In the summer of 2025, returning to São Miguel felt less direct than usual. Victor and I closed a chapter of our life in Barcelona with a final trip through the Pyrenees, travelling with his parents through Aigüestortes, the Vall de Boí, and the Val d’Aran. It felt like a gentle but deliberate goodbye, walking through landscapes that had quietly framed our lives for several years. The pace there was slow and reflective, fitting for an ending.
From there, I travelled in the opposite direction entirely. Work took me to Brazil and Chile, weeks shaped by airports, unfamiliar cities, long days, and constant movement. By the time I boarded the flight from Santiago to Madrid and then on to Ponta Delgada, I felt ready for stillness, for a place where the pace is not something you have to actively create.
I arrived on a Saturday. The air was warm and heavy with salt, and the familiar drive from the airport immediately began to soften the edges of travel. Victor arrived the following day from Barcelona, and my mum had already been on the island since May. Reuniting felt quietly emotional, not dramatic, just deeply grounding. After weeks of movement and transition, we were finally together in a place that has always felt steady.
That first evening, we did exactly what we always do. We went to Bar Caloura, our local favourite, and ordered lapas and grilled fish. The plates arrived dressed, the flavours clean and unmistakably Azorean. Sitting there with the Atlantic stretching out below us, the sky slowly dimming, it felt like a soft landing. A reminder that sometimes returning does not need to be marked by anything new at all.
I have been coming to São Miguel for as long as I can remember. As a child, the island felt endless. Summers stretched without structure, time measured in swims and meals rather than days. Now, it feels smaller but deeper. I no longer arrive expecting discovery. I arrive expecting recognition. The same roads, the same bends in the coastline, the same dishes. That familiarity has become a luxury.
Walking the Island
Walking has always been one of the ways I understand São Miguel best. It is an island that reveals itself gradually, through effort and attention, and on this trip, much of our time inland was spent on foot.
One of our first hikes took us through part of the Serra Devassa. We began in thick fog, the air cool and damp, the path enclosed by dense woodland. Sounds were softened, footsteps muted by moss and wet earth. Lagoa Rasa appeared first, dark and still, its surface barely rippling. From there, the trail led us through a stretch where hydrangeas formed a tunnel of blue and green, brushing our shoulders as we passed.
Walking here always feels slightly ceremonial. The fog forced us to slow down, to focus on the path immediately ahead rather than any distant goal. As the trail opened up, the shift felt earned. Lagoa das Empadadas emerged quietly, twin lakes resting side by side, before the final ascent toward Pico das Éguas. Standing on the ridge, the island unfolded in every direction. Lakes below, forest stretching outward, and the Atlantic encircling everything. The terrain rewards consistency rather than speed, and walking through it always leaves me calmer than when I started.
Another day, we hiked with some of my mum’s friends to Miradouro da Tronqueira. It is an easy trail in theory, gently uphill one way and downhill the other, but our pace was anything but relaxed. One of her friends, who hikes every day and is approaching seventy, set a surprisingly intense tempo. We followed, half laughing and half struggling to keep up, the forest blurring past as we climbed.
Hiking with locals felt different. There was no sense of performance or achievement, just movement through a landscape that is part of daily life. Watching someone move so confidently through the forest at that age was a quiet reminder of how closely health and land are linked here. Reaching the miradouro together, slightly breathless, felt communal rather than triumphant.
Later in the trip, Victor and I tackled the Rota da Água – Janela do Inferno, a circular route that follows the island’s old water systems. The trail winds through forest, across streams, and through a series of tunnels carved directly into the landscape. Flashlights in hand, we moved through cool darkness before emerging again into green light.
The Janela do Inferno itself was striking. A vertical wall shaped by erosion, water seeping from every surface and feeding a small natural pool below. Walking later along old aqueducts, it became clear how closely water and daily life are linked here. On São Miguel, even the paths tell stories of care, necessity, and adaptation.
Water, in All Its Forms
If walking is how I understand the island, water is how I feel it. São Miguel offers water everywhere, in lakes, oceans, streams, and hot springs, each with its own temperature and rhythm. We kept returning to it throughout the trip, sometimes intentionally, sometimes simply because it was there.
We kayaked again on the lakes of Sete Cidades, something we had done years earlier and remembered fondly. From the water, the caldera feels quieter and more immersive. Paddling slowly, the villages recede, and the green slopes rise gently around you. It is an experience that leaves room for silence.
In Mosteiros, the Atlantic was less forgiving. The natural pools were closed due to rough seas, but we still spent time on the rocky beach nearby, watching waves crash against black volcanic stone. We went in briefly between sets, cold and exhilarated, before retreating for lunch at O Américo de Barbosa, where octopus and lapas arrived perfectly cooked and deeply flavoured.
Other swims were smaller and closer to home. We dipped into the ocean pool at Piscina Natural da Boca da Ribeira, eating packed sandwiches between quick dips. At Zona Balnear do Cruzeiro, the pools felt intimate and local, the kind of place you return to often rather than photograph once. At Poços das Calhetas – Calhau da Furna, the water was calmer and more controlled, a contrast to the wild stretches of coastline nearby.
Hot water punctuated the cooler days. Visiting Poças da Dona Beija at night was a revelation. The air was cool, steam rose gently from the pools, and slipping into warm water felt restorative rather than indulgent. Another evening, we soaked at Caldeira Velha Environmental Interpretation Centre, thoughtfully restored and beautifully set, encouraging stillness rather than spectacle.
Eating the Same Things, Happily
Food on São Miguel has never been about novelty for me. It is about repetition, seasonality, and familiarity. Returning to the same dishes year after year, and finding comfort in their consistency. Dishes like lapas appear again and again, not because of a lack of imagination, but because they are deeply tied to place and season. Grilled simply with garlic, butter, and lemon, they taste unmistakably of the Atlantic. Their availability changes year to year, depending on conditions and regulations, and knowing they might disappear for a while makes each plate feel quietly precious. Ordering them is never automatic. It is always a small relief when they are on the menu.
At Costaneira Restaurante, we also ordered chicharros alongside the lapas. Chicharros are small horse mackerel, usually lightly floured and fried until crisp on the outside while remaining tender inside. They are simple and deeply local, often served whole, encouraging you to eat them with your hands. There is something refreshingly unpretentious about them. They do not rely on elaborate preparation, only freshness and good timing. Eaten by the sea in Ribeira Quente, they felt entirely in context.
The cataplana we shared at Cataplana felt emblematic of Azorean cooking. Sealed and left to steam gently, it brings together fish, seafood, tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, and herbs into something aromatic and comforting. Opening the copper pan releases a rush of steam that carries the scent of the sea and slow cooking. It is food designed to be shared, eaten patiently, and stretched over conversation rather than rushed.
Even the simplest foods carry a sense of place. In Furnas, we ate corn on the cob that had been boiled in the geothermal waters near the lake. The kernels were tender and slightly sweet, infused subtly by the mineral heat that cooked them. It is a small thing, corn cooked in the ground, but it captures something essential about São Miguel. Here, even the earth participates in the meal.
In Ponta Delgada, we had dinner at my mum’s favourite restaurant, Restaurante O Baco, where fish soup, black pudding with pineapple, and carefully prepared mains reminded us that island cooking can be both traditional and refined. It is the kind of place that feels celebratory without being formal, where familiar ingredients are treated with quiet attention.
Meals became punctuation marks in the days, anchors rather than highlights. Eating the same things again and again felt comforting rather than repetitive, a rhythm we were happy to fall into. On an island shaped by water and volcanic heat, the food follows the same logic. Simple ingredients, carefully handled, allowed to speak for themselves.
Familiar Places, Small Surprises
Even on an island I know well, there were moments that felt quietly surprising. In the northeast, we visited the Priolo Environmental Center, dedicated to the protection of the Azores bullfinch. Beyond learning about the bird itself, the surrounding forest offers a glimpse of how São Miguel once looked before large-scale settlement.
Spotting the priolos required patience. We walked slowly near Pico Bartolomeu, scanning the trees, listening. When we finally saw them, two pairs moving gently through the branches, it felt intimate rather than dramatic. Small, soft, coloured, and completely captivating, they exist only because of deliberate conservation. It was a reminder that the island’s beauty is not guaranteed, but actively protected.
At Parque Urbano de Ponta Delgada, what might have been a simple walk turned playful, with hundreds of rabbits darting across paths and resting in the shade. In Furnas, we explored Grena Park, where waterfalls, roaming animals, and an abandoned estate house overlook the lake. Standing there, it was easy to imagine another era, arriving by boat, the house once alive with visitors.
A spontaneous drive up to Lagoa do Fogo on a rare, clear day was a final reminder that even familiar landscapes can still surprise you.
Evenings, and Letting Go
Evenings unfolded gently. Sunset drinks at Hotel Caloura, a quiet nightcap at Terra Nostra Garden Hotel, and unhurried dinners at home.
On our last full day, we went whale watching. Once far from shore, São Miguel receded into a green outline, and the Atlantic took over completely. What we did not expect was the sheer number of dolphins. Hundreds of them moved through the water, so densely packed that the waves themselves seemed to be dolphins jumping—bodies arced through the air in every direction, the surface constantly in motion.
It was overwhelming in the best way. Watching them move so effortlessly made everything else feel briefly irrelevant. It was impossible not to feel small and grateful at the same time.
Some places ask you to explore them. Others ask you to return. São Miguel has always been the latter for me. Familiar, grounding, and quietly generous, year after year.
Do you have a place you return to, not to discover something new, but simply to feel at home again?
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