Message from a Bottle Green Sea
Many years ago we were grabbing a late night snack after a show in London when I heard a group of people at the table next to us speaking a language I couldn’t recognise at all, no matter how hard I tried. The sounds were soft, full of j’s and z’s so it seemed. Where did they come from? The voices sounded almost Slavic, but apart from a visit to Hungary a few years earlier I’d never ventured into or beyond Central Europe. Russia maybe? I really couldn’t tell. It was only when someone offered an “obrigada” to one of the waiting staff that the penny dropped. Our neighbours weren’t from Eastern Europe at all. They were Portuguese. Or Brazilian – I definitely wasn’t in a position to make that distinction. And there it is – whenever I hear people speaking the language of Mainland Europe’s most westerly nation I’m perplexed. To my untrained ear it sounds totally alien in comparison to its Latin cousins. And we still harbour ambitions to go and live there as well. We’d better get to night school and quick.
But written Portuguese does at least offer a few clues if you’ve managed to grasp a bit of Spanish and a modicum of French. The words look similar, yet different, and a j can be pronounced as a j without having to summon up a reservoir of phlegm in order to render a passable approximation of a name or place as one does when attempting to speak Spanish. And right now those evening Spanish classes were uncovering just enough mystery to tell me that the Miradouro do Guindaste was off limits. It seemed the local authorities were either constructing or renovating a picnic area at the place where I’d hoped to open my shutter towards the east. On the other side of the eight foot high chain link fences I could see the rocky outcrop where so many have posed before the camera looking enigmatic, but unless I wanted a picture of a small building site, there was nothing doing here. We moved on to Santana to look at the traditional triangle shaped cottages that were doing a roaring trade with the visitors. I didn’t last long there before my irritation started to break through the veneer of diffidence. I acceded to a request from a young French couple to take a picture of them on the lady’s phone, but when she offered to return the favour I politely declined. It wasn’t my best version of me. I’m not very good at being a tourist I’m afraid. Ali didn’t take long to let me know that she was unimpressed at my conduct. It really wouldn’t have hurt to pose and grin into my phone camera in front of one of those bright red and white huts you know. But the moment had gone and in the eyes of a charming young pair from France, I was now forever Mr Grumpy Pants.
A couple of hours after first arriving at Faial on the north east side of the Floating Garden we were back, this time right down beside the water at a place where a seemingly unnamed river completes its short and dramatic journey from the high mountains of Madeira into an ever frothing Atlantic Ocean. A restaurant under the same ownership as one we’d had an agreeable lunch at in Machico a couple of days beforehand promised a satisfying end to the day later on, and so I pointed my camera at the sea, looking across the steep cliff filled coastline to Porto do Sao Lourenco at the eastern tip of the island. Here I tried all manner of focal lengths and shutter speeds, first attempting to capture the miniscule rainbows thrown by incoming waves, later changing to the long lens, and then changing back again and adding the six stop filter, moving back a few yards to this spot where I could include the rocks and the outgoing river water as it collided with the arriving rollers. It was in this group of shots that the bottle green colours in the sea began to reveal themselves, framed with white edges that turned the water into an elaborate mosaic at the shutter speed I was aiming for.
I stayed here for a couple of hours, gazing at the sea and taking nearly two hundred images that would need to be sifted, culled and shortlisted later, when I would sub group the results into six folders and then try to make further sense of them. In some, the colours were too bland for anything but a black and white edit, but in this little collection, the rich green water eclipsed the epic views and became the star of the show to my eyes, hence the crop which excludes the furthermost parts of the vista I was enjoying. At the end of the evening, the sky threw on a veil of pink. You never know, I might find one in the pink hour pile worth showing yet.
Faial had undoubtedly been fun, unexpected fun at that, and perhaps the famous miradouro would have looked much like a lot of other shots in any case. I do love an outing when events don’t quite go to plan, but you end up finding something you hadn’t bargained for. Yet again, the magnificent coast of the Floating Garden had given me something to coo behind the viewfinder over. It seemed strange that the restaurant was closed on a Saturday evening, and Ali didn’t appear to be too keen on the nearby alternatives where I’d have happily filled my by now empty stomach with frango assado and chips, and so it was veggie pasta again in the apartment back in Funchal. At least I could have a glass of Madeira with my supper now that the driving was done for the day. Another compensation for initial disappointment then.
For those of you who’ve been enjoying the series of images and stories from the Floating Garden there is good news as there are plenty more to come, not least from the mysterious highland Fanal Forest. For those of you who’ve had enough of the series of images and stories from the Floating Garden, the outlook is less positive. I’ve still barely scratched the surface of the adventure. There are mountains, clouds, trees both dead and alive, steep cliffs, vivid sunsets, treachorous waves and other things I’ve forgotten about, still waiting to visit the editing suite. Sorry about that. Eventually I’ll move on, but then again I’ll be back in Iceland in less than three months. You know I’m going to go shutter happy there. Just warning you………….
Message from a Bottle Green Sea
Many years ago we were grabbing a late night snack after a show in London when I heard a group of people at the table next to us speaking a language I couldn’t recognise at all, no matter how hard I tried. The sounds were soft, full of j’s and z’s so it seemed. Where did they come from? The voices sounded almost Slavic, but apart from a visit to Hungary a few years earlier I’d never ventured into or beyond Central Europe. Russia maybe? I really couldn’t tell. It was only when someone offered an “obrigada” to one of the waiting staff that the penny dropped. Our neighbours weren’t from Eastern Europe at all. They were Portuguese. Or Brazilian – I definitely wasn’t in a position to make that distinction. And there it is – whenever I hear people speaking the language of Mainland Europe’s most westerly nation I’m perplexed. To my untrained ear it sounds totally alien in comparison to its Latin cousins. And we still harbour ambitions to go and live there as well. We’d better get to night school and quick.
But written Portuguese does at least offer a few clues if you’ve managed to grasp a bit of Spanish and a modicum of French. The words look similar, yet different, and a j can be pronounced as a j without having to summon up a reservoir of phlegm in order to render a passable approximation of a name or place as one does when attempting to speak Spanish. And right now those evening Spanish classes were uncovering just enough mystery to tell me that the Miradouro do Guindaste was off limits. It seemed the local authorities were either constructing or renovating a picnic area at the place where I’d hoped to open my shutter towards the east. On the other side of the eight foot high chain link fences I could see the rocky outcrop where so many have posed before the camera looking enigmatic, but unless I wanted a picture of a small building site, there was nothing doing here. We moved on to Santana to look at the traditional triangle shaped cottages that were doing a roaring trade with the visitors. I didn’t last long there before my irritation started to break through the veneer of diffidence. I acceded to a request from a young French couple to take a picture of them on the lady’s phone, but when she offered to return the favour I politely declined. It wasn’t my best version of me. I’m not very good at being a tourist I’m afraid. Ali didn’t take long to let me know that she was unimpressed at my conduct. It really wouldn’t have hurt to pose and grin into my phone camera in front of one of those bright red and white huts you know. But the moment had gone and in the eyes of a charming young pair from France, I was now forever Mr Grumpy Pants.
A couple of hours after first arriving at Faial on the north east side of the Floating Garden we were back, this time right down beside the water at a place where a seemingly unnamed river completes its short and dramatic journey from the high mountains of Madeira into an ever frothing Atlantic Ocean. A restaurant under the same ownership as one we’d had an agreeable lunch at in Machico a couple of days beforehand promised a satisfying end to the day later on, and so I pointed my camera at the sea, looking across the steep cliff filled coastline to Porto do Sao Lourenco at the eastern tip of the island. Here I tried all manner of focal lengths and shutter speeds, first attempting to capture the miniscule rainbows thrown by incoming waves, later changing to the long lens, and then changing back again and adding the six stop filter, moving back a few yards to this spot where I could include the rocks and the outgoing river water as it collided with the arriving rollers. It was in this group of shots that the bottle green colours in the sea began to reveal themselves, framed with white edges that turned the water into an elaborate mosaic at the shutter speed I was aiming for.
I stayed here for a couple of hours, gazing at the sea and taking nearly two hundred images that would need to be sifted, culled and shortlisted later, when I would sub group the results into six folders and then try to make further sense of them. In some, the colours were too bland for anything but a black and white edit, but in this little collection, the rich green water eclipsed the epic views and became the star of the show to my eyes, hence the crop which excludes the furthermost parts of the vista I was enjoying. At the end of the evening, the sky threw on a veil of pink. You never know, I might find one in the pink hour pile worth showing yet.
Faial had undoubtedly been fun, unexpected fun at that, and perhaps the famous miradouro would have looked much like a lot of other shots in any case. I do love an outing when events don’t quite go to plan, but you end up finding something you hadn’t bargained for. Yet again, the magnificent coast of the Floating Garden had given me something to coo behind the viewfinder over. It seemed strange that the restaurant was closed on a Saturday evening, and Ali didn’t appear to be too keen on the nearby alternatives where I’d have happily filled my by now empty stomach with frango assado and chips, and so it was veggie pasta again in the apartment back in Funchal. At least I could have a glass of Madeira with my supper now that the driving was done for the day. Another compensation for initial disappointment then.
For those of you who’ve been enjoying the series of images and stories from the Floating Garden there is good news as there are plenty more to come, not least from the mysterious highland Fanal Forest. For those of you who’ve had enough of the series of images and stories from the Floating Garden, the outlook is less positive. I’ve still barely scratched the surface of the adventure. There are mountains, clouds, trees both dead and alive, steep cliffs, vivid sunsets, treachorous waves and other things I’ve forgotten about, still waiting to visit the editing suite. Sorry about that. Eventually I’ll move on, but then again I’ll be back in Iceland in less than three months. You know I’m going to go shutter happy there. Just warning you………….