Tea and tranquility

Liz Anderson enjoys the levadas and gardens of Madeira

‘You are going where?’ was the first question. Closely followed by an incredulous: ‘Madeira? What on earth for? I suppose you are going to stay at Reid’s?’ Well, no, actually, we’re not.

The volcanic island of Madeira lies due west of Casablanca, almost midway between the Azores and the Canaries, and is 58km long by 23km wide. That measurement is somewhat misleading, however, as a mountain chain threads its way from east to west (the highest peak is over 1,800 metres in the eastern part of the island), with long ridges on each side separated by deep valleys. Not the holiday destination of choice, you might think, for a person who hates heights and is prone to sudden, unexpected attacks of vertigo. But, ha, you would be wrong.

So there we were at Funchal airport, two middle-aged women clutching rucksacks and suitcases, escaping from a long winter and a saintly husband, in search of sun and cloudless skies, with time for walking, swimming, exploring, reading and eating.

First piece of advice: do not sit by the window in the coach or bus travelling into town from the airport (where part of the runway is built on stilts over the sea — yes, it’s pretty frightening landing/taking off, but the pilots get special training, allegedly); or, if travelling by taxi, do not look out of the window. The second highest sea cliff in the world is on Madeira, though admittedly it’s on the other side of the island.

Over the past 15 years, there has been a seemingly unregulated explosion of hotel building, so Reid’s, for example, no longer stands alone on the outskirts of town; huge tourist complexes are encroaching from all directions, though nothing can get between it and the sea. Indeed, afternoon tea at Reid’s (E27 per person, no shorts, trainers or jeans) can be taken on a terrace overlooking the gardens and sea in complete tranquillity, with only the rustle of the Daily Telegraph in the background (British newspapers arrive daily in the afternoon). The whole atmosphere exudes good taste — and expense.

But, hey, we came to Madeira for more than scones and sandwiches. Criss-crossing their way across the island are levadas, mini canals dating from the 16th century which bring water from the west and north-west of the island to irrigate the drier south-east. Alongside these channels are maintenance paths, translating into 1,350 miles of walking. Which one to choose? Or, rather, which to avoid? Some levadas have narrow, crumbling ledges, with walls to walk on that are little more than a foot wide and drops of 600 feet to one side and water to the other. Not for us, obviously. With guidebook in hand and advice from locals, we found several levadas which were fit for purpose: gentle descents on wild lily and agapanthus-edged paths with just-manageable-without-passing-out views to the valleys beneath.

Two such intrepid walkers were clearly up for the next challenge: a cable car from Funchal Old Town to Monte, swinging over rooftops, treetops and ravine (being enclosed in a glass bubble curiously mitigates the vertigo factor). The Monte Palace Tropical Garden and the Botanical Gardens further down the hill are full of orchids, ferns, cacti and other exotic indigenous plants, stretching over acres of land. We declined to return home on a toboggan, however, but plenty of plucky Brits (most of them decidedly senior) did, sliding and bumping over the cobbled streets, guided by two drivers running alongside — a form of transport started in the 19th century.

But the best garden we decided to leave till last, that at Quinta Palheiro Ferreiro, also known as the Blandy Gardens, some eight kilometres out of Funchal. Unfortunately we chose a Saturday. Closed. While we were contemplating our next move (could we climb over the gates? Probably not), we spied a minibus belonging to the Casa Velha do Palheiro, a hotel with a golf course, which we knew marched with the gardens we had come to see. The delightful driver was easily persuaded to drive us to the hotel, where he opened a special gate into the elusive Blandy Gardens. We had them to ourselves and wandered among jasmine bushes, camellias, lilies, roses, ferns, agapanthus, azaleas.

The Blandys (along with the Cossarts, the Gordons and a few other British families) established dynasties in the 18th and 19th centuries which went on to dominate the Madeira wine industry. But today madeira seems a rather old-fashioned drink and that I think is the key to understanding the island and why, um, older tourists are attracted to it. The Madeirans are polite, anxious to please and go out of their way to help visitors; shops sell exquisitely embroidered tablecloths, handkerchiefs, lavender bags and children’s dresses; the food is adequate if unexciting; and the general tempo of life is slow. The Madeirans’ overriding attitude seems rooted in a gentler past — a place even a couple of fearless, rucksack-bearing tourists like to experience once in a while.

Liz Anderson is Arts editor of The Spectator.