A Drive South
September is my month. I am on vacation, with no classes. Yesterday, since my husband wasn't coming home for lunch, I went for a drive.
I decided to go to Vigo along the old national road, the N550. It passes through countless towns and the city of Pontevedra before reaching Vigo and melting into its urban streets. As I was driving, however, I automatically made a right turn into the entrance to the tollway that runs north to south from Ferrol to Tui. My automatic pilot was on, so I turned it off and took the first exit, to Caldas, where I finally incorporated onto the N550.
As I drove south from Caldas, I remembered an old disco, A Condesa, where I had gone once with friends, well over twenty years ago. Now, large modern factory buildings dominate the area, and the disco is long gone. Lone gone, too is what used to be the cheapest gas station in the area, buildings in ruins, spray painted logos on them, weeds adoring the tarmac. Further on, to the left, is the park Ría de Barosa, where we visited in 2012 with a couple of friends, and followed part of the hiking trail up to a waterfall. The park consists of a number of watermills along a river, with various natural swimming pools carved into the rock by the force of the water in the rainy winters. Some of the mills have been transformed into restaurants, and the area is always full of people in the summer. In winter, the river takes back its course, and there is no sunbathing on the submerged boulders.
As I neared Pontevedra, I passed familiar landmarks. One was the airplane in the woods. I never saw it open, but on a downhill curve to the right, at the entrance to the township of Barro, sits the rusting body of an airplane on concrete pilings, its wings dipping down in harmony with its forlorn spirit. The truth is, it never belonged to a real airplane. It was built from sheets of tin by three friends who decided to create a singular bar, which was really called Las Tres M, but which became known as Bar O Avión. In the beginning, they took it from fiesta to fiesta, taking it apart and putting it together at each stop. In the end, tired from the trouble it took, they put it on the pilings next to the road and set up shop there. It became quite famous in its way, until it closed because the owners went on to other plans and sold it. Now, it sits there, surrounded by weeds and trees, a relic of other times.
The entrance to Pontevedra is confusing. The asphalt on the street leading in is the same as it was well over twenty years ago, but once the bridge over the Lerez is crossed, everything is different. No longer does the N550 continue through the middle of town. Now there is a rotary at the end of the bridge, and you can only turn right or left. But there are only signs pointing to Marín and Bueu, nothing that says Vigo. Keeping to instinct and remote memory, I turn right towards Marín, and have to go around the entire city of Pontevedra. That wouldn't be so bad if the speed limit hadn't been reduced to 30kph (18mph). And even that wouldn't have put such a crimp in my driving style as much as the enormous speed bumps every few meters that are so high, it seems like the car is climbing up and down Mount Everest.
The detour takes me by what we know locally (by locally, I mean most of the Rías Baixas) as a Fábrica do Cheiro, the Stench Factory. It's officially the paper mill of Ence, and there has been a controversy a mile long over its location, right on the Ría de Pontevedra, and the pollution it contributes to the water and the air - the stench comes from the process of bleaching. Depending on the wind, the stench can cover the west of Pontevedra or wander elsewhere. When I passed by south, the stench was going elsewhere, when I passed by later north, the stench was coming in to Pontevedra. Definitely disagreeable.
Reunited with the N550 to the south of the city, I continued. At one point my phone rang. Seeing who it was, I pulled over because I suspected a long conversation. It was a good thing I did so, because when I got back on the road and turned the curve ahead, there was a squad of Tráfico, with a patrol car on either side of the road, two motorcycles, and various officers in the familiar forest green uniforms and electric green vests. At that moment, a checklist flashed through my head in 0.3 seconds. Seatbelt? Tires? Car inspection? Lights? Speed??? No problem, I passed through without a second glance directed at me. I pitied the poor guy they had stopped, though.
When I got to Cesantes, I turned to the right down a narrow lane bordered by houses and kitchen gardens down to the sea. It was low tide and I made my first stop to walk along the beach and look out to the island of San Simón. Actually, they're two islands, San Simón and San Antón, which are linked by a bridge built in the 1920's. The island has gone from having monks in the Middle Ages, Knights Templars, and Franciscans, to lepers, political prisoners, and orphans. Now, it has become a shrine to the concentration camp Franco kept there and the prisoners' memory, along with hosting a cultural venue during the summer months. The tide was turning, so the clam diggers were packing up. They took their clams to a truck that was awaiting them, to sort out the different sizes and decide the price. Yesterday was a nice day, but I'd hate to be out there on a frosty winter morning, bent over in the icy water. It's a hard job.
After a half hour, I continued, passing through Redondela with its iron railways above the town center. They were built at the end of the nineteenth century and have become a symbol of the town. When I approached Rande, I saw to my right a sign leading to a museum of the Battle of Rande. I slowed down and turned. The turn, however, was practically a doubling back upon the direction I had come in, and the lane was a bit narrow. It was also downhill, with a stone wall that supported the road above tapering to a large bump. So my car landed on its bottom and the car was on three wheels. Slowly, I went forward a nudge more, and the backside of the car landed on its bottom. I went forward a little more, and the backside scraped slowly until it was free of the stone wall that shored up the main road. I stopped a few meters down the lane. Everything was fine. My car must hate me.
The entrance to the museum is off an industrial esplanade now used to repair the enormous nets commercial fishing boats use. It's got space enough. I had to part the car there and walk to the dirt lane blocked by two rusty barriers that leads to the museum. The lane at first looks like it has been abandoned, but then a picnic area appears to the left, and houses play peek-a-boo with the trees up above. To the right is the Ría de Vigo. The museum is housed within prefabricated metal boxes set up within the outer walls of what had been a canning factory until thirty or forty years ago. From it, you can access a floating dock and look up at the Ponte de Rande. The bridge was built for the tollway in the 1970's and is now suffering the addition of two more lanes. The point where it crosses the ría is exactly where two fortresses once stood, on either side of the water, and where the Battle of Rande happened in 1702.
The museum explains the battle and has models of certain spaces on the ships of the era, such as the captain's mess, the canons, and the crew's quarters. Looking out on the sunny day and peaceful water, it's incredible to think of the days of fire, water, and death that happened in October of that year, three hundred fifteen years ago.
In 1700, Spain's Charles II died and left no heir. He had declared on his deathbed his grandnephew, Philip of Anjou, one of the grandsons of Louis the XIV of France and a Bourbon, the heir. That wasn't good news to England, the Netherlands (allied with England in marriage; William of Orange of William and Mary fame had died that year after acceding to the throne of England upon his wife's death - his sister-in-law, Anne, succeeded him) nor Austria (the Hapsburgs of Spain were related to the Hapsburgs of Austria). They declared war on the Franco-Spanish alliance, proposing the Archduke Charles, son of the Austrian emperor, for the throne.
In the midst of that conflict, the galleons arrived in Spain from Nueva España, laden with rich woods, cocoa, diamonds, gold, and silver. The cargo, especially the metals, were needed to help finance the fight. Their port of call would have been Cadiz, but when the fleet passed the Azores, they got word that the British navy was laying waste to it, so they proceeded to the north, and weighed anchor just inside the ría, in the protecting shadow of the fort at Rande. They managed to vacate some of the treasure overland before the British and Dutch showed up. But the rest was lost in the following battle, with the Spanish fleet destroyed, and the rest of the treasure going to London. The British and Dutch also raided and destroyed the sea-lying towns, except Vigo, protected by its walls. In London, the treasurer happened to be Sir Isaac Newton, and from his notes we know that the treasure taken by the British amounted to 4,504 pounds, 2 ounces of silver, and 7 pounds, 8 ounces of gold. One of the galleons, mortally wounded, yet dragged out to the open sea by the British, sank by the Cíes Islands, with its treasure still inside, though no one has yet found it. The legend of sunken treasure still resounds along the ría.
I continued my drive into Vigo, drowning in the maze of city streets. Following my nose, I found myself on Rúa Urzaiz, where I parked in an underground parking garage and wandered around a little bit. I rediscovered Rúa do Príncipe, which I remembered as a crowded and happy shopping street, with many small stores. Now, the small stores have mostly shuttered and given way to large multinational stores, their wares the same in Madrid, Vigo, and Toulouse. Or anywhere you can find them. There were few people; it was just after three o'clock, yet most of those large stores were open all day. I walked down to the marina, fell in love with a few boats for sale, and then walked back to the car. It was a long morning, and someday I plan to return on that route, only then I'll spend some more time in Vigo.
I decided to go to Vigo along the old national road, the N550. It passes through countless towns and the city of Pontevedra before reaching Vigo and melting into its urban streets. As I was driving, however, I automatically made a right turn into the entrance to the tollway that runs north to south from Ferrol to Tui. My automatic pilot was on, so I turned it off and took the first exit, to Caldas, where I finally incorporated onto the N550.
As I drove south from Caldas, I remembered an old disco, A Condesa, where I had gone once with friends, well over twenty years ago. Now, large modern factory buildings dominate the area, and the disco is long gone. Lone gone, too is what used to be the cheapest gas station in the area, buildings in ruins, spray painted logos on them, weeds adoring the tarmac. Further on, to the left, is the park Ría de Barosa, where we visited in 2012 with a couple of friends, and followed part of the hiking trail up to a waterfall. The park consists of a number of watermills along a river, with various natural swimming pools carved into the rock by the force of the water in the rainy winters. Some of the mills have been transformed into restaurants, and the area is always full of people in the summer. In winter, the river takes back its course, and there is no sunbathing on the submerged boulders.As I neared Pontevedra, I passed familiar landmarks. One was the airplane in the woods. I never saw it open, but on a downhill curve to the right, at the entrance to the township of Barro, sits the rusting body of an airplane on concrete pilings, its wings dipping down in harmony with its forlorn spirit. The truth is, it never belonged to a real airplane. It was built from sheets of tin by three friends who decided to create a singular bar, which was really called Las Tres M, but which became known as Bar O Avión. In the beginning, they took it from fiesta to fiesta, taking it apart and putting it together at each stop. In the end, tired from the trouble it took, they put it on the pilings next to the road and set up shop there. It became quite famous in its way, until it closed because the owners went on to other plans and sold it. Now, it sits there, surrounded by weeds and trees, a relic of other times.
The entrance to Pontevedra is confusing. The asphalt on the street leading in is the same as it was well over twenty years ago, but once the bridge over the Lerez is crossed, everything is different. No longer does the N550 continue through the middle of town. Now there is a rotary at the end of the bridge, and you can only turn right or left. But there are only signs pointing to Marín and Bueu, nothing that says Vigo. Keeping to instinct and remote memory, I turn right towards Marín, and have to go around the entire city of Pontevedra. That wouldn't be so bad if the speed limit hadn't been reduced to 30kph (18mph). And even that wouldn't have put such a crimp in my driving style as much as the enormous speed bumps every few meters that are so high, it seems like the car is climbing up and down Mount Everest.
The detour takes me by what we know locally (by locally, I mean most of the Rías Baixas) as a Fábrica do Cheiro, the Stench Factory. It's officially the paper mill of Ence, and there has been a controversy a mile long over its location, right on the Ría de Pontevedra, and the pollution it contributes to the water and the air - the stench comes from the process of bleaching. Depending on the wind, the stench can cover the west of Pontevedra or wander elsewhere. When I passed by south, the stench was going elsewhere, when I passed by later north, the stench was coming in to Pontevedra. Definitely disagreeable.
Reunited with the N550 to the south of the city, I continued. At one point my phone rang. Seeing who it was, I pulled over because I suspected a long conversation. It was a good thing I did so, because when I got back on the road and turned the curve ahead, there was a squad of Tráfico, with a patrol car on either side of the road, two motorcycles, and various officers in the familiar forest green uniforms and electric green vests. At that moment, a checklist flashed through my head in 0.3 seconds. Seatbelt? Tires? Car inspection? Lights? Speed??? No problem, I passed through without a second glance directed at me. I pitied the poor guy they had stopped, though.
After a half hour, I continued, passing through Redondela with its iron railways above the town center. They were built at the end of the nineteenth century and have become a symbol of the town. When I approached Rande, I saw to my right a sign leading to a museum of the Battle of Rande. I slowed down and turned. The turn, however, was practically a doubling back upon the direction I had come in, and the lane was a bit narrow. It was also downhill, with a stone wall that supported the road above tapering to a large bump. So my car landed on its bottom and the car was on three wheels. Slowly, I went forward a nudge more, and the backside of the car landed on its bottom. I went forward a little more, and the backside scraped slowly until it was free of the stone wall that shored up the main road. I stopped a few meters down the lane. Everything was fine. My car must hate me.
The entrance to the museum is off an industrial esplanade now used to repair the enormous nets commercial fishing boats use. It's got space enough. I had to part the car there and walk to the dirt lane blocked by two rusty barriers that leads to the museum. The lane at first looks like it has been abandoned, but then a picnic area appears to the left, and houses play peek-a-boo with the trees up above. To the right is the Ría de Vigo. The museum is housed within prefabricated metal boxes set up within the outer walls of what had been a canning factory until thirty or forty years ago. From it, you can access a floating dock and look up at the Ponte de Rande. The bridge was built for the tollway in the 1970's and is now suffering the addition of two more lanes. The point where it crosses the ría is exactly where two fortresses once stood, on either side of the water, and where the Battle of Rande happened in 1702. The museum explains the battle and has models of certain spaces on the ships of the era, such as the captain's mess, the canons, and the crew's quarters. Looking out on the sunny day and peaceful water, it's incredible to think of the days of fire, water, and death that happened in October of that year, three hundred fifteen years ago.
In 1700, Spain's Charles II died and left no heir. He had declared on his deathbed his grandnephew, Philip of Anjou, one of the grandsons of Louis the XIV of France and a Bourbon, the heir. That wasn't good news to England, the Netherlands (allied with England in marriage; William of Orange of William and Mary fame had died that year after acceding to the throne of England upon his wife's death - his sister-in-law, Anne, succeeded him) nor Austria (the Hapsburgs of Spain were related to the Hapsburgs of Austria). They declared war on the Franco-Spanish alliance, proposing the Archduke Charles, son of the Austrian emperor, for the throne.
In the midst of that conflict, the galleons arrived in Spain from Nueva España, laden with rich woods, cocoa, diamonds, gold, and silver. The cargo, especially the metals, were needed to help finance the fight. Their port of call would have been Cadiz, but when the fleet passed the Azores, they got word that the British navy was laying waste to it, so they proceeded to the north, and weighed anchor just inside the ría, in the protecting shadow of the fort at Rande. They managed to vacate some of the treasure overland before the British and Dutch showed up. But the rest was lost in the following battle, with the Spanish fleet destroyed, and the rest of the treasure going to London. The British and Dutch also raided and destroyed the sea-lying towns, except Vigo, protected by its walls. In London, the treasurer happened to be Sir Isaac Newton, and from his notes we know that the treasure taken by the British amounted to 4,504 pounds, 2 ounces of silver, and 7 pounds, 8 ounces of gold. One of the galleons, mortally wounded, yet dragged out to the open sea by the British, sank by the Cíes Islands, with its treasure still inside, though no one has yet found it. The legend of sunken treasure still resounds along the ría. I continued my drive into Vigo, drowning in the maze of city streets. Following my nose, I found myself on Rúa Urzaiz, where I parked in an underground parking garage and wandered around a little bit. I rediscovered Rúa do Príncipe, which I remembered as a crowded and happy shopping street, with many small stores. Now, the small stores have mostly shuttered and given way to large multinational stores, their wares the same in Madrid, Vigo, and Toulouse. Or anywhere you can find them. There were few people; it was just after three o'clock, yet most of those large stores were open all day. I walked down to the marina, fell in love with a few boats for sale, and then walked back to the car. It was a long morning, and someday I plan to return on that route, only then I'll spend some more time in Vigo.
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