Falling Back, 6&7. A Trip to the Wild Northwest Coast.

Yesterday, my husband and I took a mental health day and went for a drive to the Costa da Morte, the wild and tempestuous northwest corner of the Iberian peninsula. From Cabo Vilán and its tall lighthouse, we drove eastward along the dirt road on the edge of the ocean.

Thanks to its being September, and the devil virus, there were fewer people than otherwise. I only wore my mask when we stopped at a market, and when we entered a supermarket to pick up ingredients for a picnic lunch. It was easy to avoid getting close to people yesterday, even at spots that had a few observers, such as the town of Laxe and the lighthouse at Punta do Roncudo.

We stopped from time to time to look out at the aquamarine waves breaking into white foam on the rocks and untouched beaches. There were some people along the coast, walking over the rocks; others were fishing. But it was peaceful. At the Cemiterio dos Ingleses (the English Cemetery), where the crew from the HMS Serpent are buried, the waves broke onto

the rocks out in the sea, the Punta do Boi, agitated today, but not as violent as those that took the lives of those buried there. It's a majestic spot, next to the Praia de Trece, and one of the tallest dunes in Europe, covered in vegetation except for a strip of white. It's a dune that the sea and the wind have created against an outcropping of rock over the centuries. I assume that now it's forbidden, but years ago I remember seeing people ride motorbikes down it. 

We first drove along that lane well over twenty years ago. Back then, we were the only ones. We only found ourselves with a German that spoke perfect English, walking down the lane to the Cemetery, fearful of hurting his car, which he had left over a kilometer away at the village of Santa Mariña. The area was completely solitary; one could imagine that no people existed. Since then, the area has been touted, new roads built, and the wildness tamed. 

We stopped at Santa Mariña, a village perched on a very steep hill, away from the natural harbor at the bottom, where the fishing huts reposed, as well as the fishing boats behind a strengthened barrier. There were a couple of men with their fishing rods there, but not much luck.

From there, we drove to Arou, and a small beach nearby, where there were fishing huts,

small dories, and a tiny house we had noticed on our first visit, with a number painted on its façade, saying it was for sale. But the house had already been sold years ago, and now, though well closed against the elements, it sported a blinding white paint job. Undoubtedly, it was probably purchased by people from Madrid or another big city, to use in summer. Just like one of the fishing huts nearby, which looked like it had been repurposed as a summer home.

Then, to Camelle. When we first drove along this coast, there was a ridiculously decorated hut next to the breakwater, and strange creations of rocks pasted together with what seemed cement. The breakwater was also painted with colored circles against a black background, just like the hut. We never got to see him, but this was the creation of Man, Manfred Gnädinger, a German who lived in the hut as a hermit. It seems he had visited the

area, fell in love with it, and stayed, to live as simply as possible, while giving himself over to his creative instincts. I am sure he was seen as a harmless kook by many neighbors, and probably laughed at. But when the oil tanker Prestige broke up off the coast, and its tons of thick, black petroleum bathed the shores and its rocks in mourning, he fell into a roaring depression, lamenting the loss of the natural beauty in his world. He came into the news, and everyone suddenly felt sorry for him. He was found dead in his hut, in December, 2002. Now, there's a museum nearby, dedicated to him. But nature has not been kind to what he left behind. The paint has almost entirely flaked away, and a large winter storm in 2010 destroyed most of his rock sculptures.

We continued on, to Laxe. When we first visited, people had begun to notice it because of a local television series with exteriors filmed in the town and its surroundings. It's still a charming little town, though it has plenty more tourists now, and the building boom of the turn of the century has made it a town of summer residents and empty winters. 

We visited the church, Santa María da Atalaia, with its exterior steps leading up to the

belfry. I remembered that just outside the church walls was a tomb of a captain's wife and son, who died in a shipwreck in front of the town, but I couldn't find it. I even wondered if I had the town wrong in that memory, but it turns out I didn't. The tomb is in the garage of the house next to the church wall. Or, it should be, unless a reckless owner has gotten rid of it. 

In 1830 (some records say 1850), the HMS Adelaide was sailing to the Antilles. A storm threw it from its course, and the captain followed some lights, thinking it was a lighthouse, but they were the lights (such as they were) of the town of Laxe. In its bay, the ship went down, the only survivor, Captain Dovell. The crew was buried across the bay from the town, but on board was also the captain's wife and 12 year old son, who perished against the cliffs where the church stands. (Now, it's a filled-in area of the port, but the sea used to wash against the cliff there.) Because it was the wife and son of the captain, the bodies weren't buried in the mass grave with the crew. But they weren't Catholic, so the local priest wouldn't allow their burial in sanctified ground. So, a neighbor allowed the captain to bury them in his yard, next to the churchyard wall. The captain had a gravestone carved, and visited many times during his life. Sometime in the late twentieth century, the owner of the yard built a garage over the tomb, and the town officials have found it difficult to negotiate its removal. 

After this, we drove to Corme, where we continued through to Punto do Roncudo, and the lighthouse there. In this bay, there are dozens of wrecked ships at the bottom. White crosses have been placed on some of the rocks, to remember those drowned at sea. This is where the famed percebes come from, barnacles scraped from the rocks by intrepid men and women. In the months leading up to Christmas, they can easily make a year's income. These are some of the biggest, most expensive barnacles available. They are also among the most dangerous to extricate. 

The sea was an intense aquamarine, with lighter shades as the waves swooped up and crashed into white foam at the base of the rocks. There were plenty of people around, taking photos of each other, including a couple at two of the crosses. 

As we were leaving, we stopped the car just in front of the crosses. There was a gull perched

on one. But, a younger couple was also walking to the crosses. They frightened away the gull, and, first the man, then the woman, posed in front of the crosses to have their picture taken. It seemed to me a crass misrepresentation of what those crosses mean. They are there to remind everyone of the lives lost. The couple treated them like a symbol of the town and its offerings, like a tourist gimmick to take pictures with. That is one of the things I hate so much about casual tourists, who don't even take the time to find out the reasons behind what they are looking at. 

By then, it was beginning to get late, and after a short stroll through the twisted streets of Corme town, we left for home. It was a nice day, neither hot nor cold. The rain that had been by in the night had vanished in the morning, and left a medley of clouds and sun, with a thundershower off the coast of Corme in the distance. Social distancing had not been a problem, and we could enjoy the fresh air on our faces. Let's see what awaits us in the winter, and if we can pull off a weekend away at some point, somehow.

Life continues.