MADEIRA  2016

Thursday 19.5.16

Tomorrow we’re flying off to Madeira.

I woke to the news that a passenger jet had been blown out of the sky, the Zika virus was grabbing a hold in Europe (Madeira has been rated as high risk apparently) and coming out of the EU will probably escalate into the third world war.

Nothing to worry about there then.

It’s time to re-check my suitcase I think.

Let’s see, parachute – check.

That Ebola orange anti-contamination suit I bought off Ebay last year and everyone laughed and said I’d never find a use for it – check.

Gas mask and my old Vera Lynn 78s in case of a third world war – check.

I’m feeling slightly better already.

Friday 20.5.16

The taxi arrived on time at 09.45. A black Mercedes turned up and the driver was surprisingly well dressed in a black suit and tie. He seemed quite subdued but only until we’d loaded our suitcases and got in the car. Once we were on our way though, he never stopped talking. He just didn’t pause for breath.

He asked us where we were going and would you believe it his father was from Madeira but had lived in South Africa for about twenty-five years. We heard all about his family (he had a South African accent and after five minutes or so it was really getting on my nerves), then we progressed to his career. He worked in I.T. for IBM but gave it up because he realised he’d be studying all his life as technology changed. He’d run a car hire business and even had a pilot’s licence. His business career was long and successful.

I thought to myself, why the hell are you driving a taxi for a living then?

We got to Gatwick by 10.30.

There were various Thomson check-in desks and you used any one of them when it was your turn. While we were shuffling slowly forward a Thomson rep suddenly shouted, “Anyone here for Flight TA3421 to Greece?” Immediately three or four families near the back of the queue put their hands up, all shouting, “Yes, we are.”

“Please come forward,” said the Thomson man and ushered them to the front of the queue.

After a few minutes the man in front of us collared the Thomson man and started to complain, “I’ve been stuck in this queue for nearly two hours. Why are these people getting preferential treatment? It’s a joke. It’s a joke. It’s a joke, that’s what it is. It’s a bloody joke.”

The Thomson man said, “Their flight leaves soon and they need to book in quickly.”

Joke man said, “They should have got here earlier then. It’s a joke. That’s what it is. It’s a bloody joke.”

The Thomson man said, “How would you feel sir if your flight was imminent?”

Joke man said, “I’d be here bloody earlier. It’s a joke.”

The Thomson man made a diplomatic retreat and continued wandering around the check-in queue but this time he was much quieter. There were still some people in the queue for this imminent Greek flight but the Thomson man was making every effort to get them to the front of the queue without Joke man seeing him do it. Joke man obviously did see them but the Thomson man made sure he didn’t walk anywhere near him again.

Blimey, if that’s what Joke man’s like sober I’d hate to see him drunk.

And guess what? Our flight was delayed. Instead of leaving at 13.45 it was now going at 15.20. A delay apparently caused by those bastard French air traffic controllers – again.

So here we are, sitting around the departure lounge, just waiting…and waiting.

Then I suddenly saw a tall, thin matchstick of a man strolling through the departure lounge dressed in a sort of superhero outfit. He was wearing a bright blue stretch lycra body suit, red boots, red underpants and a red cape. Emblazoned across the back of his cape was the one word ‘WILLY’. He also had ‘WILLY’ prominently displayed on the back of his underpants.

Surely he should have had that across the front of his pants shouldn’t he? Just in case he forgot where it was, I would have thought.

Finally boarded and we were on our way. Made up a bit of time on the flight and before we knew it we were boarding the hotel transfer coach where BeckytheThomsonrep was waiting. She seemed to have forgotten we’d arrived three hours later than planned due to those bastard French air traffic controllers, as the first thing she said once the coach was underway was “Good afternoon everybody, or should I say good evening, ha ha ha.”

Dead silence on the coach greeted this witticism.

We’re booked into an all-inclusive deal in the Lido area just outside the main town of Funchal. Our hotel was roughly a 30 minute journey and by the time we’d checked in it was 20.40. We went straight to our room after avoiding the luggage porter who was hovering in reception with his luggage trolley, rushed into dinner before they stopped serving and then, noticing there was hotel entertainment to be had downstairs, we just had to see it.

Well I did, not sure if Pauline really cared that much but hotel entertainment is what keeps me going in places like this.

We only caught the last fifteen minutes or so but it was a somewhat frenetic dance act consisting of two girls and three of the campest male dancers I’ve ever seen. OK, I know most male dancers are camp but these three were fabulouso, dear. The girls did lots of high kicks and wiggling while the boys accompanied by rapid foot movements, lifted her up and generally threw her around a bit.

We got back to our room and Pauline began unpacking. I helped by keeping out of her way.

By the way, did I mention those bastard air traffic controllers?

Saturday 21.5.16

We’ve got our blue hospital tags around our wrist to denote we’re on an all-in deal.

All food and drink is available to us for only nothing.

The trouble is you can’t get the tags off without destroying them so we stroll around wherever we happen to be, looking like day release patients from the local lunatic asylum.

It was a cloudy morning so we decided to walk into Funchal. It takes about 30 minutes and for the first part you can stroll out of the hotel and along the very attractive sea front but this eventually peters out and you have to start climbing some very steep inclines to take you up and onto a main road until this drops down and the sea front becomes accessible again for the rest of the way.

We decided to get a bus back. It was extremely crowded with people standing from the very front to the very back of the bus. I was strap-hanging next to an elderly lady also strap-hanging but she was fairly short and had real trouble keeping her balance as the bus was lurching violently from side to side. I said to her, “Here, hold my hand.” which she did, gripping it really tightly. I could see she and her equally elderly husband were getting off at our stop. We had matching blue tags around our wrists.

I didn’t tell her the only reason we were holding hands was so I wouldn’t fall over but I did say to her as we got off that she had to marry me now. Much to her amusement.

Tonight’s entertainment is a man playing a saxophone to backing tracks accompanied by another man sitting behind a table littered with lots of small drums, cymbals and other bashing things. It’s very highly amplified and the saxophonist is very good…but boring. He’s playing all the lounge standards and the audience of mainly over sixties is lapping it up along with their free drinks from the free bar which is free.

There’s lots of clapping and sing-along stuff but for me the lounge repertoire does get somewhat tedious after a while and even with a never-ending supply of free brandies from the free bar which is free, I can’t bring myself to clap out of time and sing the wrong words like most of the audience is doing.

By the way, did I mention the bastard French air traffic controllers?

We were sitting towards the back of the room just in front of the free bar which was free and to our left and just behind us were two couples at a table, clearly taking advantage of the free drinks from the free bar which was free.

One of the women never sat down. She just stood there dancing and swaying to the music while her partner sat at the table and joined in whenever he felt like it. The other couple did something similar but it was the man who was the more extrovert or more precisely, the more pissed. He didn’t stop singing and dancing. He didn’t just sing along to every song played, he interpreted it too with wild hand and arm gestures and meaningful looks.

At one point they obviously found the free bar area which served free drinks which were free, too restricting and the four of them staggered onto the dance floor in front of the stage. The dancing, swaying lady danced and swayed straight onto the low level stage area and began dancing with the saxophonist, much to his surprise, who was right in the middle of ‘I Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You’.

By the end of the evening the man who sang a lot was sitting at a table next to a woman and singing directly to her.

It was also at this point that one of the women, not the dancing, swaying one, came over, touched my shirt and said, ”That’s a fabulous shirt. We’ve all been looking at it all evening. What a great shirt.” She then got into a long conversation with Pauline who she interrupted every so often by touching my shirt and repeating, “That’s a great shirt. What a great shirt that is.”

I haven’t taken it off since. I slept in it and will be wearing it 24 hours a day until we get home. Thinking about it I may just wear it permanently until the outbreak of world war three which I’m reliably informed is imminent. I’ll take it off then, obviously, because I might look slightly over-dressed, what with my gas mask and everything.

Sunday 21.5.16

Morning by the pool.

It’s 11 a.m. and a waiter has just wandered up to me with a tray of beers and offered me one. I took it and he went straight back inside for another tray.

A really lazy day. Just lounging by the pool eating and drinking.

There are lots of French and German tourists here. The French men all seem to look like Charles Aznavour, short, ugly and hairy. I’m not really sure if Charles Aznavour was actually hairy but he looked like he was didn’t he? The Germans all look fat.

One man used a complete tube of sun screen in one application.

In addition to the serve yourself buffet, the hotel has three additional restaurants. Like everything else here, they are free as well but you do have to book in advance. They are themed restaurants, one serving local Madeiran dishes, one an Italian and one a Japanese.

We’re booked into the Madeiran one tonight and while we were standing outside waiting for it to open I took the opportunity to check out the menu. The first course was a choice of cake or cake. The second course was a choice of cake or cake or cake and the sweet trolley had a variety of cake.

We took our seats and I said to the waiter, “Haven’t you got anything else other than cake?”

He looked startled and said, “Of course sir, we have cake if you prefer it.”

Our table had been booked for 7 p.m. and I wasn’t feeling particularly hungry what with all those trays of beer the waiter kept giving me earlier by the pool but luckily the first course of Madeiran appetisers consisted of a few olives, some fish pate and a couple of small pieces of garlic bread. This I could cope with.

The second course was tomato and onion soup with a poached egg floating in it. Pauline asked for hers without the poached egg – I didn’t. You’ve got to live dangerously haven’t you?

The third course was fish fillets served in a banana sauce with half a sliced banana. Up until now I’d been feeling quite full but coping. Now, however, we were moving up a gear. There were two large fish fillets on the plate. Pauline could only manage the one so I helped her out by eating her other one and my appetite suddenly returned.

Three fish fillets down and I was glancing across at the next table on my right where a woman had left one of her fish fillets uneaten. We made eye contact and I said, “It’s no use looking at me, I can’t manage yours as well.”

A waste of time as she appeared to be French and didn’t understand me.

The meal was beginning to take its toll on the other diners by now. People were raising their eyebrows while patting their stomachs and there was still the final course to come, a selection of Madeiran cakes and pastries.

As the waiter placed a large plateful of various cakes, cream puddings and pastries in front of the woman at a table to my left, she looked at it, sighed and shook her head slightly. “Don’t worry, give it to me. I’ll eat it,” I said.

The meal over and it was only 9 p.m. We’d spent the whole day doing absolutely nothing, just lying on a sunbed. We’d progressed from that to eating a huge meal lasting two hours and as we rolled out of the restaurant we both felt so tired we had an early night.

Monday 23.5.16

We took another walk into Funchal this morning and without realising it we suddenly ended up at a cable car departure point and a very smart and modern reception area. The cable cars hoist people up the side of a mountain from sea level to the top of a mountainous region upon which the “renowned” Botanical Gardens have been established. The other way of reaching the gardens was by bus but we decided to buy tickets for the cable car instead. Living dangerously again eh? What a time to be alive.

Pauline’s not very good with heights, she gets dizzy standing on tip-toes, but she agreed to the cable ride, mainly for my benefit I think.

We bought all-in tickets for the ride and gardens and made our way to the end of a queue of people waiting to get into the cable cars. The car came swishing to a halt and we were ushered into it along with four other people. Then just before the automatic door closed a female photographer appeared from out of nowhere and started shouting at me, “Over ‘ere, look at me, ‘ave a smile, thank you.” She then struggled to take photos of each couple in the few seconds she had before the car moved off.

What a liberty. No checking to see if you wanted your photo taken, it was you will have your photo taken whether you like it or not.

The trip was quite a peaceful and relaxing experience, well for me anyway, not so much for Pauline but she coped well. Skimming up the mountainside, hovering just above the houses and gardens below was very restful for me until I was suddenly woken from my reverie by the ringtone of Pauline’s mobile phone. Oh no. Bloody hell. I and the other two couples looked over at Pauline who was struggling to get her phone out of the bottom of her bag.

She answered the call, “Hello?” This was followed by a short pause and then do you know what she said?

“Yes, well that’s all very well but I’m in a cable car in Madeira at the moment. Please don’t call me again.”

How about that? None of this, “Hello, I’m on the train” stuff. Sod the train, I’m in a cable car. Beat that. It turned out to be Vodaphone trying to renegotiate her contract, blimey.

The cable car reached the top of the mountain, slowed down and we all clambered out while it was still slowly moving, trying to get off without falling over and showing ourselves up. I found it a bit like getting off the end of an escalator when you do that funny little run of two or three steps before regaining your equilibrium and then pretend you were in control of your legs all the time.

As we walked out of the exit there were three girls with piles of souvenir photo folders shouting, “Photo? Photo? ‘Ere’s your photo.” We, along with everyone else, ignored them completely. I immediately sat down on a bench to wait for Pauline who had gone off to find a toilet and while I sat there I didn’t see a single person buy their souvenir photo. Why would you? Oh look everyone, here’s a photo of us sitting in a confined space with four strangers.

And how did they get all those photos printed and framed in time? I know the journey up the mountain was about 30 minutes or so but where were they doing all that photo work during the journey. The three soppy girls must have travelled up in a special cable car printing work station and then rushed out to stand by the exit before the rest of us got off. But what about the occupants of the cable cars swishing up after they’d got in theirs? There must be another set of three girls following on behind to keep the flow going. And how many other girls were there in reserve?

Either that or the photographer loaded the photos up online for them to print off at the destination point but come on, that’s pretty hard to believe isn’t it?

The entrance to the Botanical Gardens was just a few yards away, we’d already bought our tickets down at the cable car entrance so we showed them to the ticket lady. “OK,” she said, “Ticket valid for free glass Madeira wine at café.” I said, “What, no cake?”

Entering the gardens was almost like being on the top point of a pyramid. There was no way to go but down and no way to get back out again but go up and the gradients were really steep with paths that were quite uneven as they took you from one terraced area to the next. It seemed to go on forever and all I could think about was how the further down we went the further up again it would be. We did, however, make it down to the café for our free glass of Madeira wine.

There was a small self-service area. We took a tray at one end and shuffled down the line and stopped at the end by the lady on the till. We had an empty tray and she looked slightly confused as she started to add up our purchases and realised we didn’t have any. “Just the free glass of Madeira wine please,” I said as I waved the entrance ticket airily in her face. She pointed dismissively to a small tray by the till.

Now I don’t know about you but when someone says, “You’ll get a free glass of Madeira wine” you don’t expect a large goblet overflowing with the stuff, you have to be realistic about these free offers don’t you? But what did we get? A glass the size of Thumbelina’s thimble and even that was half full. Thanks a lot Botanical Gardens. We’ve made the effort to trudge down the side of a bloody mountain for this? And now we had to climb back up to the top again to get out. And most of the gardens looked the bloody same with similar tropical greenery all over the place.

We won’t be going there again. It’s all plants.

Late afternoon by the pool.

At dinner tonight the waiter was pouring the second glass of wine when Pauline declined it. (I know, me neither). The waiter smiled and said to her, “Why? Are you driving?”

A little touch of Madeiran waiter humour there for you.

 
Tomorrow is our wedding anniversary and we’ve booked a meal at a restaurant that’s been recommended to us. We’re also booked on a ‘South and East Island Tour’ so looking forward to that.

Tuesday 24.5.16

It’s our anniversary morning and we’ve opened our cards and left them on display in the room. We have a mini-bus picking us up at 09.15 from outside the hotel so we decided to wait outside at 09.00, just in case.

Did I mention those bastard French air traffic controllers by the way?

The mini-bus arrived on time. It held eight people, two in front with the driver with two rows of three seats behind. We saw the two front seats were already occupied so Pauline decided to get into the middle row of three seats and sat by the window on her left. I followed her in and sat down next to her in the middle seat of the row of three. We were doing our seat belts up while the driver had started to drive and I was still struggling with mine when I realised that there was no clasp for my seat belt to clip in to. All there was, was a hole in the seat where the clasp was supposed to be.

Jesus, we’ve had a choice of six bloody seats and I’ve picked the only seat with a non-functional seat belt. Bloody hell.

I moved across to the empty seat on my right and fastened myself in while Pauline told the driver about the broken seat belt. He’d already given me some strange looks when I moved seats mid-ride but all he said was, “Oh, this is the car they gave me.”

Pauline told him we’d get in the back row as soon as he could stop and we then duly moved seats. Once we were settled in the back the driver began to inspect the broken seat belt as if he could somehow magic up a brand new anchor point for the middle seat by saying ‘Mmm, mmm, mmm’. He finally shrugged, and drove off to our next pick-up point as if nothing had happened.

Now, pay attention, as this starts to get complicated and I’ll be asking questions later.

At the next pick-up we had a complete row of three empty seats in the middle row plus one empty seat in the back row on my right.

A couple got in and went straight for the two seats in the middle row that we’d previously sat in. The driver immediately told them there was no seat belt for the middle seat in the middle row and the man who’d just got in moved over to the seat on his right just as I’d done.

Now we had two people in the front seats, two people sitting either side of the bad middle seat in the middle row and us two sitting in the back row with an empty seat on my right. We still had the final two passengers to pick up but now there was only one seat left with a working seat belt.

It’s getting exciting isn’t it? What’s going to happen when the next couple realise only one of them can travel with a seat belt and the other one could face certain death if we have an accident?

We reached the next pick-up and the driver immediately got out and had a deep conversation with the couple who were waiting. Finally he got back in the mini-van and said, “They don’t want to travel without a seat belt.” Good for them, I thought but at this point the man who’d been sitting quietly in one of the front seats suddenly turned round and said, “I don’t mind” and he and his wife got out of their front seats and opened the door to the back. But while they were standing there waiting for the couple in the middle row to get out, the man already in the middle row but not sitting in the bad middle seat surprised everyone by saying, ”It’s OK. I don’t mind either,” and he slid over into the middle seat without the seat belt.

This was strange because he’d made a deliberate move away from the middle row, middle seat without a seat belt to one with a seat belt earlier hadn’t he?

Now we had people all over the place, attempting to move seats, deciding against it at the last minute and all the while trying to resolve the situation in as polite a manner as possible. By this time and amid all the chaos, the latest couple who’d refused to have anything to do with the trip because of the lack of a seat belt had seen what was going on and clambered into the two front seats next to the driver.

The man and his wife who were in the two front seats were suddenly left in limbo. Their two front seats were now occupied and the only two seats left were one in the middle row and one in the back row next to me. So without a word, the woman who was in the front row seat next to the driver got in the middle row seat next to the lunatic man without a seat belt in the middle seat of the middle row and the man who was sitting next to his wife in the front row next to the driver got in beside me in the back row,

All clear?

This all meant that the original kind gesture from the man in the front row offering to sit in the middle seat without a seat belt in the middle row had completely misfired and now he and his wife had in effect been split up to sit in two completely different rows of seats.

 
Which all goes to show…never volunteer for anything.

First Stop

Eventually we got to our first stop off, a village called Camacha, famous for its ‘Apple Festival’, folklore dance groups and, wait for it, the centre of Madeira’s willow craft industry. I thought that would impress you. We all got out of the bus and the driver said, “Lots to see here. There’s the church and the wicker centre to explore. See you back here in 30 minutes.”

We went into the church and out again in less than 5 minutes and then walked across the road to the ‘wicker centre’, basically a shop flogging wicker things. We won’t be going there again. It’s all wicker.

Pauline spent about 2 minutes in wicker world while I waited outside. So, 5 minutes in the church, 1 minute to walk to the wicker shop, 2 minutes in the wicker shop and that left about 22 minutes to do bugger all except stand around with a lot of other people looking at our watches and sighing. We didn’t really want to be standing outside the minibus with 15 or so minutes left so we joined everyone else and scattered ourselves around the place hiding just out of sight of the minibus so that as soon as the bus driver re-appeared we could rush across giving the impression that 30 minutes was far too short a time to explore everything.

While we were waiting, Pauline got chatting to a Dutch couple from our minibus. He was the bloke who buggered up all the seating arrangements by saying at the last minute he would sit in the non-seat belt seat. After a few minutes of idle chit-chat during which I nodded and smiled in all the right places  (and wrong ones as well, no doubt), the Dutch woman said to Pauline, “Oh, where are you from?”

“England,” said Pauline.

“Oh, OK,” said the woman.

 
Did I hear her right? There was Pauline talking in her impeccable English accent and this woman had no idea she was English? You could understand it if Pauline had been saying things like, “It’s a brae bricht moonlit nit tonit” couldn’t you, but she wasn’t.

Second Stop

We were off again to our second stop. A place called Pico do Arieiro, at 1,818 m high (5965 feet), the third highest peak on the island and the highest point in Madeira that can be reached by road. As we arrived the scene was dominated by a large golf ball structure which apparently was the Air Defence Radar Station and not some tourist golf centre as I really wanted it to be. There was a short path from the car park leading up to a very busy area consisting of toilets, a restaurant and guess what? Souvenir shops.  So far, so good. Just what I expected it to be but I was disappointed there wasn’t a wicker shop I could wander in and back out again in 30 seconds.

People were everywhere and taking photos of everything (which wasn’t much). In an open area they had their ‘tourist entertainment’ space. Remember those large cardboard/wooden cut-out figures that you tend to see at the seaside and fun fairs? You know, the ones that you stand behind and stick your head through a hole so someone can take a photo of you standing behind a wooden cut-out figure with your head stuck through a hole. Well they actually had one here. And people were almost fighting to be photographed with it.

They’d come all this way to the third highest peak on the island to be photographed sticking their head through a hole so back home they could say, “And here’s one of us at the third highest point on the island and look, we’re sticking our head through a hole. It was absolutely hilarious. If you ever go to the third highest point in Madeira you must do it.”

But wait, there’s more.

By the side and to the front of all the heads sticking through holes hilarity, two sweaty blokes were setting up their live music apparatus - a speaker, an amplifier and a microphone.  They switched on their backing track machine and one man started playing ‘Chiquitita’ on his bloody Pan Pipes while the other man stood in front of a cardboard box full of CDs. With a maraca in one hand, he held a CD in the other which he waved at every person who came within a few feet of him. When he remembered, he gave his one maraca a shake just to prove that he was in fact a member of the musician’s union and not some sweaty dago trying his luck flogging Pan Pipe CDs which probably wouldn’t play when you got home anyway.

So there we were. On the third highest point of Madeira with Pan Pipes to the right of us, and jokers on the left, here we are stuck in the middle of a view.

 

But hang on. We’re not actually standing at the third highest point just yet. To do that we have to climb a steep slope or take the steps to a very small lookout area. The ground is very uneven with loose shingle and rock fragments underfoot and although there were safety barriers of sorts I didn’t feel in total control of my life at that point. It was just like climbing up the side of a small cone of rock to stand precariously at the tip while people were jostling and milling around all over the place.

There were people bumping into you in order to take photos of the view, people shoving you to get a good position to look at the view, people arriving at the pointy top after struggling to encounter the uneven rocky pathway, people struggling to get down from the pointy top and people just standing around talking and taking up useful space for the people who actually wanted to stand and look at the view.

Oh, and people like me who just wanted to get away from bloody ‘Chiquitita’ down below

I eventually got to the pointy top, pushed a few old ladies out of the way so I could see the view (how they got up there is beyond me). Saw the view. Went back down again. The Pan Pipe man was by now onto ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You’ and we made our way back to the minibus 15 minutes early.

Our bus driver said, “Did you all enjoy that?”. Our fellow passengers all said, “Yes, marvellous.”

I just smiled.

Third Stop

Then we were off to our third stop. Ribeiro Frio, a natural park towards the north of the island. Our bus driver said, “When we get there you can visit a rainbow trout farm. There will be time to see the fish, maybe have a drink or look at the local area.”

Oh will the excitement never end. I do hope there’s a wicker shop.

When we arrived the bus driver said, “OK, 30 minutes and we’ll meet back here.” We disembarked and there right in front of us was the trout farm consisting of numerous open topped tanks of fish laid out in rows in the open air. We walked past one tank containing really large fish followed by another tank containing medium to large fish followed by another containing medium fish followed by another containing small to medium fish followed by another containing small fish followed by another containing tiny to small fish followed by another containing tiny fish followed by a final tank containing tiny, tiny fish.

I am now an expert on all types of fish. Just ask me and I’ll be able to tell you whether that fish is tiny, small, medium or large, just like our local fishmonger can. I can’t wait to get back home and impress him with my new-found knowledge.

Believe it or not almost 10 minutes had passed as we left the fish tanks and stood in the road and we self-consciously hung around for a further 20 minutes. There was no time to have a leisurely drink or even round off our visit to the local restaurant with a freshly cooked trout or a chouriço sausage grilled on a clay pig on our table.

So we bumbled around with many other people, some lurking behind trees, while others pretended to look interestingly at an empty open-topped fuel tank further down the road. Eventually the 30 minutes were up and we made a pretend rush back to the minibus. “OK?” said the driver.

“Excellent fish,” I said, “big ones, small ones, some as big as your head. Marvellous how fish grow from tiny, tiny to very large isn’t it?”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” the driver said as everyone clambered aboard and we were off again.


Fourth Stop

“Now we go to Porto da Cruz. Once you arrive you'll probably think there's nothing much to do around there. Life seems to have stopped or only to be moving very slowly in this place. But, the attractions of this small parish are hidden and you'll have to take a closer look to find them. One of them is the old sugar cane factory, which is still operating the same way, as it was when it started with the sugar production in 1927. It boasts a 26 meter tall tower and when it's working you might even see steam coming out! You will also be able to sample and buy one of the end products, Madeiran rum.”

Well, before we knew it we were at Porto da Cruz. But where was the sugar cane factory? As we all got out the driver pointed and said, “There you can see the cane being processed.” We looked and just up the road, surrounded by mountains of sugar cane poles was a fairly small metal building with a narrow open gap in one side where people were wandering in and out. The driver said, “Meet back here in 25 minutes.”

Now you may be beginning to think that the stopover times had so far been widely overestimated and this was going to be no exception. My theory was it was all worked out so that travelling time and stopover time dragged the tour into a day long experience instead of packing it into half a day, so enabling the tour company to charge a lot more for a day tour rather than a morning or afternoon tour.

Mind you maybe the stopover times are calculated to give some of their elderly customers time to struggle out of their minibuses. Even so, one old man took so long he’d only managed to get one foot on the ground before it was back on the bus and off again. Anyway, 25 minutes to tour a sugar cane processing plant, for once, didn’t seem long enough to me as we headed over to the gap in the factory wall.

Immediately inside the doorway was a huge clattering conveyor belt racketing away above our heads as we ducked under it to get inside the building. The conveyor belt snaked around most of the room and as we entered, belts and pulleys were whizzing around us while the belt carried sugar cane detritus and deposited it into a large container to our left. A man stood in this container and raked the shards of cane level as the conveyor belt continued to dump its load into one big pile. It seemed most of the sugar cane stuff was falling off the conveyor belt and onto the floor and our heads but as this was the only way in we just had to carry on and hope for the best.

Men were standing around at various stages of the belt’s progress, feeding sugar cane into huge hoppers, making sure it all dropped through various threshing and mashing machines, raking out sugar cane mulch and muck and generally looking busy in a fairly laid back non-busy way. The noise was deafening and the steam engines rattled away.

And that was that. We moved back outside and to our surprise a complete 10 minutes had passed.

Now it’s worth standing back a bit and reading the tourist brochure that describes the above experience…and I quote:

“A visit to our distillery is like taking a journey through time when the working pace was set by the steam engines. This is a unique sensory journey within Europe. Here you will be invaded by the sweet smell of the juices from the sugar cane and distilled spirits, absorbed by the melody of the machines in a rhythmic movement and taste the unique flavour of the internationally awarded typlcal rum. In this distillery, visitors can walk the original circuit that goes from the collection of sugar cane, through to the various stages of production and ending in a visit to the Rum House’”

 
So there you have it. A clattering, noisy, smelly, dangerous shed of sugar cane processing neatly described as one of the best experiences of your life. What a racket eh?



But we hadn’t finished yet had we? We now had to visit the Rum House. What visions that description conjures up doesn’t it? In reality, a small shop next door to the factory and inside a small counter selling bottles of, you guessed it, rum. The samples weren’t free but despite that Pauline bought two half bottles to drink on the journey back to the hotel. We were back outside with 10 minutes to spare, lurking around again

Fifth Stop

The driver said, “Next we will stop for lunch at a place called Santana. We will stop for one hour and 45 minutes where you can eat in many cafes and restaurants and you can also see many examples of traditional old Madeiran cottages.”

Before we get to this stop it’s worth remembering that we were not the only minibus tour visiting these places. There was a huge convoy of coaches and buses all doing the same thing at the same time. In fact during our second stop off I found myself sitting on a wall next to a couple who’d been in the same cable car as us on our independent visit to the Botanical Gardens the other day. That was quite a remarkable coincidence really.

We arrived at Santana and started to get our bearings. I saw the same old man just about to get off his coach when his driver shouted, “All back on the bus”. The poor old man sighed, turned around and made towards his seat again. We’d brought a hotel packed lunch with us so all we needed to do was find somewhere to sit and eat it. A few minutes wandering around and we came across a small square but there were only two stone benches and both were occupied by a couple on each one.

We wandered up and down in front of them for a bit until one of the couples shifted up and indicated to us to sit down. They weren’t English so I was surprised at how considerate they were. We thanked them and sat down. Almost immediately the man at the other bench stood up and said, “Ca va, ca va,” and indicated that they were just going. Now the next situation is a typical Englishman abroad problem and I ask you, what would you have done?

We could either stay where we were, four people on a small bench and risk upsetting the Frenchman or we could move immediately to the Frenchman’s empty bench leaving the considerate Germans (I think) all crunched up on one end of their bench.

We moved benches.

The German couple glanced across at us and I smiled and shrugged and tried to appear French so they might not think that badly of us for turning down their offer after a better one came along from a Frenchman. I tried humming Les Marseilles but gave up after the first few bars. I had a wee into an open hole in the pavement and eventually sat down again and said, “Zoot Alors” in between mouthfuls of my chicken and salad roll.

Meanwhile the French couple had moved off but not long after they’d gone, they re-appeared from around a corner and the man was making signs to his wife that he needed to sit down as his leg was hurting. She then went off to browse a cake and wine shop, no not really, it was just another bloody souvenir shop, while the man wandered back towards where we and the German couple were sitting. Perfect I thought, now’s my chance to really prove to the Germans I’m French after all.

As the Frenchman approached I could see he was undecided as to which of the two benches he’d sit on so I made a sweeping gesture indicating that he could sit next to me. He was the spitting image of Jack Haigh, the actor who played Monsieur Leclerc in ‘Allo ‘Allo and as he sat down he looked at me and said, “Merci.” I was very disappointed that he didn’t raise his spectacles and say, “It is I, Leclerc.”

I think Pauline said you’re welcome in French and for the next five minutes or so we had a lovely conversation with Pauline’s broken French and his very limited English. I haven’t a clue what was discussed but brought into play my usual social small talk rules.

1.    Try and look interested.

2.    Nod a lot

3.    Smile and make lots of mmm mmm mmm noises when the other person is talking

4.    If asked your opinion, smile for a very, very, very, very long time and move quietly away

Of course these rules don’t necessarily apply if you’re having a conversation with a Frenchman who doesn’t speak a word of English and you can’t speak a word of French. Finding myself in this situation I just hummed a few more bars of Les Marseilles and had another wee in a hole in the pavement behind the German couple.

Eventually we’d finished our lunch, shook his hand and went on our way. It only took twenty minutes for us to upset the Germans and make friends with the French. I said to Pauline, “The United Nations have got nothing on us.” She said, “Don’t be stupid.”

So twenty minutes in and an hour left to see everything else. Everything else? Apart from numerous restaurants, bars and souvenir shops, there was nothing else. Oh wait, didn’t our driver say something about traditional Madeiran cottages? Let’s go and find them.

As we wandered away from our lunch area we saw a small chalet/shack built in the style of these traditional houses. Built of natural stone and thatched with straw, these houses have served the locals for centuries as stables and dwellings and looked just the thing a Hobbit might be interested in if he was out house hunting. There was a sign outside the house which said ‘ Casa de Fleurs’.

We won’t be going there again. Inside it was all flowers.

By the way, did I mention those bastard French air traffic controllers?

Further along we came to an area just beyond the main road of bars and restaurants and there were all the other traditional houses only they weren’t old. They were newly built in the old style and all situated together in what was one big tourist attraction while each of the houses was a mini souvenir shop in its own right. I stood outside a few while Pauline went inside and eventually we ended up back where we’d started by the bars and restaurants again. Then what did we see? There’s a wicker shop. Oh yes. I must try and break my record of in and out in 10 seconds.

I quickly changed into my track suit and running shoes which I’d thoughtfully packed along with my orange anti-pollution suit and limbered up on the pavement outside the shop. 40 press-ups, 20 scissor jumps and 10 deep breathing exercises later and I was ready, I waited for a clear run at the wicker shop doorway and suddenly walked in, made sure my feet were inside the threshold and walked smartly out again. Pauline was outside with her stopwatch. I collapsed onto the pavement, hardly able to breathe. “How’d I do? How’d I do?” I croaked. “5 seconds!” she cried. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it,” I shouted with tears in my eyes. I was paraded around the square shoulder high by a few of the locals before they abruptly tossed me to the ground when they realised I wasn’t going to give them any money.

By now we still had 30 minutes before the minibus left so we continued wandering aimlessly. There were hordes of people taking photos of anything. Someone was taking a photo of a decorated pebble lying outside someone’s house while later I saw a man taking a photo of a cat under a bicycle. What sort of people are they?

Soon it was time to start lurking about with numerous others as we  had 30 minutes to kill before the minibus left. We walked up and down a bit. I stood still for a bit. Pauline sat on a bench and I hid behind a tree for a bit. The man already hiding behind the tree looked startled until I said to him, “It’s OK. I’m too bloody early as well.”

Sixth Stop

This was where the tour started to wane a bit. We were used to rolling up at places all day that promised more than they delivered but at this next stop I was struggling.

We arrived at Ponta Sao Lourenco, a promontory in a wild and windy setting affording views across both the northern and southern parts of the island. We stood high on the rocks looking out to our left at the north of the island and then turned our heads and looked out to our right at the south of the island. We had 20 minutes here and this had just taken five of them. “What do we do now?” I asked Pauline. “Not much,” she said. We saw a few people wandering over some rocky hillocks and others taking ridiculous amounts of time looking at the view. And that was it. We gave up all pretence of hiding until our allotted time was up and just stood by the minibus until everyone else joined us.

 The driver said, “Next stop will be our last and then it’s home. We will visit Machico, a place for eating and sunbathing.”

Last Stop

Machico was a very attractive coastal town. Smartly looked after with clean and tidy streets and a beautiful sandy beach. However the prospect of eating and sunbathing was soon dispelled when the driver said, “20 minutes and we’ll meet back here.” Twenty minutes? No longer were we being given over estimated visiting times now we had what seemed a vastly underestimated time. How much eating, drinking and sunbathing can you do in 20 minutes? Not much really. So what to do in 20 minutes?

We strolled along the short sea front, walked up from there into the back streets and saw a few shops and then, oh calamity.

Pauline tripped and fell down with an almighty thump on the pavement. She had grazed legs, bruised knees and minor cuts on her hand and leg where she’d fallen. She was in a sorry state while we sat on a wall and tried to assess the damage. Luckily she hadn’t broken anything but found it quite difficult to hobble back to the minibus. She wasn’t a stretcher job by any means but it gave her (and me) a nasty shock. Still, good for her for falling over on the last stop instead of the first eh? At least she could rest and relax on the way home instead of being in agony all day.

When we got back to the hotel we found a bottle of fizzy stuff in an ice bucket waiting for us. The maid had obviously seen our anniversary cards on the table and presumably the management organised the gesture. It was a nice touch.

Which brings me to my indispensable tip of the holiday, something every one of us can use again and again.

When staying in a hotel always take a selection of old birthday and anniversary cards with you. Play your cards right and you should be able to get at least two days of free champagne by leaving them out in a prominent position in your room.

It had been a long day but we still had our anniversary meal to look forward to. Luckily for Pauline, the restaurant was a very short distance from the hotel so she could walk there without too much hardship.

We were shown to our table and immediately the waiter brought up two glasses of sparkling wine and said, “Happy anniversary.” Pauline said, “How do you know?” and he told us that when we’d booked earlier in the week we happened to mention it.

Which brings me to my second indispensable tip of the holiday, something every one of us can use again and again.

When booking a restaurant meal always mention it’s your birthday or anniversary or whatever and see what happens.

This particular restaurant had a signature dish called ‘Steak on a Stone’ and it had been highly recommended to us back home. We weren’t too sure what to expect but after our waiter said we wouldn’t regret it, we relaxed. Almost immediately the meal materialised. First the waiter brought up a sort of tray which contained some side dishes and various sauces and in the middle was a flat area of heated slate. The steak was placed on the table, a raw 8 oz. rump for each of us and the waiter said, “Just cut off the size and thickness you want and cook it how you like it. Take smallish pieces and see how you go.”

And do you know what? It really was the tenderest and best cooked steak I’ve ever tasted. I’m not a great fan of do it yourself cuisine, if you’ve ever been to a fondue party you’ll know what I mean, but I really enjoyed it. The waiter came over to see how we were getting on and I said, “I’m so good at this. Do you need any help in the kitchen?”

And so to bed.

Wednesday 25.5.16

Another lazy day by the pool and a stroll in the afternoon.

Tonights entertainment is ‘Dancing’ and after dinner and with our usual bottle of wine under our belts, mostly under mine, we made our way to the entertainment area. We got our free drinks from the free bar which was free and sat down. As a build up to the main event a DJ was playing music to get everyone in the mood for dancing. It was during this that Pauline received a text from Emma asking for some details that Pauline had in our room so she left for the room and left me tapping my foot.

By the time she came down again I was four vodka martinis in and dancing with some old lady to ‘Sex Bomb’. She was quite a mover too and once I’d got the hang of ducking under her walking stick during the ‘Sex Bomb’ chorus I think we deserved the applause we received as we left the dance floor. I bet you’re all singing it now aren’t you?

The main ‘Dancing’ event lasted an hour and was just a succession of displays of various dances. An announcement would say things like ‘Waltz’ or ‘Cha Cha Cha’ or ‘Salsa’, the appropriate music would be played and a couple would appear and provide us with an example of the dance. Interspersed with this, the dancers came out every now and again to drag members of the audience up to dance with them.

Holiday entertainment eh? You can’t beat it can you?

 
The hour seemed to last forever.

Thursday 26.6.16






We spent the morning by the pool which has one end in the form of a very gentle slope so you can just walk into the water instead of jumping in or clambering up and down steps. At the water’s edge just as you walk in is a sign that says ‘Caution. Wet Floor’.

During dinner tonight I came back from the buffet to find a woman sitting in my seat at our table. I didn’t really register her until the last minute when I tried to sit on her lap. She was French and very confused but she finally saw her husband sitting alone three tables down. She walked off without a word and with my knife and fork. It wouldn’t surprise me if her husband was a bastard air traffic controller.

Luckily we haven’t seen BeckytheThomsonrep since our first day arrival on the coach.

 
Tonight’s entertainment of ‘Folk Dancing’ was surprisingly good apart from the end when they all decided to rope as many of the audience into a sort of conga line snaking around the auditorium. I managed to avoid it as usual.

Friday 27.6.16

It’s our last day today and we have to be out of our room by midday but we’re not being picked up for the airport until 4.15 p.m. We decided to check out early, store our luggage and spend some time in Funchal then back for lunch and onto the coach.

Funchal is a very attractive town and like a lot of places, has its old town and new town. We wandered happily around and stumbled on the local fish and vegetable indoor market. This was huge and it was apparently open all day, every day. The place was staggeringly busy with locals and tourists. Noisy and hot with the smells of fish, vegetables, coffee and B.O.

It was a successful shopping trip for us too. Pauline bought a pair of sun glasses and I bought a silly Madeiran hat which I’d seen the folk dancers wearing the night before. (Not the same one, silly).

The flight home was delayed by roughly an hour and we had to wait over an hour for our pre-booked bloody taxi to pick us up at Gatwick. It was supposed to take ten minutes from when we told them we’d arrived.

Not the best end to the holiday