Finisterre

The start of the day, I jumped out of the bed and started my day, shower and then breakfast to catch a bus for 10am to Fisterra or Finisterrae as the Romans named it.

They considered it the end of the world, the known world at least. While most pilgrims continued on foot, I opted to get the bus out that would be an hour and a half to get to my destination.

A quick breakfast of scrambled eggs, with a coffee while I tried to shake off the sleepiness that I still somehow felt. It was if my body had finally realized that the trail part was over, finally allowing itself to have a moment where it took the rest that it wanted. Or at least parts of it, where I didn't actively interfere by keeping myself busy throughout the day with walking.

At the bus station another pleasant surprise, Daniella and Anya two other travellers from Borres who were heading to Finisterre.

Loading into the bus I wish I could say that the scenery was impressive, but considering it was the direct drive to the destination with three stops, along with the fact that I was trying to update this blog, which has been half written on the cell phone, so no small feat, I'd not spent much time paying attention to the scenery rather than stealing perfunctory glances. Besides the sights would be at Finisterre.

Well the weather was less than desirable when I exited off the bus. Instead of the clear blue skies that had been present in full from the weekend on to the start of the week, I was greeted with a cloud of fog that cast its impression over the small sea side town making any visibility beyond twenty feet in some cases improbable or downright impossible.

Still I loved the town, figuring out which way to go first was a bit difficult, as I'd meandered my way down the marina full of boats, then up to the hill that had the Castile San Carlos, a rather cute little outcropping of a building that overlooked the bay, containing a museum to the fishermen of Fisterra, which had been the towns principal occupation before the inclusion on the Camino proper with the tourism that resulted.

It's an odd town really, a lot of it has been built up newly from the 50's onward as the old town literally was just a fishing village with stone cobbled building and horios. All of the development to the town proper had been started in the 60's and continued on, as such the building were squished in, with anything that wasn't used as prime real estate for restaurants or shops, being use.d as an Albergue.

Thus the character of the town changed from sleepy village to tourist destination. It was not without its scars though. A curiosity to myself was various buildings. Instead of a state of abandoned decay as was custom for Asturia and parts of interior Galicia, they had been abandoned clearly incomplete.

As if the projects had at some point lost the will to finish it, and the funding to complete halfway through the build. You had such eyesores throughout, built out of ventilated bricks so common in Spain, stood on bare cement supports with window spaces though no windows and no cladding. They had a dire sense of appeal, as if waiting for someone to just come along with the sudden inspiration that it was time to finish everything.

Another thing that could not escape my notice was the sudden appearance of dog shit in higher quantities. I don't want to moan, as it is part of life, but it seemed that most of the natural areas that had any level of grass to ground ratio, one was never far off from finding dogs mess. Even in the streets and side walks, there was the element of leaving which someone had hastily cleared out, or some unfortunate tourist or Spaniard had smeared into the pavement underfoot. It was a bit perturbing, considering just how fastidiously clean the rest of Spain had been.

Returning to the Marina front I sat down in a small cafe ordering a beer alongside a coffee, and began to peruse my options. For a surprisingly touristic spot, there was very little in the way of land markings for tourism spots. I knew the lighthouse or faro was the one highlight to visit, but that was 3km outside of town, so it would take the longest amount of time to get to. The beach was the shortest distance away, so I decided to do that first, and then get in the lighthouse as well, since that would occupy the greatest amount of time.

The beach was marvelous, covered in seaweed with yellow sand, it was lovely walking along it with my sandals off. Having experience the hardness of trails and roads, this was like walking on silk. I set about gathering some shells from the end of the world, most of the dead bivalves had been worn smooth by the slow rhythmic constant flow of the surf, so there were many choices to be had. Then testing my bravery, into the water which was unsurprisingly cold. As the first hit of the wave cut through me like a knife, letting out the uncontrolled gasp of shock, I didn't have long before the next larger wave engulfed my legs, starting my reactionary protest anew.

It was nice though, in the way that things that initially seem unpleasant can grow on you. Besides the salt water was likely going to be very good for my feet at least.

I spent about an hour on the beach, watching a farmer come down to collect seaweed with his tractor, deciding that I'd traded up to the substantial level of shells that I wanted, and getting ready for the light house when I saw Anya.

Anya was one of the German traveler's I'd met in Borres who'd live in Chile since childhood. We both left the beach to stop in for coffee, then travel to the lighthouse.

It's always interesting who you meet on trips of tourism. I'd always been fascinated by the concept of the steam trunker, or other such elements of now obsolete travel, whereby the small community of people you were stuck with would emerge, and in that brief period of time you'd get to know these people, find out their stories, likes, hobbies, and other details through conversation.

Anya was basically a dual citizen between Chile where she lived, and Germany where her children had settled, and did hiking as a hobby. As such the trip had seemed to be a good choice as it offered the challenging landscapes of Asturia such as the Hospitales or Grandes De Salime, as well as the more acclimate weather that can sometimes be elusive in Germany or parts of France. We talked about Germany, travelling, family, the usual small chat subjects, that politely pass the time.

Meanwhile the cafe we were in, seemed to be caught in attention of the headlines that flashed on a big TV set placed in the corner of the bar area. The main story of the day being a female golfing celebrity had been murdered, and tropical storms, all done in the typical formulaic tabloid style of reporting, that I find myself hating more and more over time. Thankfully there was no volume to further provide distraction.

Outside we decided on the Faro, to walk it was only 3.2km which at that point was slim pickings for seasoned veterans like us. In flip flops, we courageously strode on into the impenetrable fog.

Once at the light house, we took as many pictures as we could. Then I went down onto the cliff face. I had to laugh at the beautiful cartoon warning signs that had been put up, with their very eloquent, though not sensible usage of English in order to convey why there should be no pollution, no burning of clothing, no climbing down the cliff side to sea. You could see the scar marks of fires that people had set, promptly losing control of, so my idea for burning my loan rogue sock went out the window.

Instead I had a fitting substitute, a cigar. Lighting up I took the time to sit, enjoying the sound of the raging sea below, and the bleak beautiful landscape above. One could see why the Romans thought that this was the end of the known world.

By this point the afternoon was getting on, and as the solemnity of the place started to unravel with a fresh bus of tourists having arrived. I decided it was time to get back to town, as I'd rather be a little early and mill around for the bus, than have to rush.

The walk back down was naturally a little quicker. Then dinner, a half tortilla, bus then back to Santiago. The views were better on the return journey, because this time it was the commuter bus that serviced the area instead of the direct, so I got to see more of the sea side towns that made up the communities of the Costa Del Morte.

I was curiously tired when I got back to Santiago, enjoying a few beers before packing for tomorrow and then going to bed. I was happy to be on my way home.

Special thanks to my patrons. Brendan Mills, Renee Rushbrook, Carlos Ara.