Ian Battersby and his two sons traverse the length of the subtropical forest paradise of Madeira
MADEIRA – Portuguese for wood – is an appropriate name for a profoundly forested island; but, more than that, it is not a huge leap to get from wood to lumber, and its alternative definition: to move in a slow, heavy, awkward way. That suited our journey perfectly. We had been moving slowly, heavily and awkwardly for days now.
Ryan, my 19-year-old son, fancied a physical challenge. Josh, his older brother (25), was curious – and the old man seemed welcome too. A rushed exchange quickly settled on Madeira, but I knew Madeiran mapping to be short on detail. Research into long distance trails uncovered the Madeira Island Ultra Trail (MIUT), as well as a GPX download to help keep us on track over its 115km and 7100m of ascent. I also learnt that true wild camping isn’t allowed, and news of fines and rangers to enforce them led me to look at alternatives. I tried the ‘wild camping’ sites permit system, but attempting to calculate our pace over demanding terrain in advance proved impossible, and using this free service impractical. We hoped to evade local bureaucracy by bivouacking – pitching late, rising early, and leaving no trace as usual. The map suggested enough nearby villages, so we relinquished dried food and cooking gear.
STEEP AND SWELTERING
With risks weighed and decisions made we arrived at Porto Moniz, staring up at a sheer start, whilst feeding up at the local mini market. I was glad of the GPX trail, which I followed on OS Maps’ base mapping, backed up with paper 1:40,000 Madeira Tour and Trail map, which proved useless for detail. Our first climb under high noon sun was a savage intro to the trail, but reaching only 400m this really was just an appetiser. Even so, sweat poured and lungs heaved up past the humble smallholdings that dotted the route. At the top our sweltering effort was cruelly forsaken as the route plunged straight back down, down, down to a cove of incredible rock stacks towering up from deep blue Atlantic waves. There, we met a solo backpacker who had just finished his backpack. He radiated knowledge, and reassurance – he’d seen no one watching for wild campers.
Refreshed, we scrambled back into longed-for forest shade, where Madeira lived up to its name for the rest of the day. Lush foliage tempered stifling heat as legs toiled up a perpetual gradient beneath packs laden with water taken from village taps. This sparsely mapped land posed questions without answers. Where would we find food, water and a good place to camp? Will we even make it? I put these questions aside, confident that things generally work out. But what of the boys? I had less concern for Ryan. His military background had forced him into more discomfort than I ever experienced,
