Paul da Serra is the odd one out in Madeira, because it is flat. After the steep valleys and hairpins of the coast, you climb onto a high plateau about fourteen hundred metres up where the land spreads out into open moorland of heather, gorse and tussock grass, with a few cattle and sheep and a scatter of wind turbines. It feels like Scotland dropped into the Atlantic, and the first time you reach it you wonder where the subtropical island has gone.
The name means something like the marsh of the mountain, and it earns it. The plateau catches the clouds that roll up from the sea, absorbs the rain and feeds the springs and streams that supply Madeira's levada network of irrigation channels. In wet weather the ground is soaked, and fog can fall so thickly that visibility drops to a few metres. When the sky is clear the views are enormous, with the Atlantic stretching away on both sides and the peaks of the central massif lined up to the east. The air is cool, the wind is steady, and the light is wide and bright.
The road across, the ER209, is one of the best on the island for riding: long straight stretches broken by smooth, wide bends, hardly any traffic, and an open feeling that contrasts with the narrow coastal lanes. Take care, though. Fog, wind, and sheep and cattle on the road are all real hazards, and in winter there can be ice or even a dusting of snow. Late spring and autumn usually bring the best weather, and early morning is quietest.
Beyond the plateau, side roads lead down to places like Rabaçal and the laurel forest of Fanal, where ancient trees stand wrapped in moss and mist. The laurisilva forest, a relic of the vegetation that once covered southern Europe, is protected and listed by UNESCO, and walking in it is an experience you will remember.
There are almost no services on the plateau. Fuel stations are in the towns on the coast, such as Calheta or São Vicente, and it is wise to fill up before you climb. Carry water, a rain jacket and a warm layer, and keep your phone charged in case the weather turns. The silence here, broken only by wind and distant bells, is the real treat.