19th March 2013

The night brought a choppier sea, though it didn’t disturb our sleep. We awoke refreshed, only to find the deck glistening with rain, or possibly seawater, depending on how optimistic one felt. A quick flick through the cabin TV’s CCTV (front and back views of endless waves, better than The Shipping Forecast, if you’re into that sort of thing) confirmed we were still at sea under a rather sullen sky.

By breakfast, the chill in the air hinted at a less tropical day, but as we tucked in, Madeira slowly emerged from the clouds like a magician’s reveal. High cliffs, Funchal’s neat sprawl, and a dramatic mountain backdrop soon came into view. While we were still chewing our toast, the ship docked, and by the time we’d finished, the clouds had lifted, the sun had triumphed, and the Atlantic was sparkling like it had been sprinkled with diamonds. A grand entrance indeed.

Having mastered the art of excursions, we skipped the long queue and nabbed our bus number early. This meant first pick of the coach seats, prime territory, like bagging sunbeds without the guilt. For once, the coach was filled only with Brits. A shame, as I was just starting to get the hang of my German, mainly the phrase for “I think we’re lost.”

Our adventure began at a mountain viewpoint, the sort where you take a photo that never quite does justice to the “wow” in person. From there, we headed higher still, up to Pico dos Barcelos, where we would ride the famous cestinhos. Imagine a large wicker basket masquerading as a sledge, two locals in traditional white outfits with straw hats as your “drivers,” and a mile-long road that plunges downhill. That’s your health-and-safety nightmare sorted. I filmed the descent, expecting 200 metres of novelty, but instead we rattled along for nearly a mile. Halfway down, we stopped for a photo and a quick wax of the runners, apparently to make us go faster, though Sue’s screams suggested gravity was doing a fine job already. At the bottom, she bought a souvenir T-shirt, which in my view was the bravest act of all.

Another mountain stop followed, complete with a small market and two musicians under a tree. They looked vaguely Chilean, or possibly Peruvian, and were producing a haunting rendition of Hallelujah on a tiny guitar and panpipes. It was oddly moving and somehow suited the scenery. Whether they knew Leonard Cohen remains open to debate, but I like to think he’d have approved.

Back down the less hair-raising side of the mountain, we drove through Funchal and stopped in the centre. A short stroll brought us to a 17th-century wine house, where we sampled Madeira. Pleasant enough, though sweeter than my usual preference, but still good enough to buy a bottle, because that’s what you do on holiday.

With ninety minutes of free time, we meandered through Funchal’s streets, soaking up the relaxed atmosphere of locals settling in for lunch. No rush, no chaos, just tidy squares and a sense that people lived here. We ended in a park overlooking the harbour, perfectly positioned to admire our ship and equally convenient for rejoining the coach.

Back aboard, we ran into Jonathan and his mother, fresh from the Botanical Gardens and on their way to Reid’s Hotel for afternoon tea. We sensibly opted for the less demanding pursuit of reclining on deck with binoculars, books, and a smug view of Funchal.

Dinner brought the usual exchange of tales from the day, each of us had done something different. Our waiter, clearly deciding that food wasn’t entertainment enough, presented us with a puzzle. We failed dismally, and he had to reveal the answer. (I’m convinced he does this every cruise just to prove intellectual superiority over the passengers.)

The evening show was Mercedes and Zoltan, not a circus act from Blackpool, but a clever blend of acrobatics, ballet, and a violinist so talented she made the rest of us regret abandoning music lessons at age twelve. It was stylish, different, and thoroughly enjoyable. Afterwards, we lingered over tea and coffee with Jonathan and his mother in the ship’s rear restaurant, before heading to bed, tired but content after a full day of Madeiran marvels.