Cedeira to Muros, 114 miles. A Vouda Camping, €17, 2 nights.
Ok, it's a somewhat melodramatic title. However, it does not seem that way when you wake in the pitch dark feeling unusually bright-eyed and bushy tailed in the middle of the night, then discover it's actually 8.20 in the morning. The reason - the whole of Spain uses Central European Time, even though this part is actually as far west as Galway. So in nearby Vigo the sun rises at 8.49am, but in Belgrade in the same time zone, 1800 miles to the east, it rises at 6.57. You can end up feeling jet lagged without moving an inch.
At least I can blame the vagaries of geography for feeling grumpy, so excusing a bit of a winge. Reasons to feel Grumpy part three: It rained all day yesterday and the forecast is for a mixture of cloud and sun interspersed with days of solid rain. And another thing, Camping A' Vouga where we are staying right now is not terrible, but it's not that great either. The positive aspect, is its aspect - right by the sea with a nice view of the Ria de Muros y Noia and the green lump of Monte Louro. The site itself is a bit run down and unkempt and somewhat idiosyncratic. Variously coloured bollards scattered about the place for water taps and ecu points seem to have been carefully placed in relation to the trees to provide an entertaining obstacle course for motorhome drivers.
The sanitary block looks ok, but the shower doors don't fit and the water is only luke warm. Unlike the water at the chemical toilet emptying point which is piping hot. That's a first. The site also has a bit of a mossie infestation. Anyway, instead of sitting here moaning into my mobile's note app, time to get the bikes off and actually do something.
We cycled to the nearby fishing village of Muros. When we arrived late morning it was more or less deserted. Sunday mornings in Spain are seriously relaxed. We locked up the bikes by the harbour wall - found a cash machine, which was the reason for the trip - then wandered around as the place slowly came to life. The original fishing village is a tangle of alleys leading off from a plaza opposite the harbour. The little square contains a big town hall and an Art Deco era theatre, now turned into a restaurant. Clearly the village does cater for tourists, but you get the impression its main business remains fishing. For example, on one of the backstreets is an old communal laundry. I am sure everyone here has a washing machine, but there was evidence that the place was still used, perhaps to clean fishing tackle. The Iron Maiden graffiti suggested it may also be an informal youth club! In somewhere totally dedicated to tourism such a monument would have been prettified and festooned with geraniums.
By now the sun was peeking through the clouds and the harbour looked wonderful. On calm days the water in Galicia's rias look so clear they resemble inland lakes not tidal inlets, well, until the tide goes out. Today though the reflections of the mountains and clouds, the boats and jetties all looked picture perfect. The boats themselves were interesting too, quite a few of the old fishing smacks still were rigged for sail.
At the outer quay, tied up next to the deep sea trawlers was a big twin masted sailing ship. If I remember correctly from reading Arthur Ransome as a child, I would say it was a two masted schooner, but a big one, at least 60 or 70 feet in length I would guess.
Next to her was a smaller modern fishing boat piled high with tons of mussels. This was shellfish harvesting on an industrial scale. On the stern on the boat a big mechanical grab scooped up the mussel mountain like gravel and deposited it into a 40 ton articulated tipper truck parked alongside. We tried to guess the value of the cargo. Say there were 30 tons of mussels on the boat. In the supermarket they are about €5 per kilo. How much goes to the fisherman - 20%? So €1 per kilo makes €1000 per metric ton - making the lorry load worth €30,000 - even if the fishermens cut was half that, it still would be a lucretive business.
The harbour fish stall is called 'Pescado Gloria'. I am uncertain if it is run by an individual called Gloria, or if it is Muros's motto or mission statement- 'Glorious Fish!'.
The people in the van next to us were just about to leave when we arrived back at the campsite. We had a brief chat before they departed Although the van had British plates the couple were from New Zealand on a 12 month journey around Europe. Their avowed aim - 'to eat their way around Europe'. Given the cost of living 'down under ' southern Europe must seem very inexpensive and they were able to eat out most days. With the pound nearing parity with the euro, we felt a tad envious. They had stayed here for 10 nights, I began to wonder if my appraisal of the place had been somewhat ungenerous, and I had mislaid my inner beach-bum, until I went to wash up the dishes from lunch and I was assailed by a small, but determined swarm of mosquitoes. Gill is being slowly devoured. "Where are they coming from?" we asked ourselves.
We got the answer in the afternoon when we pedalled a few kilometres north towards Louro. The granite hill overlooking the town forms the first of a series of promontories called the Costa da Morte which concludes at the a more famous lump of rock, Cabo Finisterre. People flock there because it is said to be the furthest point west in mainland Europe. In fact the less spectacular cape just to the north is actually further west, and both are trumped by Capa da Roca near Lisbon. Legend seems preferred to fact hereabouts, some minor dispute about geography pales into insignificance compared to the hordes who hike here to celebrate the remains of a mythical saint whose bones arrived in a boat made of stone.
Be that as it may, back to the mosquito question. We are all itching to know where they came from. The answer, the extensive swamp surrounding the shallow lagoon a little beyond Monte Louro. The area is a bird sanctuary, and in all probability provides equal sanctuary for mosquitoes.
We did not linger, especially as some spectacular clouds seemed to be gathering off-shore. We had left a good few of our clothes hanging out to dry back at the van, so we hurried back, arriving just before the drizzle. As we quickly unpegged our almost dry laundry we decided to head south into Portugal tomorrow hoping for more sunshine and fewer bugs.
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