It was emblazoned in bold letters on the car rental documentation: “Don’t Forget Your Driving License.” In the days before departure, I constantly reminded myself, “Don’t forget your driving license.” I even put the license in a special place to ensure I wouldn’t forget it.

But I forgot.

It was more than an inconvenience. My wife, Hayley, and I had booked a week-long, self-drive tour on the Atlantic island of São Miguel in the Portuguese Azores. While planning the trip, we discovered that São Miguel is 40 miles long and nine miles wide, with patchy public transport. The whole point of going was to explore by car — and in our partnership, I’m usually behind the wheel.

The plane progressed across the Atlantic. Located just 4.5 hours from Boston by direct flight, São Miguel is the largest and most populous of the nine main Azorean islands. On arrival, we ignored the car rental desks and headed for the taxi stand, initially for the ride to our hotel, but also to test the feasibility of completing our itinerary by taxi. The fare for the short ride dispelled that notion.

Marital roles notwithstanding, we agreed to switch things up: Hayley would drive and I would navigate.

It didn’t take long to reap the benefit of our own set of wheels. We headed to the west of the island, switchbacking up the flanks of the Sete Cidades Massif, one of the island’s several volcanoes. Dense folds of mist drifted down off the summit, enveloping the road. Hayley quickly had to find the headlights and wipers. We crept ever upward.

At the top, the fog miraculously parted. We pulled into a viewing point and found ourselves looking down into the caldera at two beautiful lakes, one blue, the other green. The spectacular geology is testament to the violence of the island’s birth, a violence long since ceding to tranquility.

Descending to sea level along the coastal route, the roads were fringed with pink azaleas and blue throatwort, giving the impression that we were driving through immaculate gardens. Almost every coastal viewpoint, from which we gazed at sheer cliffs and crashing waves, was surrounded by bursts of floral color.

Our trip culminated with a night at the Terra Nostra Garden Hotel in the spa resort of Furnas. Amid Art Deco opulence, set within a botanical garden, we reflected that despite my oversight, the trip worked out well.

Flying out, we gained a full panorama of the island. The network of now-familiar scenic roads. Patchwork fields speckled with cattle. Tea plantations. Picturesque villages. Who knew there was such a perfect slice of rural Europe so close to the Eastern Seaboard? São Miguel is a well-kept secret. Much like the ultimate whereabouts of my driving license.