26th April- 31^st May- It rained and rained and rained.

Through misted windows the bright green valley flourished, loving every droplet. Rhythmic shouts of effort and enthusiasm echo across the river day and night from local rowing teams, creating a tribal kind of background mantra.  

We slept long in the mornings, eating slow breakfasts of Niels’s sourdough bread with kimchi and smoked Spanish cheese which the locals gleefully describe as ‘tettias de Galicia’ because it vaguely resembles a boob, as much as a banana resembles a telephone.

Charlotte is an inspiring sailor, practical, quick thinking and strong, her way with the sails is playful, adjusting the tension centimetre by centimetre, challenging herself to get the perfect position to the wind.

Her rowing technique is somewhat more erratic, but I am in no position to judge. Of course the outboard engine wasn’t working after its salty ride across the Biscay.  Niels was watching nervously as the dingy swerved around the bay into the harbour and towards our favourite Fruttaria where we loaded up on peaches and padron peppers. Sheltering from the rain, and cosy with hot chocolates, we watched Pirates of the Caribbean- in German- which was quite disturbing for me.

On our first day we had a visit from the customs policia. A big ugly dark boat was circling for a while before approaching, two officers jumping on board. Papers and passports were examined before they loosened up and were more friendly. They weren’t totally impressed by our tiny German flag, but it’s never felt right waving a big foreign flag around. I’m not patriotic or proud of either of my countries, and the Rias and mountains don’t care where you are from. We get checked quite allot.

The second day it was the Guardia Civil. Passports and papers please, how long are you staying, where are you going etc. Everyone is confused that we aren’t going home, this is home. These dudes were actually very friendly despite the sunglasses, and they were super excited to give us recommendations on where to visit, so much so that they stayed for bloody ages! One of them was a romance novelist called Ramono, and the fact that we took down his name came in handy the next day when we had our third check with the Policia in Galicia.

One of the places that they recommended was Combarro, nestled in the mouth of Ria de Pontevedra. We crisscrossed our way up and sailed on the left side of a beautiful dark forested island with white beaches, owned by the military. Seeming to be the only ones taking this route, it quickly became clear why. There was a big sand bank which at low tide becomes completely exposed, and by sheer luck we missed it, despite watching the number on the water depth gage steadily climb to 2 metres, it stayed there, passing with held-breath and 40cm to spare.

The purple-pink starfish hung on,
and wondered whatevers gone wrong?
There's nowhere to hide when caught out by the tide, 
Everyday, at some point, sea is gone

The town was a little underwhelming, although the tiny cobbled streets and alleyways were charming, it was full of expensive bars and restaurants and shops that all sold the same cheap trinkets. Being around many people was overwhelming during those first days in Spain. We were used to our own company and the quiet sea and our Spanish speaking was frankly a disgrace. Charlotte was sure that everything was spoken with a lisp, and I went around saying goodnight to everyone thinking it meant good afternoon.

Our anchorage in Combarro was on the left outside the harbour, which was very practical since they left their very clean and refreshing  showers unlocked…

Aromatic eucalyptus forests climb the mountainsides, and thanks to the plentiful rain, streams and rivers carve their way through old rocks and stone, softening their edges and blending into the mossy ground. It took less than an hour to hike up the hill past the garden vineyards and potato patches out of town. Everyone had a lemon tree, a cat, and a scary dog protecting them- much to Niels’s disappointment. Bushes of wispy fennel and wild mint line the roadside, and pilgrims from the Camino de Santiago walk in twos and threes. Sunglasses and sweatbands. The cool shadow of the trees protects the many ruins along the path, and huge white lilies rise gracefully from forgotten ditches, appearing almost artificial in their perfection. On our return, we bravely picked some grapefruits and ‘found’ some lemons, heavying our pockets but uplifting us greatly.

I made my first vegetarian paella with green beans, red peppers from the bins in Bueu, saffron and fresh tomatoes. Bunches of fresh fennel and mint were chopped and generously sprinkled on top. That evening we ate in the cockpit enjoying the first dry evening since arriving with a bottle of cheap local red wine, and of course kimchi, which Charlotte passionately ate with every meal.

Then came our third visit from the Guardia. We weren’t sure what was going on, and neither were they.

Passports, papers, and this time insurance details… apparently a fisherman had reported a problem with us, but it never became clear what it was, and after many telephone calls, and the cheeky name dropping our novelist friend Ramono, they left, and we never heard from the insurance. On our last evening together we took a box of Estrella and a bottle of Sangria to the plaza and sat on the sun warmed stones. Charlotte took a bus from Vigo, a tiny jar of sourdough and an even smaller one of kefir grains made the long journey home with her.

It took an hour to get back to the beach, only to discover the tide had risen and the dingy was cut of from us. We climbed along the rocky edge, took of our shoes and socks and paddles the last few metres.

The day Niels left, we brought the boat into the harbour in Moaña. For 23€ per night I had the luxury of a bathroom, access to churros and unlimited electricity for sewing. Niels and I managed to finish the frame for my first screen print the night before, and on that first evening, sat surrounded by patches of fabrics and colourful inks that stuck to the sink, the table and my sleeves, how lucky I felt to live this vibrant life.

I spent those sunny days eating peaches on the beaches, oiling the teak in the cockpit, reading, sewing, and hanging out with my new harbour uncles, Carlos and Roberto.

They introduced me to the local nightlife, the best bars and traditional Galician music and dancing. Gallego is the old language of Galicia, and they speak it very proudly, road signs and printed information will often have both translations, much like in the highlands of Scotland, or even in Brittany.

Many women wear silver symbols of spirals and knots, and they even have a kind of bagpipe in their orchestras. Of course, I was intensely drawn to this Gaelic culture, deeply feeling the loss of my own as an English person, I don’t feel like we celebrate our Pagan roots and folklore through our art, language, music or dance, and I was touched to be part of theirs. 

Roberto invited me to a traditional Sunday lunch with his family, with homemade red wine, salted potatoes and carrots, cabbage and white beans, chorizo, and of course, unidentifiable pieces of pig. Apart from a very identifiable jaw with teeth. I was so incredibly welcome, and we drank many glasses of wine, then cider, then coffee liqueur. I arrived home late that night, after driving on and meeting Mi, a friend of Roberto’s and her family, very sleepy, very grateful.

By the time Niels returned, the cockpit was oiled and golden, I had sewn 5 cloth bags from the sheets I had dyed and printed, and the spinach and herbs in our tiny garden had doubled, unfurling their first pale leaves skyward, reaching up, and pulling all the sunshine in.

It was possible to stay another week -for free- as Roberto had a second berth that was empty at the time next to his boat. Every day as we sanded and varnished, he would be next to us, singing Bob Marley, sending music and good vibes through the harbour and out to sea.

At his birthday party on the weekend, the karaoke box came out, and two tangly wires with microphones on the end got passed between legs and feet around the boat, eventually to Niels. He was the surprise star of the show, who would have known he could sing so well in Spanish!

On Thursday the 23^rd of May Bella arrived! Later on at the bar, she could show off all her Spanish over a beer and get to know my harbour uncles. We knew it was soon time to move on, but it was hard after making friends and becoming so land bound. On the last night, we all squeezed our bums into Roberto’s boat, faces lit up by his colourful flashing LED lights, listening to reggae, eating pizzas, drinking shots of liqueur and playing the guitar.

After some sailing practice that ended with three sad and soggy sailors and a smashed jar of chocolate spread, we made it out to the Playa de Barra where it was unfortunately too windy to get to shore. Bella and I sang songs in the doorway, while the sky softened to a pale pink. Niels, inspired by Roberto’s LED’s, spent almost 4 hours perfecting his own, cutting and soldering the cable for the corners of the boat, for ‘cosy night’.

It was 2:30 am when finally cosy night was ready, and Bella and I were already in bed, but by poking our tired little heads out enough, you could see him grinning in the flashing neon light.

As day painted colour onto the land before us, the forest waved invitingly behind the vast white nudist beach, with its sun browned bodies and bottoms strolling up and down as though it was the fashion. Immediately we felt right at home, being basically all German- especially Bella with her trousers that zip off at the knee into a fantastisches pair of ‘kurtze hose’. The only problem was getting the dingy to shore. Small waves curled powerfully from sea to sand. All the planning in the world and you’d still get wet in some way or another. By sheer luck, we surfed a wave onto shore in time to jump out and pull the dingy up the beach, mostly dry.

A bin bag with the very sad smashed jar of chocolate spread came with us, our first challenge being- find a bin, looking all the while like we’re carrying a plastic bag full of shit.

Shells, pinecones and other spiky things scatter the dry forest floor, but a closer look revealed many tiny, and some huge pine nuts! Embracing the hungry squirrel in all of us we scoured between needle and sand, filling our pockets and cheeks. Niels found some mushrooms that he insisted were edible, until I started preparing them that night and we read that they were definitely poisonous or at least psychedelic AND poisonous.

The Cies Islands cluster at the mouth of the Ria de Vigo and are protected as a national park. With permission that we got online you can anchor and look around. Strong winds whipped between land and the islands creating a funnel for waves that smashed around the borders of the land. As we sailed out of the ria we were totally thrown around, but as it was so short and the sun shone we just enjoyed the ride, laughing into the wind as the spray slapped us repeatedly in the face.

The wildlife was fantastic, geckos flitted across our path and majestic green Iguanas paraded the rocks of their kingdom, fearing only the flash of a seagulls wing, or the stampede of school children marching on toward the beach. A soft eyed rabbit lay peacefully in a fennel bush we passed, and splashes of sun coloured lichen illuminate the rocks among the wildflowers. Spanish MasterChef was being filmed at a local campsite and we watched with interest the cooking stations being shuffled along the grass, cameras set up and lobsters in tanks. One morning we woke to the whole crew filming on the beach, and we are pretty sure our boat is in the background only 20 metres away. Three nights were spent anchored here, each evening the wind picked up and we would be rocked to sleep by our creaky boat.

On the 30^th may, Bella and I Sailed the boat across to Baiona while Niels fished. He caught two beautiful mackerel, metallic blue and tiger striped, which we fried on arrival with onions, garlic, lemon and wild fennel.

We had spent days discussing our gas situation, as the German bottle had been easy to fill in France and Norway, but seemed extremely complicated everywhere else and we were running low. It was time for a Spanish bottle, but would it fit in the anchor chain box as the other one had? Niels built a model out of card and hot glue and went on a right old mission to get a gas bottle and adapter while we stocked up on supplies and drank iced coffees in the sun.

Damp hung in the dark morning sky as we prepared the boat for sailing on the 31^st May, a fine mist lay over the water. As the sun broke over the mountains like a golden egg might, it flooded the valley with its warmth, willing us awake for our long sail south.

The wind was inconsistent despite the forecast being good, and after trying every sail formation, we packed them away and motored for a couple of hours. The sun made us sleepy, and the rocking made us sick. Bella slept away below deck, Niels rested on the bench and I listened to podcasts, made pasta pesto and lay in the sun. The wind picked up, and the sails finally stabilised, speeding us along to Porto in time to see the sunset from the industrial harbour, with huge cranes and shipping containers posing like mechanical insects on the sky line. Hot chocolate with homemade oat milk steamed up our windows, and we slept content and excited for the coming days in the big bad city.

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