Dirtbagging the Caminho Real 23

Optimism is a powerful drug, it encourages us to take on the previously impossible. It also occasionally dumps us in the middle of nowhere on exhausted limbs in a thunderstorm. Jen and I were keen to find out where our optimism would take us during a week of adventure on the island of Madeira.

 

Our plan to walk around the island had coalesced during our last visit to the island, the appeal of a really basic trip carrying only the bare essentials was strong after a week in the tourist centre Funchal. So we returned in October carrying everything we might need in backpacks; tent, sleeping bag, mat and a change of clothes. 

Carrying less than 10kg apiece we strode out of Funchal one Tuesday morning in early October. Leaving the diesel fumes and secondhand cigarette smoke of the city behind was no hardship, we were finding our way along the south coast of the island through steep terraces of strawberries, tomatoes and salad leaves to the banana laden slopes of the south west. Along the way we found the odd ripe strawberry or fig to keep us going up the 20% ramps of Quinta Grande. Sun bathing lizards darted into crevices at every step and we stepped over a massive caterpillar. At Madalena do Mar we were treated to fresh bananas by locals, we must have looked hungry.

We climbed out of Madeira's banana capital spurred on by the yapping ankle nipping hounds which were a constant feature of our hike. With the sun sinking behind the horizon we strode down the hill to Calheta arriving in the wealthy resort as darkness fell. A posh fish supper and a night lurking in the shadows of the park were on the cards.  

We picked a bivvy spot in a small copse of trees thinking that we were unlikely to be spotted by passersby. It was the most manicured lawn we’d seen since our arrival on the island, perfect for a good night’s sleep. At least it would have been if the automated sprinkler system had been turned off. Shortly after 5AM Jen grabbed me shouting ‘MOVE! You’re going to get soaked!’. 

It was still dark but wide awake we set off walking, leaving the imported golden sand and yachts of Calheta to get a headstart on the 600m climb up to Prazeres.  Seeing the dawn light up the sky overhead as we climbed through surburbs of whitewashed walls and terracotta roofs was a treat. 

The morning light brought the red flowers which tumbled over lily-white walls and into the street to life. Little by little blue pride of Madeira plants and eucalyptus trees took the place of houses until we were marching through a wood, dwarfed by the towering blue leafed eucalyptuses with their peelin, striped trunks. 

By mid-morning we were staring down a precipitous ravine to a distant fishing village. The path to Paul do Mar plunged downwards at an unfeasible rate until it met the sea.  We couldn’t start to guess how the path would descend the loose earth and rock above the village  but descend we must. I couldn’t imagine how the path had been built at the end of the 19th century, why would anyone try and find a route down here?  

Apparently the King of Portugal decreed the building of the Caminho Real 23 in the late 19th century. Many villages were at that time only accessible by boat, relying on favourable weather for trade and deliveries of essentials.  We felt the pain of those first travellers on this Royal Path as we climbed down the cobbled steps balancing our 10kg packs behind us. We were rewarded in the fishing village of Paul do Mar with freshly baked pastries and custard tarts, perfect re-fuelling before the equally steep switchbacked climb up the cliff and out of the village towards the western most point of island. 

Stacks of cultivated terraces gave way to lush fields of grazing cows, a landscape more like home barring the 3 metre high clumps of bamboo that rustled in the breeze.  We pushed on aiming to make the village of Santa for the night. Late afternoon we strode through villages where bars overflowed with locals catching up on the gossip after a day’s work, no such rest for us - the looming 8pm sundown kept us moving along roads and into the woods. They were eerie, it was dusk under the dense canopy of trees and the eucalyptus creaked in the wind whilst in the shelter beneath thousands of mosquitos buzzed resulting in a low humming sound that reminded us that this was no place to loiter.

Dusk drew in and we chatted excitedly about the hotel we had booked for the night. The promise of a shower and a hot meal kept our march through the outskirts  of Santa going. We finally spotted the lights of a bar. Walls panelled with faded wood veneer, flickering fluorescent light fittings and yellowing ceiling paint blunted our enthusiasm slightly but this was the only hotel in town . Two toothless old guys left as we entered, cigarettes hanging limp from their mouths and mahogany skin riven by wrinkles.

We were ushered upstairs into a large dark room which was apparently ‘the restaurant’. An abandoned bar bisected the room, stacked with dusty bottles of Aperol and Cinzano, walls adorned with faded postcards, a pile of disused fish tanks completed the air of dispair. It seemed that several decades ago this might have been a hotel buzzing with life, but now in 2022 we were wondering if we had made a serious mistake booking a room here. A door slammed and a toothless old lady appeared from a dark corner wearing a nightie and slippers; “hot food?”. Err, 'si'. We were starving but the absence of menu seemed a little unconventional. Ten minutes later the propietor appeared from downstairs with two plates, each of which carried a bread roll stuffed with fried gristle. In an eerie act of unexpected choreography the old lady also appeared from the opposite side of the room carrying two bowls of, well, spaghetti soup. We were served with what was apparently a typical peasant’s meal from many decades ago and there was more than a whiff of Edward and Tubs from The League of Gentlemen about these two. We did our best with the food and left early the next morning declining the offer  of breakfast.

The pools of Porto Moniz were our next destination, we’d heard a lot about them but they turned out to be concrete enclosed rock pools. A little underwhelming, unlike the breakfast delicacy that we found in a nearby hotel. An omelette sandwich sounded like an unlikely culinary hit but was actually amazing! A thick, succulent spring onion and oregano filled omelette crammed into a ‘Bolo de Caco’, (traditional Madeiran Bread roll) washed down with freshly pressed orange juice and arse kicking black coffee.

The northern coast was dramatic, shards of rock leapt skyward from the foaming Atlantic breakers while at the back of the steep shingle beaches lush forests ascended to the clouds. Returning from the clouds were wide rocky water shoots which would have been tempting as waterslides were it not for their near vertical inclination and abrupt rocky landing just above sea level. We were lucky enough to walk through a stretch of this forest high above the coast. Our ancient cobbled Royal path twisted and turned weaving a tortuous path though centuries old forest. Creepers and brambles hung from gnarly cedar and laurel frequently grabbing our hats as we ducked and dived underneath. Despite being hundreds of metres up and seemingly deep in the forest the sound of a crashing Atlantic swell far below was a constant reminder of how close we were to the water.

 

Following lunchtime glasses of poncha at a surf bar we were forced into road tunnels for a few km, the original cliff pathways had long since been swallowed by the sea and it was in these long tunnels that we experienced the only moments of monotony on the entire trip. Out in the daylight again the views remained spectacular, black sandy beaches taking the place of the shingle from earlier in the day. We found ourselves a level pitch by the sea for our tent and watched the sun set over a group of surfers searching their next break whilst we drank bottles of Coral beer. 

We were packed and away for dawn, enjoying the low light and savouring the promise of breakfast in the next town. It was never difficult to find a morning Espresso and ours propelled us forward on one of the most scenic stretches of the path. Steep cobbled hairpins clung to the cliffs as above Paul do Mar and every time we climbed high above the ocean another set of hairpins would come into view. We marched on through the morning making it to the ancient ‘Laurisilva’ near Santana. These protected forests are thought to the the last examples of a sub-tropical habitat that covered much of southern Europe centuries ago. Containing more than 20 different tree types the most abundant is the bay laurel which has grown here for 1.8 million years. 

 

We pressed on through the tourists of Santana, keen to reach the last major climb of the route before the day was out. We lost the light at Porta da Cruz and started looking for a suitable camp site, unfortunately we were back in the land of steep terraced hills and choice was limited. It started to rain and to cap it all the trail fell into a river, remains of a bridge scattered in the riverbed. We were forced to pick a spot for the tent soon after our enthusiasm for the day had waned. We rushed throwing the tent up by torchlight, eager to escape the heavy drizzle that was quickly soaking our belongings and keen for sleep after another long day of walking. 

 

Dawn broke and we hoped that this would be our final day, not because we weren’t enjoying the walk - nothing could be further from the truth, but the idea of completing the caminho in 5 days had grown through the week from possibility to necessity. The last big climb took us from narrow bamboo lined roads at sea level to steep cobbled switchbacks at 700m. We climbed out over the watershed and descended towards the blue skies and sea several miles to the south of us. Low leaden skies dissolved leaving an oasis of blue overhead, outer layers were removed as the morning sun hit us on our march to Machico. We found breakfast in Machico after several hours of trekking on empty stomachs. Machico was the other golden beach on Madeira. It was fake of course, thousands of tonnes of sand imported from Morocco to complete the beach cliche that northern European holiday makers sought. 

Only sixteen miles now stood between us and a celebratory beer in Funchal so following a quick omelette sandwich we wasted no time making our way past the airport and along the pebbled beach at Santa Cruz.

Villages and towns merged together along the coast to Funchal, clinging to steep hills which stretched up to the clouds. It was Saturday and roads were busy with locals going about their weekend, we passed bars  buzzing with football crowds and roadside stalls selling fresh fruit. After several hours Funchal was in sight, 300m below we spied a cruise liner in the harbour. 

The steep descent into Funchal tested our weary legs and feet but with the end in sight nothing could stop us now. Within thirty minutes we were toasting the finish. Chips, beer and a hotel for the night were the perfect reward for 110 miles with 26000 feet of ascent in 5 days. Jen reckoned it was harder than an Ironman, it was certainly more fun.