A Guiri in Galicia - part three

Sunday March the 20th

Queso de Tetilla - just like Scania wheelnuts

Freshly attired in clean chino's with no stitching issues, I was up and about early for our last full day in Cee and with no sign of anything untoward in the throat department following yesterday's foolhardy meddling with the firewater. The first plan of action was a visit to the local Sunday market, quite why we had to travel to the other side of Spain to do so when there's a perfectly good one twice a week at home was beyond me, but who was I to complain? In the end it was quite instructive and put to bed a little teaser that had been puzzling me since our arrival a day or two back, when, a finger buffet was laid on for the pair of us that included, amongst other things, Queso de Tetilla - a speciality of the region. The way it was explained to me I understood it to mean cheese of the tit or nipple in English and was unsure if I was the unwitting victim of some kind of joke. A brief glimpse at the dairy counter and my fears were immediately assuaged; this particular Galician cheese offering - in it's uncut state - closely resembles a popular part of the female anatomy - on a very cold day!! The lady stallholder even me offered a little nibble of hers.


Percebes - for me, just as pointless as pipas

With that little matter neatly tucked in, it was off  "home" again to do battle with plates full of things which normally reside on or near the sea floor. In a restaurant, menu items that require to be sucked out of a shell or opened up using nutcrackers are way down my list of priorities. Today though, in the absence of pizza or pasta, no wasn't an option, and, in no time at all I had carefully amassed an impressive collection of crustacean body parts and empty shells on my side plate. It seemed to be just like eating potato crisps or chocolate biscuits, you know you shouldn't but can't help yourself until there's none left. I even found myself offering the last item on at least two plates round the table whilst simultaneously hoping no-one would say yes so I could fill my boots. I did draw the line though at something which resembled a cross between some sort of plant and a horses todge. Percebes, is the name of the stuff and the idea is you nip the end off with two fingers and then pull the skin away to reveal a soft pink fleshy thing which is edible. Apparently. They put me in mind of something else Spanish folk rave about and can't seem to get enough of - pipas, which, to all intents and purposes is just budgie food.

Rugged, unspoilt and fantastic - La Costa de la Muerte

When you go away and have enjoyed a fabulous time in new surroundings with incredibly kind hosts, wherever you are on the last full afternoon, that sinking feeling of having to go home is never far away is it?
For the pair of us, Galicia did it's level best to take our minds off having to say goodbye and the flight home early the next morning by saving some of the best it had to offer until the very last. South and Eastern Spain takes a certain pride in the Costa del Sol and Costa Blanca, but for me one of the best kept secrets is La Costa de la Muerte, the North West corner of the Spanish mainland where the Atlantic Ocean greets Southern Europe. Perhaps greets was a little charitable, head-butts would be slightly more appropriate because it certainly arrives in mighty angry fashion as sailors down the centuries have found out to their cost. Those lost seafarers may be gone but they definitely aren't forgotten, just feet from where the highest winter tides comes crashing ashore sits the chapel of remembrance at Punta de Barca, a poignant and permanent tribute to those who have perished in the surrounding seas.


Playa do Mar de Fora - so peaceful

Conscious our time was dwindling away we headed back down the coast to one of the most Westerly points in Spain, a place immortalized, until recently because the miserable sods changed it's name, in a BBC institution, The Shipping Forecast. Cape Finisterre, which clings to Spain by a thread, is a rocky peninsula barely three kilometres wide at it's narrowest point and home to the little seaside village of Fisterra. Continuing on, the road kicks up as the climb to Monte Facho, site of the rather grand Fisterra lighthouse that shares it's name with the nearby pueblo, begins in earnest. This is the final trek for some of the pilgrims who began their walk some ninety five odd kilometres away in Santiago, but it wasn't our destination. Instead of heading up we turned right and down, where the ankle high tussocks of grass eventually gave way to the picturesque Playa do Mar de Fora, a curved, sandy beach that could easily have been a secret corner on the Mediterranean. In complete contrast to the raging torrents of white water just along the coast, this secluded bay, with it's tiny waves creeping silently ashore, was the perfect end to a perfect weekend. At that very moment, sat on the sand staring out to sea watching the sun sink slowly beyond the distant horizon, life just felt right.

Muchisima gracias para todos José, Lola, Gema and Elmo.