On the Buses

Negreira – Santiago – Fisterra

We wake to the sound of heavy rain and gusty wind.

Last night we came to the conclusion that neither of us were enjoying walking in the wet weather (surprise, surprise) and that we needed to strike a balance between the chance of injury in the wet (high) versus the fact that we intend to stay another ten months (hopefully) in Europe.

For me this is all Pam’s call, if she wants to march on in the rain so be it, if not all the better.

The outcome of last nights discussion was that we would wait and see what the weather was like in the morning and go from there.

By the time we are ready to leave the hotel the rain has stopped however low grey clouds being pushed by the wind are streaking across the sky.

Pam makes her call, the march is over. My left knee sings a little song of thanks. Now we have to decide what to do from here.

We to and fro and finally settle on catching a bus back to Santiago and then catching a bus from Santiago to Fisterra. No buses go from our current location Negreira directly to Fisterra.

Now it is just a matter of finding where the bus to Santiago leaves from.

We wander into the main part of Negreira and circle round asking locals for directions until we find the bus stop which is just a sign beside the street and a timetable in the window of a nearby cafe.

It has still not rained again.

The bus leaves at fifteen minutes to each hour, we have twenty minutes to wait and are surprised at the bus arriving soon after.

We rush to get our packs on to take them to the bus, nearly knocking the drink glasses off the table where we were sitting. The proprietor looks on in amusement as we rush outside and put our packs into the underbelly of the bus before boarding.

We sit in the stationary bus for about fifteen minutes as other people wander over and board.

Finally we are off heading back whence we so painfully have come, with the bus stopping at many of the places we had walked past the previous day.

We make our final destination, the bus terminal in Santiago, and buy tickets for the bus that will take us to Fisterra before taking the time to have a quick lunch.

Now we are passing the same areas for the third time in twenty four hours. Frustrating.

Where ever we seem to go blue sky seems to follow which is making us second guess our decision to stop our march. I am convinced by the dark threatening sky elsewhere that we have made the right call.

Mechanized travel is so different to what we have become accustomed to. The landscape rushes by. We both try and point out things of interest to the other however we have passed by in seconds and often miss the intended sight.

Villages that would take half an hour to walk through vanish behind us one after another.

Distance and elevation are made irrelevant by the grinding motor behind and the spinning rubber below.

We cover in a couple of hours, distance that would have taken us ten days or more to walk.

The patch of blue sky above us keeps pace with the bus and by the time we reach Fisterra I am also plagued by second guessing regarding our motives to discontinue the march.

Within five minutes of alighting from the mechanised monster rain is falling once more, alleviating our guilt, and we take refuge in the closest hotel we can find.

Oh NO….El Stanko returns.

We vacate the stinky hotel room as soon as we can and with the rain having stopped once more, wander through the waterfront areas of the town.


Fisterra is a large village close to the Cape Finesterre which is the most Western Point of the Spanish Mainland. Facing the Atlantic Ocean to the left of the village is a long sandy beach and to the right rocky cliffs with ocean swells pounding their base.

We walk along the promenade of restaurants lining the waterfront street heading to the cliffs to the right. The wind rocks us back on our heels as we leave the lee of buildings and make our way to the stone path that winds down to the rocks where the ocean crashes below.


I am keen to swim in my first ocean beyond the Pacific and Indian however only the blessed or insane would leave the sanctity of the rocks for the white water crashing and spraying us in the wind.


It also looks cold. Damn cold.

Brrrrrr I’ll save it for later.



Mick and Pam

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