Shy whales, sunbathing turtles and skippers in the surf

Porto Santo´s bay

Whale spray and tens of turtles sunbathing – nothing else disturbed the glassy sea as we ghosted away from Porto Santo, with its long white sand beach and arid interior. This is where Columbus met his missus, amidst the cacti and palm fronds. There is nothing much more to say, being on Porto Santo is like stepping into a one horse town Western. Strangely, one of the islands gastronomic specialities is ‘lapas’ grilled limpits with garlic. Nice but not something I will try at home. I digress...

It was a slow and hot passage. Several miles from our destination twilight faded into dusk and dusk to semidarkness. The amber lights of civilisation collected in drifts on the skyline ahead framed by fat fingers of cloud and the ebony silhouette of Maderia’s outling island, Ilheu de Fora.

Eastern tip of Maderia

It took ages and ages to get to the Enseada da Abra, lying to the East of the island. The night was too dark to take the shortcut between the mainland and the island so we stood out, our eyes peeled for the fish pens and platforms that our pilot book warned of. At last we reached the wide bay, no obstacles encountered, where several other boats were tucked up. We barbequed fish (regrettably not caught by us), topped up our alcohol levels and slept well.

Enseada da Abra

We woke the sun rising over the tip of the island, swiftly as always and a tangerine red. Cliffs towered above us, at first dark and foreboding, but as the sun rose higher and turned bright white a startling rainbow of ochre and green was revealed. Walking through this landscape later was like walking through the earths internal organs, deep red veins surging through flesh coloured rock, once bubbling with gas and alive with fire. Surprisingly, for such a dry looking landscape, the isolated patches of vegetation are a vibrant green, revived overnight by heavy dews.

The snorkelling in the bay was great and, it being my first time in warm waters, I was astounded not just because I could swim with my head underwater and not be blinded by an ice cream headache but mainly by the amazing colour palette of the underwater world. I swam through clouds of silver fish, small like butter knives, darting hither and thither near the water’s surface. In shallower water fat fingered starfish lazed on rocks, some a rusty orange colour, others a vibrant grey-blue with bright orange suckers. There were brown fish with yellow spots on their tail, black fish with electric blue rims to their fins so bright that it looked artificial, like neon. There were long nosed glittery fish like stiff pipe cleaners. Fish that lay in the sand almost completely camouflaged. My favourites were long and technicolour, starting with a turquoise head and graduating through yellow, pink, orange in zebra stripes to its slim tailfin. The most amazing thing for me was their total indifference to my presence. I could dive down and practically rub noses with them (if they had noses) and they were non-plussed. It gave me a tremendous sense of awe for these splendid sea creatures, of privilege and also of shame that I had even contemplated bringing my speargun (thankfully they were all much too small for eating).

Another day at the office

Casper kept himself busy doing jobs, scrubbing the boat’s bottom, cleaning the engine jets and then dismantling the steering gear. In doing the latter he disregarded two most commonsense rules in the book: a) taking something apart when it is not broken ‘just to see’ b) starting a job after 5pm when there is not artificial light to be had. I came back to a cockpit full of greasy ‘bits’ well after the sun had set and the light had all but disappeared. Needless to say there was also a terrifically grumpy Casper there too. But all’s well that ends well and the following day he put it all back together and no stray bits were left over. What is it with this Dutch work ethic? – it was a Sunday too!

With steering gear intact and a good bit of wind we blazed over to Funchal, the island’s capital. It is an elegant city, bustling and alive with spirit. The tree flagged streets of the city centre are cobbled black and white. The planting is exotic with hibiscus and birds of paradise. Cafes spill out onto the wide pavements. The car is secondary.

The capital’s wealth has been used well. Along the rest of the coast, from what we have seen it is quite different with sprawling tourist condos destroying the old villages. We are not impressed with the coastline but the heart of the island is really where it is at. The island’s interior, which surges up to 1800 metres at the highest point Pico Ruivo, is a jungle green of lush vegetation. The vertiginous roads are lined with blue, white and dusty pink hydrangeas, agapanthus and towering bamboos. The woods are heady with eucalyptus and pine.

Look at them peaks

The mountainsides are busy with small terraces planted with bananas and irrigated by ancient ‘levadas’ or waterways. The island changes dramatically from one elevation to another and from one aspect to another. We drove through cloud and swirling rain to pop out in another world of moorland and grazing cows. The North side the island appears much wetter, with the trees flanked with moss and bellshaped datura flowers the colour of apricots growing in abundance by the roadside. In the blazing afternoon sunshine we walked to the top of Rico Ruivo to look down on blankets of cloud. The silence was overwhelming.

From Pico Ruivo

Today we are going to the market to buy the island’s speciality, swordfish, and to generally stock up because we are heading next to the isolated Salvagens which lie between Madeira and the Canaries.

postscriptum (sadly no pictures to illustrate the tale): Casper has just returned to the boat having been dispatched to recover Melvin´s missing paddle (quite how it dissapeared when it was ´secured´in a rollock I really don´t know and the irony is that the loose one is still in the boat). He is wet from head to foot and looking flustered. And so the story unfolds.... The mission took him to the beach where he became an innocent victim of the atlantic surf. Having landed neatly on the beach and ´secured´Melvin, the little rat (the dinghy not Casper) proceeds to float away, then (somehow) ends up fulls of black volcanic sand and water. Casper wades in to save the dinghy much to the enjoyment of the locals fishing off the peer. He then takes the dinghy back to the marina pontoon to remove the black grit from it. It gets tangled in some lines or other and Casper again provides the morning´s entertainment for the bystanders there. Sadly the mission was fruitless and paddling is off for the time being.