after dark on the isle of Sao Jorge

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?

It's true. At my 40th birthday party, which lasted a weekend, one of the stops was Matos cheese factory in Santa Rosa, where Joe Matos makes real Portuguese-style cheese, specifically St. Jorge. Ironically I was double-booked at dim sum, so I didn't even get to go to Matos, but Melanie brought me a hunk of cheese, still one of my favorites.

(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. 

Sao Jorge reminds me of the wild and wooly West Coast of New Zealand. I had flashbacks to staying at the Old Slaughterhouse in Hector, David's paradise atop the crashing Tasman. Except I didn't have to climb a mountain to get here.

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.