Hiking through the hydrangeas on Flores
A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back
Sam and Alex Fortescue
Mon 1 Aug 2011 23:58
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Flores, it turns out, is called Flores for a very
good reason. Every road, lane and path on the island is hedged on either side
with a resplendence of blue and white hydrangeas. What we took to be the grey
tarmac of roads as we sailed past the island yesterday has proven to be
hydrangea blossom, and the same flowers are used to mark the divisions between
pastures on the steep volcanic slopes. It is quite magical.
We hired a car today from a copious local called
Paula, with the aim of seeing as much as we could of the island. Despite the
island's small size, it seems to take a long time to get from one place to
another. This is due in part to the fact that many of the kilometers are
vertical and that we were in a clapped out two-door Rover with four largish
adults inside. Much of the trip was accomplished in second gear.
The terrain varies from warm, cloud-swept moors in
the centre of the island to fields of scattered black lava along the west coast,
lying in huge shattered chunks where it hit the water. The highlands are
dramatic, with slim skeins of waterfalls connecting it to lakes and finally the
sea below. We hiked up to one of the lakes, then round it to a waterfall that
involved some serious Dr Livingstone-esque bush whacking. We all emerged from
the semi-rainforest with cuts and bruises, but mercifully without leeches,
snakebites or Orangutang scratches. I had just finished saying that I doubted
many Portuguese matrons, many of whom had been in evidence yesterday at the
beach, would bother with this exhausting hike, when a couple emerged towing two
small children. The Portguese are obviously made of stern stuff!
The villages are so sleepy that they make Wootton
Fitzpaine in Dorset look like a buzzing metropolis. It's far fomr clear what
people here do when they're not fishing or growing their own veg. We found an
open air saltwater swimming pool, concreted in to the jagged lava peaks of the
western shore where we swam happily in the heat of the day. It was then
imperative to find an ice cream before buzzing over to the island's chronically
laid-back capital, Santa Cruz, where precisely nothing was
happening.
Paint brushes were available, however, and we've
laid the foundations for a Summer Song insignia on the brand new marina wall.
Elise and I will finish the job tomorrow. Meanwhile, the boat seems unnaturally
still moored up in the harbour. It's almost too calm to sleep well. In addition,
there is a perpetual bad tempered squealing from the seabired nesting on the
cliffs behind us. They make an extraordinary noise, similar to a classroom of
children tootling on duck whistles. Most odd.
Local fishermen doing...?  Hydrangea-lined fields
     Hiking up to the head of the Congo...
   Alex tries to coax out some of the local gibbons with some choice body
language
 A waterfall dwelling Elise
 Swimming in the lava field
  The island's bustling capital, Santa Cruz
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