We flew in long and low, not far above the whitecaps, as the jet circled into position to land in Funchal. We bounced and tilted, I held my breath. And then, quicker than I thought possible, we were on the ground.

The capital city of Madeira is nestled between the mountains and the sea, and the runway of the nearby airport, it’s said, is built partially on stilts.

I believe it, just as I’m starting to believe everything I’ve heard about this place, this jewel of an island with red tile roofs atop buildings of pink and yellow, with homes terraced up the hillsides and a jumble of streets leading down from them.

A jumble of streets I’m itching to explore…