Never mind that we took this picture a week later as we were leaving. Funchal has an extraordinary airport. Lacking enough flat ground to extend the runway further, the authorities brought in a Brazilian engineering firm to build a vast platform out across the main road running along the coast.
After much scrutiny of Funchal's hotels on Tripadvisor, I had booked us into one with a glorious garden. It lived up to its rave reviews. We were greeted with the news that we were being upgraded from a room to a suite. That's the sort of thing I like to hear.
Jones revelled in the exuberant flowers and trees. Madeira is a joy for gardeners. Our fellow guests were mostly older Brits, French and Germans. We saw no kids. It was a place to unwind in the most peaceful and picturesque environment.
Each room came with a private sun-patio overlooking the garden. Jones would relax there while I went off to the spa for a 15-minute soak in the jacuzzi.
After a day's touring we would generally seat ourselves on the deck beside the bar lounge. Beer for me please and a glass of wine for my wife. The day started out with a buffet breakfast in the dining room, with a selection to satisfy the royal court. In the evening we'd find somewhere local to eat - somewhere other than the fancy restaurant attached to the hotel.
During our six days on the island we visited three botanical gardens, the city centre and numerous churches - among others. We also went on two walks along the "levadas", long channels that bring water from the hinterland to the farmers.
I found the first of these, a five-hour excursion, more demanding than I expected. I have a lazy left foot, legacy of my back problems. And I had some trouble keeping up along rough, damp stone stairs and the narrow wet stone ledges of the channels.
A second half-day walk proved much less demanding, with great views down across the hills.
In many of the villages, there is no access to the higher houses except along the levada paths. Materials and possessions are brought in either on the backs of animals or by hand.
Every inch of land is devoted to agriculture. There are banana trees and vegetable patches everywhere.
The crop is worked by hand. You can't get machines up here.
One evening we attended a concert by the mandolin youth orchestra.
Each day brought a new cruise ship or two into port. These were welcomed by the taxi drivers who waited hopefully at all the attractions. Note the cable car that takes visitors 15 minutes up the hill to the heights of Monte. We took it down.
Monte is home to numerous dogs, a church, fabulous gardens and two-kilometre rides in wicker basket sleds down the steep roads towards the city. Men stand guard lower down to stop the traffic as the sleds approach. Jones declined.
The nearby tropical gardens were brilliant, a delight in every respect. You felt that you had entered some magical world.
It took us the best part of an hour to work our way down through the various themed sections to the bottom.
At the snack bar near the hotel we met the "hawk man", part of a team that uses trained birds of prey to keep pigeons and seagulls away from hotels and shopping centres.
Inexpensive bus passes entitled us to travel throughout the city. The routes to venues in the hills were often impossibly steep, twisty and narrow. At times, when there was no room for two vehicles to pass, one or other would have to retreat.
Madeira has no beaches to speak of. Beach goers have to take a two hour voyage to the island of Porto Santo or to content themselves with shingles.
Our Madeira holiday is over. It was brilliant. Here we are waiting for the bus back to the airport.
From Funchal we flew back to Lisbon, rescued our car from the long-term parking (a horrendously complicated process) and set out for the town of Serta a few hours to the north-east. On the recommendation of neighbours, we had reserved a room in Serta's former convent, now a hotel. There was an ominous tickle in my throat.
The former religious house had been used for various purposes after the dissolution of the monasteries in Portugal in 1834, becoming a school and a prison before finally falling into disrepair.
Its renovation, backed with an EU grant, was both meticulous and immaculate. The former courtyard, now under a glass roof, has become the dining room. We took buffet breakfasts here around nine before setting out for a hard day's touring.
In a large tent, erected on open ground below the hotel, stall-holders were selling food products and handicraft.
We dropped into this cafe for a generous brandy-port (me) and a glass of wine. I could hardly believe it when the bill came to only €2.10. At our Madeira hotel the same drinks had cost us €15.
The small castle in old Serta has been partially restored. I coaxed Jonesy up the steps for a fine view of the town and valley below.
Jonesy dislikes unprotected drops - although she surprised me by sailing along numerous narrow ledges on our levada walks in Madeira. I was the one who battled to stay up.
In need of new jeans, I tried my luck at a store on the high street. The two young sales assistants were both charming and persuasive. After convincing me that the last pair I tried were just right, they helped me put my boots on again. I was almost tempted to buy something else.
Although the jeans were too long, the girls promised to have them ready to wear by the end of the day - and they did.
Serta featured some magnificent old trees. We wished that Cathy were with us to see them.
One morning we drove to the ancient city of Tomar to explore its most famous feature, the vast castle/church/monastery that was once home to the Knights Templar.
The building is well preserved. There are several spacious cloisters. It takes at least an hour to make one's way around the whole monastery.
Here's Jones on the extensive patio that looks down on the church and the entrance. Jones was an unwilling model and preferred, if she had to be photographed, to look the other way.
The knights' spacious cells - dozens of them - led off two long corridors. We wondered whether they shared rooms. There was certainly ample space for several beds in each.
This was the refectory, fed by huge kitchens below. These guys fed well. They trained to fight as well as to pray - the holy warriors of their time.
This was our attempt at a fancy photo. Hmmm! Not sure.
We had parked the car some way off in the town. On the way back down, we got caught in a cloudburst and were soaked. The tickle in my throat had become a chest cold.
From the village of Little Pedragao one can walk 1.5 kms down the steep valley track to the bridge over which the Romans had once crossed the river below.
The bridge is still in good shape. The ford across which it was built is believed to have been used by the Celtic peoples who occupied the region before the Romans arrived.
We found it a tough haul back back up the steep cobbled road. I wouldn't have fancied trying it in armour. And how welcome the beer at the cafe at the top!
The last stop on our holiday was the Portuguese west coast resort of Vila Nova de Milfontes (new town of a thousand springs) where we had reserved three nights in a holiday apartment.
Here's Jones outside the apartment as we were about to return home in a storm. But the first two days were fine. It was about a mile from the apartment to the beach at the far end of the town.
There we found a beach bar where this family of Brits reminded us very much of ourselves.
The view was across the wide mouth of the Mira river. Small boats ferried passengers from one shore to the other. We declined the opportunity to take a boat ride up the river to the town of Odemira. ("ode" means river in Arabic - a clue to Portugal's history)
Fifteen minutes up the road was the resort of Porto Covo, a most attractive little town with a pedestrianized main road.
Steep stone stairs descended the high cliffs to the beaches below. A large area set aside for visiting motorhomers was full of vans from northern Europe.
A flock of raucous black birds circled the roofs before settling in a tree.
Outside one of the numerous tourist shops, four little dogs slept the morning away. Jones bought me a birthday mug. I came away with another walking stick.
Another fifteen minutes brought us to the industrial port of Sines, where much of Portugal's gas and fuel is delivered. We parked down on the foreshore and took the stairs to the old town that lies on top of the cliffs.
Sines castle (according to the blurb) was built about 800 years ago to protect the vulnerable hinterland. These days the walls surround a small administration building and a large open parade ground. The view to the fishing port is good.
A fishing boat returning with its catch attracted a cloud of squawking gulls.
The city art gallery, situated in the library basement, housed several items of conceptual art by somebody or other. We weren't inspired. But the loos were great.
Sines has some splendid beaches. We stopped at one on the way home to watch the surfers and take a stroll. The surf was modest, nothing like the monstrous swells that attract the world's best to Nazare, north of Lisbon.
Another visit was to the city of Santiago de Cacem, although our real destination was the nearby Roman ruins at Mirobriga. ("Santiago" in Portuguese/Spanish means St James.)
The city thrived for several hundred years until the decline of Rome. Main roads were about three metres wide. The original paving stones are still in good shape. Chariot races were held in the city stadium. These days most of Mirobriga lies under the surrounding fields, awaiting excavation.
Best preserved are the extensive baths at the lowest point of the ruins.
And the original bridge, just behind the baths. My chest cold had advanced to my nose and Jones had also started to cough.
Our return home was wet and very, very windy. The roads were strewn with branches and twice nearly blocked by trees that had been blown down.
It's over for another year. Our house sitters, Anne and Ian, welcomed us home. So did the dogs. They went deliriously beserk! It's good to be back - although we'd return to Madeira any time.
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