holiday death walk...

We have been inspired by the Carrot man and are thinking a lot about holidays. This is tale of heroism and bravery on holiday. This is the ultimate 'determined to enjoy themselves' story. We have now been to Madeira three times. I fought and argued over the first visit. It was my first holiday abroad, and Mrs McMuffin's parents had really liked the place when they had gone there about 15 years before. I like to think of myself as quite sophisticated, but I took a Miss Marple approach to life: I don't need to travel to learn about life, all life is here on my doorstep, people are people, sort of thing...I also objected to the idea that my first holiday abroad should be dictated by her parents, who by the way are really very nice...but that is not the point.

We have now visited Madeira three times, and it is probably my most favourite place in the whole world. It is old world Europe, but small and perfectly proportioned, with a proper little city at its heart.

On our second trip we decided to do a levada walk. This is a common tourist trip. The levadas are a network of canals that provide water to the whole of the island, and they offer the opportunity to see bits of the island that aren't normally seen. Anyway, we consulted our guidebook and found the perfect three mile walk that ended at a cafe. This is a picture of Mrs McMuffin, happy in the big woolly cardigan that she had bought at the top of Monte.

This is me, Mrs McMuffin, taking over because he has gone to ensure our dinner isn't burned. So, anyway we started the walk only to find that due to Levada repairs we had to go back the other way. The walk was lovely and the sound of the Levada burbling alongside us enhanced the whole experience. Mr McMuffin doesn't do walking so he got really fed up and picked a row with me. I told him to fuck off, obviously, which is just what he did. The levada path got narrower and narrower and I found myself walking alone on a strip of concrete about a foot across with a drop of about 1,000 feet next to it. You just cannot see this horror in the photographs.

Now I am absolutely terrifed of heights. I was the kid who crawled across railway bridges and as an adolescent was humilated to see little kids running past me on the ramparts of Castell Cydweli laughing as I was on my hands and knees. I had exactly the same sense of fear, only this time it was real, if I slipped I would die. No question. Now I tried to be brave and rebuked myself for my stupid fear. I recall laughing as I put a foot forward only to realise that the foot was shaking so much I could have frothed cappucino. God knows how I did it, but I got to the other end, about half a mile, on my sodding hands and knees. I really had got to the point of no return, so was only able to go forward. At one point I recall thinking that if I just hurled myself off the ledge at least I wouldn't have to suffer the surprise of slipping. I cannot believe that I actually did this, I have never been braver.

Back to Mr McMuffin: I knew nothing of all this drama. To begin with I was just having a sulk, trying to enjoy the scenery. But, it didn't take long before I realise that my life was at risk. I took a male approach to the whole thing, and I strode bravely onwards with my eyes kept firmly ahead. After a while, I entered a tunnel, and I just kept going. I didn't look behind, I just assumed that Mrs McMuffin was behind me, and I was too pissed off with her to talk to her. It took me a while when I reached the end to realise that she wasn't behind me, and it took me even longer to find out where she was, but, good reader, for your sake, I ensured the moment was forever captured:

We were so pleased to have survived the whole experience that we completely forgot our row. It is amazing how near death experiences help you to appreciate the small things in life.

Now, back to Mrs McMuffin, while I go and finish dinner.

Now just before we entered the treacherous part of the walk, we were passed by a whole load of tourists who smiled and wished us a good day. Not ONE of those bastards tried to tell us what lay ahead. When we got to the end of the whole thing some other tourists came along and we exchanged a small conversation about how scary it had been. What was a bit stange was that we did it in French and as we walked away, they started speaking in German, and we obviously talked in English. When they heard us, they gave us these hurt looks, as if we had fooled them into thinking we were French, when they has in fact begun the conversation in French. They must have thought that Mr McMuffin was a mute and I had learning disabilities because he can't speak French (apart from 'deux cafes noires s'il vous plaites') and mine is very basic.

So we followed them back to Monte, (where I bought the enormous woolly cardi, which was immediately christened 'the sheep' a few days before). After lots of coffee, a beer, copious fags, a fight with a cat and a little rest, I then gathered my strength for the bloody cable car journey back to Funchal.