Pea Soup

Brrrring! The alarm clock sounds in a dark, icy Babette. 4:30am. And it's time to catch a tide. "Sedna" and "Babette" are up and out at 5am, heading north to Bangor, near Belfast. We’re soon enveloped in a clingy wet blanket of fog. Hot oatmeal porridge helps.
The wind is from behind, but weak, so we motor to speed things up. Even with some help from the tide this will take us about 13 hours. In the fog. The radar tells us that "Sedna" is a mere quarter nautical mile dead ahead. But we can't see her, swallowed up in the swirling mist. The big "light-boat" is blaring fog signals at us, just a half mile off to starboard, just as invisible. Fishing boats and their net-buoys suddenly appear. Then disappear into the tight grey noose of fog surrounding us. While cargo ships pass on the radar screen, unseen.

Magically the fog lifts just before the tricky part, Donahgadee Sound. Blue skies overhead and a retreating ring of low ground fog. As the pizza sliiiiides out of the oven. Just saved from landing face down on the floor. We gobble pizza while navigating the inner Donaghadee Sound, Copeland Island now visible to starboard. Magic Rocks, Deputy Reefs, and two red buoys to port. And the tide is with us.
At 19:00 we're safely inside the huge Bangor Marina. Side by side at place Echo 18 and 19. "Sedna" and "Babette" have put another 90 nautical miles behind. And we're that much closer to home waters.

A Dublin Day

We start off in the Temple Bar area for a pub lunch. "The Oliver St. John Gogarty Pub". Try saying that after a pint or two of Guinness! We ordered a big serving of their good Irish stew and soda bread. And Guinness. Just in case we can't remember what country we've now come to. And just to make completely sure, at the neighboring table there's a group of three playing Irish tunes on flutes, fiddle and guitar. Yup, we're in the Emerald Isle.
If you don't recall hearing of this Mr. Oliver St. John Gogarty, he was not just a poet-revolutionary-politician-surgeon-swimmer-pilot. He was also the sometimes great friend, sometimes worst enemy, of James Joyce. He made a legendary daring escape from execution in prison swimming the icy Liffy. And he wrote poetry admired by W.B. Yeats.

And all this leads us to the Dublin Writer's Museum. We cross the Liffy, by bridge, no swim today. March down the broad O'Connor Street up to Parnell Square. The boulevard has a pedestrian walkway down its center, adorned with statues of famous citizens. And now also accompanied by huge silly-looking bronze bunnies. Skinny, leaping, crouching rabbits with large floppy ears.

There's another noticeable addition to O'Connors: "The Needle". Stretching up into the stratosphere, bright shiny silver. An easy landmark, and great meeting place. Of course this is where Ørnulf and I get separated. As I wait a half hour for him to show up again he walks all the way up to the museum. Without looking back.
Reunited at Parnell Square we wander through Ireland's literary history from the Book of Kells to Nobel Prize winning authors. Swift's "Gulliver's Travels", Brian Stoker's "Dracula", Thomas Moore, Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde, Samuel Becket and, of course, W. B. Yeats. And the great James Joyce. Most of these modern writers are represented in the museum with their typewriters.

No personal computers. Yet.

Old friends

We're on the green Dart train into Dublin, with a 12 noon appointment to meet Michael Carville. Last seen at Warrenpoint. Now we're at Chatam House, just off of shopping street, Grafton. We meet both him and Eamon Kenan there. A quick summary of our sailing year and some catching up on minerals and mining. After one year in retirement Ørnulf attempts to change modus to mineral industries. Another world. Then a good lunch at a nearby brasserie. Great to have a chat with Michael and Eamon. Seems like just yesterday, and not a year ago, we last met the Carville’s in Warrenpoint, and wandered about in the Morne Mountains during a restful weekend with Peg and Charlie.


Come evening we're again out eating, now with Eamon only, out at Howth. "The King Cidric" is a fabulous seafood restaurant with a great view of the harbor. While we're enjoying monk fish and prawns and a white wine, Michael is out in the salt spray sailing. He's crew in a Howth Yacht Club regatta. Back at the marina we join up again. And congratulate Michael on his winning boat.

Whistler's Sea-scape

After four hours sleep it's my watch again: 7am.
The pearlgrey water and mist surround us , cocoon-like. Silent and perfectly calm. Brightly black and white, guillemots in flocks of four of five skim the glassy surface in undulating flight. Pairs of Gannets follow. They seem to be cut out of cardboard, their white wings dipped in ink at the tips. And their crayon-yellow heads the only spot of color in this Whistler study in greys, black and white.

We motor-sail with and against tides. And hold watch in this inkwash sea-scape til we tie up at Howth, outside of Dublin at 8pm.

A smuggler's night

At 11:30am we're off, "Babette" and "Sedna" in tandem, sailing to Dublin. Over 30 hours in one go, an over-nighter. A misty, foggy sail. The wind's against us. And, for the moment the tide's with us. This combination giving us short, steep waves. Which we bang into in a hull-shaking manner. But as the wind dies the seas grow less confused.

The fog is still thick as we go into the night watches. No moon, not a star in sight, a proper smuggler's sea tonight.

Wine from Washington State

A quiet Sunday. Browsing at the bookstore. A walk around town. Dinner aboard "Babette": The lamb chops, onions, mushrooms, potato boats frying smelled so good that we pulled out our last bottle of special Washington State wine. Good memories of the little Seattle winery and Lynn's sushi on the eve of nephew Matt's wedding.

Work day

Boiler-room mechanic, Ørnulf, is greasy black up to his elbows. Two foul looking diesel filters, one oil filter and the motor-oil are now all changed. Sailors are, generally speaking, not motorboat experts; best to sooth Volvo Penta with lots of soft oil. Nice girl, be good.
Meanwhile the scribe, Shannon, is at work recording our crossing on a borrowed lap-top. typetypetypetype in the boat all day and then, magic, suck it all into a little plug-in device. Fabulous just to take this little thing-y to the exorbitantly priced internet café and, ZAP, it’s all in the machine. Now I know how the other half live.

All work and no play? "Sedna” and "Babette" meander among the many restaurants and pubs in "Irelands Cuisine Capital" as Kinsale hales itself. And settle on "The White House. Half pub, half bistro, half white table-clothed restaurant. There's room at the bistro, if we can wait an hour. We can. As Mexico and Argentina give each other one goal each. There's a TV in the pub, as there is everywhere in these World Cup days. Then we have a good meal for reasonable prices in their popular Bistro. And before we've thrown in the napkin, football from Germany has been replace by banjo plucking boys singing popular Irish tunes. With "The Wild Rover" ringing in our ears we go out in the Saturday night lanes. Live music blaring out from all the open pub doors.

The Circle Completed

The morning dawns slowly. A black sack with the pulsing beam from the Fastnet Rock Lighthouse becomes sky and The Celtic Sea. Then they separate into gray and black and the horizon appears. The light pales, shades of gray lighten. Woolly sky, silky sea. A short burst of rose-vermillion at sunrise. Should “sailors take warning”? Then gray settles in again. A muffled, liquid world. Dolphins glide by, Gannets soare soundlessly overhead . A perfect morning.

As storms whirl up force 10 winds further north, must be a different planet entirely, we pass the rock-solid lighthouse on the Old Head of Kinsale. We cross our path, the circle is completed. It was here we headed out on the third of August, 2005, 11am, to brave the Bay of Biscay and see the world.
At 10:30am we’re once more alongside the outer pontoon at Kinsale Yacht Club Marina. Not quite the same sailors who left here a year ago.

Just one more day

Our tenth and last whole day on this last Atlantic stretch. No more oceans, just seas: the Irish Sea and the North Sea still to cross.
"Herb, the weatherman" tells us there’ a window Friday morning when we can squeak into Kinsale before stronger winds start blowing again. So we assist weak winds today with motor power. Charging along at five knots. That’s the "No wake" speed you’re not supposed to exceed in narrow channels.
The last night watch. It’s a moonless sky, low clouds on a flat sea. Black. the only light is “Sedna”s white top and red port lanterns. But just before Ørnulf goes off watch, at 22:40, he sees a reflected light flashing in the clouds by Fastnet Rock. On Shannon’s watch the shine becomes a powerful light-beam, our first look at Europe since we sailed out into the Atlantic just about a year ago.

Fulmars and Gannets

03:00, Shannon on watch. Sugary tea, flat-ish waves make for a more optimistic view of the world. A sliver moon waving farewell for this month. The Milky Way is left to light our path. And the Big and Little Dippers, drifting in and out of clouds. They seem to have all righted themselves, after being tipped over and moved about down in the Caribbean.
We’re now up at over 50 degrees north, making good progress: 141nm over ground today.
More good news: the Navtex weather reports are now ticking in. Not that the weather predicted can be called good news. There are gale warnings up and down the coast of Ireland, moving north to Scotland, the Hebrides. But it looks like there will be a slot to slide into harbor further south, in Kinsale later this week. Cross fingers, toes.

More signs of northern waters: the Fulmar and the Gannet. First we see the bullet-bodied Fulmar on short stiff wings, skillfully skimming the waves, well under radar height. Watch out for hopping dolphins!
Then the elegant Gannet. Shining white, with long, narrow wings, black-tipped. Bright yellow neck and head, black-ringed eyes, a real dandy. They soar above us in pairs, sometimes with a gangling youth about. I’m just wondering, with all this continual soaring, when do they ever find time to eat? But then I see, in the distance, a whole flock of Gannets, bright white in the sun, swirling about like bits of white paper. Then diving down into the sea. A feeding frenzy. Hence the expression, “Greedy as a Gannet”? Apparently they feast till they’re so heavy they can’t fly.

Something's come between us

It's Shannon’s watch. Four night hours in misting fog, rolly seas. “Babette” is rolling along, too. At six knops. Then, forward, starboard, right out of a gray curtain of fog, I see a huge wave breaking over the bow of a bulk carrier, landing on its forward deck. Switch on the radar, call up the captain, and hand-steer. “Babette” is sailing on a port tack, the wind well behind. Not much to go on to starboard. Luckily looks like he’ll fall behind us; I can just make out a bit of his starboard side now. Oernulf’s up now, takes pictures, as we pass, starboard-to-starboard, less than one nautical mile away. Then the ship passes “Sedna”. Port-to-port. He goes between us! Nice that his radars seem to be functioning, swirling in the fog. Ragnhild, steering “Sedna”, tells us that on their radar he seemed to be heading for “Babette”. Before he swung between us.

An otherwise bumpy, grey day. The captain’s cheery Scottish porridge warms up the crew.

Who's steering the Ark?

A dove, no olive branch, lands on Sailing-Ark “Babette” today. Remarkably similar to the common park pigeon. With two fancy ankle bracelets, double ring-marked, white and red. After wobbling precariously on the solar-cell tower, she flies down onto the wheel. Steers the boat briefly before hopping onto the benches in the cockpit. Bold as brass, marching about . Our guest is served breadcrumbs and water. Then thanks us with bird shit. We come to an agreement: she can hitch a ride on the forward deck. Only. Pigeon tries re-negotiations. Then tries “Sedna”. Ping-ponging back and forth for awhile. Before opting for a more independent life at sea. Or maybe a cozy bulk carrier.

Just as well as we’re busy putting reefs in the main, winding in the jib. The wind is working itself up to a howl and the waves are rising up on end again. Looks like a bumpy night-ride ahead.

Relay: Happy Birthday, Jostein!

“Happy Birthday, Jostein!”

Yesterday we read a birthday greeting over the vhf to “Sedna”s Ragnhild. Who e-mailed it to big-computer-brother Kevin’s e-dress. Who sent it on to Jostein. An Atlantic birthday wish racing up to satellites in space, down to Bergen, over to Flekkefjord.

The 18th of June brings us a whole day of fast sailing. Motor’s finally off, wind rudder in action. The course now straight to Ireland.

A relaxing Saturday

A grey and quiet day. Motor-sailing to Ireland. Oernulf tries his hand at crosswords and I’m at lesson 23 in my Spanish book..
It’s Saturday. That means “rice porridge” for lunch in Norway. And, what luck, we have exactly one bag of “instant” left. 25 minutes of stirring later, drowned in sugary cinnamon, we’re lapping it up. As “Babette” steers herself north and east.

"Roger, Roger!"

04:30, Shannon’s and Ragnhild’s watch. Enveloped in fog, radars revolving, we alternate motoring and sailing until we get a stable sailable wind at about 8am.
We sail at five to six knots all day, pointed towards Kinsale. Herb ok’s that. ”Roger, Roger!”
More fair winds, then a front or two ahead, he says.

And about a week more of Atlantic sailing.

Sailing in Mushroom-Turtle Soup

We sail on a polished blue surface, with a rolling swell: liquid glass. The hot sun orders us to shed layers of wool . And where did I bury my shorts?
In the sea flowing by we start to see small white “bumps”. And more of them. Streams of them, thick as hail.
Like pearls, the string broken, fallen all over the floor. Some large, some smaller, lots of them.
Pearls?! Their just small Styrofoam balls, from packing crates tipped off a container boat, spread out floating along with the current.
Styrofoam?! With roots? The bigger ones have grayish “roots” growing downwards under them. Must be mushrooms. Great, we’re sailing in mushroom soup! Or mushroom-turtle soup; did you see that little turtle paddling by?

On the Norwegian Net the suggestions tumble in. The consensus is they must be jelly fish. Not the home-grown bluish or stinging orange jelly-ish varieties. These are thousands of tiny opaque white balls. There is also the occasional blue-purple Portuguese Man-of-war “sail” among them. Another jelly-fish. Or maybe these “mushrooms” are just Portuguese babies-of –war?

Later, the wind picks up enough to raise the genaker. “Sedna”s is already up. Then, down comes ours. We rush forward, pull it saltwater-wet out of the waves. The halyard, freed from the sail is stuck at the top of the mast.
So we sail on with jib and main and a little motor help. Another 40 liters of diesel into the tank.

By sail or by motor, we're bound for Ireland.

Motoring to Ireland

Half the crew is sort of drowsy, drugged on seasickness pills. Scottish oatmeal porridge is the “Babette” captain’s preferred remedy for lumpy seas. It helps. And the wind dies and the waves lie down. Good for sea-legs, bad for sailing. Captain Oernulf dumps 40 liters of diesel into “Babette’s belly as we motor north.

The crew loses her sea-green pallor and cooks coq au vin. Shame we can’t invite “Sedna” over for dinner.

To go or not to:GO!

No weather window to climb through. No news from Herb. The wind is still against us. So we decide to sail.
At 13:00 “Sedna” and “Babette” slip their ropes at Pta. Delgada. We tandem sail along São Miguel’s south coast. Heading west. Which gives us a nice tail wind, except we are planning to go northeast to Ireland.
Rounding the island we point ourselves towards the Emerald Isle. And get the wind firmly on the nose. A WNW tack heads us away from our goal. We try a ENE tack. Hmmmm.

In Toronto, his amateur radio cranked up by 8pm, "Dear Herb" is sending sound advice to sailors all over the Atlantic. It’s 10pm before “Sedna” gets directed, “Babette” following. The message is clear: sail North. That is, motor north, right into the wind, short, nasty waves and the current. With our trust in Herb to deliver fair winds further North we burn our precious diesel, achieving a few bumpy knots “over the ground”.

“Babette” and “Sedna”, side by side, battering onwards through the full-moonlit night.

Off to Ireland, but maybe not today

"Sedna" and "Babette", with Canadian short-wave weather-guide, Herb's, help, will be heading for Kinsale, near Cork, in Ireland.
But maybe not today. We've been studying the weather maps. A lot of wind against us. Or no wind. If we start today.

We're looking at Wednesday late, or Thursday, now. And we've sent Herb a mail. Hoping for some advice from Toronto.

We'll be sailing with "Sedna" and plan to stay within vhf range. Should we wander out of range we can get their position over the short wave radio. We listen in to "Sedna", "Herb"and the "Norwegian net" on our ssb radio receiver.

The Last Supper

We're getting ready for tomorrow's sail, tidying up after three weeks more or less on land in The Azores. The rest of the population seems to be focused on football. The Espirito Santo fiesta starts this week-end, but it's the World Cup football match between Portugal and Angola that has got all the Azores-Portuguese out. Patriotic Portuguese red and green flag-colors flying on all the scarves. All the restaurants, not just sports-bars, are now outfitted with televisions.

Including at the cosy "Costa do Atlantico" where we eat our last supper here in the Azores, baccalão. Tomorrow it's boat-food again as we and "Sedna" start out on our ca.12 day sail together, east to Ireland.

Silver Spring Sailors

They're tied up right behind us on the dock, "Ketch ya Later", yup, a ketch, from Silver Spring, Maryland. In all my teen years in Silver Spring I never remember seeing a sailboat that wasn't something you pulled on a string in a pond. Sailing being as exotic as skiing.
But the Ratcliffe family, with two teen daughters have sailed their ketch to The Med, and are on their way back home now. Nice to hear news from the old neighborhood: there are coyotes loose in Sligo Creek Park.
Fair winds, "Ketch ya Later"!

And who else just blew in? "Grace"! With Swedish couple, PG and Pia on board. We first met way back when in La Coruna, after our longest sail ever, five days over the Bay of Biscay. We've all grown a bit since then. "Grace" has had theives aboard in the Caribbean; PG getting attacted with a knife. While Pia, alone on the boat in Cuba, got tired of daily searches by the officials. The police with guns and dogs had already searched the boat thoroughly. Didn't find anything inbetween the underwear. All in all "Grace" has had an interesting sailing year on the North-Atlantic "Milk run".

Cooking and Swimming in Hot Springs

The sulpher smell is what hits you first. The clouds of steam rising from the ragged black cracks in the white-yellow crust, then the slightly-off-eggs smell wafting on the breeze. Then you wonder where the over-heated steam will break through next. Watch your step!

Our jolly rental-car crew has now arrived at Furnas. The area where they cook their famous "cozido das Furnas", underground slow-cooked stew, is beside the big warm-ish crater lake, Lagoa das Furnas. Today there's a special event here involving several restaurants. A big tent has been set up to accomodate the crowd eating sulpher-steamed stew, baccalão and meat-and-beans. You can also buy local bread, honey, brandy from stands along the edge of the tent. A stage is raised on one side for concerts in the evenings.
In the town of Furnas there are more underground "furnaces". A beautiful mid-town park smokes from fissures in the earth and is covered with lovely flowering bushes and trees, fountains and walkways. Draped in foggy steam. The steep, green pastures up the sides of the crater in the background.

There are five parks in this little town. We stop at the old estate garden, Parque Terra Nostra. It was created by an American, Thomas Hickling. He arrived in the Azores in 1769. Made his fortune in oranges. In front of the manor house is a big pool. With yellow-green water and a palm tree island in the middle. You can swim in the pool. So we did. It's bath-tub warm. But the outdoor shower, to remove the yellow sulphur-water, was c-c-cold.

Before returning to town we manage a tea plantation visit, too. At Gorreana Chá factory from the 1870's. Old copper machines and tea tasting of good black and green teas.

In the crater: four lakes, one town

With Svein Hugo at the wheel we whiz out of town. In our rental car crammed with five full size sailors. First stop: Pineapple green-houses. Little baby pineapples in long rows of window-sill plants. They smoke the plants into thinking the end is near, causing all of them to flower simultaneously. Eventually they all grow big and yellow; it takes 18 months. Some of them get converted to pineapple brandy. Which you can taste at the brandy factory on the island.

Now we head west and north to the enormous caldeira, crater, which contains four lakes and the little village of Sete Cidades (Seven Cities). Lagão Azul, Blue Lake and Lagão Verde, Green Lake, are divided by the road. It's the blue sky that creates the Azul. Today it's Grey Lake! The green end is colored by the steep crater side and the cedar trees growing up it.
The village, white-washed and winding, has a lovely church, São Nicolão, at the end of a long cedar-lined lane.

You can drive along the crater rim. If you like motoring on narrow ridges, protected only by blue hortensia bushes. Enough of us in our rental car liked it to form a majority. Some of us were slightly envious of the hikers we passed along the way.

Punta Delgada by the Sea

The city is open to the sea, the Infante de Henrique Road running along the harbor. And along the road there's a long and broad waterfront walkway, pleasantly punctuated by rattan-chaired coffee bars. Very civilized. The road leads right into the main town squares. The prettiest is Plaça de Gonçalo Velho Cabral. He discovered São Miguel. The huge town gates lead from the square into the city. Their three arches echoing the old arcaded façade running along the harbor road.

The town gates, the arcades, the tall bell towers, the churches, they all have the same white walls with black basalt articulation. Black and white. Like the patterned cobbled squares and narrow streets. Like the camouflaged pidgeons.
The town is chock full of black and white churches. And monasteries and convents. Their façades scrolled and twisted in baroque design. We peek inside the Cathedral, São Sebastião. Then meander into the narrow cobbled lanes. Where delivery vans are a size to big to squeeze through comfortably.

After eating Ragnhild's ("Sedna") fabulous cheesecake this evening I might have to go sideways throught the lanes.

Fourth Azore Island: São Miguel

A windy, blistery welcome to São Miguel Island. Clouds hang heavy over the black cliffs. A narrow green strip between clouds and cliff, the same crazy quilt of pastures fenced in by blue hortensia hedges. The occational white-washed, red-tiled village. We're definitly still in The Azores.
Both boats arrive at the fuel dock behind the long sea-wall in Punta Delgada. "Babette" tied up outside of "Sedna". By 10am we're side by side on the pontoon. Let the winds whistle in the masts, we're attached to land!

Showers, rest and a nice dinner with "Sedna" and its captain, Svein Hugo's father, Hugo. He's visiting here in The Azores for a week.

Night sail, full speed to São Miguel

Once, sailing to Denmark was a big thing. An 18 hour sail, overnight over the Skagerak sea. The North Sea eclipsed that, two and a half rough days to Scotland. Now, after two times the Atlantic we get our fenders ready to hang out when there's just a "Denmark's sail" left.

But definitely no fenders out tonight. This 18 hour sail over to São Miguel is a good blow, but a comfortable beam reach. "Babette" is doing top speed, 6,5 to 7,5 knots. Even 8kn! And we're double reefed, with a 3/4 forsail. Half the sails, same speed.

It's starts as a girl's sail. Shannon and Ragnhild skipper "Babette" and "Sedna", more or less side by side the first five hours. Jumping dolphins see us off into the half-moonlit night.

Raining holy water

The procession, led by two small alterkids (a boy and a girl) is long, winding around the Cathedral. It includes the whole confirmation class. Dressed up, holding their candles more or less upright. The organ accompanies an enthusiastic church choir.
It's Pentecost Sunday, raining, and we've found our way to the Sé, the Cathedral. Incense is wafting, holy water raining on us, and huge red banners with doves and tongues of fire are hanging from the massive stone arch at the alter. It's all in Portuguese, reminiscent of the old latin masses.

This evening it's "Sedna"s turn. We're invited to another fabulous scampi dinner. And chocolate pudding! This could become a habit, making dinner every other day!

More pictures

Pre-Azores pictures are up here (slideshow), Sint Maarten- and Azores-pictures will be up soon :-)

A hike up Mt. Brasil

Have we been to Brasil? Uh, yeah, sure, great view from, uh...the top!

Mt.Brasil on Terceira is a three kilometer big volcanic crater that popped up out of the sea before the rest of the island. In the seafaring days of goldbearing galleons it was fenced in with stone bulwarks, crowned by the largest fort on the Atlantic. The fort is still in military use today.
The rest of the island is now a large and lovely park. A huge brightly colored playground, basket ball courts, picnic areas, a partly caged collection of ducks and geese. Peacocks wandering about, dragging their heavy tails behind them.
Trails lead up to the four hilltops surrounding the crater. We walked up two of them. At the top there's a windblown view of the rugged coast and the white-capped sea. In the days of whale hunting there was a whale look-out post. But no luck today. We didn't spot any spray plumes or tails of diving whales.

Gales whirling over the Azores

Herb, Navtex, weather-online, they all agree, there's a gale whirling over The Azores today and tomorrow. Best to stay put.
A quick trip to the Market and we're drenched. We bake a carrot cake and "Sedna" makes a fabulous scampi-in-wrap dinner. Good food with good friends: and comfort on a rainy day.

Gate-crashing at an Espirito Santo fiesta and hot steam from Purgatory

We're off at 9am, speeding east along the South coast. A rugged coastline, tidy white-washed fishing villages. North to Praia da Vitória where we meet a few thousand children down at the harbor. All with new caps, red, yellow or blue and one-size t-shirts, now tunics down to their sneakers on the first graders. It's "Children's Day" in Praia and the schools are invading the beaches in two squiggly lines. Games, wet sand, soda and ice cream seem to be their plan.
We also meet the Danish boat, Pi, last seen in the Canaries. They are also on their way to Ireland now.

So, on to Bisqoitos. First a stop at an overlook and natural tidal pools. Some workmen are busy helping nature out with quite a lot of cement. Soon a fair sized swimming pool will be nestled in the rough black volcanic rock and white spray of surf here at Pta. do Mistério. Sea temp, about 18 degrees today.
At Bisqoitos we head down to the harbor. We've heard there's a good restaurant there. When we arrive we see a lot of cars and pick-ups parked near the sea. Long tables are full of platters of food. The smell of grilled meat in the air, casks of wine on the pick-up beds. It seems the nearby village of Lajes is celebrating "Espiritu Santo" today. We meet a California-expat, brother-in-law of this year's "mordomo" (emperor), who invites us to join in, and help ourselves! We do. We fill paper plates with grilled meat, homemade bread, meat pies, and other more mysterious dishes. There's a special sweet rice cake decorated in cinnamon with either Holy Spirit doves or a crown for dessert. Remarkably like Norwegian rice pudding. The local red wine from the verdelho grape comes right from the keg. Thank you Lajes for a great meal and a warm welcome!

Back up in Bisquitos we find the Wine Museum, just opened after siesta. Bisqoitos we learn actually comes from "biscuit", a hard, twice-baked bread. The small volcanic rocks that are huddled around the grape vine stock to keep them warm resemble biscuits. So now you know that. The vineyards are all boxed into small stone-walled sections to protect the grapes from the wind and weather. Here the verdelho grape is developed and used in the local wines. There's a good fortified wine, like a Madeira. We know. We sampled it and brought back a sample to "Babette".

And we're off again. Up, along tall cedar trees, to the center of this volcanic island. We wind our way to the steamy hills of Furnas do Enxofre. Hot steam rises from endless black holes in the mossy hillside. Was this supposed to be the entrance to Purgatory? There's a yellow-white baked clay surface, white-green rocks, red and yellow moss in the steamy valley. The steam is hissing on its way out. Think it's time to go.

And why not go further down for a look around? Not here, but at Algar do Carvão, a bit further down the road. Huge caverns wait, 100m down. A big hole in the ground has a vertical drop down to the entrance into a nicely paved cave. We pay three euro to take this short cut instead of rappelling down.
We go through glass doors into a damp dark tunnel. Beyond that we can look straight up, up, up the wet mossy slopes to a round circle of blue sky far above. Then the wet concrete steps wind us downward into the huge cavern. White stalagmites hang and the deep pool, at 4 degrees centigrade, meets us at the bottom. The cave is filled with soft indirect light and spooky pling-plong music which matches the drip-drip-dripping water everywhere. They give concerts here in the largest room, "The Cathedral". Great echo-y acoustics.

Our Pico-weary (still!) legs carry us up the steps and out into the fading daylight. We’ve had an incredible day from Holy Ghost parties to steams from Purgatory. On this, our third Azores island, Terceira.