7th November 2010

This entry is dedicated to our holiday in the Azores.

Sue, Sarah and I had a delightfully uneventful train journey to Manchester Airport, where we were all pleasantly surprised to find our reserved seats unoccupied and our rather bulky suitcases tucked safely in the luggage racks, not what I expected, frankly. The travel gods, however, then conspired against us: our flight was exactly one hour late departing, and to add insult to injury, after we landed at Gatwick for a stopover, we were promptly kicked off the plane while passengers on the aircraft from the Azores disembarked, thus gifting us another hour of forced airport limbo. Eventually, we arrived in the Atlantic archipelago just before midnight.

Check-in at the Hotel do Colégio in the centre of Ponta Delgado was swift, but imagine our surprise when we discovered there was no bed for Sarah. After a quick call to reception, the oversight was humorously sorted, and we eventually grabbed some much-needed sleep.

Breakfast the next day was followed by booking a hire car for the week ahead to be delivered the following morning. Armed with a street map, we set off to explore the capital. We were soon charmed by the local traffic etiquette: pedestrians seemed simply to step out into the street without so much as a glance, relying entirely on the reactions and goodwill of the drivers to stop. I’m sure this technique would be suicidal anywhere else in the world, but here, it was the norm. The streets are ridiculously narrow, often just centimetres wider than the average small car, which, as I would soon learn, made driving something of an extreme sport. We spent the day wandering around this surprisingly delightful town full of pretty parks, plazas and a bustling marina, finishing the day with dinner at a Chinese restaurant.

The next morning, our hired car appeared outside the hotel, parked neatly like a well-trained dog. After completing the paperwork, we decided to visit Sete Cidades, a tiny settlement nestled in the heart of a massive volcanic crater about three miles across, with several beautiful lakes nearby. Navigating the narrow streets of Ponta Delgada was nerve-wracking, but as we left town, the roads became wider, smoother (thanks to generous EU grants) and far quieter. Only the occasional tractor or Nissan Micra broke the silence.

The steep, winding climb to the crater rim was worth every white-knuckled minute. The sheer scale of the crater took our breath away, and the lakes sparkled brilliantly in the sunlight. We enjoyed a pleasant salad lunch at the village post office, during which an Azorean wasp decided to welcome Sarah to the island with a sharp sting, a sting she’ll probably remember longer than the salad.

After lunch, Sarah paddled in one of the lakes, cooling her freshly stung finger. We stumbled upon a tunnel carved through the crater wall. It took seven years to dig and channel the lake water to settlements below. Peering into the darkness, we noticed a blinking light and distant voices, far into the cavern. Twenty minutes later, two hikers emerged into the daylight. Sarah and I promised ourselves a similar adventure if we ever returned.

The journey back was smooth until we hit the crazy one-way system of Ponta Delgada. After several failed attempts to reach the hotel, I managed to whack the wing mirror of a parked car. Cue immediate traffic jam behind me, no room to pass. The owner, conveniently sitting inside, was not impressed. When I offered to fix it, he deadpanned in perfect English, “It is broken.” True enough, I was holding the broken bits. I showed him my map and promised to meet him at the hotel.

At the hotel, a bizarre series of events unfolded involving an underground carpark, a garage door that refused to open, a car lift the size of a shoebox, and the slowest manoeuvres in motoring history to park. Eventually, the car was tucked in with millimetres to spare, and the concierge was grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

A while later, the wing-mirror owner arrived (to my surprise ) and apologised, and told me he could get it fixed for 200 Euros. I assured him I had full insurance cover on the hire car and promised to contact the company if he provided me with his contact details. Strangely, though he promised to return with his details, he never did. From that moment on, I folded in the wing mirrors whenever driving in town, a necessary survival tactic on streets built long before cars.

The following days involved scenic drives east to Lagoa (where Sarah swam in a thermal spa with some German tourists), a hike through volcanic clouds (complete with the unmistakable aroma of rotten eggs from natural sulphur springs), and a cheeky soak in a hotel’s volcanic thermal pool that turned our skin and hair a charming shade of orange.

One day’s highlight was a visit to Nordeste, at the island’s northern tip, where we admired panoramic views, fishing villages, volcanic fumaroles, and, through binoculars, some nudists on a remote beach that could only be reached by a precipitous cliff path. (Bathing not for the faint-hearted.)

Apart from one evening meal in the hotel, we chose to dine each night by the marina and enjoy a cooling, fresh sea breeze with the magical lights of the town as a backdrop.

Our last full day was spent shopping and exploring those parts of the town pointed to on our town map as essential tourist visits.

The journey home was a direct flight to Manchester, eventually making it home just before midnight.

All told, the Azores is just the place for a wonderfully relaxing break, a place I’d gladly return to, just maybe without the wasps, wing-mirror incidents, or orange hair next time!