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.

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