As I sit here in the darkness, at my glorious bungalow by the sea in Sao Jorge, the Azorean cagarro (aka Cory's Shearwater) is out terrorizing the night. I first heard them as Felipe and I arrived from the airport last night.
Click play to hear what they sound like:
I had no idea they looked so sweet, because I haven't seen them. They only carry on after dark.
Nothing special, just the moon, a day past full, rising over Pico island, as seen from my balcony.
Refresher on the central Azores: I started in Horta on Faial. Yesterday I was in Madalena Pico drinking wine. And now I'm on the rigid spine of Sao Jorge, the wildest of the ilhas I've visited. I am staying at the dot in Urzulina.
Today I drove east to Topo and back in a car I borrowed from Felipe; it's on the honor system. I just need to put gas in the tank. It's been a while since I drove a clutch on such steep hills.
But first, breakfast. Felipe left a starter kit of bread, Sao Jorge cheese, and homemade cherry jam on the porch. Did I mention that cheese is why I came to this island in the first place?
(Sao Jorge is pronounced San George, for no reason I can make sense of. Portuguese is a gorgeous language, that still sounds like Russian to me.)
I mentioned Matos's St Jorge cheese to several people, including Felipe, who spent a few months working in San Leandro. All of them know Joe Matos. Azorean communities are a small world.
I was also thrilled to see espicie cookies, even stale ones. The ones at Cafe St. Jorge, the adorable Portuguese cafe near my house, are even better.
It rained this morning, but it's so humid that everything grows here. Enormous figs. Sunflowers bigger than me.
As you drive along the steep ridge of Sao Jorge, the towns at the bottoms of the hill. The villages are known as fajas (pronounced fa-ZHAS), and they are exquisite, like this church and the ornate tile house at the top of this post.
Even the churches have churches. (No one was there, so I haven't found out why.)
I stopped for coffee at a cafe in one of these towns. A table of men were playing a fierce game of dominoes on the porch.
Finisterra is the cheese factory at the end of the earth. Literally. While the fresh Topo is lovely, the curado (aged) Topo is even better. Of course I bought some to take home, for 8 euros a kilo (or less than $5/pound). The woman who helped me, and let me taste the 6 months aged Topo, also knew Joe Matos.
Finally: the end of the road at the lighthouse. Felipe said sometimes cows swim in the sea here, but I didn't see any.
Not bad, eh?
I made it back to Urzulina to watch Portugal lose to Uruguay in the World Cup semi-finals. The clouds parted briefly.
So here I am, in my cottage at the end of the world, wishing I had more time in Sao Jorge, and planning tomorrow's adventures. If only those crazy birds would go to sleep.
If you know me at all, you know how I love cheese. As a child when my mom played tennis, I walked across the street to the cheese store to ask for tastes.
I knew the day was off to a good start when Delphine, my hostess from Lyon, served French toast for breakfast. French toast with grilled cheese, caramelized apples, local bacon, and maple syrup.
And Quebec fromage is not just any cheese. Look at this golden gate at Fromagerie DuFour! Delphine assured me their cheese was very good, and when a Frenchwoman recommends cheese, you listen.
I had hoped to take a tour at nearby Laiterie Charlevoix, but they were not yet open for the season, except the store. Still I managed to buy a hunk of Hercules, and more local pate.
Yesterday, on the way back from Saguenay Fjord, I stopped in at St-Fidele and got a big bag of cheese curds. Although they're made from cheddar, they aren't sharp like cheddar. As promised, they squeak when you eat them. (No, really. Which means you laugh when you eat them.)
I was amused to see cheese curds sold everywhere in small bags, by the cash register, like a pack of gum or a bag of chips would be at home. Most string cheese tastes like rubber by comparison.
Then it was time to hit the road and work my way West. I'm spending the night in Trois-Rivieres (three rivers), which has splendid architecture and a beautifully restored Centre-ville (Downtown).
The brick buildings remind me a little of Manhattan or of Vassar, although the tin roofs are a giveaway.
Perhaps because it was sunny, this building feels welcoming rather than foreboding. Everyone was in a very friendly mood.
Here's the view from the gazebo at my hotel, looking out on Lac St-Pierre, which is what the becalmed St Lawrence River is called in this area.
I treated myself to an elegant dinner. In Quebec, they are into courses. This is torchon de foie gras, which is illegal in California. I only felt a little guilty. Served with microgreens, berry compote, and a glass of Quebec wine.
Of course when I turned on the TV, there was a show on about cheese making. If this keeps up, I'm going to need another suitcase.
