From his place, overlooking the scenic village not too far below, oceanfront glistening like a reflective sparkle on its modest buildings, the viewpoint sits atop the wonderful Câmara De Lobos. He’s my wife’s uncle by marriage and lives on the ilhéu, a dead end street that curls around a humble mountain with a lovely park at the top. The road leading up there unbelievably navigates a two-way traffic even though it wasn’t constructed as such. It was nerve racking when we rode up, let alone being at the wheel, but alas there we were gliding up the slope in his car as the Volkswagen engine kicked back.

From the bottom, we approached a winding road with a lift, honking the horn as we moved up to alert anyone that we were coming. As we proceeded around the bend, the road then turned in the other direction as the slope continued upward. Concrete edges at both sides of the car were the exterior walls of the homes that line the street and felt like they were closing in as we steadily moved up the ilhéu. I never saw anything like it.

The driver cackled at our disbelief as he remained focused on the road—steering with one arm and hitting the horn with the other, all while maintaining a steady foot on the gas. It was an impressive feat to witness that seemingly can only be mastered with practice. Scuffs of paint along the white concrete walls were indicative that not everyone could make the climb intact, but he was handling himself well. Sure enough there was another driver coming downward, and we had yet to make it halfway up, giving them the right of way, so we reversed back to the start and made another attempt to climb to the top. That was my introduction to this special haven.

When we finally arrived there, my stomach settled and acclimated to the elevation. The car was left at a remote parking lot and we headed a couple doors down from where we came. It was a short distance on foot towards his home away from home. He tells me that was his childhood home, born and raised there until he left for Canada in the mid-century. Now he comes back for the winter where he feels most at peace. The sentiment is as clear as the ocean water in the distance and just as infectious. I feel it too. I like it here.

The stunning village beholds the allure of a beautiful Atlantic retreat. Fleets of fishing boats anchor in the bay, rods of all different colours hang out their sterns, contrasting the bright blue yonder, as they aim for a catch of the day. It’s spectacular to witness. Our host tells us about some of the history and his days fishing as a boy. Life sounded hard back then. You see him now, compared to the neighbours, and it’s easy to note that he’d done well for himself. Like a modern day nobleman, he is someone that they admire. They greet him with respect as he walks barrel-chested down the street, proud as a peacock, as if his feathers demanded everyone's attention. He leads us to his front door.

Hanging above the entrance are three flag poles—Canada, Portugal, and Madeira banners hover majestically. Marking the place like it were a significant landmark that could attract tourists, of which I am surely enthralled, or a consulate building, the flags present an aura of eminence. Certainly adding a whimsical mystique to my first impression of the place. It’s clearly old but well maintained. The facade has a crisp, white coat of paint with accents of colour. The front door is green with bars over the decorative window including the sides and upper level. While the neighbours were courteous upon his arrival, they clearly cannot be trusted. I would probably be just as weary and implement some form of security measures to be safe.

We enter his home. He doesn’t lock the door and insists that we keep our shoes on. The mudroom brings us directly into the main living space. A dining table sits adjacent to the quaint kitchen. Amusingly, I notice that the stovetop has my surname on it. There is a back door that goes out to the patio. Around the corner, a sofa and coffee table are positioned in front of the television. There is a powder room at the bottom of the staircase and another locked door across from it. I ask him what’s in there and he tells me the pantry, but he uses it for a liquor cabinet. He shows me the contents and it’s fully loaded with enough inventory for a corner store. Suppose that’s what the heightened security is for.

The tour continues upstairs where there are two bedrooms and the master washroom. He sleeps there with my wife’s Aunt. The level above has another bedroom that leads to a rooftop terrace. Boxed in with a short concrete railing, painted in the colour scheme of the exterior, flags within reach as I can hear them tussle against the wind above my head, sun beating down on a collection of potted plants as the ocean current sounds of tranquility, I take a deep breath of that incredibly fresh air like it was life itself. This place is special. I’d come back religiously if I grew up here too.

He tells us more about the village and how its namesake came from a pack of sea lions before running back downstairs to get a round of drinks from the liquor room. We await his return under the sunny viewpoint—it’s a spectacular spot to wet one’s whistle. I am thirsty just waiting for him to come back.

The city center is visible looking eastward. It appears peaceful yet boisterous. A cluster of bars and restaurants sit adjacent to the bay, frequented by the fishermen and locals, before droves of tourists discovered its breathtaking atmosphere. I can picture the sea lions sunbathing on a rock, long gone are those former residents. Now there’s a blend of people wandering about in every which way. They all seem to be enjoying themselves—a heartwarming sight.

Our host returns with a tray of glasses and a pitcher with a caralhinho, the traditional wooden stick to mix poncha. The drink is in abundance in Câmara De Lobos. As if it were the secret to their buoyancy, the potion is more prominent than the waters offshore, at least it certainly feels like that. Our host pours out the sweet nectar, hands us each a glass, and motions for a toast.

“Cin cin,” he says with his hand raised to the sky. Inexplicably uttering an Italian phrase but nobody questions it.

Our glasses clink and we take back the poncha with one gulp. Fresh seeds from the passion fruit scale the sides of our cups, bottoms up, until each one is caught in our mouths, savouring that refreshing tropical flavour. He makes his poncha stiff, akin to the style of the village. Sugar cane rum swishes our palettes and its effects instantly run straight to the head. All of a sudden I’m looking at the coast with a set of googly eyes. My body feels anesthetized yet completely loosened up. That feeling was total relaxation.

My attention shifts towards the next item on our agenda—more fun, exploring the city center below—but all I can think about is how am I going to get back down that road. This is surely going to be an adventure.

Devin Meireles is a Portuguese-Canadian freelance writer and Published author from Toronto, Canada. His Atlantic heritage and nonfiction stories have been published in literary journals, health magazines, and cultural newspapers. Apart from creative writing, his hobbies include films and adding to collections of tattoos, banknotes and airport stamps.