It’s the tail end of chestnut season here which means they appear in all manner of delicacies, ranging from soups, purées, sauces, cakes, desserts and liqueurs, or simply roasted and garnished with salt, olive oil and herbs (‘on an open fire’, of course).
Our enjoyment of this supremely versatile and traditional Portuguese culinary staple has reached its peak at the mountain village of Curral das Freiras (Valley of the Nuns), so called because in 1566 the sisters of the convent of Santa Clara took refuge from marauding French pirates in this deep, remote valley. We built up an appetite for this chestnut starter, barbecued baby goat and the two types of chestnut cake that follow it, with a near vertical hike down a cobbled zigzag trail from the Eira do Serrado viewpoint through a vast forest of chestnut trees, on a path which was formerly a part of the island’s female-run postal route until the 1950s (mail was delivered in baskets balanced on their heads). Sparing Sabrina and our daughter the climb back to the car I put them on the 81 bus and I’m already there to greet them at the other end when it finally finishes its much interrupted climb.
No-one is more surprised than I am at how much we are enjoying being here. Funchal’s Reid’s Palace Hotel, in all its blazer wearing, outstretched-pinkie-fingered pomposity has always coloured my view of this island. It’s the hotel where my inveterate snob of a paternal great-grandfather used to stay when he wasn’t spoiling the party at the Hotel Bristol in Beaulieu-sur-Mer. An extract from his horrendous, irony-free travel journal which I have inherited, tells you all you need to know:
“Boarded the ship to Funchal en route to Reid’s and found my cabin to be satisfactory. Had dinner that evening at the Captain’s Table and found the service to be disappointing. Took immediate steps to rectify this…”
My resistance to coming here rapidly crumbled once we’d traded Southern California’s balmy winters for the cold and damp of London. Long standing prejudices against both the Madeiran and Canarian archipelagos are being happily re-examined, as they offer the closest to a guaranteed warm escape from the darkness and damp of an English January. So while avoiding Reid’s Hotel like the plague and chuckling at the irony that the blue rinsed owner of the house we are renting on the hill above Funchal and its bay is Madeira’s ‘Honorary British Consul’, we are making the most of everything this lovely subtropical island has to offer.
It helps that Madeira closely resembles the Hawaiian eden of Maui in its topography and flora (which eases our heartbreak at no longer being a few hours away from this beloved destination), but unlike Maui’s Mount Haleakalā, Madeira’s volcano has not been active for millennia and better yet there’s less dark history to deal with as unbelievably Madeira was uninhabited when first settled and colonised by the Portuguese in the 1420s.
Our hilltop eyrie has panoramic ocean views and the front garden is a stone’s throw from the black diamond steep Monte sledge run, so over a late breakfast we can hear the strangled cries of the passengers (or stroll over to the wall to gaze at their startled expressions and buttock clenched body language), as they hurtle down in wood and basket toboggans, controlled by two boater wearing ‘carreiras’. It’s a rapid 10 minute white-knuckle descent which is not for the agoraphobic, who unfortunately count Sabrina among their number. So we are happy to take the slow way down when we can tear ourselves away from watching ships coming and going, mixing cocktails for the sunset, or hanging out at the restaurant around the corner with its amazing Fado performers (so much more upbeat than the mournful version you find on the mainland).
Still there is way too much to see and do here starting with Funchal itself, which in between cruise ship pitch invasions is a compact historical marvel packed with rambling Port and Madeira bodegas, colonial architecture, exotically planted parks and gardens and an impressive Art Deco Fish market, where we have our first encounter with Espada Preta (Black Scabbard fish) a deep sea species found only in these waters and off Japan. Here, in one of many efforts to conserve the island’s pristine environment it is sustainably fished with rod and line at the staggering depth of over 1000 metres.
Black, fanged and sinister looking it may be on a stainless steel counter, Espada is delectable prepared with a shallot, banana and passion fruit sauce as we discover on a restaurant terrace overlooking the Jardim de São Francisco, with its enormous Drunken Man trees (so called because of their swollen, belly-like trunks where they store water, and a familiar sight in our former home city of Buenos Aires).
Strolling down to the breakwater which overlooks the fortress of São Tiago, built to protect the city from corsair attacks in the 17th century, we sit absorbing the warmth of the concrete dock in scarcely believable 23 degree temperatures before settling down in the upstairs room of a tiny teahouse, for a freshly made pot of honey, lemon and ginger infusion in the Old Town.
Lovely as Funchal is (and being in the South it always has the best of the weather), the true magic is in exploring this island’s small towns, ports and villages and in particular the dramatic, mountainous scenery of its remote central and northern parts, returning in the afternoon to warm up. One morning we take the old road to São Vicente on the north coast, passing the tiny hilltop church of Nossa Senhora de Fátima en route to the dramatic cliffside trail of Boaventura de Entrosa, which if we hadn’t had a raging Atlantic ocean to one side could pass as a section of Peru’s Inca trail.
I am in my element, as hiking is one of the true glories here, as in addition to spectacular cliffside trails you can follow the paths of the vast network of levadas (the island’s ingenious watercourses which have irrigated its crops since the 15th century) and which range from the epically steep, where the channels are fed by waterfalls, to the gentle mimosa, eucalyptus and agapanthus lined Levada dos Tournos, which has a tea house in one of its sections for a refreshing mint tea pitstop. Or, provided you’re warmly dressed for the cold and damp (which of course we weren’t), there’s the atmospheric option of the UNESCO protected, high altitude lichen covered primeval laurel forest, which is Europe’s largest.
The other wonder is the food, which island-wide is so much more interesting than in mainland Portugal. Chestnut artistry and Espada apart, two waterside meals will long stay in the memory. At lunch overlooking the pocket-sized harbour of Câmara de Lobos we ate the classic Portuguese dish Bacalhau à Brás, as its main ingredient (salt cod) was drying and curing in the sun. Winston Churchill, a near contemporary of my great grandfather and fellow many time resident of Reid’s Hotel (hopefully for Churchill’s sake they never crossed paths), loved Câmara de Lobos and painted it from many different vantage points.
Its surpassingly rare for Sabrina to declare any dish or meal to be ‘fantastic’ (a small quayside restaurant in Japan’s Matsushima Bay that served just two dishes, deep fried oysters and oyster noodles, being the most recent occasion), but it finally happened again in the port of Caniçal where we ate grilled calamari, crispy whitebait, octopus stew and best of all, limpets in garlic butter in an unpretentious café which was reassuringly packed with locals.
Limpets in Garlic butter: Serves 1
These limpets were such a revelation that I insisted Marco take us back more than once (and as never seems to happen), the repeat performance was every bit as good.
15-20 limpets
1/2 cup butter
2tbsp extra virgin olive oil
6 cloves garlic, crushed
2 tbsp hot peppers, finely chopped
Small bunch parsley, finely chopped
Lemon to taste
Place the cleaned limpets on a fry pan shell side down.
In a small saucepan add olive oil, butter and garlic, heat until fragrant, then add the peppers and parsley, simmer for a couple of minutes. Pour the butter mixture over each limpet, place the fry pan on a medium to high heat until the meat plumps and the butter mixture starts to sizzle or under the grill/ broiler but do not over cook the limpets or they will be rubbery. Serve with lemon wedges.
I want to go!
I'm not sure I like the sound of Marco's paternal great grandfather - thankfully his snobbery has not been passed down to Marco himself. Another evocative article, beautifully written, and it was wonderful to hear that Sabrina had had a "fantastic" meal at last!