Notes from Pico, Azores

Sunday 27 May.

We creep out of our cottage in the darkness, make our way down the path to the car, close the blue gates behind us and head for the airport. Apart from the mist in the hills, it’s an easy run. At the airport, I hand back the somewhat tired and scuffed Peugeot 207 (64,000kms) that Hertz had issued me.

To my astonishment, the Hertz rep informs me that she has discovered a new scuff-mark for which she is holding me responsible. Because I have taken out comprehensive insurance, my liability will be limited to €100. I am outraged, all the more so as the car was already scuffed and scratched. My subsequent correspondence with Hertz proves fruitless. DON’T EVER USE HERTZ!

It’s a 50 minute hop in a Bombadier Dash-8 from Ponta Delgada to Pico airport. Pico is the 2nd largest of the Azores Islands, although it’s nothing like as green and fertile as Sao Miguel. We sign out another hire car, this time through Ilha Verde from whom we get a much better deal, and head 15 minutes down the coast to the capital, Madalena, and thence towards Sao Joao on the far side of the island, where our accommodation is located. It’s drizzling and we’re early. I phone our host, John, who says the room is ready. We can come.

John introduces us to our lodgings. They are perfectly comfortable if not exactly the Quinta da Mo. It's wet and chilly, not ideal weather to sit out on our patio. Shrouded in cloud above us is the volcanic cone that gives Pico its name and is the highest mountain in all Portugal at 2,350m.

The peak completely dominates the island, or would if it wasn’t mostly invisible.

It’s ten minutes down the road to the whale-watching centre of Lajes. The boats are all moored in harbour as the sea is too rough. Most of these craft are large (open) zodiacs. They don’t appeal. But I do note the details of the company operating a 13-metre cabin-cruiser, the Moby Dick. The skies are grey with the promise of more drizzle.

The pastelaria recommended to us by John is closed. We take coffee at a café, return home and go for a walk along the shore a few hundred metres below the guesthouse. Pico is black. If it has any beaches, we didn’t come across them. The coast is lined with basalt cliffs and basalt rocks. Most swimming seems to be done at natural rock pools but there are no swimmers around today.

Monday 28 May.

Back to Lajes where we find Paula from the whale-watching group that we fancy. The sea is still too rough, she informs us (Jones sighs with relief) but she takes my number and promises to call if the boat goes out tomorrow. The pastelaria is still closed, this time for the Azores Day holiday.

From Lajes it’s 40 minutes to Madalena (which has very little to recommend it) where the ferry leaves for the neighbouring island of Faial. Over my shoulder I take a large bag containing our raincoats and leave behind in the car a small bag with our passports – a fact I discover only on the ferry, and it niggles me for the next several hours.

The ferry pitches and tosses a bit during the 30-minute ride but not alarmingly. The sun comes out in Horta, Faial’s capital, and it’s welcome. The marina is overflowing with yachts of every description. Along the harbour wall yachtsmen are continuing the tradition of leaving a painting or inscription to mark their visit.

Apart from the tourist shops and cafes, Horta is closed for the holiday. We stick our heads into a couple of churches, which are identical to most of the other churches we’ve seen, and then find a café to loll back in the sunshine before taking the ferry back to Pico.

To my relief, my bag and passports are safe. We go back home via the airport and the road across the mountain spine. The airport is like a tomb. Shutters are down. It handles only half a dozen flights a day. Most go to Horta airport, which is more protected from the weather.

The drive home takes us up into the misty highlands. The road is good but the islanders don’t believe in turning on their car lights in the mist and we drive with great care. The great peak is still invisible. We had thoughts of trying to climb it with the help of a guide but rapidly gave up the idea.

Most of the local wine in the Azores is grown on Pico. To our astonishment, the vines are planted in tiny walled sections, far too small to cultivate mechanically. The black walls absorb and reflect the heat but I can't say that I was much impressed by the quality of the wine. The reserve cost more and tasted less than it deserved.

Back in Sao Joao, we walk down to a brilliant little fish restaurant at the bottom of the village for a slap-up meal. At last the clouds blow away to reveal the mountain peak in its glory. It’s most impressive. And we are delighted to have seen it, if not to have climbed it.

Tuesday 29 May

Paula calls to say that the seas have calmed down and the whale-watching trip is on. We join a group of Germans who are coming out with us. Most of them are keen to swim with the dolphins, a facility the company offers. Barbara, who suffers from sea-sickness, is advised to sit upstairs rather than in the cabin (which takes in fumes from the exhausts).

Ahead of us, the zodiacs skim out of the harbour, their passengers all clad in waterproofs and life-jackets. They're obviously expecting a soaking but it certainly hasn't deterred them. The zodiacs are full.

We climb up the ladder and take our places on the small upper deck.

We rumble out to sea, guided from the hillside above us by a watcher with powerful binoculars. The sea is anything but calm and the Moby Dick whacks through the swell with resounding thuds. Jones clings on to the railings with both hands, convinced that our last day has come.

Briefly the sun comes out. We find a school of dolphins, dozens of them, and the Germans make several forays to join them in the water, not with much success.Then we chase after a couple of sperm whales that our watcher has spotted several kilometres offshore. The skipper opens the throttles. It’s a rough ride. I find it easier to stand downstairs in the lee of the wind.

READY TO SWIM WITH THE DOLPHINS

At last we find the two whales, a mother and calf but they're too far off to photo. Goncalo, our guide, says the mother is about 15m in length. The animals take a couple of breaths as we admire them before vanishing once again into the depths -

– for anything up to an hour we are informed. Light mist descends. The distant coast vanishes. The ride back, at half throttle and with the swell, is much more comfortable. But now it’s drizzling and Jones’s trousers are soaked. It was great to see the whales but it’s also great to be back on dry land.

At last we find the pastelaria open. Jones considers buying cheap trousers at a shop next door but decides to stick with her wet ones. We go for a drive along the coast. As everywhere in the Azores, the roadside is lined with hydrangeas, not yet in full bloom.

We are struck by the black stone houses, often unplastered and unpainted, with just coloured shutters and doors to contrast with their overwhelming blackness. The villages along the shore are below the mist but as soon as the road rises, one is enveloped. We turn off to one of the villages, hoping to find an open café. No luck.

We take a walk to a lighthouse, looking at the vast masses of black rock between us and the sea, and the greenery trying to find a grip on it. Here in Pico, vegetation has a hard time of it. Then it’s back home for our last night on the island.

Wednesday 30 May

We wake to half a gale and make an early departure for the airport. Directions to the airport in Madalena are sadly lacking where one needs them. This has to be the road. There is precious little sign of life at the airport once again. The arrivals door is locked and the café is closed.

Outside, emergency vehicles roar up and down the runway, throwing up a great skirt of spray, their blue lights flashing. We can only think that they are trying to dry it. The check-in opens and takes our bags but the wind is so strong that we doubt there will be any flights.

There’s an announcement. The flight is cancelled. Our bags are returned to us. We are to go to Horta airport instead. A coach runs us down to the ferry port. We go on board for the ferry ride of our lives. The swell is huge and we corkscrew through 90* from left to right.

Jones stands, grasping supports with both hands. I have to hang on to my seat arms. Talk about rock and roll. A group of youths who have chosen to sit in the open air at the stern are soaked by a wave. Still the crew doesn’t seem too concerned and we make it to Horta. A coach awaits to take us to the airport.

Take-off from Horta is fairly smooth. The airport is much more protected than that on Pico. We have to go back to Ponta Delgada via Terceira, to join other passengers. The descent into Terceira is rough. The Dash-8 is buffeted from side to side as the pilot takes her down steeply. A woman behind us breaks into hysterics. I have to confess to a little alarm myself. I’ve had a few rough approaches but nothing like this. We bounce around in tummy sinking fashion.

Above the runway the pilot battles to level the plane out. At last he drops her down. Fortunately, this is a US air force base and the runway is both wide and long.

The last leg to Ponta Delgada is delightfully uneventful. We have another night in the town before our final flight to Lisbon the next day. There our car awaits for the drive back home.

Enough unto the day.