A Walker in the Suburbs

Already St. Patty’s Day. The grass is greening, but barely. The corned beef I usually start early in the day has yet to be purchased. And there is certainly no green beer in the house.

I’ll celebrate, then, by looking through photos of the Emerald Isle, searching for the greenest grass, the softest air. Not that you can tell the air is soft by looking at a photograph, but if I recall it was warm enough to remove a layer when I snapped this shot in Connemara National Park.

We were in Galway, the ancestral home of the Concannons, my mother’s people. It’s a beautiful, rocky place, more lovely to visit than to live in, I’m afraid. Then again, I’ve never lived there. Today, I’ll be dreaming that I’m back.

A few days ago the world celebrated International Woman’s Day. This holiday was once on my radar, since I had to write and post articles to celebrate it. But it wasn’t on my radar this year until the guide on our rainy walk mentioned it, partly in jest.

I was reminded again when handed a flower on my way into breakfast at the hotel, and again when our walking group stumbled upon a Dia Das Mulheres brunch at the hotel cooking school where we sampled from a delicious buffet, all you could eat for 20 euros.

But most of all I was reminded when I stumbled upon this board in downtown Funchal, which invited comments from any woman who passed by. Some of the remarks are in English, others in Portuguese, but I think you’ll get the general idea.

Modern air travel may be grueling and crazy-making, but consider this: I woke up yesterday on an island 300 miles off the coast of Africa and today I surfed to consciousness in my own bed.

Jet lag was no match for sheer exhaustion, so I slept through the night and am writing again from my morning spot, a view not of Funchal harbor but of our own backyard. I see no profusion of bougainvillea or jacaranda. Instead, just the earliest blush of spring: daffodils budding and weeds coming to life.

But my mind is still in Madeira, with its dramatic scenery, its bluffs and beauty. As I plunge back into normal routines, I’ll try to hang onto that top-of-the-mountain feeling travel can give.

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.