I’m a sucker for shutters, old wooden doors, cobbled streets and fancy gates – something Funchal isn’t short of. Terracotta tiles don almost every roof, often with a flourish of small bird sculptures on the corners, and flowers and greenery abound. So, it’s no surprise that this small city nestled on the hills of Madeira’s southern coast has won me over.

The city is clean, the people are friendly, and it feels safe. Having been in our NZ bubble for a while, I was a tad concerned about returning to proper big city life (and bringing our li’l country kid along for the ride), but Funchal has turned out to be the perfect stop. There’s enough traffic and bustle that we have to pay attention, but we’re not having to be overly cautious about ourselves and our belongings every minute of every day. And there’s also none of the catcalling and hissing(!) I remember from my previous time in Portugal (is that even still a thing? or am I just too old to warrant attention now?!)

The one downside of Funchal, however, is its hills! Especially with my old lady knees. It amazes me how the city is almost vertical in parts, and it amazes me even more that buses and cars can make it up the steep, narrow and usually winding streets. Only one taxi driver has ever taken us the most direct route home – i.e. straight up. All the others take a round-about, slightly less engine-wearing route that zig-zags up the hills.

Yes, there are plenty of stray cats and dogs around, and you won’t have to walk far to find a derelict building (a problem throughout Portugal, mainly due to complex inheritance laws), but derelict seems like too negative a word – I find all the old buildings intriguing more than anything, imagining what they must’ve been like in their heyday. Of course, it would be lovely to see them restored to their full spendour (no doubt at great expense), but there’s no graffiti and no sign of any squatting – just crumbling grandeur, with nature slowly taking over.