A cancelled flight, missed connection, and unscheduled ferry ride make this hard to reach place in the Azorean Islands seem further than it already is; but that’s also the point, to feel far away from it all. Sitting in folding metal chairs drinking cheaper than water beer while looking out at the final port of call before the transatlantic route for the many the sailboats in front of us; we’re periodically blasted with the overripe salty stench of hardcore-recreational sailors. At the tables next to us we can pick out strings of Dutch, Italian, French, and Portuguese. The walls around the port are painted with flag sized commemorations of earlier conquests. On the bow of a boat in the distance an amateur trumpet squawks into the breeze. It notes are rusted from days at sea and it sings that nobody ever arrives here, they only pass through.
Our next island is roped with black volcanic stones piled into six foot high walls that criss and cross over the evergreen landscape. As fast as the earth could spew them out, locals would stack them and rack them. In the fields of green and gold between the walls, every color of cow grazes on tall grass. Knotted roads twirl through small oceanside villages where the white plaster cottages are speckled with brown cow spotted stones. Tourism hasn’t discovered this corner of the planet yet. Shops sell only the necessities and nothing more. Dinner is taken at a reasonable hour; influenced by a history of early risers for the daily catch or harvest. On one hand, it’s invigorating to have such an authentic and untainted experience. On the other, we could make a killing on a taco truck here.
That first night we befriend a local guide who hosts us at his restaurant that evening where he feeds us fish in every form. The next morning he brings us to a holy festival where we share a traditional meal packed into a community hall with every member of the town. Later they parade in the streets. That afternoon he takes us on a tour of secreted ocean coves and backyard wine bodegas. During the summer he says, dolphins and whales infest the glassy waters. Today, it’s just us.
The roads on these islands whip and wind higher and higher into lands before time. White fog swallows us up and spits us out again on top on an ethereal lake of half baltic blue and half limey green. We stop for a quick paddle through the whimsical water and then continue on our way. The end of the island gives way to sharp volcanic cliffs which we traverse down towards a tucked away tidal cove. Volcanic steam creeps out of the searing black rocks that line the shore. In the cove we cling to lengths of rough rope and let cool sets of virgin ocean water roll over. On each ebb the water comes back warm, inflamed by a deep and distant part of the planet below. Here we stay, far away from everything; and close to the beginning.
