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.
Winemaking in the Azores doesn't look like winemaking in California. First of all, on Pico the grapes are grown in corrals of lava rocks. But as we've noticed, the humidity and climate and soil in Azores are very fertile.
Everyone, it seems, is growing grapes, or tomatoes, or hydrangeas by the side of the road.
The crest of Madalena. I took the ferry across from Horta in the morning, for a layover en route to Sao Jorge. A taxi driver offered to give me a tour of some of the island highlights for 90 euros, then got annoyed when I said I was going to walk around town and sneered at me. (Way to go, taxi dude.)
Madalena is noticeably upscale, with more gates and fences.
And fierce dogs.
One of the highlights of visiting the Pico Wine Museum is seeing this enormous dragon tree.
Smaller dragon tree
Also this crazy pink pineapple, with many heads.
The old alembiques used to make fig brandy are now in the garden looking like giant Aladdin's lamps.
Another notable part of wine on Pico: lots of unfamiliar grapes.
They display bottles of all the wines made on Pico, but no tasting.
Gratuitous hibiscus
A small shrine to lost fisherman
Obligatory cheese course at lunch, overlooking the sea, served with olives, homemade bread, and herbacious local honey
West toward Horta.
Small dogs are more efficient. Be careful!
For the most part, Azorean islands don't have splendid beaches. But many of them have sea pools on the edge of the coast.
To the left, you could walk into natural pools formed from the laval rocks. In the distance, one of the ferries that goes between Faial and Pico and Sao Jorge sprang a leak, and now it's being taken apart.
The distinctive church of Madalena.
And the sun setting over Faial, as my ferry leaves Pico for Sao Jorge....
Nunu delivered my Smart car at 10, and I set off toward Capelinhos, where a volcano erupted 61 years ago from 1957-8, partially burying a lighthouse and setting off a wave of Azorean immigration to New England.
Capelinhos is at the very western end of Faial. It's an easy drive from Horta on narrow roads with lots of hydrangeas. The approach to the lighthouse is bleak and the entrance to the subterranean museum is austere, like you're entering a bunker.
The volcano was offshore, but after it erupted, lava flows connected it to the rest of Faial. Refugee visas for 1500 families were approved in a bill sponsored by then-Massachusetts Senator John F. Kennedy. Eventually that was raised to 2000 heads of household. New England has had a centuries-old relationship with families migrating to and from Portugal.
Here's what it looks like today. You can climb the steep cliffs, but wear closed-toed shoes if you do. It's windy out there!
The fabulous sunken lobby. I meant to return for a drink at the sleek bar but forgot.
First stop is a 3D movie about volcanoes and how the Azores were formed. When the continents were all one mass, the Azores were the center of civilization. Atlantis....
The display of lava rocks, petrified wood, and semi-precious stones was lit like The Shape of Water.
This rotating globe shows the ring of fire and all the active and submerged volcanoes in the world. That's Hawaii on the left.
Climbing the 140 steps to the top of the lighthouse.
On the way back from the volcano, I passed Bar Fim do Mundo, the bar at the end of the world. Somehow I resisted stopping. Who needs the end of the world, when you have Twitter?
Here's how I imagine the end of the world. At least here air and water are clean and the soil is fertile.
Wildflowers in an explosion of colors.
I drove on a ridiculously foggy road up to the caldera, the crater of the main dormant volcano. It's in the national park and filled with hiking trails. But it was freezing and windy, with no visibility, like walking into a cloud.
This was the view as I descended.
Even the rest areas have hydrangeas. That's Pico in the distance. Still haven't seen the top of it.
The famous windmills! And a lovely view of Horta coming around the bend.
Another decaying house. Not sure if the women in the paintings are historic figures or working girls.
I'll leave you with a poem by Veiga Simões, posted in the restaurant where I had lunch. I can translate it in butchered Portuguese, but here's a better version.
At dinner, I sat next to a Belgian couple I'd run into looking for the Smart car agency yesterday. They're trying to visit all the European islands in search of Atlantis! (Which reminded me I haven't finished my 50 states quest.) We talked about the sad state of democracy, in English because I don't pretend to speak Flemish. When dinner was over, we realized we're on the same ferry tomorrow to Pico. Also that we are staying at the same lovely guesthouse....It's a small world, after all.
