It started as a simple trip to Spain.
But along the way, we took a spontaneous detour to the island of Majorca — for a single day and night — just to sample the place. Soon we were off on another tangent — this time to Madeira.
Except for the ridiculously short duration, the Majorca excursion did make some logistical sense. Majorca is a part of Spain and lies off the Spanish coast, a brief flight from Barcelona, which already was on the itinerary. We would squeeze in Majorca after Barcelona and before moving on to Seville and Madrid. A little diversion never hurt anyone.
But a few days later, we were impulsively making our way to the Madeira archipelago, a Portuguese possession in an entirely different part of the world — out in the Atlantic Ocean, 400 miles from the coast of Morocco, closer to Africa than to mainland Europe. And time constraints limited us to another overnight stay.
Why trouble ourselves this way? Because my traveling companion likes to cram as much as possible into a single journey.
“As long as those places are in the neighborhood, why not take a look?” she reasons. “Who knows when we’ll be back to this area again?” But her limited grasp of geography renders some “neighborhoods” rather large.
I pointed out Madeira’s remote location on the globe, and still she insisted that we go. A couple of friends had described their visit during a glorious Madeira New Year’s Eve. It seems the entire population celebrates in public and, traditionally, every light stays on in every house, all over the hills and mountainsides.
“The streets fill up with people like it’s Mardi Gras,” said one of those friends. “It’s a huge party — with madeira flowing like water. When all those lights go on, it’s like floating into the sky, surrounded by stars.”
So my traveling companion could not go home without it, although New Year’s Eve was almost six months away. She was ready with a neat rationalization: Spain is right next door to Portugal, no? And Madeira is a part of Portugal, right? So let’s take a look at Madeira, as long as we’re in the neighborhood.
I argued that our schedule would allow only 24 hours, including flights and sleep. I told her we would have to travel 300 miles from Madrid to Lisbon, change planes, then fly the 600 miles to Madeira. That would leave us one afternoon of exploration, a single evening on the town (Funchal) and — the following morning — a dash back to the airport for the return trip.
“Book it,” she replied.
One could look at those island hops simply as full-fledged travel nightmares, and, of course, they were: hectic cab rides, confusing directions, excess-luggage fines, rental-car hassles, airport delays, bawling children, officious bureaucrats. We suffered all of the above.
But now we should look back upon the good things. And there were many. We profited by discovering two places in the world that we long to visit again — for a greater duration, of course. By now, I’m resigned to the idea that, when next time comes, we probably will move on from Majorca and Madeira to other interesting places in their respective “neighborhoods.”
Majorca? Then why not Aix-en-Provence?
Madeira? How about Marrakech, too?
As long as we’ve come this far . . .
And so one morning, we arrived at the Palma de Majorca airport from Barcelona and drove in a northerly direction out of Palma, a metropolis of 300,000, toward the farthest northern tip of the island — a distance of 75 miles. We were tempted to park and explore the big city, which combines hedonistic beachfront resorts with a maze of ancient back streets and a grand old cathedral. But a trip like this must be filled with tough choices. We chose to save Palma for another time.
We had gotten it into our heads that Spain’s Balearic Islands — Majorca being the largest — were one gigantic playground. Of course, a more prepared traveler might consider that the Balearics offer some 7,000 years of human occupation to understand, layers of Castilian culture to unravel, plus tales of Phoenician and Carthaginian traders, Romans, Moors and Visigoths.
Later for that.
The days in Barcelona had temporarily drained our last reserves of energy and intellect. We needed relaxation, and that’s why we were headed toward Hotel Formentor, 11 miles south of the lighthouse on a finger of land reaching into the Mediterranean.
To get there, we followed Highway 710, as it meandered along Majorca’s western coast, writhing through passes and switchbacks in the foothills of the Sierra de Tramuntana. Clearly, it would be a long time before we could flop onto a beach or stroll the grounds of our highly touted 5-star resort.
Along the road, near Soller, we saw a masonry building that seemed almost a part of the rocky landscape. Some cars occupied a parking lot notched into a hill. A few children romped near a steep stairway. A sign told us the stairway would lead to the Restaurant Mirador.
It was a Friday afternoon, and the place already had an air of weekend relaxation. Families and a few couples dined at scattered tables, looking as if they had all the time in the world. A waitress seated us beside a picture window and an astounding view of steep, green embankments tumbling toward the sea.
Ah, scenery! In the mad dash to see another part of whatever neighborhood my traveling companion imagines that she’s in, I usually end up as designated driver. That means my vistas are pretty much limited to yellow lines and blinking turn signals. Now we had come to a stop on Majorca, and I could admire the beauty of the island, relax in a noisy restaurant above the blue water and finally slow down the pace.
The waitress brought olives on a little plate, rice with meat, a seafood stew, sabrosa (the regional pork sausage), coffee and tea. I can’t remember savoring the food as much as I did the sublime meeting of ocean and shore far below our window.
Eventually, we got up and plowed on into the afternoon, turning off at every wide space in the road to look down upon deep-azure water with craggy margins of stone gripped by tenacious pine trees.
The hotel occupied manicured high ground, a whitewashed building with a red tile roof surrounded by trees and gardens. The beach was below us, and we strolled it in the waning daylight, a cuticle of white sand bordering water of Caribbean clarity. Stragglers were reluctantly packing up their towels after a day in the sun and wandering off for the evening.
We returned to our unremarkable room and made dinner plans. The hotel offered dining with haute ambitions, uniforms, tie-and-jacket formality. Although I didn’t relish another bout with the hairpin turns of Majorca, I voted with the majority and drove back to Port de Pollensa in the dark.
I parked on a side street in a Mediterranean village that exactly fulfills a traveler’s image of what a Mediterranean village should be. We could hear guitars and voices and laughter. We followed those happy sounds to the port, where cafes were strung out for blocks — lights twinkling, kitchens giving off delightful scents, people lingering in the warmth of a summer evening heavy with romance.
Restaurant Iru-Cactus looked just right, for reasons I no longer remember. It was one of many dining spots along Paseo Anglada Camarasa, a perfect vantage point for watching strollers, hearing the music and seeing the lights of a charming town reflected in the rippling waves. After a sublime fish stew for two, we lingered over glasses of hierbas dulces, the local herb-based liqueur. But not too much, because we still faced the harrowing drive back.
The next day, we took a less scenic route from the Hotel Formentor through the middle of the island, a trip of about 35 miles featuring the hot, flat plains of agricultural Majorca, including olive groves and citrus orchards.
At the beginning of that short drive, we stopped for lunch at Port d’Alcudia. The cafes there matched those of Port de Pollensa, but this time, the view included a long beach beside a protected cove, and the promenade was lined with year-round houses and vacation apartments. Some of the buildings displayed streamlined versions of Anton Gaudi’s whimsical Barcelona architecture. The name of the cafe escapes me, but it did serve a delicious pasta, hearty enough to fortify us for the hectic rush to the airport and the flight to Madrid.
After a few days in Madrid, the time came for our mad dash to Madeira by way of Lisbon. At the Lisbon airport we sat in a lounge provided by TAP, the Portuguese airline. A woman with an infant daughter told us that for complicated career reasons, she must split her time between Madeira and mainland Portugal. “You will love it there,” she assured us. “I only wish I could spend all year on Madeira. How long do you plan to stay?”
When we answered, she looked at us strangely and put a protective arm around her little girl.
At the airport in Santa Cruz, 11 miles east of Funchal, we had to hunt down a car-rental agent and interrupt her tea break. She provided a well-worn, Korean-made coupe, and we set off for the hotel. The ride provided a dramatic preview of the hours ahead. Roads demanded quick turns and much shifting of gears, as we wound our way along shorelines, up hills and through tunnels, everything a blur of orange-tile rooftops, white stucco and deep green hillsides. In half an hour, we reached the venerable Reid’s Palace Hotel, arranged imperiously atop a cliff overlooking the sea.
It was easy to forget we had arrived in an outpost of Portugal. Reid’s was created in the 1880s by William Reid, a transplanted Scotsman who was a leader in building the island’s hospitality industry. The hotel became a favorite vacation retreat for the British, notably Winston Churchill and George Bernard Shaw. Everyone we encountered spoke impeccable English and assumed that we did too.
We reached our room through a labyrinth of creaky corridors, pausing at display cases crammed with souvenirs and faded photographs of luminaries who had visited Reid’s in the past. Our chamber was another outpost of the Empire, complete with frilly bedding and clubby furnishings. The tiny balcony looked down, incongruously, upon palm trees and swimming pools, grassy knolls and flamboyantly blooming gardens.
I was tempted to spend all my remaining hours on Madeira in the hotel, resting up from the journey that had gotten us there and building up strength for the return trip to mainland Europe. But we had an island to see.
A road heading west from the hotel took us to the fishing village of Camara de Lobos, a favorite subject of Churchill the painter. Colorful little boats still rested on the beaches and in the boatyards, along with skeletons of vessels under construction or in stages of decrepitude. In a small bar overlooking the scene, we sipped a glass of sercial, the dry madeira, and marveled at how quickly the people grafted us into village life.
Women giggled around tables full of gossip and winked in our direction to include us in the jokes. At the tiny bar, patrons lifted their glasses in welcome, and one man — in perfect Portuguese — gave directions to the nearest ATM.
We continued driving westward until we were about 20 miles from Funchal, the capital, in the pretty coastal town of Ribeira Brava (Wild River). There we had no difficulty pretending we had just ended a long journey. It was a bigger village than Camara de Lobos and a crossroads with all the ingredients of an ideal rest stop: shops and cafes facing the sea, charming houses with ornate balconies and colorful shutters, people lounging at outdoor tables and atop the breakwaters. An archway cut into the cliffs on the east edge of town lured me to a small beach strewn with little fishing boats. The beach gave forth to a long array of hills, some terraced for farms, others sprinkled with houses perched jauntily on notches cut into the green walls.
North of town, lush valleys beckoned, but the sun was lowering, and we wanted at least a taste of Madeira’s big city, where some 120,000 of the island’s 260,000 people live. We arrived after dark to find Funchal bustling with strollers and dense automobile traffic. We parked with great difficulty and strolled for awhile in a postcard town, filled with old buildings, flowered squares and sidewalks paved with seashells arranged in elaborate patterns.
The pleasure harbor looked promising, a line of restaurant ships bobbing in a compact port with lively crowds inside and on the decks. But the seafood at the one we chose at random tasted as if it had been away from home too long. And I was struck by a momentary pang of melancholy, feeling we would be going away from Madeira all too soon.
Next morning, we had one last sight to see. I drove the serpentine highway up to Monte and parked with great difficulty in the town square. Women sold colorful sweaters; men had pushcarts full of knit caps. A man in a beret and a crimson sash played a ukelele. Some children tackled mothers’ skirts and begged for treats.
One man sensed that we had not come for all that. We were looking for the source of all the screaming and laughter and shouting over the next hill. “Come on with me,” he said. “Toboggans this way. Hurry. You could be next!” We followed him up a curving path to the top of a hill. The man’s outstretched hand got the last of our local currency.
Tourists were spread out in a queue, and men in white outfits with boater straws on their heads loaded the people onto wicker sleds. The men would then push the toboggans down the hill, guiding the conveyances with the thick rubber soles of their much-cobbled shoes. The tourists would plunge toward Funchal at breakneck speeds. Ernest Hemingway described that ride as one of the most exhilarating experiences of his life, according to one guidebook.
We decided not to ride ourselves. Majorca and Madeira had been exhilarating enough. Besides, our plane awaited. We had no more time for another short trip, even though it certainly would have been in the neighborhood.
IF YOU GO
– GETTING THERE
The lowest round-trip air fare from Barcelona to Palma de Majorca, using Iberia, the airline of Spain, is $126.03, including tax. The fare requires at least a three-night stay. To fly from Barcelona to Majorca and then on to Seville, as we did, the lowest fare is $285.03, including tax.
Coach fare from Lisbon to Madeira ranges from about $200 (seven-day stay with Sunday overnight required) to $356, unrestricted Business class, on TAP, the airline of Portugal. Fares may be less for those also booking a U.S.-Portugal flight with TAP.
– LODGING
Hotel Formentor in Majorca charges about $316 per night for a double room, including tax, during the summer. A junior suite in summer costs about $460. U.S. representative is American/ Wolfe International Hotel Representatives (800-223-5695).
Rates per room at Reid’s Palace Hotel on Madeira range from $292 to $400, including taxes and breakfast. Other rates may be available in connection with promotional packages. U.S. contact is Leading Hotels of the World (800-223-6800).
Those are the top-end hotels on each island, but there are plenty of other choices in a wide range of price categories. Consult a travel agent and/or the Spanish and Portuguese tourism offices.
– INFORMATION
Tourist Office of Spain, Suite 915E, 845 N. Michigan Ave., Chicago, Ill. 60611 (312-642-1992).
Portugal National Tourist Office, fourth floor, 590 Fifth Ave., New York, N.Y. 10036-4704. (212-354-4403).
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Robert Cross’ e-mail address is bobccross@aol.com.
