Spring Travels

There is a beautiful corner of the coast to the south of us called A Costa da Vela. It's to the north of Vigo, almost opposite the Cíes Islands, sentinels that guard the entrance to the Ría de Vigo. There are some villages scattered about,

but the coast that faces the islands is a cliff area, falling in a steep slope down to rocks and crashing waves below. Almost along the middle of the coast is a small hill called Monte do Facho. Although it's not even two hundred meters above sea level, it dominates the coast line. And that is why it used to have a lighthouse at its summit. It's also the reason for its name. Facho refers to a bundle of firewood and hay tied together and used to give light. It (and feixe, which simply means a bundle tied together) comes from the Latin fascis, a bundle, fagot, or burden. Rather than being used as a regular lighthouse, it was used as a warning light. From the top of Monte do Facho you can see for miles up and down the coast. If invaders came, a fire would be lit atop the hill and watchers on other hills along the coast would see it and communicate the warning with their own fires. It was the original early warning system. 

Close to the summit there are the excavated remains of a hillfort that dates back to the Iron Age. There was an older settlement from the Bronze Age, but that hasn't been dug up, yet. Only ceramic has been found in the area that is typical of that age. The hillfort was abandoned probably around 100 A.D. You might say that the villagers of Donon down at the foot of the hill could probably be the descendants of those hill dwellers. There was also a sacred spot just below the summit. Over a hundred inscribed stones have been found on that spot. They were all apparently cut in the area and then placed upright in holes. Most of them plead for intercession from a local god called Bero. Archeologists think it wasn't used by the indigenous people before the Romans came, though. And that the spot was abandoned when the introduction of Christianity reached the northwest of Spain. 

I walked up to the hill last Wednesday, on one of my mental health days. It's not a very difficult walk, but you have to pay attention to the blue signs painted on stones that direct you. The path diverges. One branch continues up the mountain and the other continues along an ancient lane past the ruins of old houses down to probably the next village. I continued along the old lane until I

found I was walking away from the hill. I retraced my steps and found the divergent uphill path. It wasn't too difficult to follow afterwards, but I was glad I had a walking stick with me. At the top there is an incredible view, almost from the Portuguese coast, to the coast where I live further to the north. There is also a perfectly round stone hut, built in the eighteenth century as a military observation tower, continuing the tradition of ancient people long gone. While the day was warm and rather still down at the foot of the hill, on top it was windy. The wind reminded me and others there that we're still in March.

When I came back down, noisy tourists were arriving, and I went wandering back along the road in. I took a side road that led down to a beach. There were some cars in the car park, and a few people on the sands. Some were just walking, others were setting up picnic lunches. The place was beautiful, but because of its location, in summer it is probably difficult to see the sand with all the people perched upon it. 

Sitting in the car, with the windows open, silence surrounded me. The only

noise was from a car radio. There was a couple sitting in the open hatchback of their car nearby, silently eating sandwiches. "Manic Monday" tinkled from their car at just the right volume, the words distinguishable, but not drowning out the birdsong and the sound of the waves. A tepid breeze blew through the windows, bringing a smell of freshly cut grass from a nearby house. The sun was warm without roasting. Spring peace.  

From there I drove to Aldán, a small fishing town on a sheltered estuary just behind the promontory that makes up the Costa da Vela. I went to visit what remained of an estate that had stretched for kilometers once upon a time and had belonged to the Aldao family, lords of Aldán. The pazo, or manor house still stands, right next to the road that continues to Bueu. The owners now have a plant nursery and a greengrocer's on the grounds. But across the road is a large area that used to belong to the family, and was their recreational and hunting grounds. There are also the remains of mills along the river that runs through it. As well as the remains of an aqueduct that was used until over forty years ago. The original aqueduct was Roman and brought water from the hills down to a fish salting area that used to lie just underneath the present pazo. The owners also built a miniature castle with a cricket ground just in front. This happened in the 1960's. If, since then they have had to start a business just to keep the pazo, imagine how much money the family must have frittered away.

The area is now municipal and open to all. Including those teenagers, and not so teenagers, that use the mock castle for nightly get-togethers. It's nice, but you are never too far from civilization. It has the feel of a city park that is not very much taken care of. And there are no signs telling you where it is, either. I happened to see a path that entered a wooded area. Just inside there was a family sitting on some rocks enjoying a picnic lunch. So I took my chances and continued walking. I was lucky; that was the place. I don't know whether the intention is to keep the number of visitors down, or if Spanish authorities in charge of signage think most people have ESP or have GPS imbedded in their brains. But, too many times, when searching for a specific place, you have to end up asking five different people how to get to the spot. Because there may be a sign pointing in one direction, but then that lane meets another, or two or three, and you'll find no more signs. Frustration tends to be a companion on my travels.

When I got back to the car, since it was still early, I decided to visit Tui and its cathedral fortress, where I haven't been in at least ten years. But, since it was Holy Week and the local festivals, some streets were closed and there was no place to park. So I drove on to the old international bridge over the Miño. I crossed it to the Portuguese side, where there was plenty of parking space. There were people from both sides of the border taking afternoon strolls, watching the placid water going by, out to sea. Canoers on both sides rippled up and down the river. It's funny to think that just thirty years ago you needed a passport to come and go. And now crossing the border is simply a nice afternoon walk.