Not long ago, I was reading about the Portuguese island of Madeira, when a photograph caught my eye. It was of a levada, one of the island’s calling cards: an aqueduct built right into a cliff, with a tree-shaded footpath alongside it.
Three hundred miles off the coast of Morocco, Madeira (the main island in an archipelago of the same name) is only 35 miles long by 14 miles wide but has a 1,350-mile network of these irrigation channels, originally built to transport water from the exceptionally mountainous interior to villages below. Today, the levadas are better known for the scenic trails that parallel them, some leading to panoramic viewpoints and dramatic waterfalls.
Add in the promise of Madeira’s eclectic food culture, and I was hooked.
It was late April when I arrived in Funchal, the small capital city, which, with its old fort, black-and-white sidewalk tile mosaics, and stucco-walled churches has all the trappings of a Portuguese colonial outpost (Portugal claimed the then-uninhabited archipelago in 1419). It’s a convenient base for exploring the island, though it can look like a “greatest hits” of mass tourism: rows of chain stores, waiters proffering picture-filled menus, hulking cruise ships looming over the harbor. But it’s hard to stay mad at a pedestrian-friendly city whose jacarandas are in full bloom.
Going With the Flow
When I booked my all-day excursion to Rabaçal, the upland jumping-off point for some of Madeira’s most picturesque levada walks, I’d envisioned hiking with the calming companionship of flowing and falling water. I hadn’t planned for it to be falling on my head in buckets from the moment I stepped off the bus.
I had bought my ticket through Get to Hikes, a new bus company connecting Funchal to some of the island’s most popular trails — letting hikers avoid having to find parking or even rent a car. Rolling out of the city center at 7:30 a.m., our bus wound its way into the mountains, the scenery (and weather) seeming to change around each hairpin turn: green terraced hills set against the sparkling Atlantic, then forest blanketed in fog, then a rainbow punching through a sun shower.
When we arrived at the trailhead, conditions had turned to sheets of rain and gray mist, and it occurred to me — as one gust of wind effortlessly blew my umbrella inside out — that I might need to tweak my hiking plans.
Pickup was in five hours; I had hoped to walk a circuit combining the popular Levada das 25 Fontes route with the shorter Levada do Risco, which ends in a waterfall. Armed with the Madeira-specific WalkMe hiking app, which helpfully lets subscribers download trail maps to use offline, I began to descend the rocky steps at the start of the 25 Fontes trail. But the rain was pouring down, and one near-slip persuaded me to reroute to the flatter Risco trail. The winding footpath was muddy but manageable, dotted with miniature waterfalls trickling into the levada. The vegetation was rainforest-thick; even with the man-made aqueduct’s constant presence, it felt primeval, with mosses and ferns sprouting unchecked at every opportunity.
The downpour made it difficult to appreciate the peacefully rushing water beside me, but the upside was that I had this usually crowded trail almost to myself. Then, rounding a corner, I glimpsed the Risco waterfall, tiered like a wedding cake. I stood on the viewing platform, beaming and glued to the sight.
As I walked back, the tour groups began to arrive. Pushing through waves of drenched hikers, I reached the Nature Spot Cafe. I joined some French hikers at a communal table and warmed up with a cappuccino and a chicken sandwich on bolo do caco, Madeira’s trademark crunchy flatbread — all improbably delicious for a cafeteria perched on a cliff.
After lunch, with the rain having finally subsided, I ventured to the nearby Levada do Alecrim, its narrow footpath sandwiched between the aqueduct and a steep drop-off. I walked for an hour, the flowing water urging me along — until the iPhone timer in my pocket snapped me out of my reverie and reminded me I had a bus to catch.
Up Into the Clouds
“Did you have any icy sleet?” an Australian hiker asked me on the bus ride back about the conditions I’d faced. We were driving through a hailstorm but emerged from a tunnel into perfect blue skies; despite these temperamental mountain microclimates, Madeira’s coastline is reliably warm year-round, making it a popular getaway for European snowbirds.
The next morning, I caught the cable car up to another world: the Monte Palace gardens, a kaleidoscopic riot of tropical plants, Japanese temples and Zimbabwean sculptures stretching down a vast hillside, all connected by cascading fountains, pools and waterfalls. Peacocks strutted about; flamingos posed in an azulejo-tiled pond. Once the private estate of the British consul, it looked almost psychedelic, as if someone had introduced the Alhambra to “Sgt. Pepper.”
Many hours later, I was back in town picking up a rental car. While I’d met a number of travelers getting around by bus, service outside Funchal can be infrequent, and I had grand plans to watch the sunset from Pico do Areeiro, Madeira’s third-highest peak. (At sunrise, this hike is selfie–stick city, but I’d read it’s quieter at dusk.)
After trying not to stall my manual hatchback on Funchal’s near-vertical alleyways, I scooted up the mountain, hoping the clear weather I’d seen on the summit’s webcam would hold. The landscape turned lunar as I drove higher, and soon I was parked on top of the world — and completely shrouded in mist.
I gamely joined the handful of hikers marching toward the cliff-top staircase nicknamed the “Stairway to Heaven,” and the trail was eerily beautiful, seemingly suspended in the clouds. But with visibility near zero, I decided to turn around. Heaven could wait; I headed down the mountain to find some dinner.
Zen and the Art of the Mountain Road
So far, I’d had great luck dining at Madeira’s snack bars, casual restaurants dishing up fresh fish, garlic-slathered pregos (Portuguese steak sandwiches) on crunchy Madeiran bread, all manner of passion fruit desserts and invariably a housemade poncha, the island’s ubiquitous citrusy cocktail. That night, I went for a local specialty: black scabbardfish, a gothic horror of a creature, with the body of an eel and teeth bigger than a piranha’s, served with banana and a passion fruit sauce. (Tasty, if a bit like fish and chips by Willy Wonka.)
With the next day forecast to be resolutely sunny even in the highlands, I pointed my hatchback toward the mountain hamlet of Ribeiro Frio, lapping up the S-curves cut through Madeira’s dense laurel forest.
The village’s two levada trails were practically mudslides after all the rain, but both were incredibly lush, their trees dripping with green. Squelching my way along the cliff-hugging Levada do Furado — at points wide enough for only one hiker — I was relieved just to see sunshine. The air tasted rich, as if I’d been breathing diet air back home, and I stopped every few minutes to take in the soundtrack: the river churning in the valley below, birds calling, the levada gently flowing.
Back at the trailhead, the snack bar awaited. As I tucked into traditional tomato-and-egg soup and garlicky bolo do caco bread next to a fireplace, the sweeping view of the valley evaporated as the mist rolled in and rain began pelting down.
This time, I didn’t bother with my arsenal of weather apps and webcams, trying to optimally time my next move. I switched off Google Maps — how lost can you get on an island only 35 miles long? — and drove north toward the ocean.
Shifting gears as I carved up the mountain switchbacks, I’d found the bliss I’d been seeking, interrupted only when I clocked something moving out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look. It was a giant waterfall, tumbling down the mountain and out of sight.
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