

 

 

In Memoriam, Berkhamsted and others.....

Burp Hampster

[Before I proceed I should explain that "Burp Hamster" was the name of the place our daughters decided their Grannie and Grandad lived - aka Berkhamsted]

At lunch I am sitting next to someone who is supposed to be dead..... (there is a lot of it about, Ed).  This person has clearly been Mark Twained (The report of my death was an exaggeration).

The curious thing is that I was in Berkhamsted to pay my respects to a dead man - but it wasn't this one. Suffice it to say that my companion was something of a misprint (in The Old Berkhamstedian magazine.....)

The real object of the obsequies actually died last year, and I appended a brief tribute to him on my post Snettisham Today (https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2023/06/snettisham-today.html) but this was a day for a formal memorial to Jonty Driver, former Headmaster of Berkhamsted School, poet, activist, and family friend.

I last saw Jonty at a reading he gave in Wells-next-the-sea, in June 2021 (was it really that long ago already?) but we had kept in touch.

Anyway, with the greatest respect to Jonty, and his family, and to Berkhamsted School, this is not (quite) about them.  

Some might say that I grew up in Berkhamsted (for more on which town, please see: https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2013/05/berkhamsted-herts.html) though to be exact, I was a boy in Berkhamsted (I was a lad in Lancaster, a romantic in Rome, ageing in Ascot, a has-been in Harpenden and now getting senile in Snettisham - but take your pick). 

My father had also been a boy in Berkhamsted, but then returned here as a father and a much admired man, (but that is another story).

So, though I have been back many a time over the years, I found myself thinking about our time here, and sifting the way things change, or not. After the celebrations of Jonty's great life, and the pleasantries of meeting other dead people, I wander down to cross the Bulbourne, the chalk stream that carved this valley through the Chilterns.

It flows, that's still true, but it shows neglect.  I remember walking down the stream bed from Northchurch to Berko in my wellingtons, past the watercress beds and into the town, without worrying about the collection of dog shit.....  Perhaps there weren't as many dogs then?

On the Moor, which is the canal basin hard by the railway station, I meet a charming couple who have taken to live on the waterways.  How nice to travel slow and easy, tranquil in the security that your home will always be with you while the world passes by inconsequentially.  I am taken by the idea, but realise that it takes two to manage the locks, and so shelve that thought.....

I carry on along the canal side, sniffing that pervasive smell of stale water, dead fish and puddled mud, to reach The Rising Sun, where, with a pint of mild, I watch Ireland beat Scotland in a room I first frequented sixty years ago (yes I was under age, but scoring darts improved my mental arithmetic no end!)

When I leave it is already dark.  I don't really want to go, but I know no one and the match is over and my pint is drunk.....

So I meander down the High Street, dodging the motorised prams and people in unisex one-piece tailor-made personalised jogging suits, past my bank (The National Provincial), which was once the school attended by the girl who would become Winston Churchill's wife, and which is now a restaurant (the bank moved across the street behind the bus stop, but even the NatWest is now gone....)

Almost everywhere is now an eatery.  You might think that no one knows how to cook at home these days. Or you might think that the populace is so well off they can all afford to dine out every night (I guess they would once have had servants? Maybe they still do, though I guess even they may have a night off?)  I don't know, but once upon a time the Gas Showroom was a gas showroom (not a restaurant) and the Post Office was a Post Office (not an M & S Foodhall)

But at least some things don't change.  Woods is still a garden centre, and, appropriately for today, Malcolm, Jones and Metcalfe are still dealing with our demises from the same address.  We did business with them when my parents needed their services, but they may not remember that late one Saturday evening over sixty years ago someone rang their front door bell and ran away.  

Joe and I are still ashamed, having run to hide at the bottom of Park View Road.  

I am particularly ashamed that we were caught.....

Just up the next hill, Boxwell Road, I feel a little weird photographing the facade of Number 2, but this is the house where my dad attended Mr and Mrs Popple's infant school almost a hundred years ago, and it is the address we all lived at some forty years later. 

Hey!  Memories.  It is a questionable benefit being able to recall all the crimps and creases of a misspent life.  Time to call time?

At the bottom of the road I step into The Lamb, wishing to wash away the lingering taste of fish and chips that I hungered for earlier.

Here I meet Gordon Lee, a fellow from Hemel Hempstead, a few years older than me.  His card introduces him as an 'All round good guy,' a 'Roving FF Reporter,' and a 'Soldier of Fortune.'  He has been in town today to watch football , but is intending to return to Papua New Guinea where he feels more at home (I understand).

I feel a presence, a drift of energy.  It is as if Jonty Driver is catching my eye.  I sense that I should turn in, and thank my new friend for his offer of another drink.  I could go the distance, but perhaps another day.  I am too full of memories, of unclear thoughts. It seems that perhaps I have done with Berkhamsted.  My mother and father are dust on the hill:

I am becoming bleary, no longer sure of anything:

I enjoyed the company of Ron Hall at lunch, despite the announcement that he had recently passed away.  I enjoyed meeting my friends with their canal boat, though I am so sorry that I cannot recall their names.  I would have spilled much beer with Gordon in The Lamb, but I have to leave the last words to Jonty:

Far gone?  Gone for good?  I abjure

All pre-knowledge, but now I know for sure.

You (the reader) don't; or do you?

I wrote this before I knew.

Endpiece

C J (Jonty) Driver

Thank you, everyone,

For everything,

Richard