I have several frying pans. One is a very expensive heavy pan, a Christmas gift a few years ago from my mother-in-law. It was perfect for a few months, but then every time I used it, the food stuck to the base and burnt—and it was a nightmare to clean.
I bought a couple of decent (but cheaper) pans from Lakeland. The instructions said they could go in the dishwasher, which was an added bonus. They were perfect for a few weeks, but then every time I used them, the food stuck to the bases and burnt—and the dishwasher never managed to get them properly clean.
Recently, I bought a heavy cast iron pan, which came with copious instructions (which I ignored). It was great the first time I used it, but then the food started to stick to the base and burn, and it was hard to get it clean.
You will notice a theme here.
Nothing seemed to make them better. My mother’s tip was to heat a clean pan with salt, to a very high temperature, and then wipe out all the salt and oil the pan. This improved things temporarily, but then the same problem started to occur. (I think the ‘salt method’ is good for thoroughly cleaning all the tiny pores in the metal.)
I dug out the copious instructions that arrived with the heavy cast iron pan. It said, very clearly, not to use detergent when washing the pan. I have heard this before, and seen chefs on the telly who claim to have never washed a pan in detergent. It seemed like a silly idea (because surely they would be less clean, and therefore more likely to stick). Discussed it with Husband (who does the washing up). He also thought it was silly, but eventually agreed we would try it, for a short period, as an experiment. He muttered a lot whenever there was a pan to wash.
For several weeks, we have not used detergent to wash the frying pans—just lots of very hot water and a plastic brush. I have designated one pan for ‘sweet’ food (pancakes) as the smell of onions and garlic tends to linger. But, to my surprise, food no longer sticks in the pans (unless I do something stupid like not use enough oil or get distracted and leave things to burn).
The experiment has worked. So, if you have a frying pan that sticks, I suggest the following:
Wash pan thoroughly, and dry.
Put salt into dry pan (enough to cover the base). Heat to a very high temperature, then scrape out while hot. I use paper towel to do this, and tip the salt onto a plate until it’s cool enough to go in the bin. (Be careful, because it doesn’t discolour when hot, so it’s easy to burn your fingers.)
Rub a little oil around the pan if it’s cast iron (so it doesn’t rust).
In future, wash frying pan in very hot water. DO NOT use detergent.
You’re welcome. Feel free to share the tip.
Hope you have a good week. Thanks for reading. Take care. Love, Anne x
The forecast looked bad, so we left home at 8am for our morning walk. Beautiful sunshine, with dark clouds looming over the hills. We went down into Lower Bradfield, where there’s a Post Office selling coffees, and several smart-looking modern buildings, including a public toilet. There are not many public loos in the Peak District. There was also a small commemorative plaque, above what looked like a toilet, in memory of Mary Ann Smith, who was ‘God’s Gift to Man.’ Not quite sure how to read that—was she incredibly beautiful, or was it written ironically by the angry wives of Lower Bradfield? I feel there’s a story here, but not one I managed to find.*
We then followed a footpath up the hillside, and walked across the moors. We didn’t see any other people, but there were grumpy sheep sleeping on the heather in sheltered places near the stone walls. Lovely windy walk.
As we walked down the lane, towards the cottage, we saw a dead ewe, with a tiny lamb shivering next to her. Another lamb, marked with the same red number 10, was attempting to follow a ewe who looked completely disinterested. I assumed the mother of the twins had died. When we got to the cottage, we went to the owner, to ask him to phone the farmer. It’s too cold for a tiny lamb to survive for long on its own.
We had brunch at The Schoolhouse. I am assuming this was once the school, now turned into a busy cafe, with a smarter area upstairs for meals. We had Eggs Benedict, which was absolutely perfect—freshly baked bread lightly toasted, a generous slice of moist bacon, poached eggs covered in hollandaise sauce. When you’ve been on a long walk, it’s perfect food. Life doesn’t get much better than this.
In the evening we ate more delicious food. There’s a restaurant on the edge of Sheffield: Rafters, which serves taster menus. We had a six-course meal (the courses were tiny, beautiful, and delicious.) It’s an unusual place, as usually restaurants selling ‘posh food’ have ‘posh staff’ and you worry that you might make a mistake—and I always feel that really, they would prefer someone posher than me to be eating the food. But Rafters had normal people, wearing jeans and white shirts, who were efficient and friendly. The other guests all wore casual clothes too, so it was another perfect dining experience. And the seats were comfy—I do like a comfortable seat!
This morning we left home slightly later—I was tired. The weather wasn’t as good—not terrible, but cold with a slight drizzle. We walked from the cottage, up into the hills behind the farm. There’s a ridge of rock sticking up over the hill, and streams bubbling out from the ground. It was a pretty walk, through fields of cows (who ignored us) and past sheep, who watched us suspiciously. We saw the sheep farmer, and asked about the dead ewe we saw yesterday. He said the number 10 twins were fine, it wasn’t their mother who died. The dead ewe probably had lambs inside her. He said most of the ewes in the field were lambing, and he checks each day to see what has been born. Apparently it’s healthier than lambing inside because you don’t have as many germs, but more risky when the weather is as cold as it is at the moment. But his sheds are full, so the remaining lambs will have to take their chances. Farming is difficult; hard work with brutal results if the weather goes wrong. I love seeing lambs in the fields, but I’m not sure I could cope with the loses.
As we arrived at the cottage, I noticed some eggs by the road, and an honesty box. Next to the cottage are beautiful white geese, and I rather fancy trying to raise a few in the garden. The eggs were a mixture—brown ones which were obviously chicken eggs, and some large white ones, which I am really hoping are goose eggs. I bought six and will incubate them when I get home. Really, really hoping they are goose eggs. (Or dragon eggs, that would also be fun, but I understand that is unlikely!)
Hope you have some excellent food today. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x
Thank you for reading.
anneethompson.com
*I later discovered that the water fountain originally had ‘WATER’ written above ‘GODS GIFT TO MEN’ but a naughty person had removed it. Made me laugh.
The weather was grey but dry, so we decided to walk up to Dale Dyke Reservoir. We followed muddy footpaths around Agden Reservoir (this area has a LOT of reservoirs—it’s a good place for water birds). The track rose over a grassy hill, with sheep begrudgingly moving out of our path, and then we saw it—first the steps of rushing water from the overflow channel, and then the reservoir itself, glinting under the grey sky, stretching across the valley.
As we drew near, we saw a strange stone, like a mini gravestone, marked with CLOB, and I wondered whether it was the grave for a dog with a strange name. But then I read the board next to the path, and it took on a new significance. Dale Dyke Reservoir was built to replace another, larger reservoir—which in 1864 burst through the dam, rushed into the valley below, swelled the rivers to Sheffield and killed hundreds of people. We read the story.
Accounts of the incident vary slightly, but it seems that on 11th March, 1864, after several days of stormy rain, a local man, William Horsfield, crossed the dam on his way home from work, and noticed a crack. It was fairly small, but big enough for him to notice, and the dam was new—only recently finished. I wonder what he thought at that point. Did he have a sense of fear, knowing the reservoir was new, it hadn’t been there for years, it wasn’t yet something familiar, something he assumed was permanent. Was he frightened, or merely interested? Did he assume all would be okay? Maybe not, in an age when bad things happened more often, perhaps he was instantly concerned.
One of the dam builders, Mr. Fountain, was still in the area, so William told him, and they both examined the crack. Mr. Fountain thought it was probably nothing to worry about, but just to be cautious, he sent for the main engineer, Mr, Gunson, who lived in Sheffield. (To be accurate, he sent his son—sons have always been useful.)
By the time Mr. Gunson arrived (Sheffield is about 8 miles away, and I am guessing they travelled by horseback) the crack was bigger. Water was beginning to spill over the embankment.
Suddenly, a huge gap opened—30 feet wide—and the water began to gush into the valley. At this point, there was nothing anyone could do to prevent tragedy. The men scrambled to safety as the dam gave way, and 700 million gallons of water swept towards Sheffield. There was no time to warn anyone, no telephones to contact people, nothing they could do but watch in horror.
The water raced along the valley, swelling the rivers Loxley and Don. The River Don ran through Sheffield, and an area called The Wicker was badly flooded. The bridges were choked with fallen trees, destroyed mill wheels, carts and debris. People stood on bridges to watch, unable to stop the flow, helpless. About 250 people were killed.
The bridges were blocked.The breeched dam.Engineers measuring after the disaster.
After walking to the reservoir—which looked placid and innocent when we were there, we decided to visit Sheffield. Great-Grandpa Todd was a vicar in a church there, about a hundred years ago, and we were interested to see his church. It just so happened, that his church was in Wicker, next to the river Don, right where the flood water had been worst. We saw the church, and the river, and on the opposite bank, there is a memorial to those who lost their lives. Some of them are unnamed, just ‘servant, male, aged 27’, or ‘infant, 2 days old’. Some names were of people later found alive. Some people died later of their injuries.
Gt. Grandpa Todd’s ChurchDevastation after the flood. The Memorial
It’s thought to be one of the worst man-made disasters in the UK. It reminded me of Aberfan, the mining town where the slag-heap slid over the school and killed the town’s children in 1966. Except I had never heard of the Dale Dyke disaster—perhaps because it was so much earlier. But the local people have not forgotten. In 2014, on the 150th anniversary, they commemorated the occasion. There were talks by historians and civil engineers, and the local brewery produced a beer named ‘Dam It,’ and they produced a CD of ‘flood songs.’
It is difficult to understand who was to blame for the disaster. Locals blamed the Sheffield Waterworks Company, who commissioned the dam in an attempt to provide clean water to the city. They were not held accountable at the later inquiry. Nor was Mr. Leather, their engineer (though interestingly, his uncle George Leather was the engineer for another reservoir that collapsed, near Leeds, killing 81 people). Maybe the reservoir was too large for the engineering of the times. Maybe (as claimed by the company) there had been unexpected earth movements (though I would’ve thought that their engineers/geologists should have checked for earth stability before building it—but maybe these things couldn’t be predicted in those days). Hard to know. I don’t know whether having someone to blame would help the grieving survivors.
I do wonder though, how William Horsfield felt afterwards. Although he took immediate action, although it was in no way his fault, did he torture himself with regret? There was time to fetch the engineer from Sheffield, which means there was time to bang on doors, to try and warn people—even though at that point, they didn’t think it would breech. But should they have warned people anyway? Should they have risked looking stupid, of raising a false alarm, of causing unnecessary panic? What would we do? Remember, no one knew what would happen, it remained an unlikely possibility, right up until the time it happened—but would that have been a comfort to poor William? I suspect not.
Today, there are several, smaller reservoirs in the area, feeding water to the city. They look peaceful, places to walk to when on holiday. But water camouflages danger with gentle ripples and inviting cool blue calm. Once the restraints fall, the chaos can begin.
The side channelVictorian buildings were pretty even when functional.The reservoir today.
Thank for reading. Have a safe week.
Love, Anne x
Photos a mixture of my own, from information boards, and the Daily Mail website.
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I am writing this in a tiny cottage snuggled in the hills of Lower Bradfield. You might remember that in January I attended a conference for Old Testament Study in Sheffield, and Husband kindly drove me and rented a cottage in the Peak District? I stayed in the cottage for just one night, and was sorry to leave, so when we realised we had a week free after Easter, we decided to return.
We arrived on Easter Sunday, after lunch with the family in Cambridge. The cottage was warm and comfortable, and after unpacking we strolled up the steep lane behind the house. It was dusk, and an owl was hunting in the fields, swooping over the lane. There was the trill of curlews, who rose above us, warning us not to stray near their nest. Sheep watched from behind stone walls, their lambs snuggled under their legs. In the distance, hills rolled away, dotted with stone buildings and steep fields, up to the moors. It’s a open place, a place where you can breathe, and it feels weird that it’s only half an hour from Sheffield.
Monday morning, my Ocado deivery arrived at 8am. Perfect timing for breakfast. The delivery man was exceedingly grumpy, and told me he had worked all weekend, and no, he had not had a nice Easter. I felt slightly guilty as I unpacked my order. I seem to have ordered a lot of cakes, so won’t be losing any weight this trip.
We walked across Agden Nature Reserve to Canyard Hills. Muddy footpaths, twisted trees, a reservoir in the valley. I wished I hadn’t gone for a long walk a few days before Easter and given myself blisters. I blamed my walking boots (which I left at home) and was stomping along in wellies. Husband hardly mentioned it. We walked for two hours. There were beautiful views—and big black clouds. We got home just before it poured with rain.
It was still pouring after lunch (ate some cake). We went for drive to Castleton—which we both remembered but couldn’t remember why (we are at that age when we can spend a happy half hour trying to remember things). Then we drove through Winnats Pass. This was spectacular, we turned the corner, and there it was—steep rocks rising on either side, tiny streams bubbling down to the valley. The road was single-carriage, and there were lines of cars waiting to pass, so I recommend you don’t visit in peak times. But definitely plan to visit, it’s amazing.
We had dinner at The Plough in Lower Bradfield. It was a ‘pubby’ sort of pub (as opposed to a ‘gourmet’ sort of pub) but after a nice glass of Merlot I decided it was lovely. We chatted about the day, and managed to remember when we last visited Castelton, and I bored Husband with interesting details about the theology book I am currently reading. A good day.
Tuesday, I got up at 6.30. At 9.30 we left the cottage and walked to Lower Bradfield on the footpaths. I was still in wellies. It was okay. The walk was very pretty, we went up the hill to High Bradfield, and the old church with dragon gargoyles and sheep grazing in the graveyard. Then back down, along pretty footpaths under trees and over rivers, to the village. There’s a new cafe, which advertised brunch and coffee, but it was shut. (Apparently it’s always shut on Tuesdays.) Walked back to the cottage for coffee and toast (and more cake).
I spent the afternoon reading my theology book (by a chap called Leo Perdue, about Wisdom Literature—very interesting). Sounds of fighting wafted upstairs. Husband was in the sitting room, watching a cartoon.
We decided to drive to a cheese factory advertised on Google Maps. We found the lane (very narrow) but not the factory. I think it must have closed. Drove into Hathersage, and I bought some walking boots in one of those outdoors shops that smell of sensible clothes and waxed jackets. These boots fit better than my last ones. And they have pink laces, which is an additional delight.
It was pouring with rain again. We drove home via Snake Pass, but it didn’t compare to Winnats.
Dinner at The Plough again. We had asked to sit in the same room, but they either forgot or decided to ignore us because they were busy. We were seated in a very ugly room, full of people who seemed to know each other. I ordered fish and chips, and the portion barely fitted on the plate, it would have fed three of me. Especially as I was already full of cake. A pleasant day, but not as perfect as Monday.
Hello, and how was your week? I thought I would give you a quick update from my house. This isn’t really what I want to write about, as really I want to tell you about what I plan to write for my thesis. But I can’t. I’ll explain why in a minute.
Firstly, if you had Mother’s Day last weekend, was it lovely? I had lovely gifts from my family, and no one forgot this year. (I never assume…) I cooked dinner for my mum and mother-in-law, and it was all very pleasant.
I used it as an excuse to use the last of the turkey dinners from the freezer. Due to various off-spring changing their plans/announcing they no longer eat birds/incompetence on my part, I ended up with several turkeys, of different sizes, this Christmas. They all went into the freezer, and the last one has now been defrosted—which always takes longer than expected—and cooked.
Last Sunday was busy, because it’s also the day my daughter and her fiancé moved back home. They are currently between selling/buying houses, and they are living here for a while. Mostly this is brilliant. It’s the first time since Kia died that the house hasn’t been horribly empty. When I pop out, I now can shout through a bedroom door to my soon-to-be-son-in-law and tell him that I am leaving. And when I am home, I shout that I’m back. He probably can’t hear me, because he’s busy working, but I like having someone to tell. To be honest, Kia probably never understood when I told her these things, but I just liked telling her.
They did move back with more stuff than I was expecting, even though all their furniture has gone into storage. My house is rather full. But I like having a full house, empty rooms feel wasteful.
The cage by the pond is also very full at the moment. When Kia died, the local fox soon realised the garden was accessible again, and started to visit, so I have kept the ducks shut away (even thought they could be back on the pond now). They seem quite happy, but the cage is incredibly muddy as they spend all day transporting wet mud from the end with puddles to the rest of the cage. Ducks are mucky creatures. There are a couple of nests, in corners where they think I won’t notice them, and I think they must be almost ready to hatch. Depending on how many hatch, the cage will definitely be too full. And I can’t bring the ducklings into the garage this year, as that is full of daughter-stuff. Ah well, I shall decide on a plan when I know how many hatch.
Last year’s hatch.
I don’t have a huge amount of time for duck or daughter sorting, as I am preparing the proposal for my thesis. I want to tell you all about it, but I have to be careful—apparently ‘self-plagiarism’ is a thing. If I write and publish something, I cannot then put it into the thesis. So I can only tell you snippets, and nothing in academic language. Basically, I want to look at why the Leviathan, which is clearly not a crocodile (because it breathes fire/smoke) changes Job’s attitude in the Book of Job. What does it represent? I’m reading lots of books by scholarly authors, and have discovered ‘monster theory.’ Who knew that was a thing! Apparently, all cultures have monsters, and you can learn a lot about cultures, and what they valued, by examining their monsters. In a time/place of physical uncertainty, the monster might be extreme weather-monsters, or lions; before medical advances, the monster might represent disease; when there were warring nations, the monster might be violent. I wonder what our monsters today might be—loss of control? Racism? Mental disorders that result in unpredictable violence? The films/books we read seem to have lots about psychopaths and historical racism at the moment. When I was a teenager, there was lots about evil spirits/demon-possession (with films like ‘The Exorcist’). You don’t see so much about that now, maybe our monsters are changing.
The other thing you don’t see so much of now are—complete change of subject coming, so brace yourself: some of the sweets I ate as a child! My mum is doing a jigsaw, and on the back are photos of sweets from the 40’s, 50’s, 60’s and 70’s. I will leave you with them—how many do you recognise? Fruit gums have always been my favourite, though I am also keen on a bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate.
1940’s1950’s1970’s1960’s
Hope you have a good week, that has a manageable amount of stuff, and no monsters. Maybe there’ll be some sweets too.
A Church — Not necessarily an evangelical one, I have never been inside.
Before I went to college, I would have described myself as an ‘Evangelical Christian.’ Now I’m not so sure. To be honest, I didn’t really know what the term meant—I assumed, as it contained the word ‘evangelical’ it meant that the person thought it was right to ‘evangelise,’ in other words, to tell other people about God. However, depending on who you speak to, it means different things. And sometimes it’s used as an insult in the Christian world. Shocking! Or maybe not…
There is a handy (if not scintillating) book that defines what ‘evangelicalism’ means, using seven points.[1] If I am honest, I have been aware of these within churches I have attended, and they’re not always good. What do you think?
Conversion. To be a Christian, evangelicals tend to emphasis a moment in time when you committed yourself to God. They talk about ‘repenting of your sins’ and ‘changing direction’ and asking God for forgiveness. I too think this is an important step, though I’m not so sure it happens only once, and certainly not necessarily at the start. I also don’t think there’s an ‘in’ and an ‘out’ and until you have ‘prayed the prayer’ you are definitely in the ‘out’ club (if you see what I mean!) Things are fuzzier than this, in my experience.
Assurance of Salvation. This means a belief that Christ becoming human, living, dying and rising again is all that is necessary for salvation. It slightly contradicts point one above (in my view). Now, being sure you have been accepted by God is important, but I’m not sure that everyone gets there all at once, in a single leap. Nor am I sure that we agree on what ‘salvation’ is. People talk about ‘going to Heaven when I die’ but (as discussed before) that’s what Plato taught, not the Bible. Again, I think things might be fuzzier than sometimes presented. I also worry that ‘assurance of salvation’ is most often used to point a grubby finger at the person who we are ‘sure has not been saved’! Comments such as: “Oh, he was ever so kind, and he’s not even a Christian you know,” tend to be revealing.
Biblicism. Evangelicals tend to say they believe the Bible is the ‘Word of God’ and available to everyone, but then go to great lengths to explain every contradiction and to teach things the way they believe them. Whilst they might be right, they might also be wrong, and maybe a little more caution is called for. It’s easy to find verses in the Bible that support your beliefs. The KluKluxKlan did it, so did the fascists. I think that using the Bible to learn who God is, is great. I think using the Bible to make rules for other people is not so great.
Prayer. Evangelicals believe that prayer is important—both private prayers and prayers in church. The early evangelicals taught that prayer should come ‘from the heart’ (which I agree with) and therefore pre-written prayers, and especially liturgy, are not really prayer. (This part I disagree with.)
The Cross/Penal Substitution. This goes back to point 2., that Christ died to save us from our sin. This is a huge concept, and I don’t think we really understand it, so I won’t comment. I do believe Christ died, and I do believe that somehow that repaired the relationship between God and us. But I don’t know how exactly, and I am suspicious when others seem very certain about concepts which seem to me to be beyond human understanding.
Holiness. When we are saved (see point 1.) it will affect the way we behave. The ancient Methodists believed it was possible to become sinless. The ancient Baptists believed holiness should be pursued through behaviour. In the 1870’s the Keswick Convention was set up, to try and decide this issue. They stated that ‘sin is perpetually counteracted.’ (Keswick is also home to an excellent kitchen shop, which is unrelated.) All I know is, I am not perfect, some terrible people do some really good things, and some apparently ‘holy’ people do really bad things.
Mission. After conversion (see point 1.) a Christian will be dedicated to God’s service, hoping to convert others. Sometimes this can feel like ‘scalp-hunting’ if done badly. At best, it’s the sense of having something special and wanting to share it with others.
Unfortunately, the Church is made up of humans, and none of us get it right. God is very patient with us. I find it helpful to step back, and look at what defines the things I believe, and then to decide whether they are really the things I believe, or if they are simply unquestioned teaching.
[1] Peter J. Morden, ‘Evangelical Spirituality’, in Andrew Atherstone and David Ceri Jones (eds.) The Routledge Research Companion to the History of Evangelicalism (London: Taylor and Francis, 2018).
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It’s time to do all those jobs that happen every year at this time. It doesn’t feel much like spring here at the moment, as we’ve had snow and frosts all week. But the mornings are lighter, and the animals know, even if we’re not sure. Depending on where you live, you will either have put your clocks forward an hour, or be preparing to do so. We move our clocks on the 26th March this year, so the US and Canada are ahead of us.
One Christmas gift (which feels like yesterday) was a pot and a packet of beans. We’re having a family competition, to see who can grow the tallest bean. It has to be in the pot provided, which wasn’t very deep. Mine grew to 67cm, then it decided the kitchen was too warm and the pot too small, and died. I planted the remaining seeds outside, and they don’t seem to mind the cold and are looking healthy. I expect the slugs will eat them, but here’s hoping.
My bean, growing next to a lemon pip (which is slower but less fussy).
The birds know it’s spring. The ducks have started laying, even though it’s cold, so April will be busy with ducklings again. There are already lambs in the fields. The cycle of life begins again.
We also have a wren in the garden. Male wrens are busy at this time of year, collecting things to build nests. Nests plural. A male wren builds several nests. When he manages to attract a female, he takes her on a tour of the nests, she chooses the best one, and lays her eggs. He then goes off and finds another female, and repeats the tour with the remaining nests. He’ll do this until all the nests have females, sitting on his offspring. Not the sort of male you want to introduce to your daughter. He’s a tiny brown bird, but has something (which I cannot remember the name of) in his lungs, which amplifies his voice. A tiny bird with a loud song. I’m rather fond of him, so I hope the cats don’t catch him.
Spring this year will be busy for me too. I need to sort out the house, because my daughter is moving home for a few months between selling her flat and buying a new property. This will be fun, but I need to make space for her. Though once I have emptied some cupboards, the job will be finished. I also need to write the proposal for my dissertation, which is less fun. I have to submit the title of my thesis, explaining what I plan to research and why, with a list of all the literature I plan to read and why it will be relevant. I am going to explore the dragon in the book of Job (chapter 41) which will be interesting, but being assessed makes it more stressful. But at least I only have to produce one, and I can submit that to the university and they will either love it or not. Being a wren and having to repeat that many times over each year must be a whole different game.
Hoping that all you attempt this week grows well and is completed on time. Thanks for reading. Take care. Love, Anne x
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We visited a few towns on the south coast of Madeira. It wasn’t possible (I think) to reach them via pretty coastal roads, as the roads seem to be either blocked or fallen into the sea or abandoned to rock falls. Our drive was therefore through a series of tunnels. Madeira does tunnels very well, but you don’t get to see much scenery. I cannot imagine how different life must have been before the tunnels were built. Towns would have been fairly isolated, as visiting other places would have taken much longer.
We visited Ponta do Sol. As we drove down the steep road into town, we saw a small carpark. It was full, but we managed to arrive as someone was leaving, so parked the car and followed signs to the old town. The town is built on a steep hill, terraces of bananas reaching up the cliff side, cobbled streets and houses clinging to the lower levels. There were some good coastal views, but nothing to entice us to stay in the town. The busiest area was the beach, with families sitting on the black sand or swimming in the sea. I never like black sand. Although I know it’s no less clean than yellow sand, it feels dirty. As Madeira is basically just a big volcano, all the natural sand is black.
Next we drove to Madalena do Mar. We did attempt to follow the coastal road, but it petered out, so we had to do a difficult 3-point turn on a bendy road, and it wasn’t worth the hassle; we returned to the series of tunnels.
Madalena do Mar has a big car park next to the sea, and a lovely promenade lined with palm trees along the coast, a jetty for fishing or mooring boats . . . And very little else! There were plots of land waiting to be built on, and even an area designed for a café, but no one seemed to have actually arrived yet to build the hotels and cafes. It was lovely, in a sort of abandoned, not quite there yet, way. Not sure what it will look like in ten years time.
Quite windy!
Our last stop was Praia da Calheta. This was a busy town, full of people, cars trying to park, cafes and supermarkets. There was a small marina, with little boats bobbing in rows, and a long promenade with palm trees and cafes. There were also beaches, with yellow sand hauled from Africa. Despite the cold, several teenagers were swimming, their squeals piercing the air. Steep cliffs bordered the coastal road, and we sat in a cafe, sipping espresso and watching little black and white birds nesting in the rock while seagulls swept past looking for food.
We returned to Funchal for dinner, and ate in Noitescura, a restaurant near the apartment. It served traditional food, and last time we tried ‘Francesinha’ which were like burgers (beef, chicken, fish or vegetable) with a fried egg on top, and served covered in a sauce/gravy. I chose badly, and had the vegetable one, thinking it would be a mushroom burger, but it wasn’t, it was more like minced vegetables (tiny pieces of onion, broccoli, carrot) in a soggy bun. It was as horrible as it sounds. This time we shared a fish platter, which was lovely. It had a variety of local fish (scabbard, parrot fish, bass) and we ate it with fried sweetcorn, rice and chips. (No veg this visit, Husband chose the food.)
I also tried a poncha, which is a traditional drink, sold all over the island. I was expecting something like a caipirinha, as it’s made with sugarcane alcohol, but it wasn’t, it was more bitter, and orange, and served in a short fat wine glass with no ice. Not unpleasant, but I prefer caipirinha. I also had white wine with my meal, and a dessert with sambuca (which I remembered too late I don’t like, but luckily they poured it over the dessert and then set it on fire, so most of it burnt off). We finished with a glass of Madeira wine, but refused the rum that was offered with the bill. I don’t usually drink much. I didn’t sleep very well that night.
Thanks for reading. Have a good week. Take care. Love, Anne x
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We found heaters in the apartment, and managed to warm up a bit. There’s no central air conditioning or central heating—I assume because usually all year round is ambient. It’s colder this year. I woke early, before sunrise (it’s not light here until about an hour after it’s light in the UK). When it was light, we went for a run. Although not sunny, it wasn’t cold. The light is different here. It’s a comforting light. Most of Madeira is mountainous, so lots of people run on the only flat land, along the promenade. It’s a pretty place to run, with little areas of garden, and interesting statues and the sea lapping onto pebbles next to you. There are often cruise ships, towering over the docks, and occasionally we had to dodge large groups who were touring the island, led by a guide to the most famous sights. I prefer living here, even for a few days, to try to absorb some of the real life. It was fun to watch the ships arriving though, such impossibly huge structures balanced on the water.
After a shower, we walked back to the little cafe where last year we went every morning, Husband always had a cheese and onion bolo, and I had an espresso. But the cafe was shut. What a shame. We wandered around, looking for somewhere to recreate the same ‘coffee with the locals’ feel, but most cafes looked very touristy. Then we settled on the cafe under the apartment, which wasn’t in such a nice location (okay, it is a horrible location, as it’s basically right on a busy road). But it had plastic chairs, and locals sipping espressos, and it looked clean. We ordered (Husband had chips. Chips. For breakfast.)
Note my disapproving face! The sandwich is actually very traditional in Madeira: sliced beef, ham and cheese. But the chips?
While we waited for our coffee (and chips) we saw the elderly man from last year’s café. He sat outside and had his coffee, and we wondered whether we should say hello, but decided we didn’t speak enough Portuguese and he didn’t speak English, and probably it would just confuse him. So we didn’t. But we mentioned it to the waitress, and she told us that he still runs his café, but the roof fell down, so he’s waiting for it to be fixed. This is why I like returning to the same places. Being on holiday is a break from life, but if you travel a lot, it can mean that you never engage in life, you are never part of anything, which seems a waste. When we return to the same places, we can be part of a different community — even if only very briefly. I think life is about connections, not being isolated. I’m not a great one for drifting, I like to have a purpose.
Caffeine replenished, we set off to find the boot shop. Last year I packed the right clothes, but not the right footwear, and when we had torrential rain, my only ‘waterproof’ shoes were drenched. We found a little shop that sold boots, and I bought a pair because they weren’t too expensive. They have been the most comfortable shoes I have ever owned, and are still worn all the time. They are brown boots, and I don’t like wearing brown shoes with grey trousers, so I was keen to buy some black ones. But would we manage to find the shop?
We set off, past the market (Mercado dos Lavradores) and all the aggressive salesmen selling fruit at inflated prices to unsuspecting tourists. We crossed the road, rounded the corner where they are building a Savoy hotel, and headed into the lanes of the old town. We half-remembered the road, and that the shop was opposite a larger shoe shop selling fashion shoes. We found a smaller shoe shop opposite, and went inside. It looked slightly different, but was in the right place, selling shoes. I explained what I wanted, showed the salesman my brown boots, and he went off to find some black ones. He returned with several boots, some of the black, none of them the same manufacturer as mine. I explained that I wanted the exact same boot, but in black (otherwise I may as well buy them in England). He came back with some similar boots, which he spent a long time stretching, undoing the laces, bending them open. I tried them on, knowing they were a size smaller than I wanted. I thanked him for trying, and left. The man suggested I should try in the big shop opposite, but I knew they only sold fashion shoes, and I wanted the same good quality leather boots.
I set off towards the apartment, refusing to listen when Husband suggested we should look in other shops, because I hate shopping, and only went to that place because I thought it would be easy. Husband insisted. I said I would look in one more shop. Husband led me up the road . . . To the exact same shop we had visited last year! We had been in a different shop, which explained why they hadn’t had my boots. This shop only sold Tapadas boots. Which begs the question: why did the other shop, when I was leaving anyway, not direct me back up the road? He must have known the Tapadas shop was there, and he wasn’t making the sale, so why not tell me? I dislike mean people. If you want comfortable boots (the sort of boots you can wear on an all-day hike on the day you buy them and not get blisters) then head to Abreu’s Sapataria.
I like Madeira, but I cannot quite get a feel for what it must be like to live here. Unless you want to work in the service/tourist industry, or to be an engineer (because there are some serious mountains to build on/through) then I’m not sure what work the island offers. There are the huge cruise ships that visit regularly, but the passengers tend to eat onboard, and only do brief excursions into town, making shops and attractions overly busy and then leaving, returning the narrow streets to the locals. The restaurants tout for business by trying to persuade passing people inside, which I always find uncomfortable, but maybe they have to, maybe there isn’t quite enough tourism for the number of restaurants. I suspect it’s a difficult place to run a business. We ate in some restaurants that were lovely, with delicious food and staff who worked very hard to keep everything clean and efficient. But they were rarely full, and sometimes we were the only customers, which felt sad given how hard people worked. But for us, it was lovely. I like visiting places out of season, pretending that I live here.
I will tell you more next week. Thanks for reading. Have a good week, and take care. Love, Anne x
We left home at 4 am, and arrived at the apartment about 12am. Arriving in Funchal is always an adventure. Funchal is a short drive from the airport in Madeira, and both times we have come, the little airport has been very efficient, with very few people arriving, short queues, helpful staff, and clean facilities. The car hire place is in the airport, and there is a short walk, including a lift down the side of the rock, to reach the cars. The drive from the airport is easy enough with Google Maps and the road is edged with amazing plants. I love the plants in Madeira, and it’s worth visiting simply to see them: great succulents with huge protruding stamen, sharp-leafed flowers clinging to rocks, impossibly tall trees that sort of resemble pine trees with a twist. However, once you leave the main road and enter Funchal, the fun starts!
The roads are steep, narrow, often cobbled. You feel like you are driving down a pathway. Then you meet a parked car, or tables spilling from restaurants, and you wonder if perhaps you really ARE driving along a pathway. But these rabbit-warren streets are the only route into Funchal. Then there is the problem of needing to park, and the entry-fob for the car park is in the apartment, but there is nowhere to park in order to collect said entry-fob.
At least this time we knew what to expect, and planned accordingly. (If you read the blog about our previous visit, you will know that Husband dumped me and all the luggage in the street outside, while he went off to find somewhere to park, which took longer than you might expect.) Husband drove to the garage entrance, and I jumped out and walked to the street where the apartment was. Somewhat confused by lack of numbers on doors—or at least, there were numbers, but they were all 18, so finding ‘number 18’ was less specific than I had hoped. Decided it was unlikely to be 18A, or 18B, as they were gyms. Then there was a door numbered 18, but that was locked. The adjoining door was unlocked, and as the buildings were connected, I entered. Tried the lift (I needed Apartment 36, which I guessed might be on the 3rd floor). The lift only went to floors -1 to -3. Left the lift and tried the stairs. Found myself in a doctor’s surgery. Showed the address to a woman who was leaving, and tried to remember how to ask for directions in Portuguese. Failed, but she understood me anyway and told me I needed to go ‘beyond the cafe.’ I didn’t, I needed to go through the locked door of number 18. Found some doorbells, rang number 36. Found the cleaner, who had the garage-fob. Returned to garage. No sign of Husband… You get the idea.
When we actually managed to enter the apartment, it was lovely. There are tiny balconies, and a view over rooftops to the sea. It has pretty wooden furniture, slightly antique in style. The kitchen is modern and clean. The bathroom is tiny, smelly, with a shower that doesn’t work very well. Not dissimilar to the bathroom at the last apartment we rented in Funchal, so am assuming Madeira doesn’t prioritise bathrooms.
We went for a stroll. The air was bright and balmy, not too hot—cardigan weather. We walked next to the sea for a while, then went to the supermarket and bought juice and water and milk. Probably we could drink the tap water, but I don’t want to discover it upsets my stomach; we’re only here for a week.
Mainly I want to rest while we’re here, read some books, and have a break from missing Kia. When your dog dies, you can never forget your loss while you’re at home, because everywhere is lonely. Hopefully Madeira will be different enough to not leave any gaps. Maybe I won’t go home again afterwards…
We walked back to the sea front for dinner, and found Xaramba, the restaurant we regularly ate in last year. The serving staff were the same, and they agreed it is much colder this year, and said it had even snowed. It IS cold here, especially in the evening after the sun has gone down. I packed all the same clothes that I wore last year, which basically means I have two outfits with thick jumpers (and a heap of summer stuff which won’t be worn). Will have to do some washing while we’re here.
I will write more tomorrow. Thanks for reading. Take care.
Anne E Thompson 