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| Dramatic cliffs line the coast of Madeira (photo: Alamy; MWC) |
One of the earliest ravers was H N Coleridge, nephew of the poet, who waxed lyrical after a visit in 1825: “I should think the situation of Madeira the most enviable on the whole earth. It ensures every European comfort with almost every tropical luxury.” Madeirans know this of course, and over the years have enhanced their quality of life by producing a cornucopia of fine food and wine. They have also helpfully provided access to their tumultuous countryside by building more than 1,000 miles of irrigation channels, accompanied by footpaths that snake through the kind of striking landscapes dreamt up by J R R Tolkien.
Which is how my wife and I find ourselves strolling through a sun-dappled mimosa forest between two renowned botanical gardens, and looking forward to an al fresco lunch on the terrace of a hillside tea room en route. It is midwinter, and there are reports of blizzards sweeping Britain. We try not to feel smug, and fail.
There was a time when I’d trek a strenuous trail over Madeira’s highest mountains, unfazed by sheer cliffs that would appeal to base jumpers. Since then age and a scary incident with a parachute have imbued me with vertigo, and when it comes to narrow paths and exposed edges this Braveheart is more of a Faintheart.
Luckily, our guidebook lists a variety of walks with no such perils, and the Levada dos Tornos between the Palheiro and Funchal municipal botanical gardens is a gentle introduction to them.
Most of the island is an exuberant botanical garden of volcanic soil where just about anything grows, the difference being that the formal gardens have created a semblance of order in the horticultural chaos. Palheiro, in the hills above Funchal, has an outstanding collection of camellias, but the most impressive specimen is a towering Norfolk Island pine from New Zealand, a veritable Lord of the Forest that looks ready to join Frodo Baggins in battle against the evil Sauron. My wife instinctively hugs its massive trunk, and feels better for it. Then I do too.
The beauty of the levadas is that they are fairly level, quiet water channels in rural areas where noise is limited to birdsong, an occasional barking dog and tolling of distant church bells. All of which we hear on a wander along the Levada do Norte between the hill villages of Estreito de Câmara de Lobos and Nogueira. This is the island’s main wine-producing area, a patchwork of precipitous terraced vineyards that appear to defy logic and gravity. Aficionados of Madeira’s fortified wines should know they are produced by back-breaking toil in vineyards not much bigger than back gardens. There is not enough level land here to park a harvesting machine, much less use one.
In a deep, green valley we pass a farmer with two happy dogs tilling his soil, and another bent under the weight of a load of vine branches, and walk over an old stone bridge that looks as if it was built by the Romans.
It is as if we have slipped back in time, and might meet Coleridge around the next corner. Instead we catch a bus back to Estreito, thanks to a villager in Nagueira who helps us to find an unmarked bus stop outside the Café Nicola.
After all this exertion, it is important to have a tranquil refuge to retire to. The former residence of General William Beresford, British military governor of the island in 1808, fits the bill perfectly. The Quinta Jardins do Lago is an elegant country mansion set in formal gardens above the hustle and bustle of Funchal, offering good food and croquet on the lawn. Just the place in which to unwind after an arduous campaign in the Napoleonic Wars, or a brisk stroll along a levada.
It seems most visitors are content to wander around the capital and nearby villages, which is fine with us. This leaves much of the island largely untouched by mass tourism, preserving its rural charm.
And its wildness. The volcanic heart of Madeira, reached on a helter-skelter road winding up above the clouds, is a geological nightmare of splintered rock-like monstrous broken teeth. The road ends at the summit of Pico do Arieiro, the third-highest peak, where a snack bar offers panoramic views of solidified lava and ash that are a vision of the dawn of time. The effect is of a silent, primal scream. There should be signs saying beware of low-flying pterodactyls. Instead, oddly, there is a visitor centre devoted to the endangered Madeiran petrel.
The road north winds down through a gentler landscape of forests and lush valleys reminiscent of Indian hill stations and tea plantations. The locals don’t grow tea, but they cultivate just about everything else on terraces clinging to vertiginous slopes.
The place to head for here is the Quinta do Furão, a country house hotel below Santana with a restaurant terrace perched above a succession of rocky headlands, where the island plunges into the Atlantic with a dramatic flourish. The hotel also has a chef who performs wonders with fresh trout and sea bass, served variously with lemon grass and champagne sauces.
Before leaving, our waiter offers us a glimpse of old Madeira in a dried goatskin. Not so long ago, before the islanders got around to building roads, this was a way of transporting wine from the north to Funchal. Strong men would take two days to traverse the mountainous interior carrying goatskins of wine weighing up to 70kg. At least it was accepted they could lighten their load along the way, and by the time they arrived they were less burdened and less sober.
A more refined approach to wine is taken in the head office and tasting room of Pereira D’Oliveira, purveyor of the island’s finest vintages for more than a century. An air of antiquity mingled with the semi-sweet aromas of wine pervades its 17th-century warehouse in Funchal, where astonishingly venerable wines can be sampled around oak barrel tables.
Looking for a wine to commemorate the building of the Eiffel Tower in 1890, or perhaps to commiserate with the sinking of the Titanic in 1912? Or how about a prized wine from 1850, the year D’Oliveira was founded? All are available, at prices deemed reasonable by connoisseurs.
“They are never easy wines, or ones that immediately win the empathy of the taster,” says Rui Falcão, a respected Portuguese wine writer, “but they are genuine and grandiose, capable of lifting us up and taking our breath away.” A bit like the land they come from. Our final excursion is a walk through sheep farming country that begins and ends at a rustic mountain inn. Inevitably there are no gentle meadows, but instead rumpled green hills and deep valleys with views to the sea that are little short of magical.
It is the weekend, and when we return to the Abrigo do Pastor (Shepherd’s Rest) it is busy with locals tucking in to traditional fare of wild boar steaks with fruit, and various stews featuring goats and rabbits.
I opt for Açorda Madeirense, a spicy soup of bread, olive oil and garlic with poached egg, and listen to our waiter speaking of his homeland. “This is a small island, but visitors often get lost, and even I don’t know all of it. There is much to discover.” As Mr Coleridge rightly observed."
Gavin Bell
Porto Santo: Madeira's deserted sunshine isle
On the 10-minute flight from Funchal to Porto Santo, a golden fleck of an island 28 miles north- east of Madeira, I was already smitten. Our small plane flew the entire length of a five-mile stretch of virgin sand flanked by mirror-calm turquoise ocean, more like the Caribbean than the Atlantic – and the beach was deserted.
In high summer, Porto Santo morphs into a party island colonised by the offspring of Madeirans with second homes there, but in spring I enjoyed clear blue skies and bright sunshine without encountering a soul.
I was mainly here for the wreck diving – the Madeirense, a 230ft-long vessel guarded by a giant grouper, was deliberately sunk in 2000 to create an artificial reef for divers. Then there is the golf. The late Seve Ballesteros fashioned a challenging oceanside course set against a backdrop of the beach and two extinct volcanoes. Hiking, riding and game fishing are among the other diversions. Tiny Vila Baleira, home to the Christopher Columbus Museum, serves as the capital and has just a handful of hotels and restaurants.
For a treat, take the ferry back to Funchal. The crossing on the Lobo Marinho (portosantoline.pt) takes 2½hours – just enough time for a dinner on board at the Algas e Corais restaurant, with its starched table linen and gleaming glassware.
At a sunny table by the window I was served Azorian soft cheese with garlicky marinade and piquant black olives, carpaccio of beef with Parmesan, then scabbardfish cooked to buttery perfection and accompanied by a Cortes de Cima Chaminé viognier from the Alentejo. As the sunset blazed over craggy Ilhéu de Baixo ou da Cal, just south of Porto Santo, dolphins played in the bow wave beneath my window and I spotted a pilot whale. Flying isn’t quite the same.
Andrew Purvis
Essentials:
When to go: a temperate climate makes it an ideal escape from icy northern winters and the oppressive heat of Continental summers. Spring is warm and comes early: during the annual flower festival (April 16-22 this year), Funchal is filled with floral carpets, floats and folklore performances.
Guidebook: Shirley Whitehead’s Madeira Walks (Discovery Walking Guides, £12.99).
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