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Some say that the Azores are the legendary peaks of Atlantis¹ after it was swallowed by the sea, which is easy to believe, especially after visiting Furnas²; bells ringing from church steeples, storm driven thunder clouds over head, old manor homes with their windows sparkling in the sunlight, wind-swept mountain ridges over crystalline lakes, its haunting beauty is unparalleled.

"Going home" is a concept with entirely different significance for those who have been uprooted from their home and now live elsewhere. TO me going home is returning to the paradisiacal island of Sao Miguel³, where at every corner is a discovery and a memory. The valley of Furnas⁴, with the exception of a few road upgrades and Wi-Fi, has remained the same as I always remembered. Furnas⁵ is a magical village where volcanic fumaroles, effervescent springs, and geysers are part of the natural landscape. Everywhere the scents of baking bread and fresh fruit mingle with the scent of the ever breathing volcano.

The valley of Furnas⁶ nestles within Sao Miguel's volcanic crater, venting hot mineral springs where fresh corn is cooked in burlap sacks immersed in boiling fumaroles; where botanical gardens are home to black and white swans, and exotic plants and fauna from around the world. The botanical gardens of the Hotel Terra Nostra are world renowned for its age and the variety of species there, but to me it is what I imagined the Garden of Eden to be.

The sounds are as magical as the sights. Countless little birds call the tree tops home, and delight visitors with their constant singing; various creeks murmur in tune with the rustling foliage. The main feature of the gardens is the swimming pool fed by a natural hot ferrous spring; it is large enough to often be confused by tourists as a small lake. Swimming in the pool is a mystical experience; the water is warm and constantly pouring into the pool. Due to the minerals, one becomes noticeably more buoyant and time ceases to have its normal meaning. On cold days, the mist hovers and iridescent dragon flies are easily mistaken for fairies.

AS a child, this park was my playground. I played in its caves, climbed its trees, swam for daily eternities and could not conceive that anyone could ever be alive and not have such a garden to visit. As an adult returning as often as I can, this park gives the constant assurance that, although I live elsewhere, I still belong to the Azores⁷. Furnas is a paradise where the soft clopping of hooves on cobbled streets, the babbling of the brook beneath the mill at twilight, and the smell of fresh baked bread and wild blackberries filling the crisp morning air, call to my heart with a ceaseless whisper to come home.

(From the travel log of Ana Cristina Wallenstein-Garaventa)