CAMACHA AND THE MOUNT
The road past Palheiro leads, through pine woods and long stretches
of yellow broom and golden gorse, to the little mountain village of
Camacha. Probably the village has become noted for its flowers from
the fact that many English people, in the days when travelling was
not so easy, used to make this place their summer-quarters, instead
of returning to England, as they mostly do in these days of quick
travelling.
[Illustration: WISTARIA, QUINTA DA LEVADA]
One garden I can recall which, though now neglected, still shows how
it was once well cared for. Though the turf is no longer mown, and the
box hedges have lost some of their trimness, the beds are still full
of what were once treasured plants. The rose-garden no longer sees the
knife of the pruner, but the trees grow and flower at their own sweet
will, in careless disorder. It is a very lovely disorder, but it is
always sad to see a garden once tended with the greatest care fall into
other hands, who know nothing of the art of gardening. In spring
the garden was full of jonquils and narcissi, and later on sparaxis and
ixias. Near the house great bushes of _Romneya coulteri_ were covered
with their delicate white poppy-like flowers in summer. The plant
seemed to have become thoroughly established, and threw up suckers in
all directions, even through the paths of hard-beaten earth. From the
grounds there are lovely views of the sea; and probably the garden
looks its best when the agapanthus sends up its flowers in hundreds,
and the hydrangea bushes are laden with their bright blue blossoms--as
blue as the sky above or the sea below; or, again, in October, when the
belladonna lilies are flowering in their thousands.
I think the love of gardening must have spread from these English
gardens to the native cottage gardens. The English probably encouraged
the cottagers to cultivate their plants, as from these little gardens
come all the flowers which are to be bought in Funchal. A few
flower-sellers will trudge seven long weary miles down to the town,
nearly every day of the week, with a heavy basket of flowers on their
heads, which they have collected from many a cottage garden. Naturally
these flowers are not of the best, and it is very much to be regretted
that some enterprising person does not start a shop or garden where
cut flowers and plants could be bought. Many a time have I been asked
where, in this land of flowers, good cut flowers can be procured, and
the answer has had to be “Nowhere.” Would-be purchasers have to satisfy
themselves with the contents of these baskets which are brought to the
hotel and villa doors, and their contents are far from satisfactory.
Beyond arum lilies, violets, and irises, a few indifferent daffodils
and poor roses, there is little to be got. The women will complain that
they have not a large sale for flowers, and it is in vain that I have
told them that the real reason of it is that their flowers are so poor.
Nosegays of a mixture of a dozen flowers, in as many colours, naturally
find no market; but good flowers, I feel sure, would have a large and
ready sale at reasonable prices.
The little gardens at Camacha are gay with common flowers: large bushes
of white marguerites and trees of the early-flowering red _Rhododendron
arboreum_ give colour to the village even in early spring, and in
summer it is naturally much more flowery. On every bank and hedgerow
grow bushes of hydrangeas, with their flaunting blue blossoms, while
great clumps of belladonna lilies transform the whole landscape, and
the country seems to blush a beautiful rosy-pink.
The road between the two most popular summer resorts, Camacha and the
Mount, runs through pine woods and long stretches of golden gorse to
the Pico d’Infante, from where a very fine panorama of the Bay of
Funchal is to be seen by turning aside a few yards from the road. Just
beyond this point the path strikes the Caminho do Meio, another steep
road leading down to the town. Near the eucalyptus and pine groves is
the Quinta Bom Successo, one of the most beautiful of the outlying
properties, which, from its elevation, escapes the summer heat, while
its sheltered and sunny aspect makes it a pleasant residence through
the winter months. The large grounds extend to the edge of the ravine,
and a view of surpassing loveliness is suddenly brought before one
at the very end of the terrace. The river roars and tumbles below,
and the ragged cliffs throw deep mysterious shadows, while the more
distant hills are wreathed with light transparent mists. The sides of
the cliff have been transformed into a wild garden, as many plants
have strayed from the garden proper, and have either seeded themselves
or been cast over the precipice as discarded plants, where they have
taken root and clung to life in some cranny between the stones. Within
the grounds a rocky bank is covered with great stretches of the red
_Aloe arborescens_, blue agapanthus and vast clumps of belladonnas, all
growing in careless profusion. The garden has long been noted for its
orchid-houses, where plants have been brought from all parts of the
world, and also for the pine-houses, from which hundreds of pines are
cut annually. Showing that, though at a comparatively high altitude,
the garden is sheltered and warm, two natives of Burmah, the giant
honeysuckle, which in May is wreathed with its strong-scented trumpets
and the Burmese rose, both flourish, and in a few years have made
astonishingly rapid growth.
The road to the Little Curral leads past a grove of _Mimosa
cornuta_--which is smothered with its fluffy balls of yellow blossoms
in early spring--to the valley itself. Every fresh turn of the steep
zigzag path opens out fresh views, and at every step a new fern or
little wild-flower is to be seen nestling between the damp mossy
stones. Down near the bed of the river, which tumbles over great
boulders in a roaring torrent after heavy autumn or winter rains, a
large colony of arum lilies begin to unfold their pure white flowers
in November, and continue in one unceasing succession until the late
spring or early summer. The path winds up the opposite hillside,
through a group of peasants’ huts, where yapping dogs and begging
children for a few minutes mar the harmony and repose of the scene,
and then again the path enters another silent valley, until the little
village of the Mount is reached. A colony of countless little quintas,
which have sprung up under the shelter and protection of the Church
of Nossa Senhora do Monte, has of late years become a more favourite
summer resort than Camacha. The air may not be quite so pure and cool,
but the proximity of the town and the convenience of the funicular
railway are, no doubt, responsible for its growing popularity.
The principal villa, the Quinta do Monte, formerly owned by an
Englishman, has large grounds, planted with many rare trees and shrubs.
The property has changed hands; the house is no longer inhabited, and
the garden is falling into decay. As the grounds were always more
pleasure-grounds than actual flower-gardens, it has suffered less than
a smaller garden, which misses the personal care of its owner. The
camellia-trees are an immense size, and have out-grown the little
garden centring in a sundial, in which they were, no doubt, originally
planted as small shrubs in beds with neat box hedges. Here are to be
found tree-ferns, long rows of agapanthus, and a great plantation
of mimosa-trees, which is quite a feature in the landscape in early
spring, when they are laden with their balls of yellow blossoms.
In every direction in this district large clumps of the foliage of the
belladonna lilies are to be seen in winter, on every bank, in every
little garden: giving promise of their glories to come in the waning
summer months. But in the grounds of Quinta da Cova they are probably
to be seen at their very best, as here they have been more collected
together, and broad stretches of them carpet the ground in thousands,
beneath the chestnut-trees. I remember once hearing a traveller remark,
who had passed through Madeira in August, on his way to the Cape, and
returned again early in October, that when he first saw the island “it
was all blue,” alluding to the effect of the agapanthus and hydrangea
blooms, and when he returned it had changed, and was “all pink,” from
the masses of belladonna lilies.