Sailing into the Sun:
Our Caribbean Adventure and Madeira Memories

Earlier this year, Jane and I embarked on a sail-only cruise to the Caribbean. We set off from, and returned to, Southampton aboard Cunard’s Queen Victoria.

Whilst we have cruised before, we had never experienced six days in a row without setting foot on land. As with all things I write, I stand to be corrected, but I don’t believe we have ever exceeded three days without mooring at a quayside or anchoring in a harbour. When we originally booked the holiday, I was mindful of this, but by the time we set sail, I had conquered this anxiety.

Just to let you know, whilst most of you readers were enjoying a chilly start to the year—including, as I understand it, some snow—we had to put up with sunny skies and temperatures a mark or so either side of 30°. Life can be really hard sometimes, can’t it?

We were scheduled to call at the following islands: Madeira, Barbados, St Lucia, Grenada, St Vincent, Curacao, Aruba, Dominica, Antigua, St Kitts, Sint Maarten, and, last but not least, Ponta Delgada in the Azores. Doesn’t that sound like a what’s-what of tropical exoticness? I will dedicate at least one episode to each country, but occasionally, we did so much that I might need two.

First Stop Funchal

Our first port of call was Funchal in Madeira. This was the second time we had stopped off here on a cruise, the first visit being in 2022 aboard the magnificent Saga Spirit of Adventure. This week, we will wind the old time-machine back and begin with our 2022 visit.

There is nothing quite like it—I mean, arriving in a sunnier clime in January. I do need to point out, however, that you may strike seriously unlucky with this particular destination. It is winter, after all. It can get days of seemingly endless rain and chilly winds from the north.

Every now and again, the weather can feel like you are promenading along Great Yarmouth seafront, directly into a spiteful wind containing slicing bullets of ice, rather than Funchal’s own Passeio Publico Maritimo do Lido. I think we will stick to the Lido Promenade, don’t you, just in case I need to mention it again.

Anyway, we took a stroll along the aforementioned esplanade—sun warming our faces and bared arms, the gentle ocean kissing the strand, and the palm trees gently swaying in a zesty zephyr. It was sublime.

We took a turning toward the town and, somehow, came across a larger-than-life statue of the footballer Cristiano Ronaldo. Of all the grand metropolitan areas of Portugal that he could have been born in, he wasn’t—his umbilical cord was cut here, in little old Funchal, and he has never forgotten it. Well done him.

Am I happy that footballers are given bronze tributes when there are many more important figures from history who have helped shape this particular archipelago? No, not really. I have always been biased towards history.

There is no doubt, though, that fans in their droves pilgrimage here from all over the world to pay homage to the five-time Ballon d’Or winner. Another thing—and I can’t find any evidence to back this up, but I like the story—apparently, women who are struggling to get in the family way bend to rub a certain part of the bronze’s anatomy. Who knows the effect? I was told that the anatomical part has been polished to a lustrous shine. I, for one, was not going to go in for a closer look; probably wouldn’t be able to see it anyway.

It doesn’t stop there when it comes to honouring its most famous son. There is also a museum in his name, which I am informed is very good. It has something for everyone. For football fans, it has the obvious, and for non-football fans, it has… well… not sure. I will let you be the judge of it.

I cannot actually give an opinion as we didn’t deign to pass through its portal. I guess I am a football fan, but certainly not an obsessive. And as far as I am aware, it doesn’t hold any cannons or medieval weapons, so I am struggling to work out the attraction.

By the way, for those of you who are interested, it is called CR7. I have no idea—it sounds more like a British postcode. In fact, it is, and it covers the Thornton Heath area of Croydon. That, to me, is probably the most interesting part of this piece.

Next off, we were off to the hillside village of Monte. There is really only one way to get there, and equally, only one way to get back. If you are a tourist and have limited time here, you need to get on the cable car, Teleferico do Funchal—I shall stick to Funchal cable car for those of you who don’t have the Portuguese—and board one of the famous wheeled toboggans for the scary ride down the hill into the outskirts of the capital.

For some reason, best known to the organisers, we mounted a coach for the short ride to the village and hopped into a cable car pod for the return—a bit arsey-versey if you ask me. Monte is splendid on a sunny late Sunday morning in January. No work today, at least not for the majority, although tourist guides, baristas, and, of course, priests are in demand.

Our escort for this gentle amble through the ancient settlement, Julia, pointed out buildings of interest, the best place to get a traditional Madeiran lunch, and exquisite flora already in bloom. Churches are nearly as prevalent as bars, restaurants, and coffee shops—not quite the same as it is at home.

Glorious Gardens

In one churchyard, we were treated to a magnificent magnolia in full blossom. This is a truly wonderful experience; I think it has always been one of my favourite flowering trees. I’m not actually sure whether ours, centrally positioned in our garden back home, will even be showing off its buds yet. Don’t even think about flowers for another four months or so.

If we are blessed with a nice sunny day sometime in May, I will be found sitting under our own marvellous specimen, chatting away to our old beloved labrador, the late Ailsa, whose ashes are interred within its roots. We would always find her, on any sunny day during her living years, sleeping under the shady canopy of magnolias at our previous properties. It seemed fitting, to this soppy pair anyway, to lay her to rest neath the leaves and blooms of her favourite place in life. Lovely memories! Even now, she still listens without judgment when I want to moan about my lot. Mind you, she was a bloody useless guide dog!

Just a note about the toboggans before we mount the cable car: it is quite a concept. These things, that don’t look dissimilar to canoes on wheels, career down the hill from Monte into the outer reaches of the island’s main city, with only a few millimetres of shoe leather appearing to be the only nod to health and safety.

Basically, the driver, standing aboard at the back, controls the vehicle. By allowing his shoes to scrape along the road’s cobbles, he slows the toboggan, eventually bringing it to a safe standstill.

Is Funchal a city or a town? This is an interesting notion. What on earth makes a city? I used to hold the misguided belief that a town could only be upgraded to city status if it had a cathedral. Then along came Colchester, my hometown, which was elevated to being a city in 2022.

I have walked around Colchester numerous times during my formative years, and not once did I stumble across a cathedral. Answers on a postcard please—or, failing that, an email will do. One thing is certain: Funchal has a handful of churches, and I assume at least one must be constituted a cathedral. I’ll look it up. Yes, there is—it is known as Se Catedral de Nossa Senhora da Assuncao, The Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption.

Onto the cable car—a real shame we came down rather than went up—but I am reliably informed it afforded the sighted stunning views of the settlement and the ocean beyond. Julia, remember, our guide, made me shake my head in disbelief.

If you pull your hair out thanks to ideas introduced by our politicians, none of them can be as harebrained as this. Now, it is widely known that Madeira is a volcanic island, which in general allows its soil to be very fertile. Unfortunately, as fertile as it is, it is also very thin—only centimetres of topsoil cover the rock in some parts. One such place is the slopes of the hill leading to Monte.

Soil erosion was a serious matter. I know, said the council bigwigs, we’ll go and buy a load of eucalyptus trees from the Aussies.

There is, in part, a sound argument with this, as the tree’s roots help bind the topsoil. There is, of course, a serious downside to this, as anyone blessed with a smidgin more than a hare’s head of intelligence will vouch for. It seems like a regular challenge for Australia during its summers. Our news channels are full of powerful images highlighting yet more bushfires wreaking their devastation throughout rural and, indeed, some urban areas.

The trees were duly planted, and initially, they proved to be a success, helping to provide stability to the topsoil. But as sure as eggs is eggs, a drought-ridden summer led to the fire-prone gum trees bursting into flame. Result: carnage on the hillside and a hurried review of botanic policy. The authorities are now researching different plants for the task in hand, having thinned out the density of gum tree planting for the time being.

The cable cars work on a continuous loop, not actually stopping at the stations to allow passengers off at their leisure. Instead, one has to ready themselves to leap from a moving pod. It was with some relish, later in the evening, that I learned some fellow passengers doubted my wherewithal to alight in safety. Oh, ye of little faith.

I do, respectfully, point out that I am blind, not lacking in physical mobility or balance. It’s a funny one, much like servers asking my wife what I would like to eat, as if I am in a different room altogether, and will be joining her later. I know people mean no harm, and, just maybe, they are genuinely concerned for my wellbeing. I don’t know. It is a sadness that not many people outside the visually impaired community, blind family, and close friends fully appreciate what we can and can’t do. Never mind—I did enjoy the ride. To be honest, the things had nearly ground to a halt before we jumped into the unknown.

Last visit was the botanic gardens, refreshingly named The Madeira Botanic Gardens, saving any confusion. Glorious, filled us full of hope for the months ahead back in Blighty. Mentioning the magnificent magnolia earlier pales into insignificance next to the incredible flora on display at the 6.50-hectare garden, once the private space of island hotelier William Reid, whose home still stands on the edge of the site and, until this day, continues to be occupied by his descendants.

Sauntering through floral splendour, about three to four months away in our own backyard, fills the senses, so uplifting. Taking in the scents of bougainvillea, rhododendron, and camellia, among others, is an incredible feeling—almost impossible to describe—yet will again be made available to us later in the year upon our return.

Drop down to another tier and we were surrounded by succulents and cacti, before descending into a manmade valley to cast our eyes—hands in my case—over some creative topiary. Fortunately, these artworks did not seem to contain brambles, and hands got away blood-free.

I have heard so often that Madeira is a wonderful and welcoming place to visit, although I have always put off coming here as I was told it was great for old people. Age catches up with you, doesn’t it? No idea where it comes from—all of a sudden, it is there.

It is time to accept that I am now in the “old” category, recently confirmed by the arrival of my first payment from the state pension, which apparently makes me a benefit scrounger according to some politicians. Yeah, I think they would be the same ones who order incendiary trees to stabilise the soil. Open mouth seems to come before engaging brain for these… well, rhymes with tuck-fits!

William Reid is, until this day, remembered in the city. His hotel, Reid’s, is a permanent tribute to the man who did so much to promote the island further afield. It is, sort of, like a mid-Atlantic Raffles, reminding us of a long-lost and decadent past. Haven’t visited yet, but I promise to do so one day.

Homework for this week: discuss who is more important, William Reid or Cristiano Ronaldo? Indeed, could we have had the latter without the former?

Next time, we will return to Madeira for another flying visit, this time in 2026.