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This afternoon the cook and myself went ashore, on shopping bent. Our principal desire was to find fruit, which shouldn’t have been a difficult matter in an island famous for its fruits; but somehow we contrived to lose our bearings and wandered into the filthiest parts of the town—and Funchal can be very filthy in places. We managed to count at least one hundred and thirty-five different smells—Green said there were two hundred and fifty, but perhaps he exaggerated—but all were vile. Every alley corner we passed, every open window, discharged its fresh offensive; and we seemed to walk for miles and uncounted miles before eventually we touched down in the market. There we ordered what we needed, and afterwards went on to see the sights.

Madeira is interesting. Its foreign note is very marked, for here the foliage is definitely approaching the tropical; hibiscus flowers are everywhere in the greatest profusion, and the vivid crimson poinsettias strike a warm and enlivening note. Huge clusters of wonderful blooms met our gaze at every turn, and drew our attention from the little cobblestones of the streets, which are uncommonly hard to walk upon.