Touring São Jorge, Azores

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Travelling with a pair of Oldies is not easy. It started at Terceira airport. Now, I know it was early in the morning, but still. ‘Where are you going?’ asked the friendly girl at the check-in. ‘Eh, Err, Em’, was all the drowsy pair could manage. ‘Don’t worry, give me your passports and I’ll tell you’, she said with a grin. ‘Oh, you’re booked on the next flight to São Jorge’. ‘Great, thanks!’ replied the sheepish eejits.

Thank goodness somebody knows where they’re going!

I have to admit that I’d never heard of this island in the Azores either, but I think I’d have at least remembered the name if I’d booked a flight there. I am certain however, that after our visit to this magical little island, São Jorge is a name that is now firmly ingrained in the Oldies’ memories. It was a truly unforgettable trip.

After quite a bumpy flight in heavy cloud, high winds and driving rain, our first challenge on arrival was driving the 5 km from the airport to our guesthouse in Velas. The road was closed, we were told. The only alternative route was to drive several kilometres in the opposite direction, then turn uphill and drive up and across the mountains and down the other side beyond Velas – a 28 km detour. Wonderful! The landscape and views along the way were fantastic. Coming down the mountain into Velas just blew us all away, and this time it wasn’t the wind. The incredible coastline with dramatic headlands has to be seen to be believed.

Bit of an interesting choice of location for a soccer pitch, though. With those views, it must be dreadfully difficult to keep your eye on the ball!

No sooner were we settled in our lovely guesthouse right next to Velas harbour, than we set out again to explore this long, narrow island. The Oldies had been tipped off to check out the tips, they set off towards the western most point of the island, Ponta dos Rosais. After a while, the road dwindled down to little more than an extremely bumpy dirt track.

The intrepid Oldies, not wishing to have to claim on the insurance on their hired car, bailed out and walked the rest of the way to the lighthouse. As we ambled past lush green fields surrounded by dry stone walls and the majestic Atlantic beyond, I thought, ‘This is just like the west of Ireland’. Until we found ourselves traversing a heather forest with white lilies in abundance amongst the ferns on the forest floor. Ok. Not quite like Ireland.

The large complex of buildings at the lighthouse are in ruins after being hit by an earthquake shortly after being built in the 1960s, but I reckon the Oldies were much more interested in the nearby whale watchtower. Apparently, the whale spotters who kept vigil here used a horn or otherwise set off fireworks to signal to whale hunters when and where to hunt. It certainly is a great look-out point, although Her Ladyship had no success that afternoon.

The local spotters must have had a lot better eyesight than hers. Which wouldn’t be hard, mind you. But even with my own beady little bird’s eyes, I can imagine that trying to spot whales in the endless ocean must be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

A couple of days later, we drove to the eastern-most point of the island, Pontinha do Topo. In other words, a trip to the tip of Topo. On the approach, the views of the coastline were just gorgeous, what with the land dropping dramatically down to the sea, the lovely lighthouse on the headland and pretty little Topo Island offshore. His Lordship had heard that the farmer who owns the island swims his cattle out there for grazing, so he was curious to see how far off-shore it actually is. Well, I must say, I was impressed. It is quite a distance. If the story is true, those cows must be Olympic class swimmers!

I couldn’t have been happier, mooching along the headland with the Oldies as they poked around amongst the dry stone walls of the gardens and vineyards, watched the waves filling the sea-water swimming pool at the bathing area, and best of all, just sat and stared at Topo island and the ocean.

As we travelled back and forth the length of São Jorge, we were treated to ever-changing views of nearby Pico Island. Its outstanding feature is, of course, Ponta do Pico, the highest mountain in Portugal. At 2,351 m, I suppose this is pretty average by Alpine standards. But I can tell you that seeing a mountain of that altitude rise straight out of the ocean is nothing short of spectacular.

It would be even more so if you could see the top. But this is one shy volcano. It has kept its head in the clouds since we got here. The Oldies have spent hours waiting to catch a peek of the peak, but Ponta do Pico was just not playing ball, or should I say, Peekaboo.

I reckon that if they wait around to see Ponta do Pico’s peak, they’ll be waiting until the cows swim home.