The Island of Timber lies in the Atlantic Ocean west of Morocco and north of the Canary Islands. It is a lush island renown for its beautiful flowers and is sometimes referred to as the Garden Island. It is six years since I was last here and on that occasion I had just one mission to accomplish - to find the old British Cemetery. Here is what I wrote at that time:
I had no organised excursions booked for this port of call so headed off, map in hand, to find the old British Cemetery. I found that many roads were being dug up and new roads constructed so it was all going to be a bit hit & miss as to whether I could actually find my way or not. At one stage I was confronted by a choice of several turnings and stopped briefly to consult the map. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a young Portuguese guy pops up and explains that he is a student at the local college. One of his assignments on that particular day was to take a photograph of a tourist consulting a map. Now, in this day & age how many tourists actually bother with a street map? They either wander around aimlessly or get out their mobile phones and consult their GPS ap. This particular student was indeed lucky to have found me - although I expect he would have preferred a very much younger English rose. He showed me the image on the camera when he had taken it and I have to admit it looked quite good - map in hand with my Artemis cap perched at a jaunty angle on my head! As I had been of help to him he then assisted me by pointing out the correct road to take - and then he was off in a flash as quickly and mysteriously as he had appeared.
I climbed the narrow, cobbled streets and marvelled at the old buildings with wooden shutters and little verandahs. Here was a city that was proud of its heritage and had managed to retain its relaxed continental feel. A pair of large iron gates within a high stone wall soon came into view and I was able to peek through into the outer garden of the cemetery. A notice informed me that entry was gained through "The Green Door" a little further up the road.
I found the door and pushed - it was locked. Another notice showed that it opened from 10am to 4.30pm and here I was standing outside at the ridiculously early time of 9.30am. I went wandering for 40 minutes but on returning found the door was still firmly locked. I wandered for another 20 minutes but "The Green Door" was still firmly locked. It was 10.40 by this time and I was getting a little concerned that my visit was to be in vain. Then, by the side of the door, I noticed a very old fashioned sturdy brass bell knob. The kind one would have found in the days of Dickens. There was no indication that visitors had to ring to gain entrance but I was left with no alternative. I gingerly pulled the bell knob with one hand - nothing, not a sound from anywhere. I then grasped the bell knob with both hands and yanked for all I was worth - this produced what sounded like a peel of bells and I jumped back onto the pavement at the otherside of the narrow street in alarm. A dog started barking furiously but then I noticed the catch of the door had been released and it had slid open very slightly. I pushed the door gingerly open not having a clue what I was going to find. Would there be a withered old man standing just behind it? Would there be a pack of ferocious dogs? It certainly sounded as if there could be. There was actually no-one at all, but then a few metres away in the gloom of the caretakers quarters the friendly face of lady popped out and she waved me through an archway to my left.
At last I was within the cemetery which had the air of a Victorian English walled garden.
Memorial stones adorned the high walls and graves, old and new, were laid out in neat rows and squares. As normal I wandered around happily for a couple of hours taking photographs of inscriptions. Here there was no need for me to place a comforting hand on the graves for these souls had certainly not been forgotten.
In 1761 Mr William Nash, the first Consul-General of Madeira, asked the Portuguese Government if he might buy land for use as a burial ground for British residents. Prior to this time Protestants were not allowed to be buried in local cemeteries and were consigned to the deep off the coast near Garajau. An Order in Council from Lisbon dated 3 January 1761 gave approval for a cemetery in Funchal provided that it was located at the outskirts of the town; so Mr Nash bought a piece of land just outside the city wall, an area of ground centred on an old orange tree and known locally as A Larangeira. The first grave dated from 1772 and was that of Mrs Shipcote, the wife of a taverner. Her great nephew, writing in 1841, recalls being present at her burial underneath the orange tree.
This certainly was a haven of tranquility and beautifully cared for. There was no comparison at all between this cemetery and those I had found in the Caribbean - although all are magical in their own way to me. Financing for this cemetery comes solely through donations and I left 5 Euros in the tin box on the wall of the Mortuary Chapel. I did not want to leave but once again my time was limited and I had to see a little more of the city of Funchal where Artemis was berthed.
More by luck than judgement I found myself in a narrow street tucked away behind the main esplanade which was packed full of tiny, dimly lit shoe shops. I was in my element as I wandered in & out of each and to my surprise I noticed that all were run by Chinese families. I asked one lady if she were from Hong Kong - "No, Shanghai" was the reply. We then spent ages chatting about her lovely home city in China. Did I buy any shoes? Of course - two pairs, one of which has a definite nautical look. I continued to explore and came across a couple of nice pieces of handcrafted jewellery which seemed to be a good way of using up my remaining Euros.
When I left Madeira it was the feeling that I would love to return. Perhaps one day !!!
And here I was, six years later, back in beautiful Madeira. On this visit I not only knew how to get to the cemetery but also how to get in. The same old bell pull, the same distant ringing, the same dogs barking and the same eerie feeling as the gate slowly swung open!
The old photographic museum looked fascinating but unfortunately it has been closed for a year and shows no sign of reopening. It is a sorry sight.
Our sail away from Madeira was to be late in the evening accompanied by a firework display so the aft decks were crowded by 9.30. Chatting to the couple next to me I was amazed to find (through various twists in conversation) that the chap had gone to the very same secondary school as me - in fact we would have been there at the same time. What a very small world this can be.
And so another wonderful adventure draws to a close. So where will I push the boat out to next? South America, the East Coast of American & Canada, The Baltic, Myanmur, South Korea, Venice & the Eastern Mediterranean? They are all on my bucket list!
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| Pushing the boat out |
This looks like a rather quaint maritime place
Oh dear it is Southampton and I must disembark!!!
