Nine Islands, Three Plates

Polly came in low over a coastline of black volcanic rock, where green fields ran right up to the cliff edge and mist slid slowly across rounded hills further inland. This was São Miguel, the largest of the nine islands that make up the Azores, sitting alone in the middle of the North Atlantic. Salt air mixed with the smell of wet earth and cut grass, and somewhere below a rooster called out from a farm she could not yet see.

The whole island exists because of a seam far below the ocean floor, a place where three of the great plates that carry the continents grind slowly against each other. North America pulls one way, Europe another, and Africa presses in from the south, and where the three edges meet, heat and pressure find their way up through cracks in the crust. Every island in this chain was built the same way, one eruption at a time, out of nothing but fire and cooling rock.

Almost every field on São Miguel is edged by a hedge of hydrangeas, blue and violet and sometimes a soft pink, planted so thickly they look painted onto the landscape. Farmers brought the plants from Asia in the nineteenth century simply to mark the borders between pastures, never expecting them to become the island's signature. The volcanic soil, rich in minerals, turns their petals a deeper blue than the same flower grows almost anywhere else in the world.

Further inland, the green hills rose and folded around wide, quiet basins that Polly could not see into from the coast. Steam rose faintly from somewhere among them, thin white threads against the grey sky, and she turned her flight toward the high ground to see what was making it.