Saint Anthony and the Christ Child, Se, Funchal

Back blip

Today was our last almost full day in Funchal. H had been to the photography museum earlier in the week, and loved it. We walked back to the city centre and located the cool, quiet museum with its mock up of the Studio Vincente, and hundreds of black and white photographs, not just early portraits but landscapes, documentary photographs, and shots showing the development of the island over dozens of decades.

There was so much to see that we popped out to the street  for coffee and Portuguese custard tarts before going back for a second deep dive. When we finally finished, I wanted to see the cathedral, Se, which is a modest affair. Imagine our surprise to see a wedding party assembled, with several blonde American bridesmaids and the rest of the party waiting anxiously for the bride to appear. I slipped in, because tourists were still being allowed in, and admired the side altars, of which there were six. Saint Anthony's was one of them. (I chose to blip his image because he was my confirmation saint, in 1976. Saint Anthony is the patron saint of lost things, and at an earlier stage I believed he might have been able to reunite me with my lost father).

Finally the bride arrived, in a vintage car. She looked thin and nervous. A supermodel in a wedding gown. H, who was outside, said the dress was so see-through that her thong was plainly visible. I could have done without that detail!
I waited until she'd tottered up the aisle on her father's arm, then made my escape.

We walked back to the Old Town/Old Zone for a last lunch. For once, I didn't want fish. I had a Caprese Salad. Back to the hotel garden (see extra) where I sat with my book until I'd finished it, then I slipped into the library to exchange it for another for the journey.

Mr Dias, who owns the hotel but is now too old to be involved in its day to day running, came in carrying a bottle of wine, gift wrapped. Mr Dias lives in the hotel and the staff treat him with affection, like a very special guest. He goes to a day centre during the week, but otherwise haunts the small bar, watching football on TV. I find this aspect of the hotel endearing. I said goodbye and thank you to him in Portuguese, whereupon he shook all of our hands and said goodbye. I hope I'll see him again.

Then the minibus came and took us to the airport and, heaven be praised, the incoming plane landed on time, and we departed on time. This is not a given on Madeira, because it's a windy sort of  place and the airport is built on stilts over a motorway. The runway is short, and abuts the ocean.  

We landed in Birmingham not far short of midnight, and made our way to the on-site hotel. End of a wonderful day.