Hydrangeas and Hairpin Bends A family's (mis)adventures in paradise Sheila Lorimer   © Copyright 2024 by Sheila Lorimer

Photo by Cheung Yin on Unsplash

It began with a Christmas present. A travel book showcasing one exotic location for every month of the year. Rio de Janeiro in January for the carnival. Tokyo in April to see the cherry blossoms. Venice in November, when the crowds have abated and the mists roll in off the Adriatic.

“Let’s pick a random page,” said my daughter, casually flicking through the book. “The Azores in July.”

“The … where?”

“The Azores. It says here that the Azores is an archipelago composed of nine volcanic islands in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean. It’s an autonomous region of Portugal, about 870 miles west of Lisbon. Spectacular scenery, mountains, beaches, forests, hot springs. The weather’s best in July.”

After a moment, “You keen?”

“Absolutely! Let’s do it!” I exclaimed, somewhat rashly, and promptly consulted Doctor Google. Did such a paradise actually exist? If we managed to avoid the summer crowds on mainland Europe, so much the better.

We settled on São Miguel, the biggest island, billed as a nature lovers dream: from soothing natural thermal pools and scenic hikes, to dramatic coastlines, volcanic landscapes and whale-watching.

“Perfect,” I mused, and set to work, booking flights, accommodation and a rental car.

It’s difficult, but not impossible, to get around São Miguel without your own wheels. With hindsight, perhaps we should have tried that instead of hiring a car. It might have saved us some moments of, shall we say, less than perfect domestic bliss as we navigated the island’s perilously narrow streets.

Don’t get me wrong. Once my husband got the hang of driving a manual car on the wrong side of the road, and taking instructions (often conflicting) from both his wife and the Google Lady, the arrangement worked fine. Except when he turned the wrong way into a one-way street at rush-hour and ploughed doggedly up a steep incline in the face of oncoming traffic. Terrifying, it was, and embarrassing.

And I told him so. In no uncertain terms.

Once we got over the indignity of the hooting and fist-waving from outside, and vociferous recriminations from within, the holiday progressed smoothly.

The islands were first discovered and settled by the Portuguese in the 15th century. The Azores played a strategic role as a hub for trade, exploration, and naval operations, with various European nations grabbing a piece of the action along the way.

The Azores’ history is reflected in its historic architecture. Hoping for a glimpse of bygone days, we chose a three-story traditional house in the centre of Ponta Delgada as our base. This was perfect for everything, except parking the aforementioned hire car, which had to be left at the municipal parking lot nearby. Not a major problem, aside from having to lug our beach gear/ hiking kit a couple of blocks at the end of a long day of adventuring.

We were welcomed warmly by our host, Luisa, an elderly Azorean lady, and her sister, Maria, who thankfully spoke impeccable English. Maria told us she’d been living in Boston for the last 40 years and came over every summer to visit family. “It’s only a 4½ plane trip from Boston”, she told us.

“Thousands left this place in the 19^th and 20^th centuries. A lot of us ended up in the US and Canada, looking for better opportunities. Life was tough on the islands back then. It was only in the 1970’s that most of the villages got electricity and running water.”

She took us on a tour of the house. It might have belonged to a wealthy merchant 100 years ago. It was imposing, with neat shutters on all the windows, wrought iron balconies and a stucco façade. The interior was cool and comfortable, the tone set by heavy wooden doors, bay windows, a traditional fireplace and a chandelier as the centrepiece in the lounge. With its card table, antique furniture, hardwood floor, steep staircase and wooden balustrade, the house embodied the essence of the region’s rich heritage.

My eyes were drawn to a painted ceramic vase on the table, filled with hydrangeas. Multiple sky blue petals crowded together, each shaped like the wing of a butterfly, bejewelled with tiny droplets of water. With a network of veins clearly visible under the translucent skin, the petals moved almost imperceptibly in the breeze, and I could imagine they were alive. A community of individuals glued together by a common root.

Restaurants, sunset walks along the promenade, dips in the crystal-clear waters of the bay – all were within easy reach from our lodgings.

On our first afternoon, we ambled down to the town square to find it bustling with a carnival atmosphere. Locals and tourists alike jostled to catch a peek of what was happening. A stage had been erected in front of the town hall. Flags and fairy lights adorned the frontage of the nearby shops and offices. Stalls selling street-food and trinkets lined the pavements. A clown jested his way through the crowd, entertaining children and anyone who would give him the time of day. Floats decorated with colourful fabrics, crowns, sepulchres and flowers jangled past. Bands belting out folk songs competed with chamber musicians playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Both were drowned by the rhythmic beating of drums and tambourines as the parade passed by.

The Holy Spirit Festival, we later found out, is rooted in medieval traditions and features lively parades and large feasts. As part of the tradition, soup and bread are handed out to celebrants following a procession. We missed that part, unfortunately.

The islands have numerous baroque churches, grand public structures, sumptuous manor houses, and formidable maritime forts. Simple whitewashed buildings striped with black basalt stand out against a backdrop of green vegetation beyond the town. Ponta Delgada’s most striking architectural features are its three basalt arches – Portas da Cidade – that welcome those who enter the city by the sea and its 17^th century fort designed to repel enemies. Whether public or private, religious, civil, or military, there’s a solidity and permanence about the buildings that somehow reflects the identity and resilience of the people.

During the day, the cobbled streets were open to traffic but in the late afternoon, they were cordoned off with bunting and pot plants to allow restaurants to spill out onto the pavements. Tables and chairs were bedecked for tapas and cocktails, with bars and eateries vying for the attention of the passers-by.

One evening, we were startled by an elderly Stirling Moss who, intent on reaching his destination, and failing to observe the absence of other cars on the road, dodged the pot plants, side-swiped tables and sent people scuttling for safety. My hubby’s driving wasn’t that bad after all, I thought. Little did I realise...

When considering gastronomical delights, one rarely includes hamburgers in the equation. Not so in Ponta Delgada. Every evening, a long line of people snaked into an inconspicuous alleyway. We paid no attention, assuming this was some kind of den of iniquity, until our Gen-Z daughter informed us mid-way through our holiday that it was a burger joint of considerable repute.

“It’s a restaurant that only does burgers. With a 5-star rating from 1,283 reviewers, it must be good.”

“But they don’t take bookings,” she said, not very helpfully.

Needing no further encouragement, we joined the line and waited our turn. In the 45 minutes it took to reach the front, we chatted to a party of Brits, a Dutch couple and some Germans, all eager to find out what the hype was about. Behind the babble of the boisterous crowd was the sound of meat sizzling on the grill and we were engulfed by mouth-watering smells coming from the kitchen. It was worth the wait. Fresh, homemade beef or vegetarian patties topped with anything you can imagine. The restaurant, which is as far from McDonalds as Bentley is from Skoda, deserved all the superlatives it received.

So where do the hydrangeas come in? Once you leave town, they’re everywhere! In July, the country roads are lined with endless banks of lavish blue and white hydrangea bushes towering 12 feet high. Mile after mile they stretch, like millions of beachgoers jostling for space, all wearing those ridiculous decorated rubber bathing caps women wore in the 1970s.

Around every corner is a vista more dramatic than the last. The island has many lookout points (miraduoros) which proved ideal for coffee breaks and snacks from our trusty picnic basket. One such vantage point provided a terrific view of Vila Franca Islet, half a mile out to sea. Shaped like a crescent moon, this uninhabited islet is a protected nature reserve, popular for swimming and snorkelling. For the brave (or foolhardy), cliff diving is an option. For the rest of us, the protected harbour and beach are great for swimming. Getting to the islet on small boats in rough conditions is either exhilarating or alarming, depending on your point of view. For me, it proved to be the latter. As the tiny boat crashed from one wall of water to the next, catastrophe loomed large in my mind. The waves were relentless, gigantic; like the wings of a massive black vulture insolently flicking spray in my face. Thanks to multiple Hail Marys, we docked safely on the mainland. Praise the good Lord for that!

“That was super-cool!” my daughter blurted out, while I wiped stinging seawater from my eyes, blotted my smudged mascara and spat the taste of fear from my mouth.

My advice to those prone to seasickness, anxiety attacks or overactive imaginations is - don’t go! There’s a word for it: “thalassophobia – fear of the sea”. I looked it up afterwards.

There are many spectacular sights on the island, but the mountaintop view of Sete Cidades, the green and blue crater lakes, is iconic. No trip to the Azores would be complete without a selfie taken at this very spot. Trouble is, everyone consults the same web pages and has the same idea. Thinking I was being clever, I told the family to be ready for a crack of dawn departure, so that we could beat the traffic. Ignoring their grumbles and mutterings, I packed the trusty picnic basket and off we set in our little hire car. Before sunrise. In the pouring rain.

If, when we first arrived, I had reason to slam my foot on the non-existent brake pedal, I now had exponentially more justification for doing so. I burned a hole in the carpet on the passenger floor. “Watch out! Slow down! SLOW DOWN, will you?” How our marriage survived that trip, I have no idea. As we ascended the central highlands, the mist settled thickly around us. It was like trying to drive through porridge, cloying and impenetrable. Not conducive to comfortable navigation of hairpin bends on a narrow mountain track. We literally had to guess where the edge of the road began and ended.

We did achieve one thing, though. There were no other cars on the road.

After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived at our destination. At least, that’s what our GPS told us. Visibility was zero. With toxic optimism, we zipped up our raincoats, pulled the hoods down low and tumbled out of the car, juggling umbrellas, cameras and binoculars wrapped in plastic bags. Climbing on top of a small stone wall, we peered hopefully in what we thought was the right direction, and willed the mist to clear.

“The clouds have to lift eventually,” I said, as the rain lashed down ever harder.

A few minutes later, “Look, it’s beginning to brighten up.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Mom. That’s just the condensation on the inside of your glasses.”

As I said, I have an active imagination.

In the end, we called it quits, got back into our car and wound our way back to base camp, accepting that the mountain had conquered us.

On the way home, the sun finally made a brief appearance. The sky ahead was dark and heavy but the storm clouds were edged with a soft light that was golden and surreal. We turned a corner and up ahead there was a perfect rainbow, joining earth to sky. Radiant red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet stood out in stark contrast to the slate grey backdrop. For a second, time stood still and my soul soared skyward, leaving the chaos of this earth far behind. For one exquisite moment, I experienced infinite, indescribable, rapturous joy as I caught a glimpse of the gates of heaven.

“Parp! Parp!”. My ecstatic reverie was short-lived as the car swerved violently, narrowly escaping another close encounter with another vehicle. More honking and gesticulation ensued. “Give me strength!” I muttered - grateful, nonetheless, that I was not behind the wheel.

The following week, we tried to see Sete Cidades again. This time, we paid a lot more attention to the weather forecast. We got our selfie in the end. A row of smiling faces with lush forests and a patchwork of volcanic lakes behind, and of course a bed of hydrangeas in the foreground. We found the small stone wall we’d climbed the previous week. It faces onto a carpark with a brick wall on the other side. To see the famous view, you have to walk a hundred yards and swivel 180 degrees.

What else is there to see and do on São Miguel? Swim in the yellow waters of Terra Nostra Park, for starters. Built in 1780 by an eccentric American, it is home to impressive collections of ferns, bromeliads, cycads, camellias, as well as endemic and native species. Despite being 38⁰ north, the abundance of tropical plants makes you think you’re in the tropics. The thermal pools are warm, wet and yellow. For me, the experience was both earthy and ethereal. Surrounded by all that verdancy and birdsong, with soft mineral-rich waters licking my limbs, I overlooked the inevitable impact on my swimwear. By the time I got out, my swimsuit was stained a muddy yellow. Permanently.

On one side of the island the beaches are pewter-coloured, with speckles of silver glinting in the sunlight. You might imagine volcanic sands are dirty and leaden – far from it. The beach is warm and alive; as long as the sun is shining, that is. In the sheltered coves, there’s an unexpected balminess that’s quite different from the harshness of a white shoreline from which all gentleness has been bleached out. Like people, each waterfront has its own character, special in its own way, origin notwithstanding.

We found a perfect place to swim with modest waves that were feisty enough for a bit of excitement but not so strong as to knock you off your feet and give you the washing machine experience.

Watching my family cavort in the ocean, I sat on the shore digging up fistfuls of black sand and pouring the granules from one hand into the other, mesmerised by the flow. Each grain of sand melded into the next, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, cushioning each other’s rough edges. Millions of particles amalgamated into a single organism, massaging my palms and running off like a globule of liquid mercury. It was highly therapeutic. Beach sand is a fine-grained, porous sediment made up of small rocks, shells, and organic materials ground together over eons. It made me think of the inextricable connection between the past, the present and the future.

Best of the lot was the afternoon we spent at Ponta da Ferraria cove where hot springs were created by volcanic activity under a small rocky section of ocean.  Lolling about in cool seawater, encircled by jets of hot spring water was heavenly! Warm and cool currents bypassed each other like strangers in the night but closer to the shore, they began to intermingle, tentatively at first, but then in a full embrace. In this remote corner of the world, and in this moment, I felt cocooned in a gentle, watery blanket, as if I had returned to my mother’s womb for a precious sliver of time. Nothing to think about, nothing to worry about, just the gentle lapping of the waves and the repetitive swish of the currents, reassuring and enduring.

In a short essay like this, it is impossible to do justice to the many adventures we had together as a family. Suffice to say, there was magic at work when the pages of the travel guide fell open “randomly” in the middle of the book. The drama of precipitous ascents, billowing seas and intense moments of marital disharmony was more than countered by the sheer enjoyment of the holiday.

As we headed back to the airport at the end of our stay, I looked out the window at the flourishing town and tried to picture what it would have been like a mere half century ago. What will it be like 50 years from now? Will it be a victim of its own success, completely overwhelmed by tourists like so many other beautiful places around the globe? And 50 years after that?

São Miguel has a famous ruin called the Monte Palace Hotel. It was built in the 1980s in a prized location to attract travellers from all over the world. Now it lies abandoned and dejected, covered with moss and creepers, gazing forlornly over the mist-shrouded lakes below. Is this a portent of things to come? Not likely. A region that has endured so much in the past will not be swamped by the tides of time. I would bet that this hardy island community will stand up to life’s challenges with fortitude. Whether emigrees, returnees, immigrants or those who never left, its people will adapt to change, and continue to thrive as they have done for centuries.

Sheila Lorimer lives in Harare, Zimbabwe. Her husband remains devoted to her, despite her back-seat driving and control-freak tendencies. As a corporate lawyer, she works with words all day long, but it’s dry work. At the end of the day she finds her escapism through reading novels and trying to write short stories, none of which has ever been published, prior to this. Travel is her passion.