Sunday, 21 June 2009
Yay!
Good news! Colin and Tui arrived in the Azores on Friday night. Phew! We don't have to call out the Coastguard Helicopters.
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Santiago de Compostela.
I went to Santiago De Compostela, Liz didn’t; she was struck down by Migraines, and an over exposure to my company. I went alone, braving the bus system and everything and got there all by myself. See if you can spot the difference between my mangled use of the enlish languaguge and Liz’s more polished prose.
I’m sure you’ve all heard of this place, I hadn’t until I visited Northern Spain for the first time, but then, as I am constantly reminded, I am a bit of a cultural barbarian, favouring The Honda Outboard Motor Maintenance Manual to the works of Jean Paul Sartre. The more attentive reader may remember the Blog covering our visit to Luarca where I took a passable snap of the scallop shell symbol that marks the pilgrim’s route through Spain and France to this, if I can mix my religious persuasions, Mecca.
Our main reference work on board to Spain, the Lonely Planet, babbles on about Santiago ( Saint James to you and I) and a stone boat that carried his remains for reasons that seemed a Good Idea At The Time from the Holy Land to the Atlantic Spain. When docked , they carried St James’s body inland some 17km inland before burying him. They then decided not to mark the grave or anything and return in their stone boat. Some time later a hermit suddenly thought that the grave of Saint James might be somewhere near, and using a handy Guiding Star found exactly the right place. The second part of the name of the place – Compostela - comes from this star-following malarkey.
The excellent Wikipedea give a slightly less unbelievable explanation as to how the place got there, but one way or another there it is. Arrive and you can see there has been an overly keen interest in building religious structures, churches, cathedrals, and shrines for quite some time. More than you can shake a stick at.
For the non RC visitor the cathedrals etc look absolutely fine from the outside, but enter in and they seem very alien indeed. Gold leaf, or probably just golden paint, and statues of the Virgin Mary, and others that I’m sure weren’t mentioned at my Methodist Sunday School: Saint Salome? Perhaps I just wasn’t paying attention at the time, but I’m pretty sure there are far more luminaries in the RC version than the one I was pointed at.
There are loads of people here, coachloads of them, and we are all armed with the same map. This means that if your peaceful appreciation of the Cathedral’s impressive interior is spoilt by, say 40 Germans piling into what was a quiet corner, then the same thing will happen at the Church of Saint Sebastian ( A nice example of the extended cast version of Christianity, have you heard of him?). That said I really enjoyed my wander about. I found museums, art galleries, exhibitions as well as the religious buildings I expected. Obviously I didn’t actually go into any of the secular ones, as I Would Not Have Understood.
Crowded, but not excessively so, I took three and half hours to do the recommended 3 hour route.
The map also gives a , and here I quote, “ A tour around the parks and gardens bordering the old town, with views of the monumental quarter, convents, monuments and singular contemporary architectures” Not put off in the slightest by that last bit I set out.
Where did everybody go? Suddenly the Pilkington’s Detective Agency, in the guise of the 40 Germans, had been given the slip, and I was on my own Paseoing like a professional. This was much better, in the parks and staring at big views, I felt like I should be there, rather than an imposter in the churches. The only problem was, if I took a wrong turn, that the Pilkington’s Detective Agency weren’t around to set me back on the trail, pardner. Ok I knew I was lost and had a map, so if I grunted at a local and pointed at the map, then they would know, by a process akin to osmosis, that I just needed to be pointed in the right direction. Let me tell you doubting Thomas’s ( I’ve heard of him) that this actually works, with me answering the unintelligible response to my grunts with a cunning mixture of Spanish-for-beginners, and for reasons even I can’t fathom, French and English, I managed to keep on the path. Then I hit on a more successful plan, this is hard to explain, but surprisingly easy to implement: you simply ask people who can speak English for directions, and suddenly there is no language barrier at all.
My wander around was a joy, marred only by some of the “singular contemporary architectures”. I just don’t get this building inside out, covered in rust, or just looking like it might be OK when finished stuff, but then I found something I liked, The Remodelling of Aveinida Xoan XXIII, and there’s a picture of the thing too. The glass roof offered a sense of space that nearly made paseoing seem like a sensible way to pass an hour or two. My visit was nearly at an end, I turned a corner and entered the intriguing Pracina de Penas, and there my eyes took in a sight I didn’t think possible. Was it a mirage or some kind of holy intervention? The place is famous for it after all. Glimmering in a halo of pure light I beheld a sign, and I finally realised why people tramp over the Picos de Europas to get here. Could it be true – “O Triangulo Das Verduras – Restaurante Vexetariano” a veggy restaurant! The first one in over a thousand nautical miles.
I’m sure you’ve all heard of this place, I hadn’t until I visited Northern Spain for the first time, but then, as I am constantly reminded, I am a bit of a cultural barbarian, favouring The Honda Outboard Motor Maintenance Manual to the works of Jean Paul Sartre. The more attentive reader may remember the Blog covering our visit to Luarca where I took a passable snap of the scallop shell symbol that marks the pilgrim’s route through Spain and France to this, if I can mix my religious persuasions, Mecca.
Our main reference work on board to Spain, the Lonely Planet, babbles on about Santiago ( Saint James to you and I) and a stone boat that carried his remains for reasons that seemed a Good Idea At The Time from the Holy Land to the Atlantic Spain. When docked , they carried St James’s body inland some 17km inland before burying him. They then decided not to mark the grave or anything and return in their stone boat. Some time later a hermit suddenly thought that the grave of Saint James might be somewhere near, and using a handy Guiding Star found exactly the right place. The second part of the name of the place – Compostela - comes from this star-following malarkey.
The excellent Wikipedea give a slightly less unbelievable explanation as to how the place got there, but one way or another there it is. Arrive and you can see there has been an overly keen interest in building religious structures, churches, cathedrals, and shrines for quite some time. More than you can shake a stick at.
For the non RC visitor the cathedrals etc look absolutely fine from the outside, but enter in and they seem very alien indeed. Gold leaf, or probably just golden paint, and statues of the Virgin Mary, and others that I’m sure weren’t mentioned at my Methodist Sunday School: Saint Salome? Perhaps I just wasn’t paying attention at the time, but I’m pretty sure there are far more luminaries in the RC version than the one I was pointed at.
There are loads of people here, coachloads of them, and we are all armed with the same map. This means that if your peaceful appreciation of the Cathedral’s impressive interior is spoilt by, say 40 Germans piling into what was a quiet corner, then the same thing will happen at the Church of Saint Sebastian ( A nice example of the extended cast version of Christianity, have you heard of him?). That said I really enjoyed my wander about. I found museums, art galleries, exhibitions as well as the religious buildings I expected. Obviously I didn’t actually go into any of the secular ones, as I Would Not Have Understood.
Crowded, but not excessively so, I took three and half hours to do the recommended 3 hour route.
The map also gives a , and here I quote, “ A tour around the parks and gardens bordering the old town, with views of the monumental quarter, convents, monuments and singular contemporary architectures” Not put off in the slightest by that last bit I set out.
Where did everybody go? Suddenly the Pilkington’s Detective Agency, in the guise of the 40 Germans, had been given the slip, and I was on my own Paseoing like a professional. This was much better, in the parks and staring at big views, I felt like I should be there, rather than an imposter in the churches. The only problem was, if I took a wrong turn, that the Pilkington’s Detective Agency weren’t around to set me back on the trail, pardner. Ok I knew I was lost and had a map, so if I grunted at a local and pointed at the map, then they would know, by a process akin to osmosis, that I just needed to be pointed in the right direction. Let me tell you doubting Thomas’s ( I’ve heard of him) that this actually works, with me answering the unintelligible response to my grunts with a cunning mixture of Spanish-for-beginners, and for reasons even I can’t fathom, French and English, I managed to keep on the path. Then I hit on a more successful plan, this is hard to explain, but surprisingly easy to implement: you simply ask people who can speak English for directions, and suddenly there is no language barrier at all.
My wander around was a joy, marred only by some of the “singular contemporary architectures”. I just don’t get this building inside out, covered in rust, or just looking like it might be OK when finished stuff, but then I found something I liked, The Remodelling of Aveinida Xoan XXIII, and there’s a picture of the thing too. The glass roof offered a sense of space that nearly made paseoing seem like a sensible way to pass an hour or two. My visit was nearly at an end, I turned a corner and entered the intriguing Pracina de Penas, and there my eyes took in a sight I didn’t think possible. Was it a mirage or some kind of holy intervention? The place is famous for it after all. Glimmering in a halo of pure light I beheld a sign, and I finally realised why people tramp over the Picos de Europas to get here. Could it be true – “O Triangulo Das Verduras – Restaurante Vexetariano” a veggy restaurant! The first one in over a thousand nautical miles.
Thursday, 18 June 2009
Another Blog from Portosín
Andy’s gone off to Santiago de Compostela on his own on the bus today. I’m staying here feeling weedy with a slight stomach upset and a migraine. I’ve managed to get some washing done and got the shade tent up over the boat, which helps enormously. It is very hot here.
You can see from the pix that Muros was a charming little town with winding lanes, stone steps and fresh water springs. It was like being at home in Chalford, only warmer, by the sea, and everyone speaking Galician Spanish. We were charmed and amazed by the trouble that the locals went to decorate the streets with colourful patterns for the Festival of Corpus. They started on Friday with cutting up box-loads of flowers and fennel and other leaves. On Saturday there were still lots of people doing the cutting up, while others were beginning to mark the road with chalk using a cardboard template. Saturday evening they were making the lovely patterns with coloured crystals. There was an elaborate picture of two swans and a moon at one end of the trail. On Sunday morning they were hard at it making patterns from the petals and leaves and setting up altar tables with astonishingly white cloths, edged in local lace, candles, and floral displays with lilies. Some people were hanging banners of the Spanish flag on their balconies. The bells were calling the people to church several times that day. We walked the length of the decorations from the swans to the church, which must have been over a mile, through the charming lanes, being very careful not to tread on any of the displays. The fragrance was intoxicating. In the evening we waited outside the church, with the band and other spectators until the people started to come out. They eventually set off in procession with some altar boys in front carrying candles and crosses on tall poles, then came several men carrying banners on tall poles. There was a bunch of boys and girls, walking in pairs, all dressed up in white dresses and sailor suits. The girls were carrying baskets of flowers. Then came the priest in his ornate robes with six men all carrying a pole to hold the red and gold canopy over his head. After him there was a band playing a mournful and solemn march tempo. They didn’t follow the trail, but walked down to the main road which goes along the harbour side. We nipped down for a cold one at a bar and waited for them to come past. They walked the length of the main road then up to where the swans were, but kept stopping all the way. Once there the priest had a swig of the wine and some bread and there was a choir of men and women all dressed up in penguin suits (men) and matching blouses (women) and some ceremony (which we missed but wouldn’t have known what they were doing anyway.) Then, they carried on marching slowly, but this time they followed the trail of flowers back to the church. They tramped all over it all, stopping for more ceremony and swigs of wine at various “altars” along the route. On Monday morning, when I went ashore to buy bread, it was all gone, swept away.
That was when I got swamped by the waves getting out of the dinghy and had to go the supermarket absolutely dripping. We’d been awake most of the night because of the strong winds and we must have got up at least 6 or 7 times to check that the anchor was holding, which it was. On the way back in the dinghy the transom fell in half and poor old Hondy fell right in. Luckily we had her tied to a bit of rope and Andy got her back on board, but then I had to row about half a mile against a very strong wind, with a bag of shopping between my knees, trying to keep the bread dry, while Andy nursed Hondy on his lap.
We motored off across the Riá a few miles to Portosín in search of shelter and a good night’s sleep.
Portosín is not very charming at all and the marina is very expensive. We’re paying just over €20 a night here. It was only €9 in Camariñas. Okay, the showers are bigger here and there is wifi. There’s also a washing machine and driers, but you have to pay for them, anyway. It’s a bigger marina and not so friendly. We’re only staying here because it’s the nearest place to get the bus to Santiago de Compostela. However, I’m not well, so we’re a bit stuck. That’s why I’ve sent Andy off on his own today. I want to leave here. We may go back to Muros, where we anchored for free. It’s not good if the wind’s strong from the north and east, though. Still, it’s time we moved on. There are more Rías to see.
Oh. The effort. It’s too hot. I want to go home. I don’t have a home. I don’t think the nomadic life suits me at all. It’s nearly all finding a supermarket then finding what you want in it. We have to shop little and often as otherwise the stuff goes off. I’m thinking of writing a book called “Round Spain Without a Fridge”. Andy loves not going to work and messing about with engines and stuff. He spent yesterday taking Hondy apart and putting her back together. She runs now. Hurray! Before he did it, though, he had to mend the dinghy transom. He went to the hardware store for nuts and bolts and came back saying they didn’t have any. The woman offered him hinges. I went back with him and showed her a bolt and nut and washer. We got some. They’re not stainless, but they’ll work for while until we can get stainless, or they’ll just rust in place until they fail again. The ancient dinghy, Achilles, needs a repair, as the ring that holds the rope round the edge by which we lift it, pulled out. We did try gluing it, but it failed again. When Andy was trying to test out the Honda he first had to mend the transom and fit it to the already broken dinghy, which he tried to blow up, but the pump broke. So he then had to mend the pump. At the end he had a sense of achievement of getting broken things to work again. I’d been out and bought tomatoes. Aaaaagh. It’s driving me nuts.
As my friend, Helen, said, real nomads take their families and lives with them, not just their Andys. It was more fun when I had a life outside of the boat and Andy. It’s not a nomad’s life, but a life of being on holiday all the time. It’s not as good as you’d think. Imagine eating only chocolate. You’d be craving mashed potatoes, even the peeling of them first.
I think it’s time for my siesta. It’s getting very very hot. I expect Andy will be back with lots of photos for me to post on the blog.
Hasta luego.
You can see from the pix that Muros was a charming little town with winding lanes, stone steps and fresh water springs. It was like being at home in Chalford, only warmer, by the sea, and everyone speaking Galician Spanish. We were charmed and amazed by the trouble that the locals went to decorate the streets with colourful patterns for the Festival of Corpus. They started on Friday with cutting up box-loads of flowers and fennel and other leaves. On Saturday there were still lots of people doing the cutting up, while others were beginning to mark the road with chalk using a cardboard template. Saturday evening they were making the lovely patterns with coloured crystals. There was an elaborate picture of two swans and a moon at one end of the trail. On Sunday morning they were hard at it making patterns from the petals and leaves and setting up altar tables with astonishingly white cloths, edged in local lace, candles, and floral displays with lilies. Some people were hanging banners of the Spanish flag on their balconies. The bells were calling the people to church several times that day. We walked the length of the decorations from the swans to the church, which must have been over a mile, through the charming lanes, being very careful not to tread on any of the displays. The fragrance was intoxicating. In the evening we waited outside the church, with the band and other spectators until the people started to come out. They eventually set off in procession with some altar boys in front carrying candles and crosses on tall poles, then came several men carrying banners on tall poles. There was a bunch of boys and girls, walking in pairs, all dressed up in white dresses and sailor suits. The girls were carrying baskets of flowers. Then came the priest in his ornate robes with six men all carrying a pole to hold the red and gold canopy over his head. After him there was a band playing a mournful and solemn march tempo. They didn’t follow the trail, but walked down to the main road which goes along the harbour side. We nipped down for a cold one at a bar and waited for them to come past. They walked the length of the main road then up to where the swans were, but kept stopping all the way. Once there the priest had a swig of the wine and some bread and there was a choir of men and women all dressed up in penguin suits (men) and matching blouses (women) and some ceremony (which we missed but wouldn’t have known what they were doing anyway.) Then, they carried on marching slowly, but this time they followed the trail of flowers back to the church. They tramped all over it all, stopping for more ceremony and swigs of wine at various “altars” along the route. On Monday morning, when I went ashore to buy bread, it was all gone, swept away.
That was when I got swamped by the waves getting out of the dinghy and had to go the supermarket absolutely dripping. We’d been awake most of the night because of the strong winds and we must have got up at least 6 or 7 times to check that the anchor was holding, which it was. On the way back in the dinghy the transom fell in half and poor old Hondy fell right in. Luckily we had her tied to a bit of rope and Andy got her back on board, but then I had to row about half a mile against a very strong wind, with a bag of shopping between my knees, trying to keep the bread dry, while Andy nursed Hondy on his lap.
We motored off across the Riá a few miles to Portosín in search of shelter and a good night’s sleep.
Portosín is not very charming at all and the marina is very expensive. We’re paying just over €20 a night here. It was only €9 in Camariñas. Okay, the showers are bigger here and there is wifi. There’s also a washing machine and driers, but you have to pay for them, anyway. It’s a bigger marina and not so friendly. We’re only staying here because it’s the nearest place to get the bus to Santiago de Compostela. However, I’m not well, so we’re a bit stuck. That’s why I’ve sent Andy off on his own today. I want to leave here. We may go back to Muros, where we anchored for free. It’s not good if the wind’s strong from the north and east, though. Still, it’s time we moved on. There are more Rías to see.
Oh. The effort. It’s too hot. I want to go home. I don’t have a home. I don’t think the nomadic life suits me at all. It’s nearly all finding a supermarket then finding what you want in it. We have to shop little and often as otherwise the stuff goes off. I’m thinking of writing a book called “Round Spain Without a Fridge”. Andy loves not going to work and messing about with engines and stuff. He spent yesterday taking Hondy apart and putting her back together. She runs now. Hurray! Before he did it, though, he had to mend the dinghy transom. He went to the hardware store for nuts and bolts and came back saying they didn’t have any. The woman offered him hinges. I went back with him and showed her a bolt and nut and washer. We got some. They’re not stainless, but they’ll work for while until we can get stainless, or they’ll just rust in place until they fail again. The ancient dinghy, Achilles, needs a repair, as the ring that holds the rope round the edge by which we lift it, pulled out. We did try gluing it, but it failed again. When Andy was trying to test out the Honda he first had to mend the transom and fit it to the already broken dinghy, which he tried to blow up, but the pump broke. So he then had to mend the pump. At the end he had a sense of achievement of getting broken things to work again. I’d been out and bought tomatoes. Aaaaagh. It’s driving me nuts.
As my friend, Helen, said, real nomads take their families and lives with them, not just their Andys. It was more fun when I had a life outside of the boat and Andy. It’s not a nomad’s life, but a life of being on holiday all the time. It’s not as good as you’d think. Imagine eating only chocolate. You’d be craving mashed potatoes, even the peeling of them first.
I think it’s time for my siesta. It’s getting very very hot. I expect Andy will be back with lots of photos for me to post on the blog.
Hasta luego.
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Muros and Portosin.
I've put on a load of pix and will write some more when I get around to it. I'm suffering a bit from getting too hot today. I went for a swim, but it was freezing! We hope to get the bus to Santiago de Compostela tomorrow.
We had huge fun and games the other day in Muros when the dinghy broke and the outboard fell in. Later,on our way to Portosin to get out of the wind, we lost our deck brush overboard. Despite our rigorous training our B.O.B recovery took about 25 attempts. I'm glad it wasn't me in that cold water waiting to be hauled out. The brush doesn't seem to have suffered at all and it was gratifying to find it floats. Not sure about poor old Hondy yet. (That's the name Andy calls the outboard motor.)
We're in desperate need of some stainless steel nuts and bolts (pernos y tuercas)to fix the transom on Achilles. (That's the name of our aged blow-up dinghy.)
We had huge fun and games the other day in Muros when the dinghy broke and the outboard fell in. Later,on our way to Portosin to get out of the wind, we lost our deck brush overboard. Despite our rigorous training our B.O.B recovery took about 25 attempts. I'm glad it wasn't me in that cold water waiting to be hauled out. The brush doesn't seem to have suffered at all and it was gratifying to find it floats. Not sure about poor old Hondy yet. (That's the name Andy calls the outboard motor.)
We're in desperate need of some stainless steel nuts and bolts (pernos y tuercas)to fix the transom on Achilles. (That's the name of our aged blow-up dinghy.)
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Camariñas
The windows are steamed up. There are wet jackets, trousers, shoes, socks, hats, and more draped all around the boat. There’s a bucket of wet clothes, washed and rinsed and waiting to be hung out to dry. The floor is damp. My shoes are damp. My trousers are damp. The wind has been shrieking round the mast for the past 3 days: the rain hammering against the coach roof. The wind generator is whizzing round fit to bust – it’s a wonder the boat doesn’t take off, but it’s well tied to the pontoon, with extra ropes. It’s June and we’re in Spain!
Last night Andy, Colin and I climbed into our foul-weather gear, boots ‘n’ all, and intrepidly made our way up the pontoon and beat our way through the extreme weather to a restaurante, where we had a very nice meal of fresh caught fish – the fishing boats still go out, even though most of us yachtsmen are hiding in the marina. There are even some yachts (large ones, I might add) that still keep coming and going – gawd knows why – why would anyone choose to go out in weather like this? There were warnings of Force 10 storms on the Spanish Meteo this morning. By the way, Andy didn’t eat the fish, but amazingly, after asking around at several establishments, we found one that was willing to cook something for a “vegetariano”. The woman had even heard of the word and didn’t look at Andy as if she couldn’t understand how he was still standing upright when he obviously had no pulse. We also sampled the local speciality: Pimientos de Padrón, which are little green peppers fried whole in very hot olive oil then sprinkled with coarse salt while still sizzling. They are very good.
So, I’m down to one novel left to read. After that, it’s “Heavy Weather Sailing” or “Storm Tactics”, both enough to put the fear of god into anyone even contemplating going near a boat. I’m going to have to brave the outdoors and ask on all the British boats here if they’ve got any books to swap. They must have. What else are they doing holed up in their cabins? Apart from looking at weather forecasts on the internet, of course. It is supposed to be improving tomorrow and going to be nice for quite a few days after that. Colin is planning to leave tomorrow for Muros (probably motor-sailing with little wind and in the wrong direction) then set out for The Azores on Saturday. We’ll probably leave it till Friday to go to the Ría de Muros, as we think we’ll get more help from the wind then. It’s supposed to get a lot easier once we’re round Finisterre, with warm balmy weather, a south-going current, and the northerly Portugese trade wind. It can’t be any worse than this. Then it’s steadily southwards, we hope.
Camariñas isn’t a bad place to be stuck in bad weather. The supermarcados are near the marina, there is fuel to be had at the quay and the showers are hot. Hidden away in a maze of cobbled lanes is the best bread bakery I’ve ever been to. (That’s saying something as my father was a Master Baker and Confectioner and I grew up with the run of two bakehouses and three shops.) The O Forno Novo (Galician for the New Oven) is a small bakehouse where trays of hand-crafted loaves are heaved into and out of the ovens and when you’ve chosen your warm loaf, the lady in the corner weighs it to sell it by the kilo. If you want a smaller loaf, they’ll cut it in half for you. It’s delicious.
We’ve also managed to get out for some walks, sometimes it even stopped raining for some of the time. We, with Colin, went for a long tramp out to the lighthouse on Cabo Villano. It took us a couple of hours along a coast path, past tiny fields of potatoes, sweet corn and cabbages, past a tiny chapel of the Virgin of the Mount. As we climbed up the hill to the base of the lighthouse we could see the rain coming in over the sea. The wind was strong enough to lean on, as it whipped up spume from the waves smashing onto the rocks beneath us. They call this bit O Costa da Morte. You can translate that Galician for yourselves. Amazingly there was a museum about the history of the lighthouse out there. I think we were the only visitors that day, or maybe that week. The receptionist there must have been even lonelier than the old lighthouse keepers were in the days before automation. We walked back through the wind farm. The whole of the coast we have seen from Gijón onwards, through Asturias and Galicia, is all wind turbines and forestry. It’s very green. That’ll be the rain in Spain.
Last night Andy, Colin and I climbed into our foul-weather gear, boots ‘n’ all, and intrepidly made our way up the pontoon and beat our way through the extreme weather to a restaurante, where we had a very nice meal of fresh caught fish – the fishing boats still go out, even though most of us yachtsmen are hiding in the marina. There are even some yachts (large ones, I might add) that still keep coming and going – gawd knows why – why would anyone choose to go out in weather like this? There were warnings of Force 10 storms on the Spanish Meteo this morning. By the way, Andy didn’t eat the fish, but amazingly, after asking around at several establishments, we found one that was willing to cook something for a “vegetariano”. The woman had even heard of the word and didn’t look at Andy as if she couldn’t understand how he was still standing upright when he obviously had no pulse. We also sampled the local speciality: Pimientos de Padrón, which are little green peppers fried whole in very hot olive oil then sprinkled with coarse salt while still sizzling. They are very good.
So, I’m down to one novel left to read. After that, it’s “Heavy Weather Sailing” or “Storm Tactics”, both enough to put the fear of god into anyone even contemplating going near a boat. I’m going to have to brave the outdoors and ask on all the British boats here if they’ve got any books to swap. They must have. What else are they doing holed up in their cabins? Apart from looking at weather forecasts on the internet, of course. It is supposed to be improving tomorrow and going to be nice for quite a few days after that. Colin is planning to leave tomorrow for Muros (probably motor-sailing with little wind and in the wrong direction) then set out for The Azores on Saturday. We’ll probably leave it till Friday to go to the Ría de Muros, as we think we’ll get more help from the wind then. It’s supposed to get a lot easier once we’re round Finisterre, with warm balmy weather, a south-going current, and the northerly Portugese trade wind. It can’t be any worse than this. Then it’s steadily southwards, we hope.
Camariñas isn’t a bad place to be stuck in bad weather. The supermarcados are near the marina, there is fuel to be had at the quay and the showers are hot. Hidden away in a maze of cobbled lanes is the best bread bakery I’ve ever been to. (That’s saying something as my father was a Master Baker and Confectioner and I grew up with the run of two bakehouses and three shops.) The O Forno Novo (Galician for the New Oven) is a small bakehouse where trays of hand-crafted loaves are heaved into and out of the ovens and when you’ve chosen your warm loaf, the lady in the corner weighs it to sell it by the kilo. If you want a smaller loaf, they’ll cut it in half for you. It’s delicious.
We’ve also managed to get out for some walks, sometimes it even stopped raining for some of the time. We, with Colin, went for a long tramp out to the lighthouse on Cabo Villano. It took us a couple of hours along a coast path, past tiny fields of potatoes, sweet corn and cabbages, past a tiny chapel of the Virgin of the Mount. As we climbed up the hill to the base of the lighthouse we could see the rain coming in over the sea. The wind was strong enough to lean on, as it whipped up spume from the waves smashing onto the rocks beneath us. They call this bit O Costa da Morte. You can translate that Galician for yourselves. Amazingly there was a museum about the history of the lighthouse out there. I think we were the only visitors that day, or maybe that week. The receptionist there must have been even lonelier than the old lighthouse keepers were in the days before automation. We walked back through the wind farm. The whole of the coast we have seen from Gijón onwards, through Asturias and Galicia, is all wind turbines and forestry. It’s very green. That’ll be the rain in Spain.
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