We made a big breakfast of everything left over in the fridge, fruit and toast and he squeezed some oranges in the juicer which was old and the juice always turned out more solid than liquid so you had to chew the mouthfuls a bit, but still it was delicious. It was a blue sky day and the sun was slowly lighting up the otherside of the valley opposite, shadows ebbing away to reveal a golden hillside. A German family we had noticed a few times, or rather we’d heard the children’s shouting and playing echoing across, were having breakfast by their pool. We wondered if they were going home today too. Some of the old locals were also out in their gardens, but these weren’t landscaped or fitted with pools. They were mostly reserved for growing fruit and vegetables and impossibly steep. An old woman sat on a bucket as an old man took his shovel to the ground.
We were really sad to be leaving. The Portuguese have a beautiful word for it: saudade. It means a melancholic nostalgia for something you’ve loved and now is gone. We had needed this adventure more than we had realised and it had been more nourishing than I ever could have imagined. As a Brit I could be stoic and as an optimist I always tried to look on the bright side but recently I had felt little pieces of me turning dark, bit by bit. I knew I’d get through but I had heard a little voice inside that I’d tried to suppress, perhaps it was my soul, screaming for light and freedom. Being in Madeira had been a remedy full of flowers and laughter, a reminder of my zest for life and how much joy it was possible to feel. It felt like leaving the island was a tragic thing.
We drove to Funchal via the south coast, last glimpses of the jaw dropping cliffs as we popped in and out of tunnels. Funchal was cute, if not a little touristy. We walked the cobbled narrow streets of the old town, admiring the street art on the doors and walls, seemingly painted by their respective inhabitants, stopping for coffee and pastries in a little square before meandering on again.
We came to the biggest bougainvillea plant I had ever seen, tumbling over the wall of a city park in majestic purple.
The heat of the day was upon us and we went to the little stone beach to swim one last time. Oh, it was heaven. Water just cool enough to feel refreshing yet warm enough to stay in for a while, treading water and gazing back at the city built into the hills. When we got hungry we went up to the cafe on the beach where we could stay in our swimwear and elongate our holiday until the very last. The cafe was full of locals drinking heavily and having a thoroughly good time. We wished we knew how to relax as hard as the Portuguese without feelings of guilt and self indulgence. Having been raised in England (me) and Germany (him), we were both too heavily conditioned to ‘earn’ our rest and fun through hard work and suffering to be able to relax so freely. We would never be the things we were not no matter how hard we tried.
And we did try, that afternoon, intensely aware of the flight we would soon be on where we would land in Bristol at midnight in the driving sleet and the trip would seem like a dream, worlds away.
At last, and reluctantly, and not after one more stop at a cafe for him to have a passionfruit cheesecake he’d been eyeing on menus all week, we drove to the airport. He took the car back to the rental company and I found a slither of sunshine. We ate our sandwiches on the floor in that patch of warmth until we really couldn’t leave it any longer. We boarded the plane just as the sun set over the island of paradise.
Spring would come soon.