Letter from Espargal: 28 October 2016

Monday: Visitors to Portugal might be forgiven for thinking that the Asian monsoon had somehow blundered into Iberia. For once the weather bureau's dire warnings rang true. The late afternoon rain pelted down like the Niagaran torrent, the thunderous heavens flashing with the rage of the gods. Two seconds beyond the protection of the patio roof was all it took for the deluge to dunk one.

The dogs didn't like it one little bit. Neither did we, crouching together for comfort that evening around the glowing wood-burning stove. Apart from the heavenly theatricals, we sat in silence. I'd ripped the plugs out to protect our electronics.

For better or worse, we'd agreed to dine at the Hamburgo with friends who were staying with Idalecio. They were to come with us. The question was how. They'd be inundated walking from their cottage to the car, brollies or not. In the end they took their car to our gates but got soaked anyhow as they scrambled across to us. The rain roared like an angry beast as it poured down. We could hardly credit its force. We've had four inches in as many days. In the Atlantic the tempest pounded the Portuguese islands with waves of up to 15 metres. Seems we got out of Madeira just in time. Summer is well and truly over.

Tuesday: The day dawned damp and grey. For once the dogs showed no inclination to move. We had a rare late morning, listening to the second Reith lecture. I was fascinated by the first a week ago and found the second just as interesting.

The speaker is Kwame Anthony Appiah, a philosopher and academic of multi-national extraction; his theme is "Mistaken Identities" - what makes us who we are. He's excellent. For any who might be interested, the first two lectures are now available on the BBC iPlayer or on BBC Radio4 podcasts.

JONES DAWN
The sun showed its face middayish, long enough for us to take the dogs on a refreshing (somewhat muddy) hike through the hills while Natasha set about the house. Then the rain returned, more gently this time.


1935 - DATE ABOVE THE DOORWAY OF CASA NADA
In the afternoon I spent an hour with our lawyers discussing ways to register Casa Nada, the old house on our property. A previous attempt to legitimise it with (incompetent) agency assistance resulted only in its registration with the finance department, who were delighted to start taxing it. We're under no pressure to pull the house down. The problem is that without the necessary papers, we will never be able to sell it - and it's an integral part of the estate.


PROJECTED THIRD RUNWAY - UPPER LEFT
The UK government's dubious plan to build a third runway at Heathrow airport (in the face of stiff political resistance) is all the news. I'll believe it when I see it - if I grow that old.


BLOOD LILIES
Wednesday:  Wednesday afternoon I spent in a dentist's chair undergoing root canal treatment. It wasn't fun although it wasn't particularly painful either - after the fifth injection. Jones, who endured several long sessions last year, offered me her sympathy when I emerged. She hadn't much enjoyed the experience either, she confided as we walked the dogs back to the car. I reflected that we were among the lucky few per cent with access to such treatment and should be grateful rather than rueful.

I administered anti-parasitic pills to the three orphans. Although two of the three will now allow us to fondle them, they instinctively pull away at any attempt to restrain them or to dose them with protective drops. The two girls have long since rid themselves of the collars that were attached while they were being spayed. It was Anne (our house sitter) who brought Bravecto pills to our attention. They claim to keep dogs free of fleas and ticks for up to three months. As the orphans share baskets with the rest of the (collar-wearing) gang, I thought it worthwhile - although I did gasp at the price, €27 a time.

ARCHIVE PICTURE
Thursday: I spent a couple of hours with a neighbour chain-sawing our mountain of summer-dried boughs into useful lengths of firewood before delivering them to his yard.

On our walk we came across flying ants emerging from nests and setting about whatever adventures await them. The ground was peppered with holes like a culender. How, I wondered, did the little creatures prepare the exits beforehand. We had walked down the paths concerned scores of times without seeing any hint of the bustling life beneath it. Speaking of which, nature's annual green miracle is underway. A billion dormant seeds have sprung to life, thrusting twin-leaves up to the light.

A visiting dog has been upsetting our lot. He's medium-sized, well-built and confident - and he wears a collar. Fortunately, there's a fence between him and us although we could easily bump into him while out walking. At first we thought he might be a stray but his manner belies this. Jones has been phoning around in a bid to discover his owner. No luck thus far.

Thursday night:
We returned from supper with the gang at the Hamburgo to a rousing welcome from the dogs - who had kept themselves amused in our absence. My poor Jones groaned at the demise of yet another cushion!

Letter from Espargal: Porto Moniz and excursions - 16 October 2016

Saturday 8 October: We hired a car and drove across the island from Funchal to the little resort of Porto Moniz on its north-west tip, where we checked into a rather nice hotel.



The hotel overlooks Porto Moniz's main attraction, a large sea pool. This has been created by constructing a low protective wall just inside a ring of rocks, flung there at some point in Madeira's volcanic past.



In this pool Jones and I swam each day, along with a lot of other people of all shapes and sizes.



Young "braves" would seat themselves on the sea wall to see if they could resist the occasional waves that came crashing across it. Bigger waves would sweep them exuberantly into the water. This always caused me to laugh aloud.



Jones was not a wall sitter. After completing a number of lengths, she would sun herself against a rock.



Once or twice, when the wind and swell were up, the authorities shut the pool, which all but vanished under the angry seas.



The spray kept the hotel window cleaners busy.



On such occasions we either went walking or touring. The coastline is spectacular, dotted with little towns and villages.



These communities are now connected with scores (literally) of tunnels and viaducts. Previous to their construction, the settlements must have been virtually isolated.



The tunnels vary in length from a few dozen metres to several kilometres. The suicidally-inclined can still walk along old coastal roads, dotted with fallen rocks from the cliffs above.



The next village along from Porto Moniz is Seixal, which has its own spectacular rocks and sea pools.



These pools are somewhat less popular, possibly because one has to descend (and later ascend) 600 steps to reach them.



Even  so, we thought it well worth the effort.



One outing was to the volcanic "tubes" at Sao Vicente, half an hour along the coast to the east.



These tubes were created by the outpourings of molten lava through vents in the walls of the volcano.



The dried lava looks like old porridge. A path has been cut along one side of the lava flow to allow visitors some headroom.



Water drips steadily through cracks in the basalt rock, collecting in pools.



After visiting the caves, visitors are shown films on the origin of volcanoes and of Madeira. They are okay although we liked the garden more.



Another visit was to the cable car at Achadas, constructed originally to ferry agricultural workers down to their plots at the bottom of the cliff, several hundred metres below. That's the lower cable station centre-right.



En route we gave a lift to two French hitchhikers who turned out, somewhat to my surprise, to be interns from Nantes hospital.



Jones decided that descending in the cable car was not necessary to her happiness - even though it's a modern replacement for the original container. Instead, she took the pictures.



So here I am at the bottom, polishing up my French. Bon jour les mumwoeselles!



From the coast the road rises steeply to inland communities such as Ribeira da Janela.



From the number of crumbling houses it's clear that their best days are behind them.



Madeira has exported a great many of its people. Those young folk who remain behind, tend to migrate to Funchal. So there's lots of property for sale in the hills.



And many of the steps, constructed to give access to agricultural plots, now lead only to bramble thickets.



Still, the flowers are as beautiful as ever.



And the coffee tastes as good.



The drive back to Funchal snakes its way up the mountain side. Caution is the watch word. Corners are blind and often hide an oncoming bus.



For those in a hurry, there's a short cut, straight up the mountain.



We spent our final night at the Albatroz Hotel, just below the airport.



It is built on the site of an old quinta that boasts wondrous gardens.



It takes decades for agaves to reach this height.



Steps lead down to the hotel's private sea pool.



Bye bye Madeira. It's been a lovely holiday!



Sunset over the Deserted Isles, lying just off Madeira.