More Trudging

We have received a request for less trudging. As we always we aim to please and have investigated alternatives. This one has been rejected on economic grounds. Even Chennai auto drivers would not have the brass neck to ask for over 4,000 rupees for an hour.

It is another sunny day although there is a bank of clouds off to the east. We have learned that things start slowly on Sundays here so we have a leisurely breakfast before setting out for the beach. Having got her toes wet last weekend R is in the mood for a swim. It is pleasantly warm with a breeze that gains strength as the day goes on.

The seafront walk out by the Lido looks much more welcoming today although there is a bit of a swell running. We see evidence of the storm damage that occurred during our first week on the island.

We continue round the headland and down a set of steps to the tunnel through the cliffs that links to Formosa Beach. It is closed for repairs and we had failed to spot the rather small notice at the top of the steps. We have to make a significant detour inland and upwards, then downwards again, to reach our target. 

Once we regain the promenade we walk west until we spotted what looked like a suitable stretch and make camp there. R cannot wait to go for a paddle and promptly loses her footing, going full length in 6 inches of water. It gave a family of locals a good laugh.

D takes a turn and identifies that there is a pretty strong undertow, one that is capable of moving stones bigger than house bricks. This, combined with the tide on the ebb, suggests that swimming might not be such a good idea. A mahogany bronzed local appears, strips down to his speedos, ostentatiously adjusts the family jewels and heads into the water. Less than two minutes later he leaves the ocean, collects his belongings and departs. We sit for a while in the sun and breeze, mainly to allow R to dry out a bit, then move off in search of refreshment.

A couple of cold ones and a saucer of lupin beans lead to a lunch order. R has a bolo bread with uglyfish fillet. On a blind tasting D thought he was eating Aldi fish fingers. D orders a tosta misto, even more disappointing than it sounds. At the least the bill wasn't outrageous. We set off to the bus stop, taking great care not to trudge, and get there in good time for the 02 for Centro. We are treated to another masterclass by one of Horarios do Funchal's finest. We have worked it out. The drivers are only paid for the time that they have their foot on the accelerator.

We descend at the West End and head for the supermarket.  The big difference between here and home is the butchery counter. In Funchal there are acres of meat and poultry and a man in a chainmail glove to deliver your exact requirement. The only downside is the lady in front of us in the queue who requires 25 kg of trimmed pork chops, 15 dressed chickens, a dozen ribeye steaks and a mere half dozen chicken breasts. Our modest requirement of two chicken breasts was treated with respect. R made sure of that.

Back at base we prepare for our weekly communication with the frozen north.  Those who know no better should be aware that this is not some kind of Madeiran MD 2020. It is much classier. Madeiran folklore has it that Poncha originated in India. It's very sweet so they could be right.