It often happens that you step out of the car for a single shot — and end up finding an entire story. On Madeira, these stories are literally scattered along the road.
One evening, on my way back to the hotel, I pulled over just to breathe and look around.
The place is called Miradouro Água d'Alto, not exactly a formal viewpoint, but one of the more well-known scenic spots on the island. From there, the view naturally breaks into layers of mountains, the line of the ocean, and a distant headland with tiny houses. Nothing unusual on paper, but you have to be there to feel how breathtaking the landscape is.
On one side, mountains and the ocean; on the other, more mountains, waterfalls, and a new highway with tunnels.
The waterfall here doesn't have a name. On Madeira, this is typical: most waterfalls are simply part of the landscape, and named ones are more of an exception than the rule.
What caught my attention instead was the old road that once served as the only route across the northern part of the island. It's not abandoned — more like set aside, left there as a reminder of where things started.
I realized I was less interested in the view itself and more in where that road would lead. By that point, my camera batteries had already run out, so the following shots were taken on my phone, which naturally affected the quality.
There was nothing remarkable about the road itself. It simply looked like something that had fallen out of use but hadn't been forgotten. At least, the signs clearly stated that responsibility for using the road lies entirely with those who choose to take it. For me, that felt more like an invitation than a warning.
I walked along it, watching bright green succulents growing through the rock. It looked almost like spring, not late autumn. Then again, Madeira is often called the island of eternal spring.
Soon, a series of small waterfalls appeared, thin streams sliding down the cliffs. They were barely audible, most likely drowned out by the ocean.
I didn't know exactly where this old road with its waterfalls would lead, but walking along it felt natural and unhurried. Maybe because I was on vacation and had nowhere to be. Or simply because I've always enjoyed these quiet, slightly forgotten places where, for a while, it feels like you've stepped into another world.
That's how I eventually made my way to Ribeira do Inferno. The name sounds intense — Hell's Stream — but it's just a common way of describing the character of the terrain on Madeira: steep, rugged ravines cutting through hard-to-reach rocky areas.
Here, a new tunnel is carved straight through the mountain, while nearby an old road still runs alongside it, complete with a small stone bridge over the stream (not particularly hellish). Water flows, cars pass occasionally, and the ocean hums in the background. Nothing special, just a place where the past and the present exist side by side without interfering with each other.
And there I stood, looking at the ravine, listening to the ocean, and realizing how well it all worked out, almost by chance, just stepping out to breathe and take a look around. Perhaps that's the irony of it all: the simplest decisions — to step out, take a walk, and get some fresh air — are often the ones that turn out to be the most right.
Thanks for coming along.
