By Ollie Whitehead, Curator of Public Programmes
From the last postcard I wrote during my time on the Isles of Scilly in September 2023, I’ve moved a further 2,500 km southwest, as the crow flies, to the island of Madeira. I’d like to say I came to explore the island’s plant life in a wider, planned and methodical exploration of Atlantic coastal climates, but the opportunity was much more coincidental…
Slightly bigger than Ibiza and much smaller than Sicily, Madeira is an autonomous region of Portugal famed for its fortified wine, glorious hikes, and an exceptional diversity of ecological niches. By chance, my visit coincided with a field trip arranged by the apprentices from RHS Wisley to research the island’s flora, led by Michael Benedito, a Kew-trained horticulturalist, who is now based in Madeira.
Echium candicans, also known as Pride of Madeira
I was lucky enough to join the group in the minibus for a morning’s exploration of the island’s higher altitudes. Leaving behind the hallucinogenic blue visions of Jacaranda trees that line the capital Funchal’s boulevards, the roads quickly became narrow, hairpin bends with sheer drops into V-shaped valleys on one side and thick, lush green growth encroaching on the other.
As we drive, Michael helpfully drops in the background context of the island’s ecological development. Madeira erupted out of the mid-Atlantic around 20 million years ago, which makes it a baby by global standards. For context, the oldest known geological formations in the UK are around three billion years old. Time and the elements haven’t eroded the rocks much yet, he says, hence why there are such steep V-shaped valleys (and for those afraid of heights, be warned, some Vs are steeper than others).
Ranunculus cortusifolius with a view, on a trail close to Pico do Arieiro
Colonising many of these valleys is the ancient Laurisilva forest; a humid environment made up of a range of laurel species that would have covered most of southern Europe between 15 – 40 million years ago, making it a remnant. Like the wider Macaronesia Islands, which include the Canary Islands and the Azores, Madeira is an oceanic island that has never connected to the mainland, meaning that a lot of plants arrived here as seeds dropped by birds; the Laurisilva is one such an example.
The day before meeting up with Michael and the RHS Wisley apprentices, I’d walked alone through the forest and covered just over 28km without seeing another soul except an endemic Madeira firecrest who seemed to enjoy following me briefly, occasionally disappearing to munch down some bugs before appearing again. Some of the larger trees in the forest were many hundreds of years old, covered in epiphytic ferns, and dripping in lichen, looking like discarded tinsel after a birthday party in the park. Despite being struck by lightning and gnarled by time, they still owned the space… for now.
Lichen clinging on deep in the ancient Laurisilva forest
With my ears popping the higher I climbed, initially I welcomed the sight of Acacias. My aching legs were reminded of the pot-bound specimen I grow outside my flat in south London, and whose yellow pom-poms lift me up the final stair climb of each evening in early spring. But here in Madeira, the prolific growth of Acacias, alongside Eucalyptus trees, are a malign and invasive presence on the island, each posing a threat to the distribution of native laurel. It’s an ongoing and unresolved conservation issue.
Woodwardia thriving in the damp forest
Madeira’s footpaths, hills and valleys are lined with so-called levadas; small stone channel aqueducts built in the 16th century to transfer water from the wet north to the dry south, and support irrigation of the island’s crops, primarily sugar cane at that time. Some channels disappear into the hillside without light at the end of the tunnel. I walk through one for a whole 15 minutes with only my phone torch for a light and the hope of getting out of the other side alive as the running water roars. I finally emerge, struck by the feeling that this is how one might experience an 18th century Hokusai woodblock print; the cloud softly backlit by the sun with the ancient laurel growth piercing through, revealing a vista of hillside and a mountain peak, then concealing it just as quickly. The tunnels make the hike feel like a well curated series of enfilades, each valley connected but slightly different than the last in both weather and appearance.
Clouds hanging heavy in a steep valley lined with laurel forest
Back to my morning with the Wisley apprentices, we’ve reached our destination and are now above both the tree line and the cloud belt. The environment here is too dry for laurel to grow, so the space is dominated by heather, broom, and pine. We’re close to the Pico do Arieiro which sits at over 1,800m, the air is crisp and clean, and it isn’t long before we see alpines, some wedging, tucking and rooting themselves into the most challenging of cracks in rocks. Viola paradoxa, Orchis scopulorum, Ranunculus cortusifolius and Erysimum bicolor, the first three of which are all endemic to Madeira, as well as being very familiar to the UK garden.
Matthiola incana in the foreground, and Andryana glandulosa in the background
Driving back down towards sea-level, Michael tells us how the island’s climate is sold to tourists as sub-tropical, when the reality is more of a Mediterranean climate without the frost. The nuance is sadly lost on me while I sweat in shorts and a T-shirt, and gawp at utterly thriving and gigantic Monstera and Ficus plants.
Leaving Michael and the RHS Wisley Apprentices, the next day I walked with a new friend, Maurílio, a passionate grower who I’d been kindly introduced to by the Garden Museum’s Chair of Trustees, Rupert Tyler. Maurílio swapped south London for Madeira in 2020 and had promised to show me one of the things I’d come here for… Echium candicans. I’ve loved echiums ever since I knowingly saw my first; the UK native Echium vulgare growing around Dungeness, that bright blue glowing amid the grey of the pebbles. The fact that Echiums are classified as weeds in parts of the world like California and Australia makes me love them more; they are the underdog… though surely their status as weeds guarantees success.
Echium candicans prepared to brace the Atlantic winds by being short, stout and close to the ground
Maurílio takes me to São Lorenço on the easternmost point of the island. The difference in landscape is stark when compared to the forest. Without tree cover, the area is rugged and exposed, my head burns in the sun after an hour or so. Oxidised iron causes a reddish tint in the appearance of the rocks, with Sea campion, Matthiola, Andryala not seeming to need much in the way of nutrients to thrive. Gentle green hills are punctuated by cliffs that expose millions of years of geological history before they slope out towards the deep blue of the Atlantic; next stop, the shores of Morocco.
It’s here that I spot my first echium, a little more inaccessible that I was hoping for and requiring a climb up a steep hillside. As we scale upwards, I reference Maurílio’s time in London by comparing the experience to climbing out of Brixton tube station at the end of a long day. “It’s just as strenuous, but the view’s much nicer here”, I say.