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Galicia by Mike Cruickshank I arrived in Vigo, via an internal flight from Madrid. A very small room in El Aguila came to 3000 pesetas. The restaurant that I wanted to go to, the Don Sanchez, was closed for holidays. After wandering around for a while, I found a seafood restaurant. The meal (serrano ham, crab, cheese, two large beers, coffee and brandy) came to 6500 pesetas, more than double what I was to pay any one night for accommodation. I spent the rest of the evening bar hopping, far more cheaply than I could have in London. I kept coming across a short, bearded character, deaf as a post, who was doing the rounds sketching people for the price of a drink. They were grossly overpriced at that, but he wouldn't accept the offer of a drink without doing a drawing in return. I was travelling light, with a rucksack, and relying on public transport. After a long hot hike across Vigo, I arrived at the bus station soaked in sweat. The roads from the hotel to the Plaza d'Espana were uphill all the way through a fairly upmarket shopping area. The last few hundred yards to the bus station were mercifully downhill. Vigo seems to be built on more hills than Rome, especially if one is overweight, unfit and carrying a backpack on a warm day. The bus station itself is depressingly functional. Rather than wait two hours for an Orense bus, I caught one for Lugo which was leaving almost immediately. The 31/2 hour trip, serving a number of towns and villages en route, cost 1775 pesetas. Lugo won't be greatly missed. Apart from city walls, a cathedral and a pleasant Plaza Mayor, there isn't a great deal to it. The local shops are quite good, but it is quite obvious that the place doesn't do a roaring tourist trade. This is no bad thing in some respects. Perhaps the place might have a bit more charm if it did, but probably not: there isn't really enough space to cope with crowds. The next morning, after a good night's sleep in the Hotel Parames ( small, cheap and away from a main road), I took the 9.30 bus to Santiago. The morning started misty, but soon cleared. The scenery much as before - forest moor and farmland, heavily tinged with bleakness, redeemed by the occasional touch of beauty. Every so often, one saw the scallop shell signs indicating the pilgrim route to Santiago. I arrived in Santiago at 11.30, by which time the trip was becoming a trial on the bladder. The bus station here in Santiago is quite new by the look of it, a very much lighter and airier affair than those which had gone before. I walked into the town easily enough and found a bar, the Parades near Los Reyes Catolicos, which I had last used four years ago. I was recognised almost immediately, which was both flattering and rather disconcerting. Went walkabout round the town for a couple of hours before finding a hotel (l'Almeida, another small and comfortable place at 2,700 pesetas per single room per night). I had, by this time, decided to stay in Compostela for the weekend before going on to Finisterre. Again, I had had no intention of hanging around the bus station for four hours waiting for a connecting bus. After a shower and a couple of hours rest, I went up to the Plaza Obradoiro in front of the cathedral. I could hear drumming long before I got there to find a team of South American Indians (Peruvian or Mexican I think), doing some drum and dance routine. They were all wearing brightly coloured costumes and huge feathered head dresses. Some of the dancers were doing things with naked flames which left them unscathed, but which would have left most of us with severe burns. Any connection with Polynesian fire walkers, I wonder? The drumming was as good as I have heard in Japan, only louder and with less complex rhythms. Afterwards a couple of beers and bed, but not to sleep for a while. Young Spain keeps late hours - noisily. Spent the morning buying postcards and writing up this diary to the accompaniment of the televised wedding of the King of Spain's daughter, Princess Christina, in Barcelona. Monday,11.00am - Santiago bus station. Three nights felt too long for a stay in Santiago. By the third day, everything starts becoming a bit samey. Even so, a Sunday stroll round the park near the hotel had its charms. The oak lined avenues must be a haven of shade in the summer. Being a Sunday, the local families were out in force, enjoying a pleasant sunny afternoon. At one stage I was getting some decidedly odd looks. I was indicating the beer pump and asking for cena (supper} instead of cana (draught beer). The looks I got said it all. I had been horrified at first when I discovered Molly Malone's - Santiago's Irish pub. I went in last night and was surprised at the relief I felt at being on "home territory" for an hour or so. Tuesday 8.45 - Noia Rather than hang about for another four or five hours waiting for a bus to Finisterre, I jumped on one which was about to leave for Noia (300 pesetas and a half hour drive to the coast). When I arrived, the sky was overcast and the tide was out. The bus station was of the small and functional sort. Noia had at first glance little to recommend it. However, being a product of the two tightest peoples in the UK (those from Yorkshire and Scotland, for the few of you who don't know), I wasn't about to waste good money by taking the next bus out. Sure enough, once the sky had cleared and the tide had come in, Noia looked an attractive little town set in a nest of wooded hills. I booked into the Sol y Mar and a room overlooking the bay. The surrounding hills give the illusion that one is looking out onto a bay leading to a large lake. It is only the tide which indicates that it leads to the sea. Went exploring in the afternoon and, inevitably, found myself having a beer in a quiet bar. Across the square was a church, packed solid, with masses of flowers on the steps and a flower bedecked white car outside. It was only when someone came out of the church to open the hatch at the back of the car that I realised that it was in fact a hearse, and that there was a funeral in progress. What had thrown me was the white hearse and the people I could see in the church seemed to be casually dressed. This was borne out as the mourners left the church, some in shirt sleeves, a few in sober suits and where ties were worn, not a black one in sight. Later in the day, I was accosted by a young man begging for the price ofa bocadillo (a filled roll). I gave him 100 pesetas, the first coin which came to hand. He was vocally quite indignant because the rolls in the shop nearby cost 200 pesetas. Wednesday - Noia (again) Took the bus yesterday morning to Riviera, a half hour bus ride down the coast road. Quite an attractive route, but more built up near the town than I liked or expected. It became obvious after a while that the narrow coastal strip was the only suitable land for cultivation or, indeed, for housing. Riviera is a fishing port with a couple of decent beaches, but nothing to tempt me to linger. On a previous visit, I had been equally unimpressed by Padron, the next town along, so I took the bus back to Noia and the Sol y Mar. This time the bus went past Noia's main square, which I hadn't noticed before. It's a pleasant tiled pedestrian area with palm trees down one side and a parade of shops, bars and cafes down the other. My estimate of Noia went up a notch or two. I took an early evening stroll along one of the side roads out of town along one bank of the local river. Most of the houses were of the instantly forgettable variety, but two stood out as being two or three cuts above the rest. These evidently belonged to either the local emigrant who had made good and come home or, as is more likely these days, to successful smugglers. (The bays and estuaries in Galicia have long been the haunt of smugglers. At one time there was a regular 'mail order' trade in goods which could be bought more cheaply in Portugal and shipped up the coast. The cargo these days is more likely to be drugs.) At the top of the bay was one of the bars that I'm so fond of here: reminiscent of Hammer films, dimly lit, stone walled with a dry stone dyke effect, local fain, workers of all ages drinking and playing cards or dominoes or (the only jarring note) watching football on the bar's TV. Beer, with a complimentary tapa of bread (stale) and chorizo, was 100 pesetas. The bills in the Sol y Mar for evening meal, bed and breakfast were 5000 pesetas. Thursday - Santiago 8.00 am A dark, damp morning. I caught the bus back here yesterday morning, arriving at lunchtime. I went straight to Los Reyes Catolicos to get a room. No luck. The place was full. Bang went my chances of a good wallow in luxury on my last night in Spain. Went to the Paredes for lunch and then went walkabout to look for a room for the night, ending up in a fairly basic hostel across the square from Los Reyes Catolicos. Quite a come down. It's the only time I've resented saving money. This morning being decidedly damp, I've decided to go to the airport early. Santiago is reputed to have a certain charm in wet weather, but I think I'll save that pleasure for a future occasion. Nuts and bolts Flights by Spain's national airway Iberia, using an "open jaw" ticket (fly out to one airport and home from another). Guide books from the "Rough Guide" and the "Let's Go" series (hence the cheap hotels) The "Let's Go" guide in particular gives a good indication of the duration, frequency and price of bus journeys. A year of evening class Spanish, or the BBC course Espana Viva is sufficient for most eventualities. First published in VISA issue 30 (autumn 1998) |