A slower start. Coffee in bed, the balcony doors open to hear the morning sounds. I mimicked the cockerels crowing in the valley; “cock-a-doodle-doo”. He told me the sound that Germans used to mimic them was “kikeriki” and we mused how interesting it was that the same animals noises were represented differently in different languages.
The Fanal forest was, high up on the Paul de Serra plateau of the island, typically misty. We found it drenched in gorgeous sunshine that morning. The shadows of the old laurel trees were stretched across the grass like a yawn. 1200m above sea level, far above the last of the eucalyptus, this area of ancient trees felt like it was defying nature. Nature always has a mind of its own, a power and magic not fully understood by reason. These trees were a miracle and as with all ancient trees I was fascinated and captivated as I wandered amongst them, softly touching the moss on their trunks. They were full of character with gnarled branches and low boughs, buttress roots and hollows. I wondered what stories they held.
After sitting on a grassy mound for a while taking in the spectacle, we meandered our way down the other side of the mountains to the black sands beach. Away from the forest, the landscape turned back into heath with its grass and gorse, and as we descended the plant life became tropical. Huge ferns, each leaf the size of a car. Cacti and palms in every shade of green. Birds of paradise flowers and white lilies.
Down on the beach there was a surf lesson going on which was funny because there wasn’t a wave in sight. We had seen some pretty outrageous surf lessons in our lives spent on the beach but this had to be up there with them. No matter whether the ocean was flat or giving 5ft close outs, the surf schools seemed to be able to assure beginners it was the perfect conditions in which to learn.
The sand, as dark as it was, held all the heat of the morning. Stripping off we went skipping down to the glittering sea, hesitating slightly at that midriff level that always seems to be the hardest to get past, no matter how warm the water is, before slipping in and swimming out.
Creative pursuits always altered the way things were experienced. My painting made me acutely aware of colours and light. Writing daily had altered the way I was thinking, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say it had just made me more aware of my thoughts. I was more mindful, acknowledging thoughts that were note worthy and assessing those that were not. I liked my new writers mind.
On our drive back around the island, gazing out the open window as I always did, I spotted some surfers who had found a wave, and a big one at that. The beaches on the island always had a break wall to shelter swimmers from the powerful ocean waves that smashed against the rest of the coastline. We found the nearest place to park walked through one of the old, disused tunnels to get closer. It was cold in there and pitch black in the middle save for the tiny dot of light where it came out. But when we emerged we were right in front of the peak with a backdrop of hazy blue mountains.
We sat on the wall and watched. He took photos and my stomach plummeted whenever one of the surfers dropped into one of the huge waves. It was pure ocean down there, the air full of it, spray on our faces making my hair curl and crisp. We could both happily watch the waves for hours, and often did. It was one of the most pleasant ways of whiling away time, made especially absorbing if there were people out there riding the waves. Just energy moving through water like some sort of apparition.
Eventually we peeled ourselves away and drove home in salty mellowness. The island life was a good one.