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Madeira
The long awaited trip to Madeira arranged by Gretchen finally arrived. The waiting seemed to go on and on until the last week when, with a last minute rush, it was all systems go. The minibus started the pick-up at 6am in the mountains of darkest Bacup collecting Peter, Tom, Rosemary, Gretchen and Ian before calling in Rawtenstall for Joan P., Joan B., Malcolm, Jeanette, Elaine and Ken. Jack and Maureen were to join us at the airport from their home in Salford, a truly international group. Alan Garner and Chris, our organizers, met us in departure and, apart from the exorbitant cafe prices, all went smoothly and our XL flight departed on time arriving in the warmth of Funchal mid afternoon. The transport arrangements, as throughout the week, were spot on and we were soon at the Monte Verde, our home for the next week. David and Anne who came in on a later flight also joined us.
At around four o’clock, suitable attired for the climate, we ventured out and strolled down to Joe’s. Here we could taste just about anything, buy biscuits and bottled water or top up phones, get a bus ticket or a taxi ride. A few biscuits and chocolate to add to the lunch boxes for our walks was a good idea. The cafe across the road was inviting and we invaded the establishment for a coffee without raising too many eyebrows. We later dined in the old part of town by the marina where boats abound, along with the infrastructure that supports them. The meal was a bit lively and noisy, with Limpets figuring prominently on the menu and in our conversation, and the likely effects of alcohol if one was thus smitten with this dreaded complaint. With seventeen of us service was slow and starvation a real possibility for a while but we finally ate well and left of our own accord. i.e. not thrown out. Ken managed to leave his glasses somewhere never to be seen again (groan) but had some more fortunately.
Tuesday dawned in the morning, leaving the rest of the day for us to enjoy. After breakfasting on the usual cornflakes, rolls, ham, cheese and spiced sausage we met our super guide Bruno, walked into Funchal and caught the bus from the marina without knowing whence we were bound. The road became smaller and wound its way up (everywhere is up) to the village of Camacha to the east of Funchal for the start of our introductory walk. The maze of tiny streets, quite typical of a Madeira village, seem confusing to the visitor but Bruno knew where he was and soon introduced us to the lavada, or water channel, that we were to follow. This lavada was 93 km in length on an island of 74 km., so it wanders a bit. After a dry year the water supply was below optimum level and only a trickle reached the far end but crops of potato and cabbage were better than mine in the UK. Guides have to be proficient botanists and Bruno gave us facts and figures about the flora as we came upon it, patiently waiting for us to catch up and shut up.
Although May is the time to see the flowers they put on a fair show in November and some trees were showing blossom, Peter was quite taken and sported a Eucalyptus flower on his rucksack later in the week. No one complained about loading the weekly wash after seeing a local resident (female) slaving away washing by hand in the lavada. Undies, shirts, shoes and the doormat, nothing was spared so we kept moving until brew time. The coast was visible throughout the walk and the cruise ships in Funchal harbour could be seen in spite of the high humidity producing some haze. We reached our destination of Monte after lunch in time to see the famous sled rides. Monte is directly above Funchal, 1700 feet above, and is served by a gondola system from below so that tourists can have a coffee and be subjected to a rapid descent, through the traffic in a wicker basket on wooden runners, to Funchal. There isn’t much of a market for laxatives, what with that AND the bus rides.
The coffee shop also had market stalls and it was try-on time with all sorts of locally made hats being modeled by the girls, and by Peter, who gets worse. We went down the hill on the bus which looked marginally safer, or less dangerous, looking at it another way, and most walked back to the Monte Verde for a wash and brush up ready for dinner. Getting seventeen served was again a slow process and changes were made on subsequent evenings. Peter ordered Dorado and there was a bit of a splashing as the waiter caught his choice of fish from amongst several others in the tank. He finally succeeded and Tom reckoned it was Inter-Net. We waited some more and then the chap that ordered the fish decided to provide the cabaret by knocking the wine bucket all over the floor. The bottle of wine, half of which had been consumed, was replaced by a full one, leading to some outrageous speculation that was totally and absolutely possible. We walked home to save any further embarrassment.
Wednesday had the first proper walk at altitude. Two minibuses took us along the Via Rapida to Ribeira Brava and then toiled up the sinuous mountain road to the view point beyond Encumeada where they cooled off a bit as we admired the incredible views from around 4000 feet. The road continued to climb through several tunnels on its way to the plateau where twenty-one turbines do their bit to supply energy. The rest is produced by hydroelectric plants and imported oil. The hotel on the top, decorated in safari style, served us coffee or whatever we wanted before we ventured across country to the north and east to pick up the lavada going our way. This takes water to the south from the northward flowing Rib da Janeld and as it is almost on the top must have an underground reservoir of some considerable capacity. We followed this channel to where it picked up the river water, eating blackberries and a type of blueberry on the way. Blue tongue had been in the news lately and now we had it.
Climbing out of the valley at Lajeado where a road spur ends we had a brew and listened to Bruno telling us about the National Park. Sheep and goats were banned because of overgrazing destroying the delicate grass cover, leaving the rough enclosures to decay into the prickly stuff, which we avoided as best we could. The high point of the day was at P.Rabacal 4400 feet up and with a 360-degree view of the plateau and the sky but not the coast, which was well below the horizon. Lunch was promised at the ‘lake’ down in the valley but first there was a bit of a scramble to get there, hanging on to vegetation to keep backsides out of the uncomfortable sharp rock and thorn ridden ground. The ‘lake’ bit was intriguing as Madeira isn’t a lake island being mostly on a steep slope, the newly risen river had a pool about 50 feet across and there was our lake, icy cold and teeming with trout. Sitting on a cozy rock amongst friends, feet in the water sharing butties with the hungry fish what more could anyone want.
The rocky path continued down stream to another, larger pool, where we tarried awhile and gazed over the edge of a dry waterfall at the tourist trail a long way down on the valley floor. We had a bit of a climb to get out again and link up with this trail to Rabacal. The 800-metre tunnel carrying the lavada and a power station water pipe was rather dark and torches had to be resorted to. Elaine produced one about the size and power of two matches and somehow managed to swap it for the one that Bruno had, leaving the poor chap to follow the second hand glimmer at the back. It was impossible to get lost in a straight tunnel with no turn offs so we all emerged at the southern end for our rendezvous with the mini buses. The cafe beckoned and things now became interesting on the second bus. In bottom gear it descended very gingerly and almost stopped before each steeper bit suggesting brake problems. At the cafe a surreptitious inspection of the front wheels revealed that the heat generated by the brakes had burnt off the paint and even the tyres were hot. The rest of the journey back was at a lower level. The group split up for the evening meal and by all accounts the service was better with Peter negotiating discounts at the three-parrots-on-a-perch restaurant, they probably heard about the wine-spilling trick.
The Thursday walk was from Boca da Corrida but a short distance away but all uphill as usual. We stopped for a coffee on the way at Achada and, thus fortified, finally left our transport at the view point overlooking Curral das Freiras in the valley to the east of our position. After a gentle climb we gained the ridge and with wonderful views on both sides, and a steep drop on one of them, wandered across to the base of Pico Grande which was a fair lump of rock that would get some attention on the morrow. Today however we took the path below the cliffs to the west through lush vegetation and prickly scrub to a flat bit of ground at Fenda do Ferreiro where we could have our food and admire the view down the valley from towards Serra de Agua and across it at the mountain of the turbines where we started the day before. The yellow broom seems to flower all year round to some degree and gave some colour to the scene. The blackberries were quite tasty and, as no one actually died, must be fit to eat. We then started to lose some height on the way to Curral Tangao, Grass Bridge, where we crossed the Rib Serra de Agua and contoured again to the roadway below Encomeada. It was below quite a bit and provided that familiar sting in the tail that is required before one can get full enjoyment from an ice cream or a cup of coffee. Evening meal followed a similar pattern to the night before and plans were made for the Friday day off.
On Friday we came down to breakfast to find the place dark and deserted, the staff assuming that we would be having a lie-in and doing likewise. After we did some coughing, sneezing, burping and farting they realized that somebody was about and quickly got into gear to produce breakfast. We went every which way, most into Funchal to sample the many and varied delights and some went for another walk.
The time, wind and weather were acceptable for a bit of a climb so we set off below the southern cliff on a reasonable path. There was a square doorway cut into the rock face leading to a small room in the solid rock, no hieroglyphs, sarcophagi or even ice cream so what such effort had been for we couldn’t imagine. The path up the face had some cable for safety but it was nothing much to worry about and we were soon on the shoulder ready to face the gorse bushes along the winding path that took us onto the bare rock 50 feet or so below the summit. The last bit was on steep rock again with some cabling that had to be treated with care, as it was a bit frayed and likely to dig through the skin. It was rather cool on the top at 5426 ft. and a bit windy but the view in all directions was quite something with all the mountain peaks visible. It was lunchtime so we didn’t linger and descended the rock to find a spot in the long golden grass out of the wind and looking down the valley to the coast. It was 3100 ft. down to the bus stop and there wasn’t a flat bit in it as we first walked through rocks and scrub and then forest with lots of chestnut trees laden with fruit.
The tavern type place at the bottom of the hill had smoke coming out of the shed where chestnuts were roasting and one chap had a sackful on his back heading in that direction. We were still ahead of schedule and had leisurely drinks of beer or coffee and watched the two resident fancy feathered pigeons as they cleaned up crumbs. The inside of the establishment had all manner of artifacts hung on the walls and ceiling one of them being a hogshead(?), a complete animal skin, sewn up at the legs, for carrying wine in days of yore. At the bus stop we loitered with intent trying to guess how long the bus would take from the last timetable stop. We were far enough out to be getting worried by the time it appeared and marveled at the four wheel drift as the Go-cart trained driver took it over the S bend on the bridge up to Faja das Cardos to turn round and hopefully pick us up on the down side. He left it until the last minute before standing on the brakes and we paid our paltry sum to be taken to great heights of terror that cost a lot more at Alton Towers. The skill with which this chap drove through bicycle sized gaps and around bends, with the first tree rows of seats over the precipice, at speed, was amazing. He played an imaginary tune on his cash box with one hand, twirled the wheel with the other and Dum-te-dum-ed in obvious rapture. The local passengers stared straight ahead, expressionless and beyond caring. We made it and walked back from Funchal to prepare for the foray back into town for the evening meal and compare notes with the ‘resting’ members of the party. They had a more tiring day than we did.
Saturday saw us on a small coach to Ribeira Frio north of Funchal where the market stalls sold a variety of local knitwear along with leather belts and other touristy stuff. The cafe was frequented for coffee and some had a look at the trout farm just up the road, the big breeding stock cruising around the pools in leisurely fashion waiting to be fed. We joined the lavada, Lev Furado, behind the cafe where it had its source in the Ribeiro Frio and went east along the path of varying width winding about across the cliff face. A few short tunnels, fissures and exposed edges made this possible and we sat down for a brew on a bridge after about a mile while Tom ferreted out a skull that he placed on a stick and pretended to be a witch doctor, Ah! Leaving the main lavada at a waterworks tower we followed a smaller one the Lev da Portela into the town of the same name where we again had refreshments before boarding and returning to Funchal
We had lunch on a clear bit of ground overlooking the sea that could be heard crashing on the rocks 1000ft below. Not much in the way of beaches on this coast but some enterprising chap had built a cable car system down to one of them, unfortunately he forgot to tell the electricity company that he was using their power and the rotters cut him off. The site is probably quite cheap if anyone wants it, 2euros down and 50 back should make a profit. Through a banana plantation, a group photo and the final descent to Porto da Cruz. That was our walking over for this trip and we had refreshments in the cafe on the waterfront in town before boarding the bus to Funchal. Bruno was to be our guest at the evening meal and he chose a restaurant on the marina where a short, sturdy and outgoing (way out) woman hugged, kissed and generally embarrassed everyone, and that takes some doing with the Rossy Ramblers.
The Sunday walk was to be the last of the holiday and we were warned it was a bit exposed at times on the coastal cliffs. Everyone decided to go and we departed for Ribeira Seca in the east and, after coffee at our second choice, first was closed, set off north along the lavada for Boca do Risco. The locals were friendly; one chap working his allotment called to us and held up some large vegetable that he was obviously delighted with. A small path forked to the right and took us into rough terrain on a reasonable gradient up to Boca do Risco overlooking the Atlantic 1200ft below. The path then contoured all the way to Porto da Cruz across the rocky cliffs, through rough and lush vegetation with a couple of exciting places that gave Jack an increased zest for a long and happy life. He did very well, as one part was very exposed with a piece of cable fastened to the cliff face to hang on to because the path had crumbled away. Some beehives were seen a little below us and, if they are anything like the Spanish variety, are vicious little beggars and best left alone.
It was Ian’s duty, and pleasure, to propose a vote of thanks to Bruno, Alan and Chris but upon trying was met with calls of ‘speak up’ not only from our group but also from two ladies of a certain age at the corner table clearly enjoying our antics. The solution was simply to get the hard of hearing up as well and then between us we managed. More hugs and kisses from the staff and thanks for giving them a ‘happy hour’. The suggestion that Ian, Peter, Jack and Tom form a barbers shop quartet didn’t meet with much enthusiasm so we bade goodbye to Bruno and went back to the hotel. The arrangements for our return to the UK were spot on and we arrived back in Manchester on a dark, cold evening with the worst landing in years. Slovakia next year? If you want to come contact Gretchen very soon as it needs finalising.
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