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The wind swept across Pico de Arieiro but the sky was a brilliant blue as jagged peaks bristled as far as we could see, turning all shades of ochre and gold in the morning sun. The trail vanished down a vertiginous slope, reappeared on a distant ridge, meandering in and out of sight, a mere pencil line scratched into the rock, heading for Pico Ruivo, at 1861 metres the island’s highest point. The seven km trek is breathtaking in every sense, but for the less adventurous, Madeira’s Walking Festival has gentle options, such as the Verada dos Balcões with its belvedere overlooking mountains and sea.

Over five days in January, the festival offers a daily choice of walks, of various lengths, altitudes and terrains, led by qualified local guides eager to share their knowledge of the island. Madeira has something for everyone, barren peaks, mid and low altitude forests and coast, each habitat with its own flora and fauna, including endemic species. During the week, you can also trek on the small sister island of Porto Santo and its 8 kilometres of golden sands. Transport from Funchal to the start of a trek and back is provided and although some drives may take an hour or so, they are always spectacular. Temperatures averaging 20-22º C are ideal for walking, trails are quiet and it is a wonderful opportunity to make new friends and work off any excesses of the Christmas festivities.

On the level

I started with a levada walk which, like most of them, promised to be nearly flat after the initial climb (or descent) through the forest. Built to carry water from the humid north to the agricultural lands of the south, the irrigation channels cover 1400 kms – twice the road network- and are lined with maintenance paths which can double up as rambling trails.

We set off in glorious sunshine above Ilha village in the north, past bee hives and sweet potato fields and traditional cottages as quaint as dolls’ houses. The first wild geraniums bloomed pink and mauve among clusters of golden mushrooms and morning glory. We enjoyed fabulous views of the ocean, the red-roofed villages dotted on lush verdant slopes and shuddered now and then at the sheer drops to the valley floor.

The track was barely half a metre wide at times but there was a handrail in the most precarious spots and a few tunnels, vertigo free though even the smallest among us had to crouch to stay clear of the roof. Torches flickered in the dark, warnings echoed upfront, ‘mind the puddle, mind your head,’ and we emerged into the light, wondering how 15th century prisoners and slaves could blast a way through volcanic rock, as they hung on ropes from the cliffs.

Was it picnic time yet? ‘Not quite,’ said Renato, ‘we will stop at the source of the levada, it’s worth the wait.’

He was right. After an exciting morning tackling ledges and tunnels, we reached a luminous glen filled with fern in a natural amphitheatre of dark basalt cliffs. High above, the waterfall broke into myriad rivulets cascading into the emerald pool at our feet, giving birth to the crystal clear levada. We sat quietly on the rocks, like little elves sharing a magical place. Such was my favourite levada walk to the lovely Caldeirão Verde, the Green Crater.

Ocean breeze

Fringed by cliffs and volcanic cones at the island’s easternmost point, Ponta de São Lourenço stretches like a dragon into the ocean. Named after Zarco’s ship, the Portuguese sailor who discovered Madeira, then uninhabited and covered in forest, the peninsula has a unique charm within the Nature Park covering 2/3 of the island. There are no trees on this exposed strip of land but in winter the slopes are green, sprinkled with golden rape, dwarf daisies, pink mathiola and here and there a fleshy bush, the ‘Pride of Madeira’. Lichen shimmers on rocky outcrops, black and white sands mingle on Prainha beach and all around, cliffs rise in fantastic shapes and colours, shifting from red to jade and gold, striped with layers of basalt above the crashing waves. It’s a haven for seabirds, from Cory’s shearwaters and Bulwer’s petrels to yellow-legged gulls, birds of prey, canaries and pipits, and if you are lucky, you might even spot monk seals, the world’s rarest seal species.

Beyond the chapel of Our Lady of Piety, we followed the well-marked trail winding up and around hillocks, looking down into precipitous coves and out to the Desertas Islands. We smelt the salty breeze and relaxed for a while in the unexpected palm oasis of Casa do Sardinha, the ‘house of the sardines’ fisherman’, now occupied by park rangers. Above us, a steep volcanic peak marked the end of the land, a challenging climb of 200 metres or more over grit and rock but rewarded by a superb panorama along the coast to the fishing village of Caniço and beyond, and ahead of us, a string of strictly protected islets. A lonely lighthouse stood at the far end and the scene looked just like a painting.

The Royal Path

Before roads were built, crossing the island was an arduous task though the nobility did it in style, men on horseback, ladies carried in hammocks along Caminho Real da Encumeada, the Royal Path.

We joined the trail at Boca da Corrida, skirting Pico Grande and its knobbly rock perched on top, glancing at the ocean glistening in the distance and the Nuns’ Valley far below framed by the highest peaks. At 1400 metres, we were above the tree line but now that grazing is banned in this area, shrubs and plants are coming back, juniper, broom, gorse, mint, oregano, giant dandelions and mosses and lichens clinging to boulders and rocks.

Suddenly fast moving clouds piled up on the horizon, casting eerie shadows across the slopes and within minutes, mist hung over the path, keeping the precipice out of sight but highlighting how essential it is to have a guide. All was silent but for the occasional sound of a bird or gurgling water. Later the trail passed through the ancient Laurisilva forest, or ‘forest of the mist’, still covering much of the northern reaches and a Natural World Heritage Site since 1999. ‘Look, this is a stink laurel –the wood really smells- and that one is a Madeiran mahogany, same family but the leaves are different, and see those olive-like berries?

No good for us but the endemic pigeons love them.’ Our guide was as excited as a child. We clambered over fallen branches, forded a stream or two, gazed in wonder at lily of the valley trees and feathery tree heather, then descended towards the road, shuffling through fallen leaves and chestnuts and breathing the fresh fragrance of eucalyptus. The great peaks stayed out of sight but we knew they were there, rising above the clouds where rocky summits and ridges glowed in the setting sun.

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