Flores and Corvo
Moment by moment, slowly beneath our feet, the nine tiny Azorean Islands drift apart. Estranged from the others, Ilhas das Flores and Corvo ride away on the North American Plate heading westward while their seven cousins move with the rest of the European Union on another lithospheric plate. We, with the freedom of our diesel powered ship can freely float from one side of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge to the other. Today we chose west, not quite as far west as Europe’s boundaries go, but from the roadside overlooking the tiny village of Fajãzinha we could see the edge, the tiny rocky prominence that marks that spot.
The steep cliffs of Flores rose straight from the sea to a cluster of twinkling lights that flickered out one by one as the sky began to brighten. In the place of each stood a snow white house crowned with terracotta tiles. The village of Lajes nestled into what seemed to be the only possible level spot as the land ascended gently to disappear into low hanging clouds. Drawn by curiosity, we too climbed skyward passing through the community to the farmland beyond to look up at perfect basaltic columns and down to the surf below. Up and over, then down to where the rocks had slipped away cascading into the sea to form a fajã or flat sea-side plateau. Waterfalls spilled from the cliffs above, silver ribbons on a gown of green. We strolled between tiny pastures edged with lichen covered walls where blackcaps and chaffinches fluttered. Climbing higher yet we crossed over the center of the island and watched the vegetation change, wind pruned Juniperus and Cyrptomaria hugging the ground on the higher ridges and then giving way to clusters of full grown trees. In the east coast village of Santa Cruz the museum opened its doors sharing a glimpse into the lives of its residents and the talents of its scrimshaw artists.
Corvo, in spite of its name hosts no crows, just a smattering of passerines and a generous share of scenic beauty. There were no buses or taxis here where the population numbers somewhere around four hundred. But there were plenty of friendly citizens in vans or trucks or cars who were more than willing to give us a lift to the edge of the caldeirão, the crater of the island’s founding volcano. The descent was an easy walk and allowed for contemplation under clear blue skies. The island was like a crazy quilt of fabrics of differing shapes and textures. Blocky basaltic boulders painstakingly piled one upon the other were the stitches that held the blocks together. Some walls sheltered grazing cows or mules, sheep or goats standing in knee deep verdant grass. In others the land was brown, cultivated, worked and sowed, patiently waiting for seeds to sprout. At the lower elevations rows of crops more advanced in their cycle of growth defined the warp or weft. Some had the hues of early spring green while others were deep darkness like in a forest. The tiny town of Vila Nova do Corvo was part of this fabric art as well. Between the tightly packed whitewashed houses, cobbled streets beckoned to pedestrians, not cars. Doorways and windows were outlined with bright trim as if to invite the sunshine in.
Our passage is smooth as the day draws to a close. No ripple marks the presence of the ridge beneath the sea where magma seeps upwards to fill the void as Flores and Corvo head west. Tomorrow we return to the islands heading east.
Moment by moment, slowly beneath our feet, the nine tiny Azorean Islands drift apart. Estranged from the others, Ilhas das Flores and Corvo ride away on the North American Plate heading westward while their seven cousins move with the rest of the European Union on another lithospheric plate. We, with the freedom of our diesel powered ship can freely float from one side of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge to the other. Today we chose west, not quite as far west as Europe’s boundaries go, but from the roadside overlooking the tiny village of Fajãzinha we could see the edge, the tiny rocky prominence that marks that spot.
The steep cliffs of Flores rose straight from the sea to a cluster of twinkling lights that flickered out one by one as the sky began to brighten. In the place of each stood a snow white house crowned with terracotta tiles. The village of Lajes nestled into what seemed to be the only possible level spot as the land ascended gently to disappear into low hanging clouds. Drawn by curiosity, we too climbed skyward passing through the community to the farmland beyond to look up at perfect basaltic columns and down to the surf below. Up and over, then down to where the rocks had slipped away cascading into the sea to form a fajã or flat sea-side plateau. Waterfalls spilled from the cliffs above, silver ribbons on a gown of green. We strolled between tiny pastures edged with lichen covered walls where blackcaps and chaffinches fluttered. Climbing higher yet we crossed over the center of the island and watched the vegetation change, wind pruned Juniperus and Cyrptomaria hugging the ground on the higher ridges and then giving way to clusters of full grown trees. In the east coast village of Santa Cruz the museum opened its doors sharing a glimpse into the lives of its residents and the talents of its scrimshaw artists.
Corvo, in spite of its name hosts no crows, just a smattering of passerines and a generous share of scenic beauty. There were no buses or taxis here where the population numbers somewhere around four hundred. But there were plenty of friendly citizens in vans or trucks or cars who were more than willing to give us a lift to the edge of the caldeirão, the crater of the island’s founding volcano. The descent was an easy walk and allowed for contemplation under clear blue skies. The island was like a crazy quilt of fabrics of differing shapes and textures. Blocky basaltic boulders painstakingly piled one upon the other were the stitches that held the blocks together. Some walls sheltered grazing cows or mules, sheep or goats standing in knee deep verdant grass. In others the land was brown, cultivated, worked and sowed, patiently waiting for seeds to sprout. At the lower elevations rows of crops more advanced in their cycle of growth defined the warp or weft. Some had the hues of early spring green while others were deep darkness like in a forest. The tiny town of Vila Nova do Corvo was part of this fabric art as well. Between the tightly packed whitewashed houses, cobbled streets beckoned to pedestrians, not cars. Doorways and windows were outlined with bright trim as if to invite the sunshine in.
Our passage is smooth as the day draws to a close. No ripple marks the presence of the ridge beneath the sea where magma seeps upwards to fill the void as Flores and Corvo head west. Tomorrow we return to the islands heading east.
