Most Azoreans have no doubts on the matter at all.

"Of course this is Atlantis!" Antonio Pinero insisted. We sat

sipping coffee and aguardente (Azorean firewater made from the remnants

of grape pressings) in an outdoor cafe' overlooking the broad harbor at

Ponta Delgada, capital of Saåo Miguel island and largest town in the

nine-island archipelago of the Azores.

Antonio had been a modest, soft-spoken companion during my first

hours in this little outpost of Portugal, 800 miles due west of Lisbon

in the North Atlantic Ocean. But about this particular subject he

tolerated no ambiguity whatsoever. From inside his worn wool jacket he

pulled a much-thumbed book titled "Plato's History of Atlantis."

"Was Plato a wise man?" he challenged, obviously preparing for an

extended semantic foray. "Yes, he certainly was," he responded. "Now

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please listen to what he wrote." He turned the grubby pages with

solemnity. " 'For in those days,' " he began, " 'the Atlantis was

navigable from an island situated to the west of the straits, which you

call the Pillars of Hercules.' "

He paused. "That's Gibraltar -- the way out from the Mediterranean."

I nodded; he nodded. " '... and from it could be reached other islands

and from the islands you might pass through to the opposite continent.'

He paused again. "That's America."

"Plato knew about America?" I laughed (a little).

Tony was not amused.

"Of course. Plato knew everything. Now hear me, please. Listen to

how splendid Atlantis was: 'Atlantis was the heart of a great and

wonderful empire which had ruled over the whole island and several

others and she shone forth in the excellence of her virtue and strength

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among all mankind. The people despised everything but virtue, thinking

lightly on the possession of gold and other property which seemed a

burden to them; neither were they intoxicated by luxury. Nor did they

take up arms against one another."

Tony paused and sighed. "We Azoreans are so like that. We are not

rich; we want only peace, a good honest life -- and friends. Lots

of good friends. And plenty of good wine!"

We ordered two more tiny cups of espresso with aguardente chasers.

Sunshine sparkled across the harbor waves. Behind us, the white stucco

and basalt tower of the Convent da Esperanc a rose from the ornately

paved street. The whole plaza was surrounded by bright white stucco

buildings with dark volcanic arches and windows. Shoeshine boys and the

old fruit-vendor women in thick shawls milled around the arches by the

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church, setting up shop for the day. Strings of red lottery tickets,

clipped up with old clothespins, dangled from rickety tables. The smell

of freshly baked bread wafted downhill from the little hidden squares of

the old town.

"But what happened to Atlantis?" I asked.

"I will tell you," Tony said, searching the wrinkled pages of his

book for the right quotation. " 'But then there occurred violent

earthquakes and floods and in a single day and night of rain all the men

in a body sank into the earth, and the island of Atlantis in like manner

disappeared beneath the sea. And there are remaining in small islets

only the bones of the wasted body -- the mere skeleton of the country

being left ...' "

We sat silently for quite a while.

History here, of course, began somewhat later than the old Atlantis

legend, around the mid-14th century in fact, when a Portuguese navigator

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recorded some of the islands on his chart and claimed them for Portugal.

Further island discovery and colonization by both Portuguese and Flemish

settlers continued slowly until the 16th and 17th centuries, when the

Azores became important factors of trade between Europe, America and the

East. Portugal later gave the Azores status as an autonomous republic.

"So -- now you know!" Tony suddenly shouted. "This is definitely

Atlantis, and if you don't believe me I will show you how right Plato

was in what he said. We go to Furnas. Now. Okay?"

We left the cobbled streets of Ponta Delgada behind and wound our way

on narrow country roads up through Ireland-green valleys, driving past

tiny cow-dotted fields bound by hedges of wild hydrangea. As we climbed,

the volcanic spine of this 40-by-10-mile island became more visible. Way

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down at the western end was the great shattered cone, Caldeira das Sete

Cidades, rising above a patchwork of fields and white-walled farmhouses

with enormous chimneys.

Then came an undulating fantasyland of tiny green cones, some

cloaked in dark patches of forest, others nestled together like furry

limpets across the central saddle of the island. Hundreds of feet below,

on the northern coast, was the tight-knit town of Ribeira Grande, built

on the edge of broken black cliffs with black sand beaches. Turning to

the east, we saw more volcanic stumps clustering higher and higher in an

alpine setting of shadowy valleys, pine forests and bare basalt

outcroppings.

"That's Furnas, over there." Tony pointed to the tallest peaks.

"When we arrive I'll prove to you that Plato was right. But first --

watch this hill and see what happens ..."

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We were climbing steeply now; wispy fragments of clouds ghosted over

the narrow road; a wind billowed across fields bright with hollyhocks,

lilies and dahlias. And then there was just space. We were suddenly

floating in blue-sky limbo among puff-ball clouds.

Tony laughed. "Now look," he said, and I realized we had driven up

over the lip of a volcano. There, 300 feet directly below us, was the

ancient crater, two miles wide and edged by eroded crags falling

vertically into a royal-blue lake -- the Lake of Fire (Lagoa do Fogo).

The impact is mesmerizing. You feel you've entered some secret place

not intended for mortal eyes. Far below, a narrow peninsula, cloaked in

pines, eased into the lake, with a perfect white sand beach on its

western side. We were the only people there; we had the whole magical

place to ourselves for as long as we wished.

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Good old Tony had foreseen our mood. Out came a basket of lunchtime

delights, including two snow-white rounds of queijo branco cheese (made

from a centuries-old island recipe of cow's and goat's milk); big loaves

of still-warm bread with deep golden crusts; a thick wedge of

magnificently winey Saåo Jorge cheese (made on the nearby island, and

truly one of the world's classic cheeses); slices of island-cured ham; a

whole pineapple from one of Saåo Miguel's greenhouse "factories"; and

two bottles of Portugal's sparkling vinho verde wine.

It was a long time before we moved on, and the mood of fantasy

stayed with us. Winding down the long slope from the crater, we passed

more tiny fields, vineyards and orchards bounded by 20-foot-high beech

hedges as protection against the winds that constantly buffet these

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While the winds and cloud cover can become tiresome, the Gulf

Stream-influenced climate generally is one of "perpetual springtime,"

with temperatures in the 55- to 75-degree range, and rainy squalls

mainly from November to January. Houses and farms also seek wind shelter

behind high walls and are buttressed by enormous chimneys with multiple

vents. Nearby are tall pyramidal frames on which corn is dried, and

solid-wheel oxcarts with high wicker sides, still used for farm work.

We passed riders on horseback carrying 50-liter steel containers of

milk to the collection point (often miles from the isolated farms); we

saw yam plantations crammed in jungle-like valleys brimming with yellow

and blue flowers; we passed tobacco fields and tall slat-walled drying

sheds; we even wound around a tea plantation initiated by two Chinese

experts in 1878 and bounded by hedges of araucarias and screens of

Japanese cedars.

"Every time you close your eyes, the island changes," Tony said, and

he was right. So far I'd explored less than a third of Saåo Miguel and

already enjoyed fragments of Irish meadows, Scottish highlands, lush

Indonesian jungle, Alpine scenery with Japanese overtones, a volcanic

moonscape and a Chinese-inspired tea plantation in a Kashmir-foothills

Then we were suddenly out of the country and into the tight cobbled

streets of Ribeira Grande, lined with endless one- and two-story rows of

pastel-colored homes. The main street, boasting a series of ornate

wrought-iron balconies, meanders gracefully into the central plaza,

where a flurry of exuberantly styled churches and civic buildings sets

the stage for one of the most idiosyncratic delights of the island.

"You won't believe what you'll see," said Tony.

And I didn't.

We walked uphill from the plaza and into the shadowy nave of the

Church of Nossa Senhora da Estre~la, whose somewhat restrained

16th-century fac ade belies an interior of superb Flemish triptychs and

some of the most ornate carved-wood altars in the Azores. A very old man

with a severe stoop and leering smile emerged from the dusty shadows

carrying a foot-long key on a brass chain, and motioned us to follow him

up a series of dark staircases into a cramped room above the nave. He

then proceeded to light candles around a six-foot-high, four-sided glass

cabinet, and what was previously gloom became a wonderland in miniature:

The display case held hundreds of tiny carved figures enacting dozens of

biblical scenes in muted (dusty actually) color.

I gasped, Tony smiled and the old man began a painfully slow

recitation of the history of these unique works of art. He spoke in the

traditional medieval style of Azorean Portuguese, which even Tony had

problems following, but we grasped that this curious "Arcanum" ("The

Secret") represented 25 years of creation by a 19th-century nun,

Margarida do Apocalipse, whose life goal became the physical re-creation

of the Old and New Testaments. Each of the tiny figures was formed by

hand from rice flour and gum arabic.

In the valley of Furnas, the magic became almost surreal. Once again

we climbed into pine-shrouded volcanic hills and for a while were lost

in mists, which cleared as we descended into the greenest of green

valleys dotted with white farms.

The town, in Victorian days a popular spa for ailing Europeans,

clusters around a series of rocky (and noxious) caldeiras or tiny

craters, some spewing blobs of boiling mud, others with whirling steam

vents and sulfurous geysers, and still others where ice-cold spring

water rushes out of cracks in the earth immediately adjacent to the hot

"Plato even knew about this place, too," Tony said with irritating

complacency as he thumbed once again through his book. "The surrounding

mountains were celebrated for their number and size and beauty ...

having in them also many wealthy inhabited villages and rivers and lakes

and meadows supplying food enough for every animal, wild or tame ..."

Tony gestured at the hills, the cows in the hillside fields, and nearby

Lake Furnas. "Now listen to this. 'And in the center island were two

streams of water under the earth which ascended as springs, one of warm

water and the other of cold and making every variety of food to spring

up abundantly in the earth.' And that's right here!" shouted Tony.

I think he detected just the slightest smirk of skepticism on my

face. In exasperation, he dragged me down the main street right into

Terra Nostra Park, where we lost ourselves in a truly fantastic

profusion of tropical and fruit trees, hardwoods, huge beech canopies,

natural wooded arbors, ponds and scores of different flowers all in full

bloom. A family sat picnicking by one of the lakes -- a warm lake, fed

by thermal springs, in which they were all dipping their feet and

singing melancholy fado songs together as the father played a small

12-string guitar.

"Okay," Tony said. "The last bit. Listen. 'Also, whatever fragrant

things there are in the earth ... all of these the sacred island lying

beneath the sun brought forth fair and wondrous in infinite abundance.'

And -- to be fair -- I have never sensed such natural abundance

anywhere. The Azores (particularly Saåo Miguel) were once known as the

"breadbasket of Portugal" and are still famous for the profusion of

their fruits, flowers and the three-harvest-a-year fecundity of their

volcanic soils. No other Atlantic islands can match them.

"Okay, Tony," I finally gave in. "I'm in Atlantis!"

Tony nodded, happy in the knowledge that Plato and he had once again

been vindicated by the sheer volume of tangible evidence all around us.

"Good -- now let's eat," he said.

I expected to dine in the restaurant at the Hotel Terra Nostra (a

fascinating art deco masterpiece), but instead we joined a group of

friends by Lake Furnas who were sprawled near the water by a rather

large pile of freshly turned earth. Dinner, I gathered from all the

frantic laying out of cloths and plates on the grass, was about to be

served, but there was no sign of food. The wine flowed, followed by more

local firewater brandy, plus Saåo Miguel passion fruit liqueur for the

ladies. And still no food!

Finally one of the men rose (somewhat unsteadily) and began flailing

away at the pile of earth nearby with a small shovel until fragrant

billows of hot steam poured out of the ground. Then he plunged his hand

into the foot-deep hole he'd dug and withdrew an enormous cloth sack, to

the enthusiastic applause of the group. He passed the sack to his wife,

who delicately unfolded the complex layerings to expose a wonderfully

fragrant me'lange of chicken pieces, sausage, yams and garlic.

This remarkable meal had been prepared "volcano-style," that is,

buried in the hot earth and baked for five hours or so. The chicken was

the texture of soft pa~te'; its juices were sealed inside, yet mingled

with the flavors of the sausage and garlic; and its color was a subtle

golden-pink coral. We all ate furiously with our hands; the plates were

merely convenient places to drop bones.

The next day I explored the far western end of the island, spiraling

once again up the slopes of an ancient volcano to discover the beautiful

Caldeira das Sete Cidades snuggled deep in the hollow of a rugged

crater. Atlantean folklore abounds about this mysterious place with its

twin lakes, each of a different color, but after all the Plato parables

I was happy this time just to sit on the grassy rim and gaze down on the

still, silent waters for a long, long time.

It was this silence that finally seduced me. I had made plans to

visit the eight other Azorean islands spread over about 400 miles of the

Atlantic Ocean. But somehow the peace of Saåo Miguel made me realize

that to leapfrog from island to island in the short time I had would

mean sacrificing the very things I had come to find -- total tranquility

and the chance to understand a little about island life and ways in this

isolated world-within-a-world.

So -- I stayed.

I sacrificed my chance to go running with the bulls through the

streets of Angra do Heroismo on Terceira island, and to talk with the

old whalers among the mazelike cerrados (little walled fields) beneath

tiny Pico's 7,700-foot volcano. I gave up the opportunity to enjoy the

bonhomie of transatlantic yachtsmen in Pete's Cafe' Sport at Faial's

colorful harbor, just a few miles from the archipelago's "new" volcano,

which emerged out of the ocean in 1957. And I never climbed the soaring,

3,000-foot-high cliffs of Saåo Jorge, or found the quiet of Graciosa's

vineyards, or the golden beaches of Santa Maria.

Perhaps most sadly of all, I chose to postpone my visit to the tiny,

flower-filled islet of Flores, a remote 400 miles to the west, and the

even tinier Corvo, where a single volcanic crater and less than 1,000

residents make it one of the loneliest spots in the Atlantic.

But I did find the tranquility I sought. The balmy days passed

slowly. I explored every nook and cranny of the island, meeting the old

fisherman of Rabo de Peixe on the wave-lashed northern coast, sitting in

with a group of islanders near Vila Franca do Campo to play Azorean folk

songs on a confusing array of stringed instruments, exploring remnants

of old lava flows and visiting a secluded island home distillery, where

an old man produced some of the finest fruit brandies I've ever tasted,

using an ancient confusion of boiling pots, copper tubes and cooling

Somewhere along the way I met a scrimshander from Pico's whaling

village of Lajes do Pico, whose artistic etching of whale teeth had made

him something of a national treasure. "There are more Azoreans in New

England than the whole population of the islands today," he told me.

"Many of my family -- most of the men -- live in New Bedford,

Massachusetts, or have returned from there to start businesses here with

their savings. You can make good money in America, but ... " He paused

and looked around at the mountains, the myriad greens of the tiny

stone-walled fields, the little white villages, the vast expanse of blue

ocean in all directions. " ... but after a while you need to come home

again. This is a very special place."

Some of the mainland Portuguese see the islands as rather backward,

geographically unstable (there's always an expectation of yet one more

earthquake or a new volcano), economically stagnant and lacking the

sophistication of the motherland. Others are wiser, and perceive in

these tiny fertile fragments and the peaceful ways of the people,

something of a more ancient touchstone, of enduring values and

integrity.

Something, in fact, that reflects the very essence of Atlantis.

Plato would have been proud. David Yeadon is author-illustrator of

many travel books, including the current "New York: The Best Places."

WAYS & MEANS

GETTING THERE: There are no direct flights to Saåo Miguel from

Washington. TAP, the Portuguese airline, flies from Boston to Terceira

island, where you can take a 45-minute connecting flight to Saåo Miguel.

The current APEX round-trip fare from Boston to Terceira is $611. The

round-trip fare from Terceira to Saåo Miguel is $95.

TAP also offers free stopovers in the Azores for passengers

traveling to Lisbon who have made land-package arrangements in advance.

Call (800) 221-7370 for more information. GETTING AROUND: Car rental

rates in Ponta Delgada usually range from $12 to $16 per day, plus

mileage. Weekly rates range from $220 for a subcompact to $450 for

larger autos. Personal accident and collision damage rates are

additional. WHERE TO STAY: Ponta Delgada offers an intriguing range of

hostelries. Rates below include breakfast, can fluctuate considerably

and are lower from November to March.

Hotel de Saåo Pedro, housed in a gracious Georgian mansion. From $30

single and $50 double.

Hotel Avenida, equally luxurious. $30 single, $50 double.

Aparthotel Gaivota, an excellent apartment hotel. $25 single, $45

Hotel Terra Nostra, outside Ponta Delgada in Furnas, with a decadent

art deco charm. $25 single, $37 double.

There are also a number of residencias and private homes, including

my favorite, Casa Nossa Senhora do Carno, a few miles to the east of

Ponta Delgada, where the rates start at $55 single and $70 double,

including meals. Here I was regaled with a never-ending array of superb

French and Portuguese dishes in a 17th-century European setting of

big-beamed rooms with ox-sized fireplaces, by a hostess who was the

epitome of old-world graciousness.

WHERE TO EAT: Unfortunately, there are few restaurants that are truly

memorable, and in an island of abundance like Saåo Miguel, the paucities

of fresh vegetables and fruits in creative cooking is regrettable. But

the Nacional, at 18 Rua Acoriano Oriental, and O Roberto, at 14 Avenida

Infante D. Henrique, are worthy of note; dinner for two with wine will

run a reasonable $30. At the Casa Nossa Senhora do Carno, I was

introduced to such classics as Espiritu Santo (a cabbage-based soup with

stale bread, which can be excruciatingly banal or possess the subtleties

of bird's nest soup); the famous Alcatra beef stew with bacon, onions,

garlic, cloves and nutmeg; and a delicious dessert of little sponge

puffs laced with brandy and Pico's famous wine. INFORMATION: Portuguese

Tourist Office, 548 Fifth Ave., New York, N.Y. 10036, (212) 354-4403.

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