The Vagabond

25/03/2026

Uhmmm...

CR7 Statue, hit or miss?

25/03/2026

There's something wonderfully absurd about landing in Seville after a flight from Istanbul. One moment you're gazing at minarets and drinking çay, the next you're surrounded by flamenco posters and the intoxicating smell of jamón ibérico. My brain needed a few hours to recalibrate.

But I had a mission: pick up a VW California, drive to Cordoba, and spend a week exploring Andalusia from the comfort of a German-engineered home on wheels. What could possibly go wrong?

The Handover: A Comedy of Miscommunication

The camper van rental office was located in an industrial zone that Google Maps described as "approximately here" – never a reassuring phrase. After driving in circles for twenty minutes in my rental car (which I had to return before collecting the camper – a logistical nightmare I'd underestimated), I finally found the place.

The handover took two hours. Not because anything was complicated, but because Juan, the rental agent, was determined to become my best friend. We discussed football (he supports Betis, I pretended to have an opinion), the best tapas in Seville (Casa Morales, apparently non-negotiable), and his aunt's recipe for salmorejo.

By the time I actually drove the California off the lot, I knew more about Juan's family than I do about some of my own relatives.

Camp Carlos III: My Cordoban Base

The drive to Cordoba was pure Andalusian cinema – endless olive groves, whitewashed villages perched on hillsides, and that particular golden light that makes everything look like a movie set. I arrived at Camp Carlos III just as the sun was setting.

Now, I've stayed at campsites around Europe, but Carlos III had something special. Maybe it was the old olive trees providing shade. Maybe it was the communal barbecue area where Dutch retirees and Spanish families cooked side by side. Or maybe it was the campsite dog, a philosophical-looking mutt named Cervantes who seemed to have strong opinions about everyone's parking choices.

I set up camp (translation: I figured out how to pop up the California's roof without swearing more than three times) and cracked open a cold Cruzcampo. Life, in that moment, was extremely good.

Day Trip 1: Cordoba – The Mezquita and Hidden Patios

You cannot visit Cordoba without seeing the Mezquita. This is a fact. What the guidebooks don't tell you is that the Mezquita will genuinely change the way you think about architecture.

Walking through the forest of red and white striped arches, I understood why the Catholic monarchs, after conquering Cordoba in 1236, chose to build a cathedral inside rather than tear the mosque down. Some beauty is so overwhelming that even conquerors become preservers.

Off the beaten track: Skip the touristy patios near the Mezquita. Instead, head to the Calle Céspedes and Calle San Basilio areas during non-festival months. Ring doorbells with "Patio" signs – many local residents will let you peek at their private courtyards for free. I found myself in a retired schoolteacher's patio, drinking sherry and discussing Lorca. As one does.

The Baños del Alcázar Califal – ancient Arab baths hidden beneath a modern building – are criminally undervisited. I had the place nearly to myself.

Day Trip 2: Granada – Beyond the Alhambra

Everyone goes to the Alhambra. You should too – but book tickets months in advance or prepare for disappointment.

What surprised me about Granada was the Albaicín neighbourhood. Getting lost in its narrow streets, with the Sierra Nevada mountains glowing pink in the distance, felt like wandering through a Moorish fever dream.

Off the beaten track: The Sacromonte caves. Yes, there are touristy flamenco shows, but climb higher, past the tourist zone, and you'll find caves still inhabited by artists, musicians, and people who've simply opted out of conventional life. I met a German sculptor who'd been living in his cave for thirty years. "The rent is reasonable," he deadpanned.

For the best view of the Alhambra, skip the crowded Mirador de San Nicolás. Instead, find the Mirador de la Churra – a local secret with the same view and a fraction of the crowds. Bring wine.

Day Trip 3: Ronda – Vertigo and Very Old Bridges

Ronda sits on a cliff. Not near a cliff – ON a cliff. The Puente Nuevo (which, despite the name, is 230 years old) spans a 100-metre gorge, and looking down will either thrill you or terrify you. I experienced both simultaneously.

Off the beaten track: Skip the main bullring (unless you're really into bullfighting history) and instead find the Jardines de Cuenca. These terraced gardens built into the cliff face offer absurd views and almost no tourists. The old Arab baths at the bottom of the gorge are also worth the steep walk down – emphasis on steep.

The Bodega El Patio serves sherry straight from the barrel and tapas that could make a grown man emotional. I may have eaten there twice in one day.

Day Trip 4: Seville Revisited – Where Juan's Recommendations Paid Off

After telling Juan I was just passing through, he looked genuinely hurt. "You must return to Seville properly," he insisted, pressing a handwritten list of bars into my hand. So I did.

His recommendations were impeccable. Casa Morales – a tile-covered bar that hasn't changed since 1850 – served me the best montadito de pringá I've ever eaten. El Rinconcillo, allegedly Seville's oldest bar (since 1670), chalks your bill onto the wooden counter.

Off the beaten track: The Triana neighbourhood, across the river, feels like a village within the city. The Mercado de Triana is paradise for food lovers. But my real discovery was the Centro Andaluz de Arte Contemporáneo in La Cartuja – a contemporary art museum housed in a 15th-century monastery. The juxtaposition of ancient cloisters and video installations shouldn't work, but absolutely does.

Day Trip 5: Malaga – Pablo and Pescaíto Frito

I saved Malaga for last, partly because it was the longest drive and partly because I wanted to end on the coast. After a week of landlocked olive groves, the Mediterranean felt like a reward.

The Picasso Museum is, obviously, essential – but so is walking the streets where he was born. The Plaza de la Merced, where young Pablo would have played, still has the bust of a political hero that reportedly inspired his father's art.

Off the beaten track: The Cementerio Inglés (English Cemetery) sounds morbid but is actually one of the most peaceful gardens in Malaga. Founded in 1831 for Protestant foreigners denied Catholic burial, it's now a botanical garden with fascinating headstones and zero crowds.

For lunch, find Antigua Casa de Guardia – a century-old tavern where they pour sweet Malaga wine from barrels older than most European democracies. The pescaíto frito (fried baby fish) is served in paper cones, and you eat standing up because that's how it's done.

Nights at Camp Carlos III

Each evening I returned to my olive-tree-shaded spot at Carlos III, increasingly fond of camp life. I never once used the California's stove – why would I when Andalusia's tapas bars beckoned? Instead, I sought out the spots where locals eat: smoky neighbourhood joints serving jamón ibérico, salmorejo (Córdoba's thicker, creamier cousin of gazpacho), berenjenas con miel (crispy aubergines drizzled with honey), flamenquín (rolled pork stuffed with ham and cheese), and gambas al ajillo sizzling in terracotta dishes. I drank local wine from plastic cups. I read books while Cervantes the dog snored nearby.

The Dutch couple next door invited me to join their barbecue. The Spanish family taught me card games I couldn't follow. A solo French motorcyclist shared his collection of regional cheeses.

And then there was the mystery of the midnight Antonio.

Every night, without fail, at the stroke of midnight, a young mother's voice would pierce the campsite silence: "¡ANTONIO! ¡ANTONIO, VEN AQUÍ AHORA MISMO!" The first night, I sat bolt upright in my pop-top bed, heart racing, convinced I was being summoned. Had I done something wrong? Was there some Spanish camping law I'd violated? Was this Juan's doing?

By the third night, I'd worked out that the target was not me, but some phantom child who apparently refused to sleep. The nightly ritual became my alarm clock in reverse – if I heard "¡ANTONIO!" shrieking across the olive trees, I knew it was time for bed.

On my final morning, I made my way to the campsite's enormous communal pool for a farewell swim. And there, finally, I met him: Antonio. He was perhaps seven years old, all chaos and mischief wrapped in swim shorts, currently engaged in an elaborate operation to hide every girl's sandal within a fifty-metre radius. He'd buried three pairs in the sand, hung one from a tree branch, and was attempting to launch another into the deep end when his exhausted mother spotted him.

"¡ANTONIO!" There it was. That voice. She caught my eye and sighed the universal sigh of parents everywhere. "Every night," she said in English, noticing my grin. "Every single night he does something."

I introduced myself. "I'm also Antonio," I said.

Little Antonio looked up at me with the delighted recognition of a fellow troublemaker. "You heard Mamá calling?"

"Every night, my friend. Every night."

He handed me a sandal – a peace offering, or perhaps an invitation to join his chaos. His mother buried her face in her hands. I have never felt such solidarity with a seven-year-old.

This is what travel is supposed to be: accidental community, shared meals with strangers, midnight mysteries, and the comfortable silence of people with nowhere urgent to go.

The VW California Verdict

A week in a camper van teaches you about yourself. Primarily, it teaches you that you don't need much space to be happy. The California's pop-up roof, fold-out bed, and kitchenette became home faster than I expected.

Yes, finding parking in Spanish cities was occasionally stressful. Yes, I woke up once covered in mosquito bites because I'd left a window open. Yes, the electric cooler box ran out of ice on day five and I had to resort to asking for help in broken Spanish (the solution: a petrol station in a village whose name I've already forgotten, where the attendant seemed genuinely concerned about the fate of my cheese).

But would I do it again? In a heartbeat.

Practical Tips for Your Own Andalusian Camper Adventure

- Book the California early: These vans are popular and often reserved months in advance during peak season.

- Camp Carlos III: Genuinely excellent. Shaded pitches, good facilities, and that dog. Easy day-trip distance to everywhere I mentioned.

- The Alhambra: Book tickets the moment you know your dates. Seriously. I cannot stress this enough.

- Cash: Many small tapas bars in older neighbourhoods are cash-only. Don't be caught short.

- Siestas: Embrace the 2-5pm shutdown. Everything closes. Have a nap. You're on holiday.

- Timing: I went at the end of August. The weather was perfect, and I avoided the crushing summer crowds.

As I drove back to Seville airport to return the California, I felt that particular melancholy that comes from ending a good trip. But Juan had one last surprise – he handed me a bottle of locally made olive oil "for next time."

There will, I suspect, be a next time.

*Have you explored Andalusia by camper van? I'd love to hear your favourite hidden spots – or your stories of getting magnificently lost.* For more: check out www.vagabond.to

25/03/2026

My story got onto the Island News Platform...

Madeira AirportTobi Hughes·23rd March 2026Madeira News A light-hearted well written post doing the rounds on social media. We all know it so well. There are airports, and then there is Cristiano Ronaldo International Airport. Yes, they named it after a footballer. No, that is not the most terrifyin...

28/02/2026

For this and other silly stories: https://www.vagabond.to

Australian Beer: A Love Letter to Mediocrity

Let me be clear from the outset: I love Australia. I love the people, the landscapes, the wildlife that is perpetually trying to kill you. I love the slang, the barbecues, the casual disregard for shoes in public places. But there is one thing I cannot, will not, and shall never understand about this magnificent sunburned country.

The beer.

The International Awards Problem

Every year, the World Beer Awards are announced. Countries like Belgium, Germany, the Czech Republic, and even tiny nations you'd need a magnifying glass to find on a map walk away with armfuls of gold medals. Australia? Australia walks away with the same expression as a kid who got a participation ribbon at sports day.

And look, it's not for lack of trying. Australians genuinely believe their beer is good. They'll defend it with the same passion they reserve for cricket sledging and arguing about whether a meat pie needs sauce. But believing your beer is good and your beer actually being good are two very different things. I believe I can sing. My shower wall disagrees every morning.

The problem, as far as I can tell, is that Australian beer exists in a flavour spectrum that ranges from "cold water with ambition" to "slightly angry cold water with ambition." There's a reluctance to commit to actual taste. It's as if the entire brewing industry collectively decided that the primary function of beer is to be cold, and everything else is optional.

Compare this to a Belgian Trappist ale that tastes like it was brewed by monks who've had centuries to get annoyed about something. Or a Czech pilsner so crisp it could cut glass. Or a German wheat beer that makes you want to put on lederhosen and yodel, even if you're from Parramatta.

Australian beer tastes like someone described those beers to AI, and the Robot had a go.

Every City Has a Brewery. None of Them Get It Right.

Here's the thing that really gets me. Every single Australian city — and I mean every one — has its own local brewery. Melbourne has about forty-seven of them. Sydney has a few that charge you $14 for a schooner and act like they're doing you a favour. Brisbane has breweries that put tropical fruit in everything because apparently hops are too mainstream. Perth has breweries so far away from everything that by the time you get there, you're too tired to care what the beer tastes like. Adelaide has... actually, Adelaide has Cooper's, and Cooper's is fine. I'll give them that. Cooper's Pale Ale is the one Australian beer that doesn't make me want to write a letter of complaint.

But the craft beer scene? Oh, the craft beer scene. Every hipster with a beard and a warehouse lease thinks they can brew the next great Australian beer. They give it names like "Sunset Haze IPA" and "Outback Thunder Pale Ale" and "Murray's Revenge Double Hopped Session Whatever." They put it in cans with artwork that looks like it was designed by someone who just discovered Adobe Illustrator. And they charge you $12 for 375ml of liquid that tastes like grapefruit had a fight with a pine tree and nobody won.

I've tried them all. Melbourne's laneways are littered with my broken hopes. I've sat in brewery courtyards in Fremantle, in taprooms in Hobart, in beer gardens in the Gold Coast. And every time — every single time — I've taken a sip, paused, looked at the glass, looked at the price, looked back at the glass, and thought: "This is it? This is what all the fuss is about?"

It's not bad, exactly. It's just... not good enough to justify the ceremony. It's like watching a magic show where every trick is just pulling a coin from behind someone's ear. Technically competent. Emotionally devastating.

Why Is Beer So Damn Expensive?

And that brings us to the price. Oh, the price.

In Portugal, I can buy a Super Bock Beer on Tap for €1.50. In South Africa, you can buy two 500ml Black Label Draught Beers for R80 (less than $2 each). In Prague, you can get a pint of the best lager on earth for less than the cost of a bus ticket. In Bali — and we'll get to Bali — you can buy a large Bintang for about $2.

In Australia? A pint at a pub in Sydney will cost you somewhere between $12 and $16. SIXTEEN DOLLARS. For a pint. Of beer that, as we've established, tastes like someone left sparkling water near a hop plant and called it a day.

The reason, of course, is tax. Australia taxes alcohol like it's a controlled substance. The government takes one look at your beer and says, "That'll be 47% in excise duty, thanks mate." It's as if they're punishing you for wanting to have a good time. Which, honestly, might be the most Australian thing about it. The country is essentially saying: "You can have fun, but it'll cost you."

This is why Australians fly to Bali. Not for the temples. Not for the rice terraces. Not for the spiritual enlightenment. They fly to Bali because you can buy a bucket of five Bintangs for the price of a single schooner in Bondi. The entire Bali tourism economy is essentially subsidised by Australians who just want to drink beer at a price that doesn't require a second mortgage.

I've seen it. I've been in Kuta at 2pm on a Tuesday and watched grown men weep with joy at the sight of a drinks menu. "Two dollars? TWO DOLLARS? For a LARGE beer? Mate, give us twelve." And off they go, sunburnt and ecstatic, living their best lives in singlets and board shorts, drinking beer that costs less than the sunscreen they forgot to put on.

The Murray River Fishing Trip

Which brings me — somewhat inevitably — to the Murray River.

Last year, my son and two of his mates invited me to join them on a fishing trip along the Murray. "It'll be great, Dad," he said. "Just the boys, a tinny, some rods, and a few cold ones." I should have known what I was getting into when they loaded the car with more beer than bait.

We drove out from Albury at Sparrow's Fart, just over an hour of scenic road-trip to a spot near Noreuil Park. The river was brown. Not the romantic, whisky-coloured brown of a Scottish stream. Brown like chocolate milk that's been left in the sun. But it was peaceful. Birds were doing bird things. The gum trees were gumming. And the esky was full.

The fishing itself was an exercise in patience and delusion. We climbed into the river and headed up-stream, lines in the water, and waited. And waited. And drank. And waited some more. In six hours, we caught exactly one Murray cod. One. And it was so small that throwing it back felt less like sportsmanship and more like an apology.

But the beer. Oh, the beer consumption was Olympic-level. My mate had brought a selection of what he called "Australia's finest." There was VB — Victoria Bitter — which is neither Victorian nor bitter, discuss. There was Carlton Draught, which tastes exactly like what you'd expect from a beer whose entire marketing strategy is "Made from beer." There was ###X Gold, which is from Queensland, where they apparently can't spell "beer" but can drink twelve of them before lunch.

I cracked open a VB, looked out at the Murray River, and took a long sip. It was cold. I'll give it that. It was very, very cold. And on a 38-degree day, sitting by a river, watching a pelican judge you from a log, a cold VB is... fine. It's fine. It's not transcendent. It's not going to make you rethink your relationship with hops. But it's cold, and it's there, and the river is brown, and you haven't caught a fish, and honestly, what more do you want?

By the third beer, I'd stopped caring about flavour profiles. By the fifth, I was actively defending VB to an imaginary European critic in my head. "You don't understand," I told him. "It's not about the TASTE. It's about the EXPERIENCE. It's about sitting in 38 degrees watching a pelican eat a fish you couldn't catch, drinking a beer that costs $3 from the bottle-o because your mate bought a slab on special. That's what Australian beer IS."

The imaginary European was unconvinced. He went back to his Weihenstephaner.

The Slab Economy

Speaking of slabs — a slab is what Australians call a 24-pack of beer, because of course they have their own word for it — the economics of Australian beer only make sense if you buy in bulk. A single beer at a pub? Financial ruin. A slab from Dan Murphy's? Almost reasonable. It's like the beer industry designed a pricing model specifically to encourage people to drink at home, in their backyard, in their underwear, which — and I say this with love — is exactly what most Australians do.

Dan Murphy's, for the uninitiated, is a bottle shop the size of a small aircraft hangar. Walking into Dan Murphy's is like walking into a cathedral dedicated to the worship of discounted alcohol. People speak in hushed, reverent tones. They compare prices per unit. They stack slabs into trolleys with the focus and determination of someone loading supplies for a siege.

And a slab of VB? About $52. Which works out to roughly $2.17 per beer. THAT is the price at which Australian beer makes sense. Not $14 at a rooftop bar in Surry Hills where the bartender has a tattoo of a hop flower and calls you "legend" while charging you the equivalent of a small meal for 425ml of pale ale.

The Verdict

Australian beer will never win an International Beer Award. I'm sorry. I've said it. The Belgian monks are too dedicated. The German purity laws are too strict. The Czech tradition is too deep. And the Australians are too busy arguing about whether Coopers or Carlton is better to notice that neither of them is in the conversation.

But here's the thing — and this is the bit where I grudgingly, reluctantly, against my better judgment, admit something nice — Australian beer doesn't NEED to win awards. Because Australian beer isn't really about beer. It's about the Murray River at sunset. It's about your son and his mates who dragged you out at Sparrow's Fart to wade up-stream and catch nothing. It's about a pelican on a log. It's about 38 degrees and a cold tinny and the sound of absolutely nothing except kookaburras laughing at you.

It's about flying to Bali because a pint in Sydney costs more than a villa in Seminyak.

It's about the slab in the esky and the lie you tell yourself that you'll only have two.

Australian beer is not great beer. But it might just be the greatest beer experience on earth.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to book a flight to Bali. I've got a thirst that Australian prices simply cannot accommodate.

for more silly stories, please visit www.vagabond.to

Travel, traditional recipes, experiences, and humour from Portugal.

12/02/2026

for more, visit https://vagabond.to

Madeira-Part 1/5

There are airports, and then there is Cristiano Ronaldo International Airport. Yes, they named it after a footballer. No, that is not the most terrifying thing about it.

The most terrifying thing about it is that the runway was built on the side of a volcanic island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, extended over the sea on 180 concrete pillars, and regularly visited by crosswinds that would make a seagull reconsider its life choices.

They call it the "white knuckle airport." They are not being dramatic.

Lisbon: The Calm Before the Storm

It starts innocently enough. Humberto Delgado Airport in Lisbon. Gate 47. A TAP Air Portugal Airbus doing its best impression of a trustworthy aircraft. The flight time reads 1 hour 35 minutes, which seems perfectly civilised.

You board. You sit down. The couple next to you are British tourists wearing matching sun hats and radiating the sort of holiday optimism that only people who've never landed in Funchal can possess.

"Madeira!" she says to him, clutching a guidebook. "The flower island! So romantic!"

I smile. I say nothing. I've done this flight more times than I can count. I know what's coming.

The First Hour: A Masterclass in False Security

For roughly 80 minutes, everything is delightful. The Airbus purrs along at 37,000 feet. The cabin crew distribute tiny sandwiches and those miniature bottles of wine that make you feel like a giant. The sky is blue. The Atlantic glitters below like someone spilled a continent's worth of sequins.

You could be forgiven for thinking this is just a pleasant little hop from the mainland to a subtropical paradise. The in-flight magazine shows photos of levada walks, botanical gardens, and poncha cocktails. Everything is serene. Everything is fine.

And then the captain makes an announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent into Funchal. Please return to your seats and ensure your seatbelts are fastened."

A pause.

"Conditions at the airport are... within normal parameters."

That pause told you everything you needed to know. "Within normal parameters" at Funchal means winds that would constitute a weather warning anywhere else. It means the runway is 2,781 meters of concrete perched between mountains and ocean, with a lovely sheer drop at the end should anything go slightly wrong.

The British couple are still smiling. Bless them.

The Descent: Where Religion Gets Popular Very Quickly

The plane banks left and suddenly Madeira appears through the window — a great volcanic fortress rising from the ocean, its peaks shrouded in cloud, its cliffs dropping vertically into frothing Atlantic surf. It looks like something from a fantasy film. It also looks like absolutely nowhere sensible to land an aircraft.

The approach into Funchal is not like other approaches. In most airports, you descend gradually, the runway appearing in the distance, growing larger and more reassuring with each passing second. In Funchal, the runway doesn't appear until you're essentially already on it.

First, you fly along the coastline, admiring the terraced hillsides and red-roofed villages from a height that feels increasingly inappropriate. Then the plane turns sharply — and I mean SHARPLY — towards the runway, which materialises between a mountain on one side and the Atlantic Ocean on the other.

The wind hits.

I don't mean a gentle breeze. I mean the kind of sideways gust that makes the aircraft do things aircraft should not do. The wings dip. The fuselage shudders. The overhead bins rattle with the enthusiasm of a percussion section.

The British woman grabs her husband's arm. "Derek," she says, her voice two octaves higher than before. "Derek, the wing is wobbling."

Derek says nothing. Derek is gripping the armrest with a force that could crush coal into diamonds.

The Final Approach: A Religious Experience

Here's what nobody tells you about Funchal airport: the pilots who fly this route are absolute legends. They have to undergo special training just to be certified for this approach. They're essentially the Formula 1 drivers of commercial aviation, threading a 70-tonne aircraft through crosswinds and mountain turbulence with the casual precision of someone parallel parking.

The plane drops. Your stomach stays at the altitude you just left. The runway rushes up — that famous extended platform on its forest of concrete pillars over the ocean. For one magnificent, bowel-loosening moment, you are convinced you are landing in the sea.

And then — THUMP.

Rubber meets concrete. The reverse thrusters roar. The plane decelerates with the urgency of someone who's just remembered the runway has an end.

Applause erupts throughout the cabin.

This is not an exaggeration. People genuinely clap when you land in Funchal. Not polite golf claps, either. Full, enthusiastic, we-just-survived-something applause. The kind of applause usually reserved for encores and rescue helicopters.

The British woman is crying. Derek is staring straight ahead with the expression of a man who has seen God and God was a Portuguese pilot.

I applaud too. Every single time. Because no matter how many times you do it, landing in Funchal never becomes routine.

The Airport Formerly Known As Santa Catarina

Once your legs remember how to function, you step off the plane and into Cristiano Ronaldo International Airport — renamed in 2017 after Madeira's most famous son. There's a bust of him inside that's become almost as famous as the airport itself, though for entirely different reasons. The original bronze bust made him look like he'd been stung by a swarm of bees whilst having an allergic reaction. They've since replaced it with a more flattering version, which is either an improvement or a loss for comedy, depending on your perspective.

The airport itself is actually quite modern and efficient, which feels wrong after what you've just experienced. You want drama. You want a medal. You want someone to hand you a brandy and say "well done." Instead, you get a luggage carousel and a Europcar desk.

A Brief History of Near-Misses

The original runway, built in 1964, was only 1,600 metres long. Let me put that in perspective: a modern commercial aircraft ideally wants about 2,500 metres. So they were landing jets on a runway roughly the length of a vigorous jog.

In 2000, they extended it — over the ocean, on those now-iconic concrete pillars — to its current 2,781 metres. This was considered a vast improvement, which tells you everything about how terrifying the original was.

Before the extension, only specially trained pilots could attempt the landing, and flights were frequently diverted to Porto Santo (Madeira's smaller, flatter, significantly less dramatic sister island) when conditions were deemed too challenging. "Too challenging for Funchal" is a bar so high that most airports couldn't see it with binoculars.

Even now, with the extended runway and modern aircraft, go-arounds are not uncommon. A go-around is aviation terminology for "we tried to land, the wind said no, and we're going to fly around and try again." I've personally experienced three go-arounds in Funchal. Each one added a new grey hair, wait, I remember, I don't have hair!

Why We Keep Coming Back

Here's the thing, though. As the adrenaline fades and you collect your rental car and drive along the VR1 towards Funchal (or west, towards Calheta, if you're heading to family like I do), Madeira begins to work its magic.

The air hits you first. Warm, humid, tinged with eucalyptus and ocean salt. Then the views — those impossible, vertiginous views of terraced hillsides tumbling into the sea. The banana plantations. The bougainvillea cascading over stone walls. The old men sitting outside cafés drinking poncha and discussing football with the intensity of UN diplomats.

And you think: yes. That landing was worth it. That landing is ALWAYS worth it.

Because Madeira isn't just an island. It's a place that demands a dramatic entrance. And Cristiano Ronaldo International Airport — with its crosswinds, its ocean-spanning runway, and its ability to turn atheists into believers in approximately 90 seconds — delivers exactly that.

Practical Tips for the White Knuckle Experience

- Sit on the left side of the aircraft for the best views of the coastline approach. Sit on the right if you prefer not to see what's happening.

- Window seat vs aisle: Window if you want the full experience. Aisle if you value plausible deniability about what's happening outside.

- Don't fly on an empty stomach, but also don't eat anything you'd rather not see again.

- The applause is mandatory. Even if you're too shaken to move your hands, at least nod appreciatively at the pilot.

- If the flight gets diverted to Porto Santo, consider it a bonus. Porto Santo has a beautiful 9km beach and significantly fewer near-death experiences.

Coming Up in Part 2...

Now that we've survived the landing, it's time to leave the airport and head west along the coast. In Part 2 of The Madeira Diaries, we'll explore Funchal, Calheta, Estreito da Calheta, and Ribeira Funda — and why having family on the island means you see a very different Madeira from the one in the guidebooks.

*Bem-vindos à Madeira. You've earned it.*