(Procession in Velas
Photo by Katharine F. Baker)

I obviously considered writing about my birthplace of São Miguel, but it is already the best known Azorean island. I even entertained the idea of talking about some unique and magical spot, particularly at a certain magical time, but its magic will evaporate if it experiences an onslaught of visitors. So I choose to speak of São Jorge. I know it will never attract masses of people because it has no beaches (perhaps at Fajã de São João; but of course they are unnecessary along the coast, where splendid basalt pools abound), nor cities, nor cuisine worthy of a newspaper review – and, for the cultivated and literate, it was the only island that Raul Brandão, an accomplished painter of words, found even too gloomy for his gaze. As his devoted reader, I find it hard to disagree. And yet here I am, doing just that. In Brandão’s defense, I recognize that he must not have had much luck with the weather. In fact, São Jorge is the island most subject to that Azorean affliction of fog, which leaves the poor tourist without anywhere to go because the island is mainly socked in. Yes, of course, its fajãs are delightful for those who pack enough tempo in their bags – not tempo in the sense of weather, for that is more precious than gold and can elude anyone, but rather as the length of time of one’s stay.

I have already gone on here for more than 1,000 characters and still not spoken of the island’s awesome dragon-spine, reaching its apex at 3,455-foot Pico da Esperança, from which the island faces Pico. Beyond its slope sits Faial, a meek and mild kitten lying at its master’s feet. That alone ought to suffice to make São Jorge a must-see tourist stop. Between the mountain range starting at Topo and the point at Rosais – especially with afternoon falling in splendor before our eyes and the shades of green, blue and gray stunning us – it is an unequaled spectacle. And yet I never come across anyone there, except for farmers. And foreigners from time to time (afterwards we complain about how they usurp our territory!).

For those afraid of heights, there are fajãs that are also elevated, but gently sloping… by the dozens. One, however, far surpasses the competition: on the north coast, which poet Carlos Faria called a “burst of green,” it is inaccessible save for the stout-hearted: an hour and three quarters’ hike downhill from Serra do Topo, with an hour’s return via Fajã dos Cubres (there are cheaters who make the journey leaving from there, on an ATV). Below, an earthly paradise sits at water’s edge. You can rent a little boat for a Euro, and go around the salt-water lagoon (a caldeira), swimming in the serene softness that hides delicious clams underneath (watch out!) that are often served solely on request at the only local restaurant (a porch).

One does not go to São Jorge in order to eat (although you can buy the best cheese, Lourais, there) unless invited to the home of a local – and this is not hard. Sure, there are restaurants scattered about the island, but that is not why one drops anchor there. On the island you can eat up the landscape, drink in the beauty all around to one’s heart’s delight and become intoxicated by the shades of green, the blue of the hydrangeas, sky and sea – and enjoy the sounds of the cattle, if you want to spend late afternoon there at the very summit above Santo Amaro, where the farmers milk them. With the sun dropping over the point at Rosais, and Pico standing guard as it changes color from moment to moment, who is interested in eating? The hungriest travelers carry knapsacks of food, then should thirst attack they can always ask farmers for a tin cup full of milk squirted fresh from the friendliest cow’s udder. None will refuse it.

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Photo 1 from : http://www.trekearth.com/gallery/Europe/Portugal/Islands/Acores/Sao_Jorge/photo1163193.htm