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“Galicia Adventure”
Published in “H&E” March 2004 (Pages 30-35)
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According to my wife Madrid looks very much like parquet flooring – at least from the window of a Boeing 737. Time spent circling Madrid’s air space is quite conducive to hallucination. In the coffee-stained, crumpled, patchwork quilted landscape below, I saw Don Quixote’s furious battle with the mighty windmills. But, respective illusions aside, our most ardent wish was to be reunited with the ground, and as soon as was safely possible. It had been an uncomfortable flight. Turbulence very nearly rearranged my internal organs, and then air traffic control had tried to bore us all to death. Banking this way and circling that, awaiting clearance to land, my wife, daughter, and I, felt decidedly queasy.
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“Alright then, it does look like parquet flooring!” I finally relented, irritably.
My wife smiled. We immediately began our descent. (Perhaps God really was a woman?)
Life confuses and female logic adds to its mystery. As the plane approached the tarmac I pondered how it was perfectly legal and proper for a woman (a naturist woman at that) to buy a fifty pence skirt or blouse at a car boot sale and then invest a small fortune, in time and money, finding accessories to match. Similarly, Carol had been unable to resist three cheap airline tickets to Madrid and an apartment in Galicia, northwest Spain, a mere 400 miles from the airport.
I had only thought to study her travel itinerary the night before departure. The revelation left me semi-comatose and gibbering like an idiot.
“But darling,” she purred, draping an arm around my shoulder “we’ve always wanted to tour Spain.”
“Four hun-dred bug-ger-ing miles of road to our ap-art-ment?” I muttered incredulously.
“Anyway,” she continued sweetly, “just remember all those naturist beaches we discovered on the web-?”
By way of reply my finger jabbed at the Internet’s long term weather forecast. “And do you know where it’s set to rain, unrelentingly, interrupted only by thunderstorms, for the next ten days? – Galicia!"
Now it has to be said that the Spanish themselves perceive this region as an unsophisticated part of the world. It rains there and rather too much. They have it affectionately dubbed: ‘Green Spain’ or ‘Land of the Thousand Rivers’. The sea is icy-cold even in the height of summer.
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So, did anyone actually go there? I knew they often left. I recalled a particularly surly waiter in Mallorca – Galician born and bred! Menial labour found on the Costas and Balearics frequently originates from here too. They suffer the same reputation for wit (rather the lack of it than eloquence) as we bestow upon our northern and Irish cousins – usually without grounds. To hear Spanish spoken with a Galician accent is to find it incomprehensible in the extreme. And if that doesn’t confound one enough, they have their very own language, Gallego. My preconceptions about Galicia rattled me so that when the plane shuddered to a graceful halt, rather than fell out of the sky, I was
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mildly disappointed. We had arrived.
Madrid was hot. Fields of stunted sunflowers bowed their heads in disgrace. Swathes of land on either side of the road were laid bare by forest fires. But it was the troubling clouds I focused upon as they gathered in number in the vista before us. Our hire car, which was not designed for long legs, encouraged my foot to the floor all the sooner. We hurtled away from the summer and the civilised world at speeds that would have been positively illegal in England. It was important to find food and lodging before nightfall.
Tordesillas was just another grubby mark on the map until we checked in at a cheap hotel and discovered history, character. . .and fiesta time! The Spanish never disappoint me, they love to celebrate and I love to watch them. The place was buzzing, children were wide-eyed, alert, and allowed to stay up to ungodly hours – how could we not join them?
A band played in the square – not traditional, just some Euro-rock flavour with smatterings of everything that had gone before, but they were rather good. We went to bed late that night and awoke early.
Motorway driving and soap operas are the most detestable things on this planet. My strict avoidance of them persisted the following day. Besides, there was always an interesting alternative to be found, usually involving a slow moving lorry and my fondness for the Seat’s lively turbo-charged engine. I also enjoyed the further interruption of tumbledown villages - too insignificant for most maps to detail. Sanabria was not one of these but we breakfasted there. Whilst it suffered more than a hint of tourism I found a tangible sense of tradition and serenity there too. We could have dallied in Puebla de Sanabria a while longer – perhaps a year, perhaps a lifetime – but we pressed on instead.
Back on the road grim clouds cast ever-darker shadows on the unfolding landscape. Eventually came the mist and then the rain. My heart sank deeper. I scowled through the wiper blades. My wife and daughter slept like babies; the older of the two stirring occasionally to whisper encouragement. Yes, I supposed that I was a complete darling driving all this way without complaint. I grunted the laconic grunt of a big screen hero – No problemo.
Hours later, we hit the outskirts of Pontevedra. The route through the town, the pounding wetness and poor visibility revealed only the stark concrete façade of ill-conceived 60s apartment blocks – the view depressed me horribly. Our own accommodation was still some miles further along the coast, towards the unpronounceable town of Sanxenxo, in the small village of Raxo.
Then when the journey was done and I unloaded our cases a wonderful thing happened. The rain relented and a small patch of blue sky revealed itself – a good omen at last. As night fell and the stars came out, Mars was the brightest light in the sky until the moon took centre stage at midnight.
In the morning Galicia was utterly transformed by sunshine. The sky was blue but a fragile sea mist hung over the ocean. I watched fishermen haul their nets into tiny boats; boats barely large enough for their two man crews, let alone to stow a substantial catch. The sight was engaging and restful. I sipped my coffee and munched churros – sausage shaped doughnuts – a plate of which had magically appeared compliments of the house. Suddenly Carol jumped from her seat, pointing out to sea excitedly.
“Over there!”
“Wha-”
“Seals?”
“Err, sharks..?”
“Dolphins!” We finally agreed in unison. A school had swum into the harbour, where they began to entertain us thoroughly with their dazzling antics – or, more likely, their own pursuit of a breakfast. A local man raised an eyebrow. Tourists, his expression declared before returning to his paper. It might have been a flock of seagulls for all he cared.
Our apartment was three floors up and overlooked the bay. From then on meals would be overdone, underdone, and generally flung onto a plate. Carol, cook, skivvy, and navigator now applied herself diligently to ‘dolphin watch’ duties as well. No one complained.
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In the days that followed things only got better. The predicted bad weather never came and we basked in temperatures approaching the mid-thirties C.
Just as the Internet weather forecast had proved unreliable, so did the guide to naturist beaches. In all fairness, some sites were in dire need of updating and the out-of-season visitor should expect variations from the norm. Nonetheless, many notable references drew a blank. Such brazen sounding destinations as Isla de Arousa didn’t show any evidence of naturism – or we simply couldn’t find it. Others with scant mention turned out to be very
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popular. Bascuas fell firmly into this category. Easy to find (when was a naturist beach ever easy to find and accessible?) and sign-posted from the road. What Bascuas lacked in spectacular scenery (it doesn’t actually want for much – the judgement is purely relative) it amply compensated for in accessibility, parking and cafeteria facilities. Its small proportions also impart a convivial and social atmosphere.
Our first taste of organised naturism in Galicia didn’t disappoint. However, some things were conspicuously absent. We saw no roaming single men, or overtly sexual behaviour. There were no gay or straight ends to this beach. No shaved, and no pierced, and – very probably – no British either. I don’t mention this in a judgmental way. I tell it the way it is because it’s a long way to come (especially via Madrid!) if your ‘scene’ isn’t ‘happening’ here.
Not far north of Bascuas, to the left of O Grove is the most idyllic naturist beach I have yet encountered. San Vicente doesn’t boast a cafeteria or a large car park. It requires a little walking and the sand is granular and rough on your feet. There aren’t even signs to designate the naturist area but I would have no hesitation in recommending this beach above all others. The road to San Vicente quickly degenerates into rough track. Nothing a modern car shouldn’t be able to handle but you’re better off parking and going by foot when the tarmac ends. You’ll know you’re in the right neighbourhood when you confront the dramatic rock formations of the coast. It’s a veritable Stone Henge crafted by Mother Nature herself (one can barely imagine the forces that shape this part of the world in strictly geological terms). At the sea you follow a path right (i.e. north) until the 2nd or 3rd cove along when, on a sunny day, all will become apparent.
My first dip in the ocean here endured less than ten seconds and had me squealing like a girl. Locals must have thought me very odd. In subsequent visits, with the weather hotting up, I managed a more manly bellow upon submergence and actually swum a measurable distance. In time I might have done better. By the weekend a small contingency of men, clothed and wielding binoculars, gathered on a prominent boundary of the beach. I fancied for a moment they were admiring my aquatic expertise but no, I had left an attractive and naked blonde and brunette lying unattended on the beach. In truth, there was no threat whatsoever. A handful of spectators came and went throughout the weekend, bothering no one. In the main the Spanish are capable of a very balanced and practical attitude to social nudity, but men are still men after all.
Now I would feel short-changed if a holiday offered only nudity and sunshine – and bitterly disappointed at one that afforded none at all – but here is a treasure trove of history, culture and natural wonders. Santiago de Compostela, famed to this day as a place of pilgrimage and awe, is well worth a visit. Pontevedra (which gave such an uninspiring account of itself on our arrival) is in fact blessed with a beautiful old town and modern shopping facilities. Good food throughout the region is also cheap. A beer or coffee costs about 1 Euro, and a palatable bottle of Galician white wine can be had at the supermarket for a paltry 55 cents.
Amply fed and watered, our investigations edged towards Spain’s border with Portugal.
From the northern end of Portugal to Galicia’s major port at Vigo there are countless opportunities to bare all along this rock-strewn coastline. Oddly, it seemed always pairs of women availing themselves of this natural environmental privacy. I don’t know if this is typical. To catalogue every instance of public nudity – as some web sites appear to have done - would be arduous and ultimately misleading. People move on, things change. Naturism has a natural home here, by virtue of geography and a healthy Spanish perspective. I hope this is the way things will remain. Meanwhile, common sense and sensitivity is the best guidebook any naturist can own. Take yours to Galicia and have a great time.
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