In January 2025, I was fortunate enough to spend a week on Madeira, and this travel journal is the result. Enjoy reading—if you have questions, leave a comment!
Day 1 on Madeira – Flight and Arrival – Travel Report
Waking up in the middle of the night feels strange, as if your body stubbornly refuses to believe the day has begun. I drive to the airport alone, the city still adrift in sleep. Inside, the terminal is nearly empty—no lines to speak of. The few fellow travelers seem utterly relaxed, as though all sense of hurry has been lifted from them. At four in the morning, I reach the check-in counter, and by half past four, I’m already seated at Gate A18, listening to my Spotify playlist—this time without my girls. It’s an odd feeling, embarking on this journey by myself.
I’ve got both seats in the exit row to myself, and even manage a brief nap, surprised by the hush that settles over the plane. My impressions of TAP Air weren’t the greatest before, but this flight is reassuringly calm. Dawn unfolds spectacularly above the clouds, as though a vast curtain in glowing crimson were being drawn back. Around three hours later, Lisbon appears below, and we circle over the ocean before landing. No sooner do we touch down than I catch a man loudly explaining an IT project into his phone—quite a feat of energy so early in the day, I think.
Sunrise in the Plane
Since it’s barely after nine and my connecting flight to Madeira isn’t until three in the afternoon, I decide it’s madness to sit around the airport for hours. I briefly check the luggage carousel—just in case my pink suitcase has somehow appeared here. Thankfully, nothing. Outside, I savor a quick latte, then spot a metro station right across from the terminal. I buy a refillable travel card for fifty cents, load it with a 1.85 euro fare, pass through the turnstile—everything looks a bit confusing, but it works. The metro itself calls Athens to mind: red plastic seats with a cork-like texture, loud rattling echoing through open windows.
I step off at São Sebastião, emerging into a small park. I pause on a bench, watching people who seem entirely at ease beginning their day. There are many dark-skinned passersby, and every so often I hear music floating from old radios, to which soft voices hum along. The city feels oddly familiar, as though Copenhagen and Athens had melded into one. After a good half-hour of wandering, I realize I’ve walked in something of a circle.
I stumble upon a sunny café table and order coffee, water, and a flaky pastry stuffed with cheese and ham. The waitress is notably gracious—even though my mere four-euro bill is paid with a fifty-euro note.
On my way back, I stroll through a sprawling park, pausing by a vast pool with turquoise reflections, framed by bright flowerbeds. The metro confounds me once again with malfunctioning station displays, but eventually I reach the airport. There, a small odyssey ensues: I recall “Terminal 2,” but that proves to be the Ryanair side. A slightly grouchy staffer informs me I’m in the wrong place. Luckily, I catch the same shuttle back to Terminal 1.
After a quick security check, I locate a sandwich shop with power sockets, because my phone’s battery has all but given up. I spend two hours working on a kitchen design project while behind me an older gentleman snores so loudly he seems to have been dozing for decades. I hope he doesn’t miss his flight. Finally, I head to the S gates, where travelers crowd into a large hall, eyes glued to the departure screens. Stores abound, clearly profiting from the captive audience, since the exact gate is only announced at the last minute.
At last, S7 appears on the screen, and I join the queue. I notice a woman who makes an intermittent, rather loud grunting sound—truly unsettling. I fervently hope she’ll sit far away, but, of course, she ends up right next to me. Her husband and son seem completely unfazed, as if the noise were as common as breathing. The rows in this plane are unbelievably cramped: my usual trick of crossing my legs is futile. At least the middle seat remains empty, so I angle myself sideways. The older Portuguese man at the window doesn’t bat an eye at my contortions.
We begin our descent toward Madeira, diving through a thick layer of cloud until jagged cliffs appear below, dramatically jutting into the sea. The landing is abrupt, accompanied by a powerful jolt of brakes—Madeira’s short runway is, after all, notorious. A round of applause erupts, and I join in, relieved. At baggage claim, I spot my shiny pink suitcase without delay. No queue at the Guerin car rental desk either—everything done via self-check-in. I enter my details, get the confirmation by email. A young employee is on hand to help me navigate the system.
At the Funchal Airport
My battered Ford Focus (dented on all sides) waits in the parking garage. For 200 euros over nine days, I can’t expect miracles. After several failed attempts to operate the exit barrier, it finally lets me out. The manual transmission feels clunky, but eventually I’m on the highway, which snakes along steep cliffs and tunnels every few kilometers. Drivers are disciplined; abrupt lane changes are rare—thankfully so, given the perilously short on-ramps that cause sudden slowdowns. Eyes peeled on this highway, especially near interchanges!
Darkness arrives quickly, and I fret I might have to do without a supermarket stop when—after a bend—I see a small sign. In the modest Bom Despacho store, I stock up on the essentials: beer, bread, pasta, rice, water, chips. I request ham at the counter plus a mystery sausage, hoping it’s not blood sausage. Somehow, gestures and smiles see me through. The shop is smoky, folks sip drinks, but the atmosphere is warm and easygoing.
One last leg leads me to “Villa Brava,” my little apartment perched above Ribeira Brava. I miss one turn and have to double back. At last, I follow Marisela’s video instructions, descending several flights of stairs into the darkness. In one hand: suitcase, in the other: backpack, groceries, laptop bag—a precarious balancing act. Below, I catch a faint glimpse of the sea, hearing gentle waves.
My first priority is to check the internet: abysmally slow. Then I spot that the router is simply unplugged—one click, and everything roars to life. I cook pasta with pesto, open a half-warm beer, and settle onto the terrace in my T-shirt. The night air is mild, and the steady murmur of the Atlantic drifts upward. I scribble these lines in my travel log, relishing the moment. Life can be so sweet.
Day 2 on Madeira – Travel Report – Fanal Forest and Seixal
I wake up feeling wonderfully rested, as though the night itself had swaddled me in warm cotton. In the kitchen cupboard I spot instant coffee, and with a sweater draped over my arm, I step outside into the morning air. A gentle breeze greets me, as if it had been summoned here just to rouse my senses. In the distance, dogs bark and roosters crow, interspersed with the faint crackle of transistor radios—a strange yet strangely enchanting symphony.
I jot down a few notes in my travel journal, deciding on a whim to work on my Portuguese skills. And so, in the midst of this holiday, I begin drafting a blog post about the language—unusual, yes, but I did bring my laptop for a reason. Afterward, I have a quick video call with my wife. She laughs, shows me the weather back home, and waits patiently while I open a small “goodie bag” she secretly tucked into my luggage. A charming surprise: snacks, sunscreen, “Rei” toothpaste (a relic of days gone by), body wash, and a Madeira guidebook. All neatly wrapped in bright paper, sweet beyond words.
I prepare a simple breakfast of soft bread with ham and cheese, then note my plan for the day. Around eleven, I set off by car. Today’s destination: Fanal Forest. The road snakes past small villages, climbing curve after hairpin curve into ever higher ground. Eventually, I reach a patch of woodland bearing signs of logging—bare trunks and heavy equipment disrupt the otherwise peaceful setting. Soon enough, the foliage thins, revealing a broad plateau and countless hiking trails. A few more turns, and I arrive at the famed Fanal parking area.
Fanal Forest
No sooner do I step out than I spot those twisted, moss-covered trees that so often feature in dreamy photographs. Some seem hollowed out, while others reach skyward with oddly contorted limbs. In the forest’s main section, Instagrammers hustle about, cameras at the ready—waiting for just the right pose amid the gnarled branches. I veer left instead, stumbling on a group of cows roaming free, as if they were the true masters of this wild, romantic landscape. Curious, I climb a steep slope, eventually pausing at a breathtaking vantage point—an ideal spot to launch my drone. It hums above the treetops, buffeted by an increasingly insistent wind.
My camera acts up, switching to ISO 1600 unbidden. Here’s hoping the footage still turns out.
Levada dos Cedros
After a while, I return to the car and continue to my next stop: the footpath along the Levada dos Cedros. Even before I shut off the engine, I can hear water burbling somewhere ahead. Ten minutes along the narrow trail, the glassy rivulet emerges from behind a bend, its gentle flow mesmerizing. Sunbeams filter through the canopy as though on cue, and I seize the moment to set up my camera and microphone. For five minutes, I film and simply listen—like catching an age-old lullaby carried by the water.
Seixal’s Rugged Shore
I’d hoped to see the renowned natural pools of Porto Moniz, but Google Maps shows the route blocked. Instead, I aim for Seixal (often spelled “Saixal”). The first beach there is more a gravel slope than a place to sunbathe. A few fishermen try their luck, while further out a diver’s silhouette bobs on the waves. I drive through narrow lanes, observe the busy restaurants, and miss the turn to a second beach. No matter—I’ve seen enough for one day, and decide to head back toward Ribeira Brava. Numerous tunnels shorten the return trip considerably.
A quick visit to my trusty little supermarket to pick up a few odds and ends, and then disaster strikes: as I pull into my apartment’s parking area, the car’s undercarriage scrapes a hidden curb—really a low wall protruding at an awkward angle. For a heart-stopping moment I think I’m stuck fast, but with a hideous grinding sound, I manage to reverse off. Thank heaven for full insurance.
Finally, I shuffle down toward my apartment, arms weighed down with bags. Along the way, I spot a chair in the communal barbecue nook—far more comfortable than the tiny stools that adorn my terrace. I don’t hesitate. Plopping down on it, I phone my brother, then my daughter, and crack open a cold beer. Such a small victory, but it tastes marvelous.
Day 3 on Madeira – Levadas and Santana – Travel Report
It is still early morning when I stir, having retired the night before without the usual evening distractions. Outside my window, drifting clouds mingle with bright patches of sky, promising a fair day. I pour myself some coffee and jot a few notes in my travel journal, even as the island’s sounds awaken—somewhere a dog barks, on another hillside a rooster crows.
Heading North Again
Today, I’m bound for the northern part of the island once more. The highway cuts straight through Madeira’s heart, only to rise again in snaking turns and echoing tunnels. Sweeping vistas unfold: rugged mountain ridges, lush valleys, and tendrils of cloud snagged on craggy outcrops. I pause at a jaw-dropping viewpoint, but I soon discover it’s someone’s private property. The owner’s bellows and frantic gestures tell me I should leave—immediately. I wave my camera apologetically and drive on. A moment of panic seizes me—did I lose my wallet since yesterday? But thankfully, it’s right in my camera bag.
Levada do Rei
After a string of tunnels and some nerve-racking curves, I arrive at the Levada do Rei—“the King’s Levada.” Brimming with enthusiasm, I lace up my hiking shoes and follow the narrow channel of rushing water. Here, it tumbles steeply down a mountainside, while the path veers off into a gentle bend. Odd, I think, as the trail widens into what feels more like a rough logging road. Fallen branches and wood chips lie scattered, bushes rustle with the unseen scurry of lizards, and a tiny bird hops across my path. A kilometer in, I find myself at a sheer ravine—dead end. Evidently, I missed the proper fork where the water cascades down. Too bad—back to the car I go.
Santana and Its Traditional Houses
Next, I point the car toward the lighthouse of Ponta de São Jorge, which proves to be a rather plain concrete tower. So, onward to Santana. I cruise through the town, hunting for a decent parking spot, and choose a steep side road. The place hums with life, especially around the main square where open stalls display fresh produce. Then I spot them: the famous Casas Típicas, those triangular, thatched-roof cottages framed by flowers and rickety benches—like a scene out of a storybook. I duck into the neighboring supermarket for a cold cola, letting the postcard charm of it all sink in. A particularly striking cottage sits off to one side, near an imposing concrete block, surrounded by a carefully tended garden. I photograph it from every angle.
Miradouro do Guindaste
My next stop is the Miradouro do Guindaste viewpoint, just below Faial. Here, a barren cliff juts over the coastline like a giant eagle’s head, with waves thundering in fierce sprays below. A perfect spot to send up the drone. Far beneath, almost toy-like, I glimpse a sprawling sports complex with a soccer field, a go-kart track, and tennis courts.
Porto da Cruz and the Levada dos Balcões
I continue on to Porto da Cruz, pausing at a vantage high above the town. Down by the shore, surfers cluster in the waves, but I stay put to savor the panorama. Soon, I plot a route toward the Levada dos Balcões—an adventure in itself, with dramatic precipices, lush growth, and sinuous switchbacks that demand my full attention. My GoPro clings to the windshield, gathering footage that promises to be spectacular.
Not far from the trailhead, I chance on what must be a Sunday hot spot: a local eatery packed with islanders and chaotic parking. In reverse, I squeeze into a tight space while oncoming drivers graciously wait. Hardly have I stepped out when a prime spot opens across the road—life’s little ironies. The canal path is flat, so I skip the hiking boots. After walking for a while, I realize I’ve gone far beyond the distance on the map. Determined not to lose track of the path, I suddenly fret about whether I grabbed the GoPro from the car. I head back, uneasy, only to confirm I’d removed it ages ago. Somehow, I’m not fully in the mood for hiking today; every additional step seems a longer trek back.
Evening in Funchal?
At length, I decide to wrap up the day near Funchal, tempted to visit its tropical garden. But upon seeing the steep, perilous road up, I balk. Instead, I return to my favorite little supermarket—closed today, it’s Sunday. Weary and hungry, I drop onto my terrace at last. The moment I open my journal to record the day’s exploits, the first raindrops patter down. Retreating indoors, I whip up a risotto, slice a bit of chorizo, and pour myself some red wine. Outside, the rain rattles against the shutters while I reflect on the day’s adventures and retire early beneath the covers.
Day 4 on Madeira – Working and Scenic Views in the Rain – Travel Report
I’m already up before sunrise, setting up my makeshift office at the small bar that doubles as a kitchen counter in my apartment. The day begins, yet outside the rain hammers the windows, as if intent on washing the island clean. Every so often, I cast a wistful glance at the sea—a gray-blue expanse fading almost seamlessly into the low-hanging clouds. Fortunately, the internet holds steady, and my meetings go off without a hitch. Then, around midday, the real front arrives: A dense haze envelops all of Madeira, and the island all but vanishes from sight.
A Break in the Storm
After I wrap up work, the storm gradually passes. Unable to resist, I grab my car keys to visit the lookout point above Ribeira Brava. The wet road gleams in the last traces of daylight. Once at the top, I’m welcomed by a dramatic tableau: tatters of cloud drape the mountain slopes, and the Atlantic below shimmers like a restless mirror. A fleeting hush, shared by only a handful of other part-time adventurers.
A Stop at the Supermarket
On the way back, I pause at my trusted little supermarket, stocking up on water, milk, and a few other essentials. A spice mix of paprika and cumin catches my eye; I toss it into the basket, not entirely sure what I’ll do with it. Yet such impulsive buys often turn to culinary gold once I’m home.
Evening Routine
For dinner, I opt for a quick pasta dish in tomato sauce—having finished off the leftover risotto at lunchtime. I turn in early, like a cat that’s spent the day listening to the rain. Close to midnight, I stir briefly, surprised by how rested I feel. I lie there in the darkness, the soft patter of raindrops whispering at the windows, and slip back under the covers to find my dreams again.
Day 5 on Madeira – Câmara de Lobos and Cabo Girão – Travel Report
The fifth day on Madeira breaks under cover of darkness, the storm still howling, shaking the shutters like a sullen giant. Before dawn, I’m jolted awake by a clatter: the wind has toppled a metal chair on my terrace, now sending torrents of rain cascading into shallow pools and rivulets. I resume my place at the makeshift bar, diving into work for the day. My first presentation goes smoothly despite the unrelenting downpour on the roof. Every so often the weather teases with a bright interval, rainbow arcs appearing over the Atlantic.
Câmara de Lobos
In the afternoon, the tempest finally allows itself a brief pause, so I drive to the nearby fishing town of Câmara de Lobos. The instant I roll into the main lot, disheveled figures rush over, eager to guide me into a parking space. I instinctively reach for loose change; it’s clear they aren’t just being friendly. The same routine repeats at the ticket machine.
A stone staircase to the left of the harbor grants me a sweeping view. Below lies a dark pebble beach, flanked by a snug harbor where fishing boats crowd together—a reminder that centuries ago, before roads or modern utilities, settling an island like this must have been unimaginably challenging. Locals and visitors mix in the café-lined marina; a tiny chapel and a strip of souvenir shops beckon. Following the seawall, I watch mighty waves crash against the cliffs across the water. Farther on, a mural depicts a massive seal. This corner of Madeira is also known for Winston Churchill, who painted here; a bronze statue—cigar in hand, hat on head—commemorates him outside the hotel that bears his name.
Cabo Girão
Next up is Cabo Girão. I trail a bus that appears to stop at every other front door, as if formal bus stops were mere suggestions. At the summit, the parking lot is half-empty, and I wrestle briefly with the ticket machine, which won’t accept my contactless payment. Eventually I cross through the turnstile and, just a few steps later, stand atop the Skywalk: a semicircular glass platform suspended hundreds of meters above the sea. I tread cautiously, like crossing thin ice, captivated by the sheer drop beneath me. Steep cliffs frame the coastline, and ominous clouds gather over the brilliant ocean. A couple asks if I’ll snap their photo; I oblige, we exchange a few pleasant words, and then the drizzle intensifies—time to head back.
The roads down are dizzyingly steep, demanding my full attention. As is my custom, I swing by my favorite little supermarket, where I scoop up pizza, bread rolls, and fresh salami. Outside, the rain still churns, though it’s begun to taper off. Back in my apartment, I stow my purchases and let the day wind down. The storm is calmer now but still lingers in the background, like a weary titan drifting into slumber. By sundown, the sky has cleared, holding out hope for better weather in the days ahead.
Day 6 on Madeira – Anjos Waterfall and Calheta – Travel Report
At last, the storm has passed, though a gentle drizzle still drips from the sky. My morning begins once again with work, punctuated by glimpses of the sky’s changing shapes and colors. Together with the sun, the shifting clouds paint one rainbow after another across the Atlantic. Truly magical.
Exploring the Anjos Waterfall
Later, I even manage to work from the terrace—today’s sunshine is strong enough that I actually need sunscreen. Once I’ve clocked out, I steer the car west to explore more of the southern coast. First stop: the Anjos waterfall, a mesmerizing sight accessible via a disused tunnel. Portions of the old road are in ruins, draped with seaweed-like grass. Water pours relentlessly onto the asphalt below, where the road has been cordoned off, and the narrow parking area overflows with vehicles turning in impossibly tight quarters—delivery vans and day-trippers jockey for room.
Calheta’s Steep Descent
Headed back, I face a test of patience as the rain returns and steep, twisting roads demand caution. In Calheta, I pause for a quick shop, eyeing the almost vertical descent to the beach with some trepidation. The cashier doesn’t catch my question about safety, so I linger under a small awning, sipping cola and surveying a row of shops—a hair salon, a clothing store, a realtor’s office. Eventually, I decide to attempt the descent after all. Below, a wide sand beach unfolds, ringed by massive breakwaters holding off the pounding surf. Palms line the shore, giving this artificial nook an easy charm. Atop a small bluff, kids shriek with delight on a playground, while bracing waves thunder against the walls. In the quiet mouth of a nearby stream, two ducks with brilliantly patterned faces glide by.
Navigating home proves trickier than expected—my GPS loses its bearings in the tunnels, and I take several wrong turns. Eventually, two familiar cats greet me like small sentinels at my apartment. I’ve seen them for days now, casting that patient feline gaze that says, “You’d better not come home empty-handed.” This time, I carry grocery bags, so I receive no scolding.
Evening on the Terrace
I spend the twilight hours exactly as I’d hoped: mild air, a faint hint of salt, and thoughts wandering with the sound of waves. I finish the day with some decadent sandwiches, melted cheese and ham elevating me to pure contentment. My phone tempts me with countless trivial videos—yes, I watch too many. Eventually, I set it aside and allow the evening to slip by in gentle gratitude.
Day 7 on Madeira – Enjoying Life on the Terrace – Travel Report
I wake with a heavy head, having stayed up too late the night before. Coffee brewed, social media checked, a quick shower, and then it’s straight into work. The projects keep me busy, the messages never stop—but at least I can slip outside now and then to savor the gentle Atlantic breeze.
Sweet Orange and Afternoon Respite
During a break, I indulge in a supermarket-bought orange—so juicy and sweet it leaves my fingers sticky. My filleting skills are hardly worth boasting about, yet the taste makes it all worthwhile. By afternoon, I’ve lost the drive to explore the island further. Instead, I set myself up on the terrace, jot a few lines in my travel diary, and send the drone aloft. The wind is brisk, but the coastal footage looks magnificent. My reward? A spectacular sunset, streaked with fiery red as dusk settles in.
Unhealthy Habits and a Video Call
Alas, I’ve developed a rather unhealthy evening routine: tonight it’s another big plate of pasta and a bag of chips—a nutritional time bomb. I turn in early, feeling weighed down and sleep fitfully. Before that, though, I call my daughter, who’s feeling frustrated at her law-firm internship—boredom and chaos all at once. I encourage her to take the initiative. Tomorrow, she’ll bring her laptop to work on her internship report. “It’ll be fine,” I say, hoping my words truly help. Then I snap my phone shut and listen to the night of Madeira gently usher me into a restless sleep.
Day 8 on Madeira – Funchal and the Basket Toboggans – Travel Report
I wake up reminded of last night’s lapse in judgment: heartburn from snacking too much right before bed. “No more chips after sunset,” I vow, sipping a strong coffee after a quick shower. A long-scheduled meeting about custom kitchen plans goes smoothly, allowing me to clock out by midday.
This suits me perfectly, as I want to explore Funchal today. Getting there is gratifyingly easy, and I spot a parking garage right by the market hall—though the spaces feel as cramped as sardine tins. After some careful maneuvering, I finally manage to stow the car without further damage.
Wandering the Market Hall
The moment I step inside, I’m greeted by a lively hubbub: fruits and vegetables pile up in a dazzling array of oranges, passion fruit, and mangos. Around the edges, florists and wine merchants proudly display Madeira’s finest products. I load my backpack with local treats—wine, poncha, honey, and jams.
A merchant up on the mezzanine, busy taking inventory, gives me a cheeky grin and congratulates me for not having to do such tedious work. From above, I take in the bustle below; in the fish section, massive tuna and saber-like black scabbardfish are being sliced up, with even salted cod hanging like relics of old.
Strolling the Waterfront
I leave the market and wander down toward the promenade. The view is impressive: on one side, the broad Atlantic; on the other, a tangle of streets, church spires, and arches. A white bell tower beckons me into a charming side alley, where cafés and bars form a cozy haven. Next, I roam an automobile-free shopping street, sampling a local specialty—garlic bread, warm and savory, simply delicious.
The Famous Basket Toboggans
My next goal is the iconic basket toboggans above Funchal. To reach the end station, I follow a narrow lane on foot, learning that tickets are sold only at the top. Taxis hover nearby, angling for a fare. They quote 25 euros, which I refuse—until one driver accepts 15, my personal limit. He proves chatty and hands me a map to photograph, pointing out local highlights.
At the top, however, I’m surprised to find they only take cash, and my last 30 euros just barely cover the ticket. But off we go. Two men, dressed like they’ve stepped from a vintage postcard, stand at the back of the wicker sled. They gesture for me to remove my hat and have my GoPro ready. We glide down the slope, overtaking a pair of sleds that seem to have more trouble. My drivers, like stage directors of a silent film, steer with aplomb. They joke that overtaking requires a “fee”—if I’m willing to pay, they’ll zip right past. I politely decline. Five minutes later, we come to a halt, and a photographer offers me a snapshot—thankfully payable by card. It’s a humorous souvenir of a brief but thrilling ride.
Afterward, I learn there’s a cable car that carries visitors straight back up, neatly pairing with the toboggan adventure. I briefly consider the Botanical Garden but decide against it; both gardens charge admission, and the flowers this time of year might be sparse. Instead, I spontaneously drive to Ponta do Sol to record the sound of crashing waves—an audio obsession of mine. It’s rather windy, though, so I’m unsure if the microphone will pick up more than gusts. I feed my last 50-cent coin into the parking meter and finally head back to my apartment.
Evening Serenity
On the terrace, I soak in the end-of-day light, exactly how I pictured Madeira: warm, gentle rays brushing the hills, and the faint tang of sea salt drifting past. I jot a few final notes in my travel log, content without chips—finding more satisfaction in this simple moment than I ever could in a midnight snack.
Day 9 on Madeira – Pico do Arieiro and Farewell – Travel Report
The last day on Madeira greets me with rain, but I quickly brew a coffee and gather what remains in my kitchen for a humble breakfast: one sandwich and two eggs—barely enough, but it’ll do. Early in the morning, I set out for Pico do Arieiro. Soon, I burst through the thick cloud layer, and suddenly the sky above is a brilliant shade of blue.
A Steep Ascent
Google Maps tries to shave “two minutes” off my drive, leading me onto a heart-stopping side road with a punishing grade. It begins in a lush, primeval forest—dense and damp—until I clear the tree line and all that remains are low green shrubs clinging to the mountainside. The view is breathtaking. At the summit, I manage to park close to the peak, buy a three-hour ticket, and venture onto the narrow ridge trail. At first, I’m blessed with sunshine and a sweeping panorama, but in an instant, I’m swallowed by a dense rain cloud. A few birds flit through the haze, and some odd, chicken-like creatures scuttle about. The path is well maintained but demanding; I climb step after step, finally reaching a viewpoint that, despite the damp, still offers a majestic hint of Madeira’s rugged beauty.
The Final Evening
On the return journey, I choose a more conventional road, though the thick mist clouds my vision to just a few meters. An hour later, I’m back in Ribeira Brava, topping off my gas tank so I won’t have to bother with it tomorrow morning. At Villa Brava, I throw a pizza in the oven and slowly start packing my things. I think of my family, anticipating the moment I see them again, yet I already feel a pang knowing how much I’ll miss the ocean view, the soft climate, and the island’s raw splendor.
