A Man for Off-Season

"Why not?"

Good question. According to tourism officials, only 11,000 Yanks made it to the islands in 2005 out of nearly 350,000 visitors, the majority of whom were Portuguese. It's a mystifying statistic, considering the close ties -- and distance -- between the Azores, an autonomous region of Portugal, and the United States.

Because of their location (about 800 miles west of the Portuguese mainland), the islands were once a vital port for New England whaling ships, which introduced the industry to the region and lured many Azoreans west. Then, from the late 19th century onward, thousands of islanders migrated to the States, for reasons including crop failures and natural cataclysms. Portuguese communities now flourish in the Northeast, particularly in Massachusetts and Rhode Island.

What they left behind is a wondrous and often perplexing amalgam of cultures and geography. Volcanic vistas, palm trees, pineapple plantations and hissing hot springs are vintage Hawaii, while the grassy farmlands that edge the sea scream Ireland. Windmills crown hilltops and bullfights pack boulevards. Lava rock is used to construct buildings, but Old World cobblestone tests the sturdiness of New World footwear.

We'd found Furtado and the distillery after an errant turn during a marathon ramble from Ponta Delgada, the Azores' cosmopolitan capital. It had been an afternoon fraught with errant turns, which came as a surprise since the road we were on looked idiot-proof on the map.

The day had begun at Lagoa do Fogo, a lake high in a volcanic crater that's said to be one of the Azores' most spectacular sights. If you can see it, that is. Though we'd made our ascent under clear skies, the lake was shrouded in fog when we arrived. Obscenities were muttered.

Then the wind picked up and the air began to churn. We watched as the murk swirled about, then lifted from the basin like a curtain on a stage. Several hundred feet below lay a magnificent azure mirror reflecting brilliant sunshine -- and the clouds we'd been cursing only moments before.

We shared it with no one.

And so it went. At Sete Cidades on eastern Sao Miguel, we stopped in the middle of the road dividing Lagoa Azul and Lagoa Verde -- a pair of gorgeously mismatched lakes, one blue, one green -- and never worried about being rear-ended by another rental. On the island's north coast, the Gorreana Tea Plantation was empty, save for an overfed feline pawing a cobweb and a bouncy employee eager to show us around. In the showroom of the porcelain factory down the road, we thumbed through souvenir tiles while locals picked out bathroom fixtures.

Later in the village of Furnas, known for cozido das Furnas (a combo of meats and vegetables cooked in the town's simmering natural caldrons), we took in the Terra Nostra Garden, a horticultural leviathan with more twists and turns than a shaky alibi. Blooms were at a premium: Barren beds awaited flowers, while the soft tips of spring bulbs popped through freshly tilled turf.

But as we padded among the trails, framed by ferns and giant palms, we reveled in a serenity that comes all too infrequently on the road. Gardeners snipped at a field of topiaries, and a phalanx of nattering ducks made the rounds on the Terra Nostra pond.

On the way out, I grabbed a pamphlet from the ticket booth at the garden's entrance, startling the preoccupied attendant. She looked at me and smiled.