A Walker in the Suburbs

The lights of Funchal glitter across the distance. They are the last sights I see before I close the curtains for the night. They are coming on now, across the river and the valley, turning a view that is red tile and greenery into a sea of pinpoint light.

Our flight leaves in the wee hours, so I’m writing a few hours ahead, at a time when I might be going out to dinner.

Leaving is never easy, but it’s part of the process. To travel again someday requires leaving here tomorrow. And so, we leave.

(A few lights linger in a Madeira dawn)

It thunders through Funchal, swirls through levadas and gurgles in mountain streams. To be in Madeira is to be within earshot of flowing water.

The island is built on water, within water. Of course, it’s an island. But I’m not just talking about the surf that pounds the shore. I’m talking about fresh water, and the system of irrigation canals known as levadas. The careful husbanding of water has made Madeira into a garden paradise, which hikers know from the profusion of flowers and trees they see along the trails.

But they know it also from the sound of water flowing. It is water with a presence, with a heart. It is water so clear that to look into it is to see absence itself. It is water tumbling from a cliffside or springing from a crevice in the rock. The sound of flowing water is the soundtrack of Madeira.

I will miss many things about Madeira when we leave tomorrow, but one of the things I’ll miss most is the sound of flowing water.

I’m a map lover, someone who can settle down with a town plan and busy myself for an hour or more studying streets and intersections. I’ve certainly done that with the map of Madeira. But there’s one very significant detail I’ve only begun to visualize correctly on this trip.

I stay on the south side of the island, in the town of Funchal, but for our entire stay last year, I kept thinking I was facing north. No map study would convince me otherwise. Nor would noting how the sun rose on my left as I looked out at the ocean.

It makes me think about how bungled one can become when one’s original assumption is way off the mark, how every decision after that is flawed by association.

But this year I’ve mastered the basics. When I want to look toward home, I look to the right. I look west.

(Heading west on the boardwalk.)

The trees beckoned — the twisted, moss-draped laurel trees of Fanal Forest. These are giant, shaggy specimens, ancient and protected, but not exactly on the beaten path. Having missed the trip our friends took there earlier in the year, we booked a tour, not reading the fine print. Only the morning of the hike did I note the mileage: 11 kilometers. And this after 15K the day before. Could we do it? We hoped so.

What we didn’t know we learned when we arrived. “This trail will go up and down, up and down,” our guide said. He was right. There was barely any level ground for six and a half miles. And much of the path was slick rock and mud.

But we walked on … and on … and on. The fun really began after our hastily-consumed picnic lunch, when the rain began, light at first but worsening with every step. By the time we reached Fanal Forest, we were fighting sleet and gale-force winds.

I hesitated to take my phone out to snap a shot, but I couldn’t pass up the chance. After all, one of these trees (the one below, I think) is 600 years old.

We walked across the island yesterday, entering a levada near Machico on the south side of Madeira, then cutting north after an hour or so to hike Boca do Risco, one of the region’s most popular trails, along the northern coast.

Boca do Risco is not for the faint of heart. It’s “exposed,” to use the guidebook language, which is another way of saying it’s hanging off the side of a mountain. But the path is wide enough to prevent major vertigo and fairly level once you get to the top.

At points little streams cascade across the path, slicking the rocks and further slowing movement. But it’s all part of the ambiance, the unique blend of trail, water and sky. The ocean is many shades of blue, all of them lovely.

Three hours in, we could see our destination, Porto do Cruz, but it was still hours away, including 30 minutes straight downhill at the end. But once there we found coffee and tea and a well-deserved meal before climbing back onto a bus to return home, a plodding trip at best. But for a few hours, we were walking on air.

We had intended to visit a museum today — and in a way we did. The British Cemetery in Funchal records the histories of many lives and loves, of those who arrived here, stayed here, died here. Like any cemetery, this one had graves, stones and monuments. Like many, it had flowers. But unlike any other I’ve seen, this one had a vegetable garden.

Tucked along the wall were cherry tomatoes, onions, spinach and squash. Rosemary and sage scented the air. With a wall to break the wind, palm branches to filter the sun and watering cans stationed every few feet, these plants are thriving. They are a gentle, green reminder that life goes on.

It’s easy to think that the blowout parade Saturday night was Madeira’s premier Carnival event. And it was, when measured in glitter and glitz.

But today’s Slapstick Parade was a crowd favorite, too. Think of it as the people’s event. Anyone could enter. Costumes were as plain or fancy as you’d like them to be. Floats were homemade, and silliness reigned.

Many of the jokes went right over our heads; they required inside knowledge of Madeira politics. But I could get the gist of them, and laughed along with everyone else.

If Samba dancing was a focal point of Saturday’s event, children were a centerpiece of today’s celebration: little pirates, ballerinas, princesses and clowns running and twirling and throwing confetti.

Speaking of confetti, there was plenty to sweep up. A cleanup crew was waiting nearby, ready to begin.

The pigeons of Madeira are on the move. They’re on the wing and on the take. The pigeons of Madeira are making out like bandits, if you want to know the truth.

After only a few days on the island I’ve witnessed more bird-sponsored thievery than I have in years. Pigeons snatch french fries from the plates of unsuspecting diners. Diners fight back. Pigeons, unrepentant, try again. Diners give up and move inside.

I’m a bird person, as many of my posts will reveal, but the birds here have gotten entirely out of hand. They are undeterred by swats, towel flaps and glasses of water thrown their way. I would say these pigeons are hungry, but they don’t appear to have missed many meals. I will give them this, though. They know how to pose for the camera.

Forget its pious origins, the blowing off of steam before the Lenten fast. Carnival in Madeira is noisy and naughty and fun. It pushes right past Ash Wednesday into the next weekend.

The Allegoric Parade on Saturday night featured hours of dancing and prancing, each float and troupe more elaborate than the next. So many feathers, sequins and glitter! So many bare derrieres!

We sat at a cafe carved into rock, right next to the parade route, and our table was tucked away enough that we could stand up and bop to the music without disturbing those behind us. Midway through the evening, everyone was on their feet. Wait staff were dancing with patrons. It was impossible to sit still with samba pulsing, confetti flying and thousands lining the parade route along the Funchal waterfront.

With its international visitors and vibe, it can be easy to forget that Madeira has close ties to Portugal and Brazil. But not during Carnival time.