CHAPTER XVIII
So we left our wreck, meditating on the ways of a wicked world, and went on our own business to hunt round the south coast of San Miguel or St Michael (we call the island) to the eastwards.
Parts of the coast we pass are very like Madeira, which is said to be like a crumpled piece of paper lying on the sea. You calculate how many hours it would take to ride a mile as the crow flies, round the bays, over the tops and down the sides of the glens or ribieras.
What lovely places there are to ride or drive to on the island, between pine-trees, heath and hedges of hydrangea. There is one road where you can drive continuously for twenty-one miles, with hedges of hydrangeas in full bloom on either side.
Whilst we go whaling, keeping a bright look-out for sperm, I must try to remember some of the inland charms and the show places of the island, such as the Seven Cities, an inexplicable name for two lakes and woods in a crater’s valley, and the Hot Volcanic Springs in another valley which cure all ills. I would like to remember the low two-storeyed houses and narrow sheets of Delgada pink and white or pale blue, and the green balconies and red-tiled eaves showing against a narrow belt of blue sky. The rooms or cellars of the ground floor are arched and the narrow footway is made of a mosaic of round pebbles and quartz. There is a quiet mystery in these narrow lanes in the hot midday, when the green shutters are closed, and more mystery again at night when all the blinds are open and there is lamplight and faint music from mandoline and guitar.
The shops of Ponta Delgada are in these arched caves which support the dwelling-houses and balconies, and they have no signboards! If you wish to find a shoemaker you must walk looking into these caves. Ah yes! I’ve seen one signboard, a scarlet swinging hand representing a lady’s glove—now that’s worth remembering. Find that and keep it to starboard, till right abeam, then swing to port and you will find on your left a cave-topped restaurant, the Atlantico, clean and cool it is, with walls painted delicate green. There are six little tables in the front part, a desk and an arched hatch behind, at which lolls the cook, a jovial sort of unshaved burly pirate, with, of course, a cigarette, but veritably a chef. And behind the desk, sometimes for a moment or two, is your host, a highly polished Sancho Panza; here is a jotting of him. He speaks a little French and gives you provender fit for the gods. I mention this place as cafés are rare things here, for the people as a rule feed at home.
