The Great Iberian Road Trip, DAYS 22-28: How To Enjoy Your Travels - Less Is More

The final week in San Cibrao was a bit quieter and just more of the same. We are firm believers in the “Less Is More” principle of travelling. I prefer to stick around a certain area for a while to really get to feel it; to live and breathe it; to understand what makes it tick. To eat in the local centres of life, drink with a few regulars, watch the world go by. There’s nothing worse than micro-management on a trip. I mean, a few nights ago, I decided to go for a full moon walk along the water’s edge and into the forest. It was magic – I witnessed a shooting star and managed to get truly lost for a few minutes, my first time ever. I wasn’t scared, just a little extra adventure. I got home at just before 3 in the morning.

Now imagine if we had planned our week here to the second, like some people do – imagine that we had to get going somewhere by 9. I would have missed that beautiful event to go to bed on time, and I would have been stressing about getting everyone ready to go out by a certain time and worried that we’d miss this or that because of the time constraints. There are people who do this, and they’re missing out on a much more important thing than checking off everything on their list: immersion.

Immersion in the neighbourhood you are visiting, whether for part of a day or for an extended stay, is essential to the aim of travel. What’s the point in going to Venice, Valencia or Vilnius if you’re just going to eat in fast food joints and drink coffee from the place with the big green fairy? I’ve seen tourists complain because of the most basic of things, most of them because their familiarity boundaries are being challenged.

Tourists contribute to the local economy not necessarily by just staying in rental accommodation – the owner might live a long way away – the best way is by getting your food and drink from the places the locals go to: fruit and veg shops, bakeries, butcher’s shops, cafés, restaurants and bars; buying locally-made products in non-chain stores; and a very effective way is to encourage others to do the same by placing positive reviews in the places you liked. If you want to provide negative feedback on a place, make sure it’s believable and neutral, leaving out as much subjective language as you can. Nobody believes vulgar or disdainful language in reviews.

In some cities and tourist traps, buying in independent outlets can be a punishing experience, and quite counterproductive. I remember one ruse this shop owner in a tourist resort pulled on me once: I wanted to buy a pot of honey. He said it was 12 euro for one, 30 for three. I said I’d just like one, and he said you can only buy a minimum of three. I told him he’d just lost a larger sale, because I was planning on buying several other items.

His loss.

Parking can be another very contentious issue. People bang on about always using public transport, but their infrequency and the time it takes to get anywhere often cancel out their advantage. Some cities provide adequate parking for everyone. Spain has excellent facilities for parking, and provide really decent apps to make the process much easier so you can stay the whole day without having to take action. But go to Germany where they are about 20 years behind in the use of technology and you can find yourself needing a huge supply of coins and the inability to leave a certain area for long because the meter has a 2-hour limit and you have to return to top it up later.

Having a car means I can show my family many more things than I could ever do otherwise. And not taking these three little Herberts on public transport is doing everyone a huge favour, believe me. I have always had a list of places I have wanted to visit, and I’ve started with the ones we can do by car. I have always wanted to go to A Coruña, ever since I saw it on a map, and I have always wanted to go to Santiago de Compostela. Not for the pilgrimage aspect – it is not my religion – but for the ambience, the feel of the place, and to maybe meet some interesting people. I may not believe in the god of Moses and Jesus, but my religion explicitly directs me to respect all other religions and the people who practise them. Except when they’re trying to force their own beliefs on you: then I can let out some hot air.

Anyway, we’re now in Finisterre, or Fisterra, as it’s known in Spanish. Before we left San Cibrao, we went a couple of times to the enormous municipal playground in Burela for the kids to play with the locals there. They’re so caring and thoughtful – they all group together their money to go buy sweets that they can all share, like chuches, which are packets of lollies with three or four in each, or they push the smaller ones on the swings. They’re also kids, so they don’t always feel obliged to hang around and might go to another square for a while before they come back, but they’ll greet you like they hadn’t seen you for ages.

I spoke to some of their mothers. They go to the square at 5 every day, give or take half an hour, because the mothers are working, usually until 8, when they come to pick their children up. The square is teeming with kids but also with pensioners, who keep a very close eye on the activities and shenanigans there. So this is more or less a free childcare centre for working mothers. These are kids of parents not only from Latin America or Africa, but also from Spain. They were all happy to play with their friends, but were also pleased to see their mothers at the end of the day.

On Friday morning, the landlady showed up with her husband and an assistant to clean the place because some new arrivals were on their way. We had caused a little bit of wear and tear, which we owned up to and offered to rectify, but they said it was all part of the adventure of staying in a holiday rental.

We sped off to A Coruña, a little under 2 hours away. Here’s a surprising fact: Galicia is about 30% larger than Wales or Slovenia. Galicia is about 30,000 square kilometres in size, and Wales about 21,000; Slovenia is roughly the same as Wales in area. You can drive for miles and miles here and not see a single soul. It is immense, and yet it is only the seventh largest region of Spain.

A Coruña, a city on the Atlantic coast of Spain, was not a disappointment – I loved the seafarer atmosphere there, which I felt was missing from San Sebastian. We only really had a couple of hours to enjoy it, so we took a little walk along the sea front for Dainoris to give us his best moaning performance: we simply love his “I’m hungry!” routine, especially when you offer him some bread and he will only accept sweets. We also find his “I’m tired!” act while we are out walking such a special piece of art, because as soon as we see a playground, he suddenly has enough energy to power a Tesla for the day.

We wanted to make the most of the three hours we had there, so we had lunch in a place which seemed like it catered to workers. It had a decent enough menu, but the only person waiting on all the tables had the memory of an easily distracted octopus. He forgot some part of our order or brought out things to wrong tables. In the end, the tourists on the table next to us arrived later and left a long time before us having eaten and drunk just as much.

We had a much-truncated walk where Milda took over the “I’m tired” routine. I told her “well in a couple of minutes at the car, you can have a rest for another hour and a half”, which was a very unpopular reply. I could tell the kids were getting ratty and exhausted from all this moving around, so I hoped we could have a few good memories in the next place.

At about half past five, I pulled up at the bakery where Rocio, our hostess, worked with her family. She gave us the keys and told us a few things about the place. The apartment was just a minute’s ride up the hill, nestled in the trees near the sea. That’s for another time.

The Great Iberian Road Trip, Days 15-22: Keeping The Peace

Being on a semi-working holiday in Spain can have its advantages: your timetable writes itself. Things in Spain often don’t get going until later on in the day, leaving plenty of time earlier on for work. In the morning, the kids play fairly nicely together, or they watch Clan, a TV channel run by RTVE for children which lets the adults get on with adulting. I generally cook lunch for about half past one, and afterwards we go out for the rest of the day. We might go to the beach, or to another town, or somewhere extra special. But up here in this evocative landscape, there is so much to see.

On Saturday 13 July, Bonny Bee had decided to take the day off to give us an earlier start. The evening before, I was looking around for things for us to do, when I came across a restaurant opposite a beach on Google Maps. The reviews seemed to be quite favourable, so I decided to call them first thing on Saturday morning in the hope there was still space. The price of eating out in Spain is still relatively reasonable, so everyone still does it, although it’s becoming less frequent and more of a special event.

The woman on the phone said they had one space left at one fifteen if we wanted it, so I accepted. It was just over half an hour away by car and we got there a few minutes late. The scenery on the way was enough to slow us down, but it was mainly caused by kids’ delaying tactics. I don’t get it – they scream and shout about wanting to do stuff; go out, play, swim, run around, but as soon as you announce that the toothbrushes are ready and the clothes are set out, they run off as if we’ve just announced another evening of watching Newsnight or maybe filing taxes.

As Google Maps Lady announced our arrival, we surveyed the area. It was nearly overflowing with cars. The car park, which was not small, had just three or four free places. Their owners were somewhere else, because there was nobody. The place wasn’t deserted – there were some people in the restaurant grounds, but unless everyone drove two or three cars there, a justification for the full car par was not forthcoming.

The restaurant itself was a vision of sheer magnificence; it was exactly how I envisioned a Galician restaurant when I came here. Under some low plane trees were rows of picnic-style tables, big enough for a family of ten. There was a small hut with a pool table, table football and air hockey which attracted quite a mixed crowd. For the preteens, there was a playground with swing, slide, and mini pirate ship. The main house was a one-storey tavern-style edifice with a chimney and seating for the winter.

But the menu was the star: there were mainly “raciones”, which are like snack-sized portions of food. Looking over it, the dishes we ordered kind of chose themselves. We asked for veal churrasco for two, which look like belly of pork, but are slightly thicker. When it came, I realised we had more or less half a cow sitting on the table. How on earth we were going to manage all this was beyond me. The children had what I can only describe as a field’s worth of potatoes and as for the salad, it was a garden on a plate.

Some restaurants ooze appeal for their fancy cuisine, others for their décor. Some have a great atmosphere, and many have efficient staff. All of these things might make your dining experience memorable. However, sometimes it’s worth thinking: what is it that actually makes the whole experience worth it? I would say, apart from the above, it’s the attractiveness of the food put in front of you. How much does it make you want to eat it? And here we have a prime example of this. I’m not a big fan of pretentious displays of micro-managed dish design. I admire art, but generally we come away from fancy restaurants with their meagre portions looking for the nearest place to get a plate of chips or a decent kebab.

The scenery, the atmosphere, the happy food, the cheery staff, all combined, made it one of the best dining experiences I think we have ever had. Afterwards, we had a magnificent dessert, coffee and a little rest before we crossed the road to the beach.

And what a beach it was. Forget Ha Long in Vietnam, away with Ko Samui in Thailand. This was by far the most breathtaking of beaches. I couldn’t wait to get in my swimming gear and head out into the calm, almost lake-like sea. Bearing in mind this was the Atlantic Ocean, I was awestruck by how serene the waters become in these inlets and bays.

All around me was sloping greenery and rock eroded by millennia of violent winter storms. On the hillside to my left were some rather modest yet well-looked-after houses. They were probably all sadly rentals, left idle for the months containing the letter R. I would have jumped at the chance to live in such a place, but yes, the owners of those houses were probably right – I doubt this area is much fun in January.

The children all played so nicely on this beach. It was an absolute joy to watch them splashing around in the calm waters, building things in the sand, and having such an immensely happy time. When we had had enough, we offered the prospect of a return to the restaurant for a drink, and they gladly joined us for a last visit. We will return before we leave here.

On Monday 15 July, we went to the northernmost point in Spain, the Faro de Estaca de Bares, about an hour’s drive from our place. It’s a windswept promontory with a car park, basically. Milda wanted to stay in the car, so Bonny Bee, Livia and Dainoris joined me on the short but complicated walk to the top of Spain. The day before, Spain had defeated England in the final of UEFA 2024 in Germany, so coming to this place had a certain poetry.

When we got to the grounds of the working lighthouse, an old curly-haired dog ambled over towards us. Now, as we know, Livia absolutely hates dogs. Dainoris has slowly become more friendly towards them, but he’s still a little unsure of the bigger variety. He seemed OK with this one. But then, from the direction of the rocky outcrop, came what I can only describe as the principal reason why Livia hates all dogs: self-indulgent and insensitive dog owners.

For anyone who actually owns a dog – please, please be aware that not everyone finds Fluffy, Bodkin, Spike, Toto and Tyson as amiable as you do. So over the hill came this moody, seething dog attached to its shabby owner, barking, snarling and generally behaving as if it owned the place. Then shabby owner’s wife and her more compliant dog came over. The two looked at each other and the gormless curly-haired dog who was shambling towards the angry dog as if greeting an old friend. They realised that if that ditzy old mutt made it to its furious counterpart, there would be a massacre. We were about to witness the canine version of a Mexican standoff. But the woman owner had other plans: she dragged her more docile pet and the old pooch across the heather and gorse until the guy and the frothing, four-legged apoplectic paroxysm raged past.

In all this, Livia had run all the way back to the car, closed the door, and refused to get out again. This made me really sad, because she missed out on a really stunning view and some very interesting flora. Dainoris came, and he relished the place. There are lots of sheer drops though, and with a howling wind, the whole experience made me nervous to the verge of panic because he was even more curious than normal. I wonder if it was intentional – he’s usually very cautious and almost petrified of precarious locations, so this was an interesting development.

After a trip to the playground in Viveiro, we arrived in San Cibrao a little after 8 in the evening. We were greeted by the haunting music of the local folk group. The melody they were playing sounded remarkably similar to an Ennio Morricone piece for the film The Mission. I hardly needed to guess which came first… doing some research, Morricone tried hard to formulate a piece that encompassed folk tunes, religious pieces and Spanish-style guitar music that would represent the various groups of society of the time depicted in the film. I wonder if Morricone had ever been to San Cibrao…

After a couple of rest days, on Thursday 18 July, we made the decision to go to the Playa de las Catedrales, the most treasured beach on the northern coast. So much so, you have to book to go there. It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and it’s easy to see why. Curated by a generous number of lifeguards and guides, you go to a website where you enter the details of all the people travelling with you, including their national numbers, which I found quite an intrusion of privacy, just to visit a beach.

But once you’re down there, it’s a joyful and exciting place. There are dozens of nooks, mini-caves, arches, and rockpools for kids and adults alike to have a tremendous time. The weather was stunning, and made the experience even more intense. When the tide had gone out, the curators put up some temporary poles with rope barriers allowing us to walk further along the cliff edges, between the arches, and marvelling at the views. Taking my smartphone into shallow waters was risky enough, but I started getting cocky when I actually ventured into the sea with it to take some pictures from further out. The waves were quite high and strong – this was the Atlantic, after all – but I somehow managed. And here’s the contrast with Dainoris – he didn’t want to go. He kept complaining about wanting to stay on the same area of beach where we had put our stuff. I can’t quite comprehend it.

Coming away from there was a difficult experience for us all, especially for Dainoris, who made his feelings known. We all have certain places where we feel a particular attachment, either because of its characteristics, or the experiences we had there. Places which feel like home, even if they aren’t. I think this was Dainoris’s first taste of being somewhere that felt like a Ground Zero. I have a few of those.

On Saturday 20 July, we took a trip to Lugo. Bonny Bee wanted to see the Roman walls and walk around the city. It was over 100 km away, and would take an hour and a half to get there. I have to say it didn’t really set the world on fire, but the city is pleasant enough. It was a Saturday afternoon in Lugo, but it reminded me of a Sunday afternoon in Trier. Despite the abundance of some really pretty restaurants, the kids wanted pizza. As we hadn’t had one for two weeks, we decided to indulge them.

The place we entered looked like it had been designed by a Renaissance hairdresser with a penchant for things that easily break. There was glass everywhere – such a perfect place to take three immature hairless baboons for lunch. In the end, nothing happened, but every *clink* and every *clonk* caused me to lose a little piece of sanity. The meal cost a fortune too – we could have eaten elsewhere for half that price – and I constantly wonder why we acquiesce to the whims of little beasts. I think, quite brutally, that we do it because it’s easier than disagreeing. We should just lay down the law, but I don’t think we have the energy.

Afterwards, Dainoris wanted to go to *yet another* playground, but we wanted to see a bit more of the city. Telling Dainoris that he can’t go to a playground is the equivalent of any punishment you might administer. And here is where the two positions collide: on one side, we want to keep a lid on the adverse infantile reactions; on the other, we want to follow part of our own programme too. So the soundtrack to our exploration of Lugo city centre was Dainoris crying loudly. We don’t give in, but nor does he. He can cry for hours until he gets what he wants. It’s a form of breaking down resistance. Milda’s way to get what she wants is to just refuse anything else and look confused. She is brilliant at it. Livia is generally the most compliant of all three, but when she really doesn’t want something, you’ll know about it. Her way of showing disapproval is to tell you for hours, sometimes several days, that she didn’t like the way you performed.

I decided to send them to a playground and sit in the café terrace next to it. Dainoris found it for us – he said “look, there’s a lovely café for you, next to the playground!” I’m hoping this is a long-term trend: looking for solutions, being a glass-half-full person. Because at the moment, he’s definitely more glass-half-empty. In fact, he’s more glass-will-be-full-again-when-I-steal-your-juice.

So we are entering the final week in San Cibrao. We hope to see a few more things, but it’s time to visit some of the places we liked the most. I think we will be back one day, but we just don’t know. So we have to make sure we make some strong memories.

EXTRA PHOTOS:

The Great Iberian Road Trip, Days 9 to 15: Where Is Everybody? At The Football!

We had been in our rental for five hours and we hadn’t seen a single soul from the terrace windows off the living room. The place was deserted. There are cars around, there are plants in the common gardens, the grass is freshly mown, but there was no sign of life. It was like the Truman Show but without the fabulous weather. We arranged the children into various rooms to sleep, and after a number of shenanigans involving the exchanging of rooms and some typical bedtime screaming, the little monsters finally succumbed to their own sagging energy levels. I settled down to watch the second half of the Portugal v France quarter final, but before I switched on the TV, I paused for a short period of total calm and glorious silence.

And then…

AAAAuuuuUUUUrrrrRRRRrrrrRRRR!

This low-pitched, unsettling lupine howl from what seemed like a distant location deep in the forest made us sit up with a start, stabbing the silence, smothering the stillness and penetrating the peace. I looked at Bonny Bee, she looked at me, and in that instant we knew one thing: we wouldn’t be taking any family walks in the forest during our stay.

I watched the thrilling and appropriate end to Cristiano Ronaldo’s overhyped and tarnished international career and switched off the TV with a grin as wide as Lionel Messi’s trophy cabinet. The howls had subsided, so I decided to go to bed. Next day, we decided to explore the village some more. Because of Bonny Bee’s working schedule, rarely anything takes place before lunch, so we parked in the centre and went in search of a place to eat. For such a small place it had a large number of cafés and restaurants, all of which were full every day.

One place we settled on was to appease the children. For the last week we had eaten local food, so they deserved a little decadence and we found a place that served pizza and burgers called Las Titas. We sat on the terrace in our summer clothes and froze. We have truly become Valencianos. For that reason, we made our way inside and found a large table with benches each side in that typical US diner fashion. It had an Arizona gas station motif and the décor contained parts of cars and road maps. This type of place could have been in a much larger city, so to be in this village was very impressive. And the atmosphere was rocking – on a Saturday lunchtime.

The pizza section of the menu would make an Italian gesticulate most vigorously and probably walk out, kicking open and slamming the door shut as they left. I love the way the Spanish troll the fastidious Italians by murdering their hair-splitting culinary pedantry and doing new things with them. For example, I had a Pizza Tejana, a Texan take on the round Italian-style grilled open sandwich, which contained the usual tomato-based sauce, mozzarella and oregano, but also had some pulled pork with sriracha, chicken taco, bacon, onion, and a smoked cheddar-bacon sauce. It sounded so abominably delicious, or deliciously abominable, that I had to try it. After ten minutes, it was the first dish to reach our table. The children looked with envy at my pizza and asked for some. I reluctantly handed out three pieces, but despite having eaten only a little over half of it, it was much more filling than I could have imagined.

And it was delectable, truly a sign that innovation can win out over stubbornly clinging on to a form of superstitious nostalgia. Despite being a case of blasphemy the equivalent of taking a ton of pineapples scraped off a thousand Pizza Hawaii and dumping them on the grave of Gualtiero Marchesi, we weren’t on Italian jurisdiction, so we felt smugly satisfied.

The staff in Las Titas were extremely efficient, happy, kind and knowledgeable. And I think we will be back a couple more times. We stepped out into the village and went for a walk along the bay. San Cibrao is a lovely place, and the people so kind and welcoming. There is a saying: the Spanish will welcome you with open arms but they will never wrap them around you. In Valencia as well as here, we have met and spoken to hundreds more people in the short time we have been here than we ever did in Saarburg over fifteen years, but in both places, there is that same kind of reluctance to make any further steps towards sealing the connection.

You will nearly always meet casually and by chance in places you often frequent, and not through making any formal rendezvous, like to go to an event or restaurant. My theory is that in countries like the UK, Australia and the US, people move houses pretty often, so they pick up friends all the time, whereas in Old Europe, people generally stay where they are and the bonds they made in school and in their neighbourhood remain their friendship circle for life.

It was a cold, murky day, so we just hung around the village at the playground and the café next to it. The weather was going to improve the next day, Sunday 7 July, so we decided to make the most of it by taking a trip to a place called Foz and then on to Ribadeo. Foz was another quiet seaside village with little going on, but it had a few enticing restaurants near the promenade. We settled on one with a menu that was as hilariously translated as it was enticing. Their “Pig trotters with tickets” seemed like just the… ticket. And who could resist “Hake stuffed with hedgehog”? The most original surf ‘n’ turf menu item ever.

After a hearty meal consisting of Fabada Asturiana followed by some Secreto de Cerdo and potatoes, I invited everyone to jump in the car and head to Ribadeo, to see something new. The town itself was another maritime treasure, but of course we had to go to the playground. Luckily for us, there were a couple of decent cafés right next door. After a good hour of pushing swings, cleaning puke, returning other people’s toys, and saying “wow” after every act, I decided to take a look at Google Maps to see what I could entice them away with.

I was saved by an island with a lighthouse and some spectacular views just 10 to 12 minutes away. It was a little difficult to prise everyone away from the huge round basket swing, but I managed to; and after a little tour of the block, we sped off for the lighthouse. And like many aspects around here, it blew us all away. “Dramatic coastline” is an overused phrase, but in this case, it suits perfectly.

Over the millennia, the Atlantic Ocean’s violent, often turbulent temperament has carved many coves, bays, islands, channels, slopes, and cliffs out of the land, creating the spectacular seaboard we see today. We walked from the car down a narrow road, round a bend and there it was: a concrete and cast-iron bridge over the sea on to an island containing a historical lighthouse. A new one had been constructed nearby, but the old one had been converted into a café and guesthouse. I checked out the price for one night, and let’s just say it was the same as about a week in the place we’re staying in.

The children have started to appreciate places with views, and it’s so gratifying to hear their observations. We took a lot of photos and created some new memories.

The rest of the week was mainly spent just hanging around the village and taking a few short trips to other towns. I would typically cook a large lunch at home, then we would go out for cake and a release of energy. One of the most memorable visits was to Viveiro, a town a little way westwards. The old town, with its whitewashed buildings in narrow streets reminded us of Andalucia. And the newer part, stretched out along the inlet, reminded us of Lucerne in Switzerland.

Really, northern Spain is so varied and yet so meagrely visited that it is a joy to travel through this landscape. I really get the Caminantes and the reasons why this lush, verdant setting prepares the pilgrims for their arrival in Santiago de Compostela. All along the coast, from San Sebastian to Vigo, you can stop the car virtually anywhere and stand there for a while contemplating the view. So imagine walking it – for someone like me, who loves an area of outstanding natural beauty, I would take months to get there.

Another day, while Bonny Bee was working, I took the children to Burela, a town in the opposite direction, for cake, drinks, and a visit to quite an elaborate playground. We entered a café on one of the main streets, and sat at one of the rustic-looking tables. The woman served us with the cakes we ordered, but it didn’t end there: she kept bringing us little delicacies from the region for us to try. A very kind lady.

We headed to the playground, which when we arrived at about half past three was deserted, was at five teeming with as many kids as you can imagine, from all walks of life, all types of backgrounds, all various shades of skin, with one objective: to have immense fun with a football.

Dainoris tried joining in, but was a little clumsy – he’s still a bit of an English speaker, but his ability to understand Spanish is fine. When he starts Spanish primary school in September, we hope he will have little to no trouble at all.

Milda is a different kettle of fish: she could make friends with absolutely anyone. In fact, I think we should send her to the Middle East as a peace ambassador – she would be more successful than any fuddy-duddy politician.

Livia, on the other hand, is very approachable, but doesn’t have the social skills to keep people wanting to hang around her: she is more likely to start getting a little boisterous and end up playing alone somewhere else.

I was heartened by how easily these kids just let us newbies settle in to their environment. In the end, I was getting their ball out of the tree and chucking the kids about like we’d known each other for ever. Great bunch of lads.

And this is what I’ve learned since I’ve been in Spain: despite all the political rhetoric and the doom-mongering, Spain is a successfully multiracial society. This was richly demonstrated by the 16-year-old footballing prodigy, Lamine Yamal, whose mother is from Equatorial Guinea and father from Morocco, whose name I have seen on the backs of about half a dozen boys and young men in the last week or two.

Spain also seems to have set up its education system as well as possible too. Every school I pass looks so appealing for kids. Very often, there’s a lot of outdoor space, there’s plenty of material to pick from, every school is at least bilingual, and I don’t know many under-forties who don’t speak much English. In fact, every kid whose parent has interacted with us, has been challenged to speak to ours in English. We are attempting the same with our children in the other direction, which should be much easier, considering Spanish is all around us, but it’s taking a little time… In any case, the next generation of Spanish citizens will be just fine, if current governments can sort out some of the mess and mistakes of the past, keeping the extremists at bay.

On Sunday 14 July, I went for a walk after the Euro 2024 final, won by Spain, and another thing struck me: Spanish people are by no means to ostentatious in their flag-waving. In other countries, like the Netherlands, England, Germany, Poland, Italy, I have seen flags go up everywhere when the football championships roll around. It has become almost socially unacceptable in England for a pub not to drape itself in a huge Cross of St George or daub “It’s Coming Home” across the façade.

Here, flag-waving is very understated indeed. The number of flags I have seen, or at least noticed, would fit on fewer than both hands. But boy, can Spanish people celebrate… and it was during that walk that a few fireworks were set off about a kilometre away, which in turn set off a bit of dog barking. And it was while I was passing a modest row house that I heard from within the garden the very same haunting howling noise that had been mystifying me every night for a week. I don’t know what dog it was, but the acoustics created by the three walls of the property caused this rather meek-sized dog to sound like it was something that should be roaming the moors devouring sheep and inspiring filmmakers. But instead it was probably a little annoyed by the distant fireworks and missing its owner.

It’s funny how a certain landscape can play tricks on the imagination…

The Great Iberian Road Trip, Day 8: Thieving Pterodactyls and Lying Property Sharks

Leaving San Vicente de la Barquera was not easy. Being such an idyllic place yet with some decent life, any locations from now on would have some big boots to fill. In order to get through the long summer exile, it was necessary to book a couple of cheaper places for a longer stay where we could carry on ordinary life. We were heading to a place called San Cibrao, a village on the northern coast about 50 km from anywhere. On the way, we decided to stop off in Gijón, a city famous for the Santa Catalina Hill of sculptures by the sea, the Fishermen’s Quarter, and having a name that sounds like a donkey’s call.

Approaching Gijón, we were under the impression it was a fairly working city with a lot of companies, apartments and nothing else. But we were mistaken. The historical city centre of Gijón is on a rocky outcrop between two glorious beaches and the main port. I parked the car close to the Santa Catalina park by a couple of cafés that Google recommended. We entered one called La Tinta Del Mar, an archetypal maritime place: no frills, plenty of smiles, decent honest food, and proper coffee.

The children needed to let off a bit of steam, so the stopover in Gijón was supposed to be refuelling, then a good run around. In the café, the first thing that caught Bonny Bee’s attention was the Lure Of The Tostada. For anyone who is unaware, the tostada is Spain’s late-morning staple. It’s often about 15 to 20 centimetres of baguette cut in half and toasted, served with olive oil and fresh tomato paste, usually made on-site. The bread offered in this place was slightly ciabatta-looking, but nonetheless attractive. We jumped. I have to say it definitely hit the spot.

The kids had a couple of cheese and ham sandwiches, and we headed out on to what one might call Gijón’s top-floor balcony, Santa Catalina. It was a fairly gloomy day, some droplets of rain around, but on the whole not one to deter us from enjoying some sightseeing.

We walked up the grassy hill to find a woman with a cute little spaniel cross off the leash. Looking at Livia’s body language I could see what was going to happen next. As soon as Livia opened her mouth and did her usual irrational screaming-and-running performance across the park, the dog set off in hot pursuit. This sweet little companion dog must have thought “ah finally, someone playing to my ancestral instincts!” As a guard dog, it was more likely to lick any intruder to death, but there’s no changing the mind of a girl convinced every gormless pet with hair and four legs is going to murder her.

The owner set off at a fair pace to retrieve her dog, whistling, calling its name and generally looking insulted that anyone – ANYONE – could be remotely scared of her dog. She rather brusquely said to us “your daughter is going deeper into the territory where other dogs go, you should stop her!” Well, madam, I would, but as your four-legged creature is off its leash in a public park, it’s kind of hard to justify blaming my daughter for running off, especially considering she has absolutely no control over her emotions and her actions when it comes to dogs. After the badly choreographed Benny Hill Reenactment had been snuffed out by an indignant dog owner and a very athletic Bonny Bee, we continued our walk around the park.

It was full of the usually inexplicable artwork that city councils tend to dump in their municipal parks to give the locals something to stare quizzically at and for the pretentious to hail as works of genius. In any case, it was a pleasant park; in the middle, a huge nineteenth-century military installation to protect the port from invasion and on the lower levels a large inviting children’s playground, which has become the most essential element on this trip of any successful day out. Anything less than that is an unadulterated tragedy.

The family democratic process has gone like this:

ME: So, what shall we do today? We can go to a castle, take a ride up a mountain, visit a farm, or go and see an island.

KID 1: But we want to go to a playground!

KID 2: Playground!

BONNY BEE: We can go to a playground but first we want to see something else.

KID 1: That’s not fair, it’s so booooriiiing!

KID 3: Playground is best, maybe one with a slide and swings.

KID 2: Yeah, not like the one yesterday with only two swings!

KID 3: We want one with a moving slide, a climbing frame and – and – and – and lots of different swings!

ME: But you enjoyed the other places we visited.

KID 1: Yes but it’s not what we want!

ME: What about us?

KID 2: …

And on it goes. There are times that I must say I have felt marginalised by my own flesh and blood. Back in Valencia, when Milda creeps in to our bed in the middle of the night, it’s big enough not to make too much of a difference. But here, the bed is nearly as narrow as the dining table. And the dining table isn’t exactly fit for a Putin-Macron summit…

So we spent a while in the playground before going to check out Gijón’s old town. In the maritime gloom of Spain’s north coast lie a series of incredibly underrated towns and cities. Gijón is no exception. All right, it is never going to compete with the big cities, but it has a lot of charm. The Town Hall Square is an ornate rectangular treasure with buildings that reminded me of some of the smaller city squares in Poland, with their arched porticos and doors so high that a horse standing on top of another horse could enter with ease.

We sat at one of the two main cafés in the square and were immediately greeted by a seagull that, upon seeing three small children, was looking forward to robbing them of the cakes we had ordered. It was as if it knew. Kids are so predictable, even bandit birds know what’s coming. And yes, the shrieking feathered skyrat mugged us of a lot of cake to the extent that it landed on our table and physically dragged a slice of cake clean on to the floor. It was, for a couple of seconds, quite a shock, but the kids found it uproariously funny, so we just went along with that. Although we knew the seagull had done us up good and proper.

Seagulls to me are like Cristiano Ronaldo or Elon Musk. I detest them to my very core, but I can’t help but admire the way they outmanoeuvre everyone they confront. I watched in dumbstruck awe as one of these Terminator birds flew across the square about 3 floors up, glided effortlessly into a narrow side-street, and took a sharp left down another. At about 40 kilometres per hour. In the drizzle. If I did that in a car, I would have been liable for a humongous amount of carnage. They are thugs of the sky. The kind of creature that Bond villains would be based on.

The café itself was a truly delightful place to be a patron or a worker. But unfortunately the workers were unfriendly, impatient and not in the least helpful. It’s the type of place without a base of regular customers. The sort where people go once and never again. The guy who took our order had all the approachability of a Soviet Gastronom attendant but without the smart apparel. The misery etched on the faces of the staff told me a lot about the place. I didn’t write a review on Google, because I sensed they were being hounded by their boss, and I didn’t want to get them into trouble. But there was something not right about the place.

We headed back to the car and made our way to our next destination, San Ciprian, or in Galician San Cibrao, an undistinguished fishing village miles from anywhere. About 30 km beforehand, I messaged the agent to tell her we were half an hour away, and she said she would be waiting for us when we arrived. After a little confusion with the exact location, the agent came into view. For the next three weeks we were to stay here in the unpredictable climate of northern Galicia, so we hoped it was at least a decent apartment. It is situated in an urbanisation about 1.5 kilometres outside of the village, in between the trees of the never-ending primary forest all around us.

The woman herself was lovely although she gave me the impression she had lived through a lot. She told us we could park in whichever one of the three covered and numbered bays outside that we wanted, which I thought was strange. I took out the suitcases to have as few journeys to the apartment as possible and awaited her instructions. She said she would help me by bringing one of the suitcases up. In fact, she insisted, against my protestations. They’re heavy, even for me.

“You’re on the third floor,” she said through a set of teeth so long they could pick lettuce up off the floor without bending down in what seemed like Spanish spoken by a Portuguese.

“I’m glad there’s a lift then!” said I, naively.

“Yesh, but it doeshn’t work anymore. There are sheven rezhidenshesh, but only one ish year-long occupied. And they live on the firsht floor, sho they don’t shee the need for a lift.”

So we dragged the shootcayshesh – sorry, suitcases – up three flights of stairs. She gave us the keys and told us to go on ahead, she would take a little while longer.

“You (puff) get shtarted, I’ll (snort) take my time (wheeze) and shee you there (gasp).” I was a bit concerned about her, but she insisted. I could hear her groaning and mumbling as she made her way up the stairs.

“Please, just leave it there, and I’ll come down for it in a little while.”

“I’m nearly at the shecond floor, just take a glansh around, shit on the shofa and I’ll be there in a couple of minnitsh.”

To her credit, this poor woman, who obviously felt pressure from the people who run the app we used, to do her very best. And she did, bless her. I will make sure she gets a terrific review on there, and make sure the app people know how I feel about them. Because when she got to the top, in the glow of the hallway light, you could see where she had had open heart surgery. Exploitation of subordinates comes in many forms, and making anyone in that state of health feel the need to go that far is an outrage.

In any case, she showed us about the place, spotlessly clean but a little outdated (sounds familiar), with a proper number of bedrooms that hopefully we could get the kids to sleep individually. But there was a huge TV, which was great for watching kids’ TV and Euro 2024. I had drawn Spain in the coworking sweepstake. In fact, I fortuitously happened to be there when they made the draw and was invited to assist. I not only pulled Spain out, I pulled my own name out, much to the merriment of everyone there. I did offer to put it back in and let someone else pull out a country for me, but they were adamant that I should keep it. Well, what’s a guy to do? Never in my life did I want to lose a bet as much as this, but hey, I’ll let it go!

Back to the apartment. After the lady showed us around the place, she told us to get in touch with her if there were any issues at all. I had a feeling we might need her a few times. I found it really sad, disgraceful even, that five of the apartments out of the seven in this block were empty, and only one – ONE – actually had permanent residents. I just didn’t get it. How could the local government let the place fall into disrepair like this? We took a tentative ride into the village. The road from the urbanisation to the village is long and straight. And you can see from the very other end the symbol of local government incompetence: the empty skeleton of a block of apartments or offices, that had obviously been there a long, long time. Deserted, abandoned, unloved and unwanted.

What was saddest, though, was that if this atrociously-placed eyesore hadn’t been started in the first place, the direct view to the sea would be a perfect way to say “Welcome to San Cibrao”. Instead, some construction cowboys had slipped a few backhanders to some malleable councillors and got the necessary permits. It happens everywhere in depressed areas – then the building firms declare bankruptcy and the money disappears, leaving an unacceptable legacy for the local people and turning them against the politicians who did this. And this is how the more extreme parties get noticed – because after the mainstream ones run out of credibility due to taking the populace for granted (they’ll always vote for us, won’t they?) the only alternative is to give them the Stinkfinger, as the Germans call it.

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